gutter;

You’ve been screaming back and forth at each other for over 20 minutes; nothing but barbarous insults hurled at each other that neither of you will be able to forget but will refuse to discuss when your tempers have regulated. Not to mention that he heard that tell-tale grit in your voice from the very first second that you opened your mouth. Hell, it almost weighed heavier on him than the horrible things you were telling him. 

Now, though, you’re both silent. Everything that needed to be said was said. 

Eyes wide and unflinchingly locked together, unwavering connection stemming from the vicious battle you just went through in this bedroom. The one that was never going to produce a victor, because neither of you can take back what you told each other. You’re still red in the face. You’ve still got veins popping out of your neck. Hot, angry tears are silently pouring down your cheeks—no doubt from the high emotions, the unbearable pain. 

Or maybe from the realization you’re arriving at for the millionth time this month: This relationship isn’t working. Hasn’t been working for weeks, and he knows you’ve been in that state of mind for a while. 

Clark, though? Not so much. He’s given you so much of himself, so much of his time, so much of his life and love…how could he ever let you go?

So when you finally break that eye contact, when you look down at the floor separating the two of you, he knows what he has to do. Does he want to do it? No, because Clark is a good man. 

But he’ll do anything to keep you with him.

It starts when you let out one of those wistful little sighs—the exact type of sigh that precedes the line he knows you’ll forget you even said to him in a few minutes: 

“I think we need to take a break.” 

Your voice is much softer now. Broken, in a way. Broken from how hard you were yelling. Broken from how upset you are. Broken from your own suggestion, because Clark knows that, deep down in your heart, you never mean that. You’ve never gone through with it, so how could you possibly mean it? You don’t want that. 

He knows what you want. 

Clark clears his throat. Takes a few slow, long strides across your bedroom until he reaches you. You’re so tired from the fight that you don’t even move away from him. Not like you’d want to, anyway. Clark knew you wouldn’t. He knows this fight—and the way you react to it—better than anything else. 

You might have said you can’t stand him, that you want to take a break, that you’re tired of it all…but your body doesn’t agree. Your body leans into him. Your body presses your hands against his chest and lets your forehead fall on his shoulder. Your body rests on his so that you don’t have to carry the weight of your shared dysfunction on your own anymore.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t say that.” he whispers. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Clark, don’t—” 

That tiny beginner’s protest doesn’t really ring true while you’re sliding your arms around his shoulders and pulling yourself into his chest, so he cuts you off.

“No. No, we don’t need a break. We can work through this. We always work through it, don’t we?” he purrs at you. Tilts your head up with one hand while his other arm stays wrapped around your waist. Glues you to him and doesn’t give you any space to unstick yourself from him. His fingers curl around your jaw and a quick scan of your face in the pale blue moonlight streaming into your room gives him what he was hoping to see. 

You have a certain habit that he uses to his advantage when you fight with him. You gnaw at your bottom lip when you’re trying to keep certain insults in. Sometimes, it’s so harsh of a bite that you cut the skin. Make yourself bleed. 

Give him an opening to change your mind. 

“Goodness, honey. You gotta stop doing this,” he sweetly coos. Runs his thumb over your bottom lip to make it seem like he’s only concerned about the cut. To be fair, he is concerned about how it’s probably hurting you—but that’s not taking precedence right now. 

“Gonna hurt yourself. I know this doesn’t feel good.”

He pushes out a sigh through his nose. He has to look frustrated and sympathetic if he wants to act like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

“You gonna let me clean you up?”  

You whine and lean into his touch; a confirmation without the words to accompany it. He knows you can’t resist him. He puts on his sweetest smile and mumbles, “Good. Gotta take care of my girl,” while he gives you a soft squeeze.

Getting you this close is just step one. 

Step two, though, is where the last remaining dregs of his own guilt start to creep in. He hesitates for a moment when he pulls his thumb off of your lip and brings it up to his own mouth. He could pull away from you and get a wet rag to clean it instead. He could be the good man Ma raised him to be. 

Then you lean into him a little more. Get so close to him that he can smell the shampoo in your hair, the perfume on your skin, the adrenaline pumping through your blood. Your bottom lip is still subtly trembling. A shockwave from your crying that just refuses to leave you, much like how you can’t leave his arms right now.

How could you blame him for what he’s about to do? Your body is begging him to do it. Begging him for some release from this pain. Craving relief that only he can provide you.

Isn’t the whole point of his being here on Earth protecting and caring for its inhabitants, anyway?

So he ditches the guilt. Swallows it down and acts like he’s just trying to clean you up when he licks his thumb to wet it and swipes it over the gently oozing blood on your lip. Drags it back and forth over the still-open cut once, twice, three times. Soft and sweet, like Ma would do when he had a stain on his cheek from playing outside when he was a kid. As though there’s no ulterior motive here. 

And to you, there probably isn’t. To you, he probably seems like he’s just caring for you. Trying to make you feel better. 

Clark knows that’s not the case. 

He keeps his thumb pressed against your lip. Keeps it over that cut. Keeps pressing his saliva into the little wound. Rubbing it back and forth. Licking his thumb again. Repeating the whole process when some more blood wells from your self-inflicted bite. Feeding more and more of himself to you. 

Part of him wishes Kara never told him about this little trick.

“All I know is that it’s like…a fuckin’ love potion, or something. If you kiss a human, they’ll go crazy for you. I think it’s in our spit. I know it sounds crazy, Kal, but trust me. That shit works.” 

He thought she was lying. Didn’t believe her at first, because how outrageous would that be? Sure, his parents wanted him to repopulate Earth, but isn’t aphrodisiac-laced spit a little far fetched? 

Two years later, he knows she wasn’t lying. Especially right now, as he’s watching you fall into the effects of it. He’s watching your pupils dilate with every gentle brush of his thumb over your lip, watching your breathing quicken in your still-heaving chest. 

This trick’s worked on you every time. And every time he does it, he feels bad about it, but he’s sure not stopping any time soon. Not when he gets to see you like this. 

Your eyes keep locking onto his mouth. You keep squirming in his grasp, body warm, skin dampening, and much more pliable than you were only a few seconds earlier. When your fingers dig into his shirt, he finds that they’re trembling. Whether it’s from the rage of your fight or the lack of his attention toward the mess you’re already making between your thighs, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both. 

“Clark,” you whine. Pitchy, breathy, irresistible. He ticks his jaw, annoyed with himself for being so turned on by this. By being able to control you this easily. He’s supposed to be a good man. He’s not supposed to get hard when you’re upset with him. 

“I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.” 

Your lidded eyes trace every single word that leaves his mouth. You moan at the pet name. His fingers, still curled around your jaw while his others grasp at your waist, pick up on the heat radiating from you. 

“Don’t like it when we fight.”

“I don’t like it either, honey.” 

Your knees buckle at the saccharine nickname he knows is your favorite—a slight jolt that makes him tighten his hold on you—and you start panting, start gripping him a little harder. 

Are your hips rolling against his? He pays no mind to it. Forces himself to take his thumb away from your lip, because you’re good and moldable for him already. Three rounds of feeding himself to you through an open wound’ll do it. He doesn’t need to take this any further.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though. 

“I love you,” you whisper to him. The inky blackness of your pupils eats up your irises. You’re soaking through your panties, making such a big mess that he can smell it. He should be excited—and part of him is—but his heart aches instead. When was the last time he had you this wet, this compliant, this soft and needy for him, without using his saliva to get you there? Must have been before everything started going downhill a few months ago. 

Oh well. At least you’re there now, right?

So he smiles at you. Sweet and crooked, the smile you’ve told him you love a thousand times before. Makes you whimper and has you bucking your hips up against his. You’re so hot that your skin is burning. Warm to the touch and a little bit damp. Just how he likes you. His trick worked like a charm.

“There’s my sweet girl. Was starting to think I’d never see you again, baby. I love you so much.” 

When his lower-octave purr hits your ears, you almost collapse. He felt it all. The way your knees gave out, the way you grabbed onto him a little harder, the way your heart started slamming so roughly behind your ribcage that it almost burst out of your chest. 

“Can I have a kiss?” you mercilessly, pathetically beg. Voice so soft and needy and whiney that he couldn’t possibly dream of resisting you. “I know—I know you don’t like to do it, but…I need one. Please?”

“Is a kiss gonna make you feel better?”

You hum and nod so hard that your head looks like it’s about to fall off. He finds himself laughing. Not mean, not teasing, just…laughing. Because he’s in awe. How has this trick worked for this long? How haven’t you built up an immunity by now?

Thank God you haven’t built up an immunity by now. 

“My needy girl always gets what she wants.” 

He licks his lips—getting them wet so he can keep you pliant—and leans down to press them against yours. His tongue gently glides against your bottom lip, making sure to take a little extra time on that cut there and causing you to suck in a brief wince. He pushes his way into your mouth without even a hint of resistance from you. Does its work. Keeps you easy. 

20 minutes ago, you’d have had his head on a pike if he kissed you when you were that mad. If he had so much as suggested a kiss 20 minutes ago, you would have walked out of that door and never came back. 

You break away not even 10 seconds later. Clearly woozy from the kiss, like he knew you’d be. Everything is so heightened for you that he’s surprised you even lasted that long. You press your forehead against his jaw. 

“Better?” Clark asks. Your answer is some sort of jumbled little confirmation. 

Your sticky, warm skin clings to his when you catch your breath, pull back, and try to reconnect the kiss. He lets you. You’re the one parting his lips to press your tongue against his, you’re the one licking into his mouth so you can get as close to him as possible, you’re the one tangling your hands in his hair and yanking on it so you can part for air after a pathetic 10 more seconds. And yet, after you gulp in a few deep breaths, you kiss him again. Surprise engulfs him when, this time, you suck on his tongue. 

Couldn’t hold the moan that burst from his chest back if he tried. 

It’s the first time in a couple weeks that you’ve paid any sort of positive attention to him at all, and he loves it. He loves you. If his girl wants a kiss—or two, or three—she’ll get one. Matter of fact, he’d let you do anything if it meant he got to keep you forever. He just might be able to do that if you keep sticking your tongue down his throat and sucking on his like you just did. 

He pulls away when he senses that you’re losing yourself in him. That realization comes through your landing a particularly rough bite on his bottom lip before you start kissing his chin, his jaw, and his neck, leaving a trail of tiny wet patches in your wake. 

Clark cradles your face in his hands to stop you from diving in for another kiss. Gives you a chance to breathe and gives him a moment to drink you in when you’re not mad at him. Your precious, soft, absolutely lovedrunk face. His poor baby. So far gone—eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and glistening from your messy litany of kisses, skin hot to the touch and chest heaving as you claw at his shirt and stumble over your own two feet while you drag him backwards toward your bed. 

You’re more than pliable enough, now. 

Clark swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, thumb dampening from the filthy kisses you’ve shared with him, a mix of your saliva and his. You chase after the contact and tilt your head into his palm when he slips his thumb down toward your jaw. 

He puts on his best soft, deep voice and asks, “Gonna let me take care of you, now, baby? Let me apologize?” before you can yank him down onto your bed.

He gets a soft hum from you. A nod. Of course he does. You’d never say no to him when you’ve got this much of his “love potion”—as Kara would call it— coursing its way through your veins. So he takes your confirmation that he knew he’d get, lifts you up, and lets you indulge in your forced desires.  

Clark’s form of an apology isn’t an actual apology. He doesn’t say sorry to you anymore. When has it ever soothed your anger, anyway? 

Instead, he apologizes by burying his face between your legs. He never has to give you much after you’ve kissed. A gentle circling of his tongue around your clit for a handful of seconds is enough to get you to come undone for the first time. The next is a little harder to work for, but if being between your legs and humping the mattress to get his own relief could be a full time job, he’d apply for it immediately. 

“Clark!” you groan while arching off the bed. While you’re being thrown off the proverbial cliff, falling into your third climax in an obscenely short time frame.  

Your body is a gorgeous symphony to him when you’re like this. Everything you do is music to his ears when you’re in this bed. The roughness of your breathing, the sheets rubbing against your heated, sticky skin, the lewd squelch of your wetness as he drives two fingers in and out of you, the moans you sing out when he curls those fingers up to hit the soft, spongy spot that he loves to abuse until you’re boneless beneath him. 

“Coming! Fuck, I’m coming! Don’t—ah! Don’t stop!” you babble. There’s a string of curse words attached to the end of that jumbled declaration. Clark just hums and continues eating. Slips his fingers out of you to replace them with his tongue. The rough push of his nose against your clit forces a full-body jolt out of you. 

You keep screaming for him to continue, to go deeper, to not stop, and he gives it all to you until you’re falling apart. It’s not like it was his intention to stop. Wouldn’t dream of stopping now. Wouldn’t deprive himself of the pleasure of being glued to your pretty pussy like this. 

He’s not sure when he became so selfish. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you to manipulate you. Well, it’s not manipulation. Not if you were the one who asked for a kiss. That’s what he tells himself, at least. 

“Shit!” you hiss while you collapse back down on the bed with a heavy thump. Your body’s starting to give out. Mind’s been gone for a while, now; there’s no way you remember what that fight earlier was about. Perfect. Just where he wants you. Should be enough to buy him at least a couple days of peace. A couple days of not having to worry about you wanting to break up with him and him losing all his motivation to live. 

Clark smiles. Pulls back just enough to speak to you. When he pushes his thumbs against each of your folds and spreads you open, your whimpered response is telling him you’ve got tears in your eyes. You cant your hips up, bucking and squirming for him to give you more. 

How are you still begging for more when you’ve had so much already? Maybe he’s not the only selfish one here. 

“Look at the mess you made. Love it when she’s cryin’ for me like this, baby. Can’t believe I get to call this perfect little pussy all mine. How’d I get so lucky?” 

He pushes his filthy words into your thighs between kisses as though he’s praying to you. He is, in a way. Praying that you won’t leave him. Praying that he’ll get to keep you if he’s good enough at worshipping the altar of your body.

Those kisses slowly trail up your hips, your waist, your stomach. Each time he makes contact with you, he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Feels the way you shiver, the way you’re still weak for him even though he hasn’t kissed you in what feels like an eternity. 

He wants to kiss you. Wants to push you a little further. Wants you to go completely dumb so that you don’t have to think about how mad you are at him. So that, if he’s lucky, you’ll forget about everything altogether and just love him the way he loves you. Without hesitation. Without regret. 

For now, he refrains. Kisses up to your chest and sucks one peaked, sensitive nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other. A gentle back and forth swipe, one that he drew on your bottom lip just a little while earlier. 

He stops his kisses when he reaches your jaw. Tilts his head away from you when you try to kiss him. Nearly dies from the tiny, sad noise you push out when he doesn’t give you what you want. Clears his throat and gently spreads your legs with one knee. Somewhere along the way, he slipped his hand down to your overstimulated clit, and he earns a cute little moan from you when he starts tracing soft circles on it. 

“Gonna let me use her one more time, honey?”

“Last time,” you confirm while spreading your legs wider for him. You nod. “One last time.” 

Clark stills. Lifts his head so he can actually meet your eyes for the first time since this has all started. It’s a miracle that they’re still open. What’s not a miracle, though, is how your irises have started to return.

His blood chills. Threatens to freeze in his veins and render him useless. How long has it been since that aphrodisiac wore off? 

“Last time? You don’t mean that,” he mutters. The way his voice went up an octave is embarrassing. How could five words make him panic so quickly? 

“I told you I wanted to take a break,” you counter. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck. Clark’s face starts to burn. Whether it’s from embarrassment, panic, or anger, he doesn’t exactly know. 

“You didn’t mean it when you said that, either.” 

He sighs. He knows what he has to do. He didn’t think it’d ever get this far, but if it means keeping you, it’s getting done. 

He steels himself and sends you a fake smile. You probably clocked it. He’s never been good at faking them with you. He brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and lowers his face towards yours. His voice is a whisper when he finds it again. 

“We’ll talk about it later.” 

You huff at him. Press your lips into a thin line but turn toward his palm when it slides down your cheek. Soon enough, his thumb is gliding over your lip again. He always seems to find it. This time, though, he’s got a reason. 

He swipes it back and forth. Gentle. Unassuming. Considers it a win when you tilt your chin up for him to continue the tiny, comforting movement. He regains some confidence in his voice now that he’s accepted his fate and knows what he has to do here. 

“Be a good girl and open up for me, baby,” he commands while he drags his thumb down your chin. For someone who wants a break so badly, you comply immediately. The smile he sends you is genuine, this time. 

“That’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.” 

As soon as you’ve got your mouth open, chin tilted up, he does it. He stares into your eyes as he lets a single, heavy dribble of his saliva fall onto your tongue. Just enough of it to bump up the concentration of the aphrodisiac without knocking you out completely. 

“Swallow,” he coos when he closes your mouth for you. Smiles when you do as he says without skipping a beat. 

“Atta girl.”

When he finally tears his focus away from your mouth to look at your entire face, he sees everything he wants:

Blown out pupils and utter devotion. 

You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.

Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.

And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.

“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.

“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.

So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.

You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”

He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”

Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.

You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.

Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.

Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.

“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.

“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”

You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”

His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”

You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.

The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.

His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.

“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”

He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.

Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.

You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).

Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.

Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.

You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.

“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.

“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”

“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.

You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”

“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”

Whatever, huh?

You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.

“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.

He smiled again before he continued with his day.

“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.

More happened.

You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.

“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.

Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?

“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.

“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.

“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”

He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.

You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.

Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.

Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.

The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.

Oh, both of you were falling deep.

The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.

It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.

At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.

You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.

So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.

Until one day.

You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.

It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.

He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.

You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.

The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.

Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.

And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.

His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.

Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.

Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”

He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.

Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–

Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.

He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.

His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.

You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”

He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”

You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.

You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.

Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.

His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.

He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.

Then– Click.

The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.

“You’re done?” you asked.

He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.

He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.

“It feels solid…” he murmured.

You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”

He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.

You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.

His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.

“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head profusely.

“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.

“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.

“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.

He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.

You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”

“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.

He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.

He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.

“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.

He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.

It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.

You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”

You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.

His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.

You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.

Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”

The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.

The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.

And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.

“Clark–”

“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”

He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.

You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.

“All ready?” he asked softly.

“Yeah…”

The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.

His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.

“More…” you moaned against his lips.

Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?

He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.

The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.

“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.

“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.

Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.

So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.

His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.

You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.

He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.

“Gonna come–!” you cried.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”

And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.

“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–

Craaack.

The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.

Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.

Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”

He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”

Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.

“Help me order another one?”

༘⋆ 🏷 clark’s : @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @theworstwolvie @anon-188

A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”

“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.

Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.

It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.

Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.

And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.

(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)

So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.

Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.

That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.

But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.

Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.

Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.

You’re under his skin like an influence.

“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.

You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”

Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.

“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”

The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.

The latter part? He can only dream.

“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”

Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)

“I was being serious.”

“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.

And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.

M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.

You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”

Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.

And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.

“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.

God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.

Like right now.

“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”

“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.

You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.

You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.

“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”

“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?

Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.

It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”

Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.

He tries to make it sound casual.

“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”

There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.

A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.

“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.

The subject is dropped just like that.

Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.

He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.

The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.

He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.

Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.

He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.

Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.

He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.

The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.

You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.

But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.

But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.

You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.

He drifts off soon after.

2

You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.

That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.

On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.

Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.

On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.

You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.

And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.

“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.

He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.

“Thanks for the Advil.”

“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.

You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.

Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.

You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

୨୧

Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.

Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.

There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.

If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.

“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.

“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.

You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.

“Something happened yesterday.”

His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.

“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”

Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.

“And so are you.”

He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.

Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.

“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”

That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”

“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"

“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"

There’s a pause.

" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”

You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.

“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”

He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.

“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”

He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s because you’re a great writer.”

He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.

The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.

He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.

Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.

You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.

Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.

Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

It starts with the weight of him pressing you down, your cheek against the pillow, hips arched just enough for him to fit behind you. Clark’s hands are gentle, steady on your waist, but the moment he pushes in, you feel something unravel deep inside you. The stretch, the fullness—it’s more than physical. It scrapes against buried places in you, old memories your body has carried too long. Your breath shatters, a sob slipping free before you can choke it back.

“Hey,” Clark murmurs immediately, stilling, his chest warm against your back. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”

You nod, but it’s not neat or calm. Your shoulders shake, tears streaming hot into the sheets as you whisper, “Please, don’t stop. I need this. Just—please.”

And he understands. God, he always understands. His lips find the crown of your head, his voice steady even as you tremble beneath him. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” When he moves again, it’s slow, deliberate—his hips rocking into yours while his arms cage you close. The rhythm isn’t rough; it’s grounding, a steady thrum that lets the pain drain out with every sob you can’t hold back.

Your body breaks open around him, grief and pleasure spilling out tangled, and Clark holds it all. He doesn’t flinch when your cries turn raw. He whispers through them—“Good girl, let it out… you don’t have to hold it anymore… I’ve got you, always.” Every thrust works something loose in you, not just tension but grief, shame, fear. You sob through it, your whole body trembling, but Clark never wavers. His voice is a constant in your ear:

“You’re safe. You’re mine.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

“You’re so strong, sweetheart. So beautiful.”

The words wrap around you tighter than his arms, pulling you back every time your mind tries to spiral. You don’t feel used or broken—you feel seen, held through the storm. When your body finally breaks open around him, it’s raw, messy—your orgasm tangled in sobs and trembling release. Clark fucks you through it only long enough to ground you, then stills, staying inside you while wrapping both arms around your chest, pulling you flush to him.

After, he eases out of you with care, tugging the blanket up around your bare body before gathering you against his chest. He settles you in his lap, rocking gently as if you’re something fragile. You’re still crying softly, though it’s thinner now, quieter, and he presses kisses into your hair. “Talk to me,” he whispers, thumb brushing your wet cheek.

You shudder, hesitant, but the dam of silence is just as broken as the one in your hips. “Sometimes I feel like my body isn’t mine,” you admit, voice raw. “Like it remembers things I don’t want it to. Like it betrays me every time I try to be touched.” Clark’s eyes soften, but his arms only tighten. “Your body is yours,” he says firmly, conviction in every word. “No one can take that from you. Not anymore. And I’ll spend every day proving it to you, if that’s what you need.”

“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?” 

You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.

“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”

“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything. 

“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”

Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you. 

Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”

“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”

You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”

He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—

“So you don’t have an alien dick?” 

“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology. 

“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“

“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation. 

“But are you sure?” 

“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”

Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it. 

Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.

“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”

“Do you have to be so vulgar?”

“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”

“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”

“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”

“I mean, yes, but not like that!” 

“Like what?” 

“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now. 

“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”

It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait. 

“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too. 

“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”

“Oh my— stop. please.”

“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?” 

“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did. 

A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”

Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”

“You don’t?” 

Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response. 

“… No,” he finally mutters. 

“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”

“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”

You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”

A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time. 

“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”

“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”

This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?” 

“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan. 

“If I do show you, would you stop asking?” 

It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up. 

“Take your pants off then,” you dare. 

Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure. 

Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are. 

You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover. 

As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own. 

Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did. 

You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman. 

You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down. 

Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked. 

And now, he was unzipping his pants. 

“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”

Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”

“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly. 

“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”

You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”

“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs. 

Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe. 

The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen. 

Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his. 

Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at. 

Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane. 

“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”

You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."

He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat. 

“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”

Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”

“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches. 

You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing. 

Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question. 

“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”

You’re a dead woman. 

You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him. 

The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it. 

You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.

But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps. 

“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady. 

Clark releases himself, then nods. 

You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought. 

His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick. 

“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“

“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized. 

You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.

There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered. 

His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly. 

“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”

The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him. 

Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”

“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”

“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes. 

“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”

He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”

You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees. 

Clark notices. He always does.

He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?” 

You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are. 

“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur. 

“You smell different.”

Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him. 

But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.

“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease. 

A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums. 

“You want me to?” 

The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“No. Want you closer, actually.” 

You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs. 

You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.

Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him. 

“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”

“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless. 

Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”

A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass. 

“You gonna show me how you’ll fit?” is what you say instead. 

You’re in his bedroom within a blink of your eyes— comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you. 

“Sorry. ‘m a little excited,” Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for him— of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he can’t breathe. 

“I can see that. feel it, too,” you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core. 

“You're lucky I love you,” he sighs. 

Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. He’s warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. He’s like the first warmth of spring after a long winter. 

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.

His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. It’s discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side. 

He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck. 

“Gosh,” Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, “I’ve dreamt about this moment before.”

“Do I live up to your expectations?” you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms. 

He groans, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and he’s in heaven. 

“Better,” is all he says before his kisses move even lower. 

You’re certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. There’s no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires. 

No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasn’t like that. Though you really wouldn’t have minded it. 

A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers. 

“You practice that a lot in college?” you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest. 

“Mm… Not lots of practice, but enough,” he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you.  “So pretty, sweetheart.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and you’re melting for him. Maybe he’s got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it. 

“Want this gone,” you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation. 

Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t give you any time to appreciate the beauty of him— the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment he’d never looked larger. Confident. Yours. 

Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into. 

Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“You smell so good,” he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. “Goodness… Already dripping for me and I haven’t even done anything.”

“You gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?” you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it. 

“Easy there.” His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby.”

Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit. 

A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted. 

“Tastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,” he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy. 

“Clark—“

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he huffs. “One day.” 

Clark didn’t verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision. 

It’s as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub that’s begging for his attention. You can’t help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldn’t care if you did. He’s able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.

The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that you’ll find yourself back in this position another day.

But not right now.

Right now, you need him– all of him–

“Slow down,” he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. “Haven’t even started to stretch you out.”

You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. “Clark, you need to hurry up.”

“We have all the time in the world,” he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesn’t work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.

You always knew Clark’s hands were big. It matched the rest of him– long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly that– holding his world safely in his hands.

The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.

“You’re so soft,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead– a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Gosh… Can you hear yourself?”

Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all. 

You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldn’t be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come. 

His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed. 

“Right here, honey?” The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as you’d done to him for years on end. 

The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch. 

“Easy,” he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval. 

“It’s— fuck, that’s… A lot,” you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut. 

“If you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?” he asks, almost teasingly. 

A shaky breath exits your lips. “You’re— you’re enjoying this.” 

“And you’re not?” Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering hole— right down to his knuckles. 

Your best friend doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan. 

Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you. 

With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact. 

Slowly, his fingers exit you. 

“Mm… I don’t think you can take me tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, “Next time, hm?”

Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading. 

“What?” you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. “Clark— No, need you—“

“I’ll just hurt you if we do it today.” He shakes his head. “Need to spend more time. One night of prep isn’t enough—“

“What if I want it to hurt?” you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just need you in me— need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.”

He’s not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. He’s still thinking too rationally for your liking. But he’s pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach instead— if he was truly unaffected by your words, he would’ve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch. 

You couldn’t have that.

Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, he’s leaking. 

“Look, baby. He’s crying for me,” you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process. 

For the first time that night, Clark’s gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly. 

You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body. 

“So big, so hard for me,” you sigh, almost pouting at him, “And you’re not gonna fill me up?” 

Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like he’s trying his best to hold onto the restraint that you’re chipping away from him. 

“You know I’m on birth control,” you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. “You wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.”

He swallows. “What kind of experiment?” His voice is broken.

You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. He’s waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left. 

Finally, you whisper, “I want to see if Kal-El’s sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.”

Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him. 

His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does. 

The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. You’re about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long.

Clark Kent is a fucking liar.

Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasn’t enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark notices– of course he does– the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and you’re gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.

His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. “Breathe, honey.” Clark showers you with kisses– your nose, cheeks, eyes, neck– anywhere he could reach. “I know it’s big, baby, I’m so sorry.”

With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. “F… Fuck, Clark,” you gasp out.

“I know, I know,” he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. “Try to relax for me, okay?” Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears. 

“You’re so big– God,” you say, voice cracking. 

“Not God,” he corrects with a chuckle, “But yes.”

“Fuck you,” you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bit– probably from the familiarity. 

You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.

The way there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you don’t think you’re worthy of carrying.

His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally. 

How he touches you with extreme care, though you know it’s easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. He’s always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much you’d have to push him to fully break you.

It’s only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you. 

Clark’s pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more. 

“I… Sweetheart,” he grunts. “You’re still so tight around me.”

As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies. 

“Move,” you tell him, breathy. “Please–”

“Hang on,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I’m not paused right now for you. I might–” Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. “I might lose it right away if I don’t give myself a break right now.”

Pride swells in your chest. “Superman is a minuteman?” you tease softly. 

“Hey–”

A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix. 

His fingers dig into your hipbone– not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.

“You’re playing dirty,” he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.

“So what if you cum fast?” you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. “Don’t tell me Superman can’t go a couple rounds.”

His eye twitches, and you know you’ve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime. 

“Of course I can,” Clark says with a tone you know all too well– one that lets you know he’s about to prove you wrong.

His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that he’s going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesn’t.

Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomen– him– deep inside of you.

“Shit,” you gasp out, but you don’t have time for anymore words. He’s pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you can’t even begin to form any thoughts. He’s splitting you apart, filling you in ways that you’ve never felt before. 

“That’s it,” Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.

He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry– You’re so pretty like this.”

Clark swallows all your moans and whines like he’s desperate to have them. All you can feel is him– his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto. 

“You look so good like this. So perfect, so beautiful— gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me– need you to make a mess all over me.”

As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. “God– Clark!” you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him. 

All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he has– prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible. 

One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. He’s coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.

Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin. 

He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for. 

“What’s with that look?” he asks, nipping at your lips. “You only have yourself to blame for this.”

“I didn’t do anything just now.” You frown at him, though not entirely upset. 

“No,” he agreed, “But you did challenge me to put a baby in you. I’m feeling competitive tonight.”

You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost. 

Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes. 

Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You don’t fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he can’t get rid of the markings he left behind. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring you’d be wearing high neck clothing on days you didn’t feel like doing your makeup. 

You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly… you don’t really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder. 

“How do you feel?” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Good,” you sigh, content. “Might be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.”

“You asked for it,” he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss, but you’re smiling too. 

Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other won’t end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with. 

Right now, you’ll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

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Clark was already on his feet, his super-senses, taking a quick involuntary check over your body. No blood, no injuries. Just the familiar, comforting scent that was uniquely you—and something else. Something faintly floral, almost like a honeysuckle.

That was new.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice a steady, grounding rumble that immediately began to calm your frayed nerves. He crossed the room in two easy strides.

You tried to think of the best way to tell him this without him freaking out immediately.

“Remember the new botanical hybridization project. The one I was really excited about? Well, we were extracting volatile compounds from a new species of orchid LuthorCorp imported. And there was a slight… containment breach. Just a tiny one. My vial shattered and released a compound all over me.”

Worry immediately seeped into Clark’s veins, cold and sharp. LuthorCorp and new, unknown botanicals were a combination that just couldn’t end well.

He already didn’t trust Lex, let alone you working for him. But you were happy with your new job, fulfilled in a way he’d never seen you before you landed the position. Being a scientist was your dream, and he would never try and take that from you, even if it meant biting his tongue every time you mentioned your bald and utterly sinister boss.

“Are you okay? Did you get checked out?” Clark pressed, his brow furrowing. His hands came up, hovering just inches from your arms, as if afraid to touch you before he had a full diagnostic.

“Of course,” you said, placing a soft, reassuring kiss on his cheek to ease him. “I’m fine, physically. Decontaminated thoroughly. The on-site medic gave me a full once-over. It's just… we have no long-term data on this compound. The initial bio-assays were inconclusive. It could be perfectly inert, or it could… I don't know. Make my hair fall out. Turn my skin blue. Any other side effects are still unknown.”

You looked at him directly, your expression turning serious, and a little vulnerable. “Thats why I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” he replied with no hesitation, his blue eyes utterly sincere.

“Watch me tonight. Just… be extra observant. If I do anything, say anything, that feels even a little bit off, you tell me. My own perception might be the first thing to go. You’re my baseline, Clark. You’re the one person who would know if I wasn’t… me.”

He moved to you, cupping your face in his large, warm hands. He felt your skin was fever-warm, a few degrees above your normal temperature. "I'll watch you. I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you on my watch.” His thumbs stroked gently over your cheekbones.

You leaned into his touch with a relieved sigh, then placed a soft kiss to his palm when you pulled away. “Thank you. Now, I'm going to take a shower and try and wash this day off of me. I still smell like the lab.”

Clark watched you retreat. He focused on the beat of your heart. It was faster than usual, but that could be attributed to the stress of the day. Still, he remained on the couch, his work forgotten, now replaced with a more important task.

Making sure the love of his life was okay.

When you finally emerged, half an hour later, wrapped in soft pajamas with your hair damp and smelling of your favorite body wash, you curled right into his side on the couch.

“Now tell me about your day,” you insisted, hoping for a distraction to take your mind off of the potential side effects that might hit at any time. You nestled into the crook of his arm, breathing in his scent.

Clark smiled softly, the worry in his eyes momentarily replaced with affection. “Well, nowhere near as interesting or potentially dangerous as yours. Just starting a new assignment with Lois. Jimmy and I tried that new sandwich spot by the office. The one I was telling you about. The sandwich was good, but mostly condiments.” He recalled. “Also, I helped a cat out of a tree today. A very stubborn, very ungrateful cat.”

At some point during his rundown of the day, you had started to zone out, not out of disinterest or boredom of course, but because you suddenly felt awfully… warm.

The comfortable weight of his arm around you, which usually felt like a shield, now felt like a furnace. A delicious, distracting furnace. You shifted, trying to create a little space, but the movement only pressed you more firmly against the solid muscle of his thigh.

Why was it so hot all of a sudden? You tugged at the collar of your pajama top.

“—and then Perry—” Clark stopped, his sentence cutting off abruptly. He looked down at you, his head tilted. “Your heart rate just spiked. Are you still feeling alright?”

His voice was laced with that specific brand of Clark Kent concern, the one that made your chest ache with affection. But right now, the ache was different. It was moving, coiling deep in your belly, a hot and heavy thrum that was growing more insistent by the second and pooling right at your core.

“It's… it's nothing. Just a little flushed from the shower, I think. And thinking about the side effects again.” It was a lie. The shower had been over an hour ago now. This was definitely way different.

Clark was unconvinced.

You tried to play it off but you began to feel it much more now. The throbbing ache that had taken control between your thighs. You squirmed restlessly and swallowed, your throat dry.

Oh gosh. Please don’t be what you think it is.

Clark’s eyes, usually so warm and open, were now narrowed in that focused, X-ray vision sort of way, though you knew he would never use it on you without permission. He was just looking, really looking.

“Your temperature has risen two full degrees since you sat down,” he stated, his voice low and clinical. "And your pupils are dilated. And gosh sweetheart, you're squirming a lot."

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a breathy, shaky thing. “See? This is why I need you. My own personal bio-scanner. My Superman." You meant it as a joke, but the words hung in the air.

His hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, moved to your forehead, checking for fever the old-fashioned way.

The contact sent a sharp, undeniable throb straight to your cunt, so intense you couldn't suppress a sharp, quiet gasp. You could feel every microscopic ridge of his fingerprints, the small calluses earned from saving the world, and all your brain could supply was a frantic, single-minded thought: How good would those hands feel somewhere else?

Clark froze. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

Your mind, usually a fortress of logic and reason, was being flooded with a primal, animalistic fog. Nothing Clark was saying seemed to matter anymore. The only thing that registered was the scent of him, the solid feel of him, and all the previous memories of his body moving over yours in the dark. 

You needed him. Desperately.

You tried to swallow down the whimper rising in your throat. “It’s fine,” you managed. “I’m fine—” but your voice cracked, breathy and trembling.

The faint, floral scent you'd brought home with you seemed to be emanating from your own pores now, intensified by the heat of your body. It was clear now what the compound was that affected you. Sex pollen, lovely.

As a highly skilled scientist yourself, you knew all about sex pollen, including how rare it was, and most especially how strong the effects could be. You didn’t know the exact strain that you had been exposed to, but in general sex pollen’s effect could last for hours after exposure. Not to mention the seemingly insatiable need it could create. And left unresolved, could be potentially dangerous for your bodies nervous system that was being overwhelmed with foreign chemicals.

Your scientific mind, the part that was still clinging to reason, screamed in frustration. Of all the possible side effects—a rash, temporary paralysis, hallucinations—it had to be this.

Sex pollen. And of all the people to be with… it was Clark. Your sweet, kind, impossibly moral boyfriend Clark.

You didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

If you were alone, you could probably stick out the heat on your own with some toys and a locked door. You could ride out the humiliating, frantic need in private.

But here with Clark, he was about to see a completely desperate and horny side that even you hadn’t seen before. And he would want to help—of course he would—but, knowing him, he also wouldn't want to feel like he was taking advantage of you. He would see it as a violation of your consent, or an impairment of your judgment.

Hell, you two have only been dating for like six months, is that even enough time for your significant other to fuck you under the influence of heavy sex drugs?

God, you thought, you really don't want him to see how pathetic you were about to become.

And by your mental estimates of how long the pollen took to kick in after exposure, you likely only had about five minutes before you became full-blown, mindlessly needy. Your panties were already a soaking mess.

“It’s not fine,” Clark said, his voice strained.

He could hear the frantic, rabbit-quick pace of your heart. He could smell the intoxicating, sweet scent that was pouring off your skin, a scent that was now making his own head feel light.

And he could definitely smell the slick, unmistakable scent of your arousal building in between your legs. It was a scent he knew, one he loved, but now it was magnified. A potent, pheromonal broadcast that was scrambling his own higher brain functions.

“Sweetheart… why are you, your body is going into…” He paused, trying to think of a way to tell you that he could smell your arousal and recognized all the familiar signs of you being turned on. “You are very turned on right now.”

You whimpered hearing him vocalize the humiliating, undeniable truth. Your body, betraying you completely, pressed back against him, closer than before, your hips giving an involuntary, tiny roll against his thigh. The friction was a spark on gasoline, instantly satisfying and yet deepening the ache exponentially.

“Clark…” you breathed, your hand coming up to clutch at the soft cotton of his shirt, fisting the material. “I… I think I know what it is. What I got contaminated with earlier..”

Clark’s eyes met yours. He seemed to know too. 

Maybe not know exactly what, but he was smart enough to piece together the clues, especially since you can’t seem to stop trying to grind against him.

“A sex pollen,” you told him, the words feeling absurd and terrifying as they left your lips. “A… a powerful strain it seems, one with a delayed response, likely to have a long lasting effect.” You forced your voice to be clinical, to cling to the last vestiges of your professionalism and sanity. “Left unresolved, the neurological overload can cause… physiological damage.”

Your eyes raked over him as he took in the information, but you found yourself getting distracted.

The pollen’s influence seemed to have you zeroing in on every single detail you loved about Clark. One detail in particular: his size.

Clark Kent was a big man, tall and broad, 6'4, all solid muscle. But now, that awareness has become your current hyper-fixation. The width of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs. Your gaze dropped to the growing bulge in his jeans, and a fresh wave of desperate lust washed over you, so intense it made you dizzy.

You couldn’t help it anymore. The ache and desire for him was too much and you desperately needed relief.

“God, Clark,” you moaned, the words slipping out. “You’re so… big. Look at you. How are you so… much? I need you… I need to feel all of that. I need you inside of me, right now. Please Clark.”

The plea was raw and stripped of all your pride. Your hand left his shirt and slid down, palming the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans. He jerked at the contact, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.

“Whoa, easy there sweetheart,” he said, his voice gravelly, catching your wrist gently but firmly. His own control was fraying, the scent of you, the feel of your small hand on him, the sight of your dilated pupils and flushed skin was a test of willpower he’d never imagined. “We can’t. Not like this. You’re not in your right mind.”

The rejection was painful, your eyes welling up with tears immediately and a loud obnoxious whine coming out.

“You’re saying no to me?” Your lower lip trembled, “I’m your girlfriend, we’ve done this before, it’s no different.”

“It is different,” Clark ground out, his jaw so tight it looked like it might crack. The hand around your wrist was trembling. “It-it’s completely different. You're not you. This isn't your choice; it's just the pollen talking. Maybe I can take you to the doctor’s or-”

“It's my body!” you cried out interrupting his useless suggestions, surging forward, pressing your heated skin against his chest. The contact only made the deeper, gnawing emptiness worse. “And it's screaming for you. Clark, please. It hurts.” You ground your hips against his thigh again, a frantic, desperate motion. “You promised nothing bad would happen to me. This… this ache… it feels so bad. You have to make it stop.”

That seemed to strike a chord.

You could see the conflict ravaging him. His superheroic resolve, the very core of his morality, was crumbling under the assault of your desperate pleas and the intoxicating, pheromones you were producing in the air.

“I can't… I can't take advantage of you like this,” he whispered, but it was a weak protest.

“You're not Clark,” you begged, your voice breaking as you framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You're saving me. You're my hero, remember? So save me from this. Please, Clark. I need you inside me. I need to feel you, all of you, or I think I'm going to like…die.”

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic on your end, but truly it's what it felt like.

And Clark’s moral dilemma was being less than helpful at the moment. Why couldn’t he just not be a gentleman for once and fuck you into tomorrow like you needed.

“Sweetheart…”

You ignored him, and started placing kisses on his jaw and neck to try and satisfy your need. It helped, but nowhere near enough. You moved lower but Clark snapped out of it again and pushed you back softly.

There was not a single sane thought in your head anymore, you just needed to be filled, and Clark’s denial was making you angrier by the second.

“Clark!” you huffed at him, “Please don’t make me beg for this.”

“I’m not trying to make you beg… I just,” Clark starts shaking his head.

“You are though!” you whined back, “And I don’t want to, but I will, because that’s how badly I need this. Please Clark, I don't want to ask again, you have to make it stop.”

Clark swallowed heavily, and nodded hesitantly. He hated seeing you in pain like this.

“Okay, um alright, but if we do this, it’s on my terms. I need to know you’re still in there, sweetheart okay?”

You nod embarrassingly fast, “Okay, okay, your terms. Just... hurry, please.”

Clark didn't need to be told twice. He pulled you towards him, his fingers trailing up and down the sides of you and paused when he felt you shudder into him.

“Gosh, you’re… you’re so sensitive,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. His gaze was locked on his own thumb, which now rested motionless against the frantic pulse in your wrist.

Hesitantly, he moved one hand. Clark released your wrist, his fingers trailing up your arm, over the soft skin of your inner elbow. The touch was feather-light but you jolted as if electrocuted, a full-body shudder wracking your frame.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your head falling back. “Clark, please.”

Clark made a sound deep in his throat, a mix of sympathy and sheer, unadulterated want. He was cataloging your reactions, learning the map of your sensitivity without even meaning to.

His fingertips drifted higher, skating over the slope of your shoulder, and your back arched, pressing your breasts against the solid wall of his chest. The friction of your nipples, already hard and aching, against his shirt was equally satisfying and utterly insufficient.

“Does that…” he swallowed hard, his own breathing becoming labored. “Does it feel like this everywhere?”

You could only nod, desperate tears pricking your eyes again. He was touching you, but it wasn't where you needed it. It was like being given a single drop of water in a desert.

God why did he keep teasing you so much?

“Okay,” he whispered, the word a ragged breath against your temple. His hands, which had been wandering with curiosity, suddenly changed their intent.

The hesitant exploration was gone, replaced by a firm, deliberate purpose. He had to give you what you needed.

One large hand splayed against the small of your back, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down, over the desperate, aching curve of your hip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice thick with a restraint that was visibly fraying. He was giving you one last out, a final thread of chivalry to cling to.

“It won’t be enough,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. “It could never be too much.”

With a groan that seemed to be torn from the very core of him, Clark finally, finally closed the last remaining distance. His hand cupped your pussy through your clothes, a firm, perfect pressure that made you cry out.

“How does it feel here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your neck as he applied a slow, circular pressure.

“Yes! Clark, yes,” You almost buckled finally feeling the friction that your body has been begging for so long.

“I know, I know, sweetheart, I got you. Finally going to give you what you need okay?”

He shifted you both, lowering you back onto the soft cushions of the couch without ever breaking the contact. His knees nudged yours apart, settling between them, and the new, intimate proximity sent a fresh, violent shudder through you.

His thumb found the damp, heated center of you again, rubbing a relentless, rhythmic pattern that had you bucking against his hand. The pleasure was so sharp it bordered on pain.

“You’re so responsive like this,” he breathed, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide with awe and desire. “Every little touch… gosh, I can feel you everywhere.”

His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Look at me, sweetheart. I need to see you.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his. He descended, his mouth finally capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like his usual tender caresses. This was all-consuming, a desperate fusion of lips and tongue that stole the breath from your lungs. It was hot and wet and messy, and everything you needed.

The soft cotton of your pajamas was an intolerable barrier at this point. 

You heard a faint rip as he tore the top apart, buttons pinging against the wall. The sound should have shocked you, but it only sent another violent throb of need through you.

His large, warm hands covered your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples with a rough, delicious friction that made you cry out against his mouth.

“So beautiful. I can feel your heart beating against my lips.” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and lust as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the frantic pulse there.

Clark broke the kiss apart to slide your underwear aside and finally dipped his fingers into you, slow and gentle and so, so deep.

“There she is, that pretty pussy,” he cooed. “Gosh, you're so wet. So ready for me, hm?”

You clung even harder to him, nails curling against the back of his neck into his soft curls as you clenched onto his fingers. He groaned, obsessed with how desperate you were for him. You could barely breathe anymore, his slow pace was maddening and utterly torturous.

“Already a dripping mess and I’ve hardly even touched you.” Clark tsks, slipping in another finger and continuing to pump into you.

“Clark, please,” you sobbed, your hips trying to match his rhythm, to force a faster pace. “More. I need more. It’s not enough.”

“Shhh, I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothed, placing a hand on your hips to keep them where he wanted. “I just need to get you ready to take me. I’m a little bigger, remember?”

Those words seemed to remind you of all the times you were intimate before, and how long he would take prepping you for him because he wasn’t just ‘a little’ bigger than most.

He was fucking huge.

You nod pathetically and let him continue stretching him out. The familiar coil crept in your lower belly and signaled that your release was close. Clark felt it and pushed you to your edge.

The lewd sounds coming from his hand assaulting your wet cunt went straight to your pollen-hazed mind and pushed you right over that tipping point. Your legs were shaking, and you were a moaning mess as you came on his hand.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Clark encouraged, “I got you.”

You were breathless and still shaking slightly as you finished coming undone on his hand. Clark brushed away your damp front strands of hair and kissed the side of your head tenderly.

His eyes scanned yours, hoping to see if the orgasm was enough to stop the sex pollen haze. But you knew this was far from over. In fact the first orgasm had only cranked up the notch on the pain and worsened the ache. The momentary relief was a cruel trick, and the emptiness that followed was a thousand times more acute.

Clark’s hopeful expression shattered as fresh, frustrated tears spilled from your eyes.

You shook your head, a frantic, desperate motion urging him to continue. “No,” you choked out, your voice raw. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse now. Clark, please, I need you. I need your cock now. Please.”

He nodded and withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss, but he was already fumbling with his own pants. The sound of his zipper was the most promising thing you’d ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, but he wasn’t apologizing for what was about to happen. He was apologizing for what had already passed. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean with a dark, appreciative hum. “God, you taste perfect.”

He leaned over you, caging you in with his arms, his face inches from yours.

“I’m sorry for teasing you for so long,” he murmured, his voice husky. “That wasn’t really nice of me, was it? Letting you suffer like that.” He nudged your nose with his, a gesture that was somehow both tender and utterly dominant. “Gosh, I’ve been such a jerk to my girl, haven’t I? Making my sweetheart beg when all she needed was for me to take care of her.”

You whine loudly.

“Sh-shh, I’m going to give you everything you need, now. I’m going to make up for it. But you have to be a good girl for me and take it, okay? You have to take all of me.”

The words sent a jolt of pure lightning through your system. You nodded frantically, your eyes wide and pleading. “I will, I promise, I’ll be so good. Just fuck me already.”

In a swift, powerful motion, he freed himself, and your breath hitched. Even in your fevered state, the sight of him, thick and heavy and straining and big, sent a fresh wave of dizzying anticipation through you. He was magnificent and internally you screamed yes, yes, yes.

He settled between your thighs again, which fell open for him willingly and desperately. The broad head of his cock nudged against your soaked, aching entrance. You were slick and ready, your body having prepared itself for him with humiliating, eager efficiency.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his large cock nudging against your slick, heated flesh. He didn’t push in, just rested there, letting you feel the immense pressure, the promise of being filled.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commanded softly again, his gaze locking with yours, holding you captive. Then, with a single, devastatingly slow roll of his hips, he began to sink into you.

A choked, guttural cry of pleasure was torn from your throat. The stretch was a perfect, burning fullness that your pollen-addled body had been screaming for.

He was so big, so impossibly much, and he was filling you so completely it stole the air from your lungs.

“Oh, god… Clark… yes, thank you,” You panted, your head thrashing against the cushions. “Feels so good, ‘ngh so big.”

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. He stilled, buried to the hilt, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming sensation. “There you go. Taking me so perfectly. Look at you, sweetheart. So beautiful, so open for me. Just for me.”

He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that he knew would drive you insane. Each stroke dragged against that deep, frantic ache, feeding the fire higher.

“You feel that?” he breathed into your ear, his hips setting a relentless pace. “That’s me. All of me. Filling up that pretty, desperate little pussy of yours. Is this what you needed? Hm? This deep, aching fullness?”

“Yes! Yes, Clark, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” you babbled, your hands scrambling over his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper.

“I’m not going to stop,” he promised, a dark, possessive edge to his voice. “I’m going to get you through this heat, sweetheart. You’re gonna be alright, I got you.”

His words were as potent as his touch, filthy and sweet that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you see stars.

You screamed, your back arching violently. He only quickened his pace, his hips now snapping into you mercilessly.

You knew he was holding back, a tiny, rational part of his mind ensuring he didn't accidentally break you, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like he was trying to split you apart on his length.

And god did you love it.

This climax seized you with a violence that dwarfed the first. It was a raw, screaming release that left you boneless and gasping, your vision spotting at the edges. Clark followed you over, his own groan a deep, guttural sound as he spilled himself inside you, his hips stuttering against yours in a final thrust.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing mingling with his. He was heavy on top of you and he nuzzled into your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses against your damp skin.

“You feelin’ better?” he panted, his voice rough with exertion. “It’s over, sweetheart, you’re alright now.”

He started to pull away, to check your eyes, but a fresh, sharp throb of emptiness made you clutch at him, a broken whimper escaping your lips. The relief had been even more fleeting this time. The ache was back, deeper and more insistent than before, a hollow, gnawing pain that had you squeezing your eyes shut against a new wave of hot, frustrated tears.

Clark froze. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No?” he asked, his voice laced with dawning concern. “It’s not?”

You shook your head, the tears spilling over. “It’s… it’s worse,” you sobbed, the words hitching. “It just comes back faster. It hurts, Clark. It really hurts. I need more.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, his expression shifting. He withdrew from you gently, and you cried out at the sudden, aching emptiness. In one smooth, powerful motion, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. The world blurred as he carried you from the living room to the bedroom, laying you down on the cool sheets with infinite care.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, brushing the hair from your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll do this as many times as it takes. I promise.”

He wiped away the tears that had fallen and you nodded gratefully.

“How long is this supposed to last again?” Clark asked you.

“Really long,” you said.“Hours”

Clark simply nodded. He didn’t dare remind you that so far it had already been longer than any previous times you’ve been intimate before.

You could see the calculation in his eyes, the acceptance of the marathon ahead. He was Superman. He had the stamina. He would see this through.

You cried out again, the pain a sharp, twisting knot in your core. “Please, make it stop. Just for a minute. Please. One more time, Clark.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. He nodded, his gaze darkening with a new kind of determination. “Alright. Let me try something else.”

He moved down the bed, settling between your trembling thighs. His hands were firm on your hips, holding you still. Then he lowered his head.

The first swipe of his tongue was a bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure. You jolted, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. It was different from his fingers, different from his cock. It was an intimate assault on your senses, and he was ruthlessly efficient. He licked and sucked, already having the rhythm that made you shatter the fastest memorized.

Clark was relentless, holding you down as you thrashed, his name a broken mantra on your lips. The orgasm was swifter and brutal, and left you gasping once more.

As the last tremor faded, he was already moving up your body, his lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He tapped your cheek gently. “Hey, look at me, sweetheart. How you doin’? Are you with me?”

You blinked, trying to focus. The haze was still there, the ache already beginning to coil deep within. “It’s… still there,” you whispered, fresh new tears falling down your face.

He nodded, a grim set to his mouth. “Okay. Okay, that’s okay. I’ve still got you.”

He rolled you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until you were on your knees. He entered you from behind in one smooth, deep thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. This position was deeper, more animalistic, and secretly your fave.

Clark gripped your hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises, and set a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, punctuated by your sobbing pleas and his guttural groans.

He was chasing your release with a single-minded focus, driving into you as if he could physically exorcise the pollen from your body himself.

When you came this time, it was a silent, shuddering collapse, your body going limp beneath his.

He pulled out, turning you onto your back once more. He was breathing heavily, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He tapped your cheek again. “Talk to me sweetheart.”

You could only manage a weak, negative shake of your head. The desperate, achey feeling was returning. Again.

A low growl rumbled in Clark’s chest. It wasn’t one of frustration with you, but with the situation, with the pollen in your body. His eyes glowed with a faint, red ember of heat vision he quickly suppressed.

“Shh, that’s alright,” Clark reassured you, noticing your panicked expression. He smiled and leaned down to kiss you passionately, “You’re doing perfect, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Clark,” you whispered to him, “You’re too good to me. Fucking me so well.”

“I love you too,” Clark says back softly.

Gosh, he felt so bad for you. As much as tried, he couldn’t imagine how much pain you were in right now, especially because it seemed never-ending. So he did the only thing he could to help you.

He flipped you onto your back again, but this time he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The penetration was so deep it stole your breath. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms and stilled, letting your re-adjust to his size.

“Please, move,” you begged, your hips fucking up into his.

“I will, sweetheart, just relax. Let me help you out.”

Clark started to move in a merciless, piston-like rhythm, each thrust jolting through your entire body. He was no longer just making love to you or even just fucking you; he was waging a war against the pollen inside you.

He drove into you again and again, his pace never flagging, his strength infinite. He was pushing you, and himself, to the absolute limit, determined to fuck the pollen out of your system through sheer, relentless will.

Clark eventually lost track of time.

He lost track of how many times he brought you to a screaming, sobbing climax. The bedroom became a blur of tangled sheets and shifting positions.

He took you on your side, one of your legs hooked high over his hip, his mouth on your shoulder. He laid you on your stomach and draped himself over your back, whispering praises into your ear as he moved inside you. He sat back against the headboard and pulled you into his lap, your back to his chest, his hands roaming your body as you rode him, your head lolling against his shoulder.

Through it all, he never stopped talking.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take me. You’re taking all of me so well. God, you feel incredible.”

“Come on, baby, one more for me. I know you can do it. Squeeze that pretty pussy around my cock and let go. I’ve got you.”

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are falling apart on me. My good girl. My perfect, desperate girl.”

You were beyond words, reduced to a state of pure, sensation-driven need. Your legs felt like water, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. But the deep, gnawing ache, while muted by the constant onslaught of pleasure, never fully disappeared. It was a ghost that was waiting for the briefest respite to return with a vengeance.

During a brief lull, as he held you close, his slick skin pressed against yours, you felt him tense. He was looking down at you, his brow furrowed with a concern that cut through the sexual haze.

“Golly, sweetheart,” he breathed, his hand gently tracing the curve of your hip. “You’re going to be so sore tomorrow. I’m… I’m putting you through so much.” He sounded genuinely pained and remorseful, the protectiveness in him agonizing over the very remedy he was providing.

You managed to shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Worth it,” you slurred. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed your forehead, a long, tender press of his lips. “I won’t. I promise I won’t until you feel better. But you…” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes full of a fierce, awed pride. “You’re being so strong. You’re taking me so well, for so long. Even after all that begging, you’re just… enduring. You’re amazing.”

He was praising you for your stamina, for your ability to withstand the very storm he was unleashing upon you. It was absurd and utterly intoxicating.

He pulled you into his lap facing him. “Go on, I know you’re not done with me yet. Take what you need,” he commanded.

And you did.

You smiled, then sunk onto his length and rode him. 

You ignored the pain in your legs and chased the high that seemed to never be fulfilled. As you did, you kissed Clark. You kissed his lips, and his jaw, and his neck, each time whispering a soft thank you for letting you use him like this.

Clark’s eyes rolled back, pushing through his own overstimulation to help you satisfy yourself and the pain you were feeling. His hands flew to your hips and guided you as your body moved against his.

He didn’t stop, not even when his come filled you up for the seemingly millionth time and not even when you came on top of him and still begged for more.

He simply kissed you on the forehead and obliged, putting you in more positions. On his face, against the wall, even flying!

Finally, after what felt like an eternity—ten long, brutal hours—a shift occurred.

You were back laying on the bed, Clark moving in you with a rhythm that had now become as familiar as your own heartbeat. Another orgasm was building (you were unsure how you could even manage any more), the familiar tension coiling low in your belly. You braced for it, your fingers digging into his biceps and sheets underneath you, a silent moan building in your throat.

The climax that hit you was different. It wasn't the frantic, desperate, needy release that had characterized the last several hours. It was much slower and softer. As the last tremors faded, you didn't immediately feel the familiar, creeping return of the ache. There was only a deep, heavy, and thoroughly sated exhaustion.

Clark stilled inside you, his body rigid with attention. He searched your face, his eyes wide, hopeful that this time might be it. “Sweetheart?”

You blinked slowly, the frantic, glazed-over look finally gone from your eyes. The feverish heat had receded from your skin. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and it was the first full, clear breath you’d taken in half a day. The oppressive, maddening need was simply… gone.

“I think… I think it’s over,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from overuse.

A massive, relieved sigh escaped Clark. He collapsed as he pulled out of you. He buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thank goodness,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “Oh, thank gosh.”

You lay in silence for what felt like an eternity, simply breathing him in, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure twitch through your exhausted muscles.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a husky, wrecked version of its usual self. “Are you… are you okay? Did I hurt you… was I too rough…”

You tilted your head back to look at him. You reached up, cupping his cheek. “I'm perfect,” you whispered, and you meant it. “And you were... incredible. Thank you, and I’m sorry for putting you through that for so long."

A shudder ran through him, and he turned his head to press a soft, grateful kiss to your palm.

“I was so scared,” he admitted. “I hated seeing you like that. Out of your mind. I felt like I was... taking advantage, even when you were literally begging for it.”

“You weren't,” you insisted, stroking his hair. His dark curls were damp with sweat. You snuggled deeper into his embrace, the events of the evening replaying in your mind. A slow blush crept up your neck.

“Clark?” you said, your voice small.

“Yeah?”

“Did I, um, I don’t know… was I like too….”

“...needy? Desperate?” he finished for you, his tone joking.

He shook his head, a small, tired smile gracing his lips. “No, no, no. You were perfect. You were in pain, and you trusted me with your body to make it stop. That's... that's the highest compliment I think I've ever been given.”

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, his touch infinitely gentle. “And for the record,” he added, a hint of that earlier, possessive darkness flickering in his eyes, “seeing you like that... completely lost in what I was making you feel... It was the most beautifull thing I've ever seen. A little terrifying, but... incredible.”

You let out a shaky breath, the last of your insecurities melting away under his sincere gaze. “Even the flying part?” you mumbled, burying your burning face in his chest.

Clark's chest vibrated with a low, genuine laugh. “Especially the flying part.” He shifted, pulling the rumpled sheets over your cooling bodies. “Now, you need to rest. Your heart rate is finally normal, your temperature is stable... but you're exhausted and your muscles will definitely feel sore in the morning.” 

As if on cue, a massive, bone-deep weariness settled over you. Your limbs felt like lead, every muscle protesting the hours of relentless strain and god were you sore down there. “Clark?” you whispered again, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Thank you,” you breathed, the words slurring with exhaustion. “For... everything. For keeping me safe. I love you so much.”

He held you tighter, “Always," he whispered into your hair and placed a soft kiss. "Now sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

━━━━━━━

author's note:

KINKTOBER RAHHH!!!

lowk headcanon that reader takes notes of everything experienced under sex pollen to bring back as a report for the lab.

anyways, i tried my best y'all lmao, smut is not my strong suit (we all know i much prefer angst)

That’s why you’re here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, asking—demanding, really—that you cover someone else’s 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but there’s an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clark’s. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.

“Claaark, you in there?” You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.

It doesn’t take much longer before he  finally answers the stupid door. He’s a little out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform —if he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Hey. Sorry, I was… on a work call.”

You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didn’t hear you once? 

Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. “My boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while I’m gone?”

Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clark’s arms with a screech. “Hi, Mr Clark!”

“Hi, buddy.” Clark laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs. 

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. You’re already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mind—Mrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though she’s been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.

“Stop.” Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. Go to work—I know the drill.” 

And he does. Clark’s been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If it’s late at night, Clark’s gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. He’s carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour. 

You’ve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time. 

“You need it more than I do,” he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, you’ve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know he’s been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. It’s nothing compared to the things he does for you—but if it’s all he’ll accept, then you’re willing to repay him a hundred times over.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clark’s arms, and kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?”

He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.

The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him. 

“You promised we’d play superheroes today,” he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what he’ll be like when he’s older. 

“Did I?” Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. “I don’t remember promising that.”

“Yes, you did!” Calum insists. “You said you’ll take me around like Superman again—!”

 “Hm, maybe you’re thinking about another Superman, buddy.”

“No!” The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress. 

“I’m serious, bud,” Clark says, feigning innocence. “I think you’re thinking about another Superman.”

Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”

Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. “Me? Silly?” 

“Yes, you! You can’t lie—Mama says it’s bad.” 

“Ah,” Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. “You’ve caught me—thought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you won’t tell your mum that I lied?”

Truth be told, Clark hadn’t meant for his neighbour’s kid to find out his real identity. It’d happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the clouds—ones like Calum. 

He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.

It was one of the first times he’d ever taken care of Calum for you—probably the third or fourth time—and he’d had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. He’d been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping away—something about his day at the park—and, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps or—

“Superman.” 

The kid’s voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach—shit.

“Calum, no—” Clark had started to protest, but Calum’s shouts only grew louder. 

“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!” 

Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calum’s mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clark’s but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older man’s hold.

“Yes,” Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. “Yeah, bud. I’m Superman—”

After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kid’s mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.

Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, “You’re my hero.”

Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, he’s still shocked he hadn’t become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And he’s never been much for sentiment, but there’s something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a hero—to him—that warmed his heart more than anything else.

Since then, it’s become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calum’s silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flying—he even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calum’s behest. (Never again.)

“Tell you what, bud,” Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. “You eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?”

He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise. 

Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. “Deal!”

— 

It’s 11:30PM when you knock on Clark’s door for the second time that night. 

When he opens the door, he’s changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like he’s been rolling around—and judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clark—he probably has been. 

“Mama!” Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly. 

You rake your fingers through his hair gently. “You boys roughhousing again?” 

Clark only laughs, nodding his head. “You know it.”

“Thank you so much for looking after him again,” you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but there’s no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short notice—and for free as well. “It means a lot to me.”

“Seriously, it’s no worries,” he responds with a smile just as kind. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve seen all day.. “Calum’s a great kid and he’s great company. I love having him around.”

“Are you sure—?” 

He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. “I’m sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.I’ll clear my schedule up—just ask.”

A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, it’s been hard for you to make friends on top of making a living—being a young, single mum in the city isn’t easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. You’d had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them weren’t even your fault, and you’d traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, “Oh, but you’re so much better at dealing with the bad customers”. 

But you can’t tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, “You’re the best.”

Clark shrugs modestly, softening like he’s used to the praise. “Well, someone’s got to keep that troublemaker in check.”

“I’m not a troublemaker! I’m the boss!” Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clark’s tee. “You said so!”

“Sure, boss.” Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calum’s hair. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like it’s dragging you down. 

“Well, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,” you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye. 

“Bye, buddy,” Clark says. And then, easy as anything—

“See you next time, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

The word rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing. He says it so normally, like he’s always called you that.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but he’s the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A casual term of endearment.

Except it isn’t. Not when he says it like that. 

That’s when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze. 

He’s still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away. 

All you say is, “See you, Clark,” and you start to make your way home.

Clark’s door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. He’s holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that it’s getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while he’s sleeping.

“Mama! Mama! Mam—” 

His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.

“Yes, baby?” you hum when you stop in front of your door. “What’s wrong?”

Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, “Mr Clark is Superman!”

You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. “That’s nice, honey.”

“No, but actually,” Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. “He showed me his suit! It’s got the ‘S’ and everything!”

“Right,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. “And I’m Batman.”

He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. “But… you’re a girl.”

“And Mr Clark is a journalist, Cal—I promise you, the closest he’s gotten to Superman is like… interviewing him or something,” you say with a shrug.

Cal’s always been the imaginative type—god knows how many trees you’ve had to coax him out of when he’s played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual. 

Even then, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see it—not that you’ve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole ‘friendly neighbourhood hero’ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they could—

You’re drawn back to the moment he called you ‘sweetheart’, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. You’ve been called it before—by flirty waiters, by creepy customers who don’t understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest. 

Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. He’s waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. “But he flew me around his apartment, Mama!”

“Mhm,” you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he can’t escape. “And did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?”

“Superman can’t time travel, Mama.” It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest. 

You frown down at him. “He can’t? Oh. I didn’t know that. Well… was it just… regular flying, then?” That’s when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realise—“Hey, Mr Clark’s got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?”

Calum just gasps, as if you’ve caught him out on a lie. “He did! He floated me around!”

Maybe you’re just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you don’t believe him. And, for a split second—

Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and you’re just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes. 

“You’re funny, baby.”

“Mama—!” He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. “Go get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or I’ll get Mr Clark to…” Shit, I don’t know. “... I’ll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and you’ll never see it again.”

You know how much that toy means to him—it’s his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calum’s face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, “Don’t call Mr Clark!”  

As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you can’t shake away the warmth in your chest. Clark’s voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mind—

See you next time, sweetheart.

He’d said it like a promise, like he was so sure that you’d be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calum—even if for a moment. 

Yeah. You’re so fucked.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clark’s place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.

And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son. 

Some nights, you bring over dinner—plates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap. 

You don’t stay. 

Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that there’s something between you and there isn’t. He’s just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though you’re still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name. 

Clark Kent is just your neighbour. 

You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual “How are you?”.

So it’s a… surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and you’d heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. You’re sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesn’t even seem phased. 

He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. “You’re  welcome to come in.”

You freeze. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your head—every potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at once—that could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection. 

But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clark’s apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you. 

“You’re staying?” Calum’s voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Krypto’s fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like he’s been waiting for this day to come—his two worlds, colliding. 

“No, not today, baby. I…” You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face. 

Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, “You don’t have work. You’re not in uniform.”

Dammit. “Uh… I was… planning on spending the night watching TV—”

“I have a TV.” He says it like it’s enough to immediately convince you. 

“I know you have a TV,” you throw back. “But I… am watching Netflix.”

You’ve got him now, you’re sure. There’s no way he—

“I also have Netflix,” he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. “So you should come in, sweetheart.” 

There’s that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on. 

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips. 

“Yay!” 

Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clark’s apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity. 

Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you. 

You don’t really know where to go from here. 

Clark’s place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like he’s comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, that’s the most attractive part of him—most men wouldn’t even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.

So he’s a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference. 

“Calum gets his hands into them,” Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at. 

“That’s why I don’t keep anything potted in my house.”

“I was like that when I was younger.” There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. “I loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, ‘Clark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me God—!”

That gets a laugh out of you. “She sounds like my kinda girl.”

He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, “Oh, she’d love you, that’s for sure.” And then, after a second, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”

“No—” you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isn’t an answer at all. “Soda, it is.”

Clark doesn’t wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice. 

His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you. 

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.

You don’t drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. It’s then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.

“Well, colour me surprised,” you say sarcastically, “Clark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.”

That’s a lie. You’ve always known he was capable—you’d never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reaction—a mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himself—sends a thrill down your spine.

Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.

“Unless you count pouring a drink as being a chef—” he shrugs, taking a sip—“Then yeah, I’m a chef.”

After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder that’s already set out perfectly. “My mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning… it was her way or the highway.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. You’re only neighbours after all—acquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.

And though it’s sweet, the way he’s accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.

So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, “Your dog is weird,” as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.

He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you can’t help but find it strange—you’d never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though you’ve always known he’s worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.

Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what they’re up to. “Krypto, no—!”

The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.

“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.

“So,” you echo.

“How’ve you been?” 

But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, “And don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’m not here to judge you.”

You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. “Work’s been good, like normal—”

“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”

“I… have been tired,” you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. It’s your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. “You know, work has been a lot… Cal’s been a lot and there’s only so much I can handle, y’know—”

“I know,” he reassures. He pauses before saying, “Calum’s great company. Most of the time.”

Your brows quirk up. “Most of the time?” 

“He makes a mess more often than not,” he says with a shrug, “but he’s good company. A smart kid.” 

“Ah, he’s always been like that,” you murmur. “Too… everything… for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. He’s a handful, to say the least. But you’ve been a lot of help, you know that, right?”

A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. You’ve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and you’re sure he’s sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.

“I know,” he says simply. 

“And… I’m really thankful for it,” you continue, and the weight of your gratitude—a debt unpaid—weighs down heavy on your shoulders.

“I know,” he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel. 

“And if there’s any way to make it up to you—”

“Sweetheart.” Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catches—between every sweetheart, every lingering look… he hasn’t dared touch you so closely. So familiar.

“Parenthood takes time, that’s what my Pa always tells me,” he rumbles. “The offer always stands—if you ever need help… you know where to find me.”

— 

Clark holds onto his end of the promise. 

The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands. 

He’d made a beeline for the kitchen the second you’d opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needs—and he does. He’s watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.

Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that “it’s a pitstop before I get home”, but a small part of you thinks that he’s just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that he’s not alone. 

You’ve heard bits and pieces of his story since he’s come to Metropolis—his job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl he’s been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because he’s “the handsomest thing they’d ever seen”. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him. You met her once, Lois Lane, when 

And on quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. You’ve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges he’s ever faced. 

Every time he talks about home, there’s always a faraway look in his eyes. Like he’s dreaming about a place he can’t quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. You’re tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parents’ barn. But you don’t pry. It’s a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right over—no matter how close you two get, you’ve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him he’s not yet ready to show. 

You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and you’re a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning. 

In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights it’s particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if he’s noticed you’re running low on something you have yet to replenish—fresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves. 

“You didn’t have to come over,” you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea he’d made you. 

“I don’t mind helping,” he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps that’s the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. He’s willing to give and give and give. You still don’t know how to pay him back. 

Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, “And you don’t need to wash my dishes—”

“I don’t mind helping,” he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. “You’ve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.”

All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that he’s right. 

Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousin’s house. She has kids his age and you’re just glad that he’s connecting with family when you aren’t able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isn’t here, you don’t mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, that’s when you enjoy his company the most. When there’s no Calum or Krypto running amok, and it’s just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence. 

Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search ‘apartment inspo’ on Pinterest—it smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. It’s perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way that’s perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that there’s a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front door—a small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself. 

And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you.  

Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. He’d left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it home—you’ve stopped reminding him too. “In case I need it one day,” he’d told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clark’s presence, and, even though you’re hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.

You’re even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. You’ve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought.  

Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didn’t even realise it. 

“You know… My Ma would love it if I had kids.” 

Clark’s words shatter the silence you’ve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but you’re just glad that he’s willing to open up to you. 

 Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. “What’s the holdup?”

“Work,” he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, you’ve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. It’s endearing, you think. There’s something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered. 

After a moment’s pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Just looking for the right girl, really.”  

“What about Lois—?” 

The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe it’s offense. Or maybe he’s just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind. 

“God, no,” Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, “Lois is… just a friend.”

“Just a friend,” you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. “Sure. Whatever you say, Clark.”

“I swear!” His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate he’d dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. “She—Lois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy my company.”

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. 

The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaper—it’s only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. You’d gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and it’s been your son’s favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.

And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin. 

Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon

Says he misses you, mama xx

A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.

“Hey, Clark?” 

Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.

Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, “I’m sure you’ll find her one day. The ‘right girl’, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.”

“I hope so,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, like he’s been waiting too long for a future that doesn’t seem eager to arrive. 

“Thank you.” Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesn’t shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while it’s there. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies, and you know he means it. 

— 

Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as ‘friends’, you’ve begun to frequent each other’s apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it. 

But nowadays, it’s more about seeing each other than anything else. 

On the days that you’re not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that it’s because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, he’ll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, you’ve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things.  

Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the other’s couch, soda in hand—since neither of you drink much—as you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, it’s—

“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”

The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. There’s a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath. 

Clark has never pried before. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t blame his curiosity, not really. Not when he’s been so patient with you, never going beyond what you need—a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.  

“Not really,” you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. “It’s just been me and him since before he was born, I don’t think he realises someone is… missing from our family.”

“Is there?” He asks softly, but you hear the weight in it—like he’s asking something bigger than you’re ready to answer. 

You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like you’re trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality you’re not willing to face. “I don’t know.”

Maybe.

“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, you’d always looked up to your parents. 

They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple. 

Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in college—you’ve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your mother’s bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place. 

You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your mother’s leisurely pace. Trips to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every night—even though it’s been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.

And ever since you were a young girl, you’d always imagined that the perfect family—your perfect family—would be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way you’d love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes. 

You’d thought you’d get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father don’t exist. 

“I’m… waiting, I guess,” you mumble. “Just looking for the right guy.”

The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. It’s a faint memory, one he can’t quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, “And, this ‘right guy’. What’s he like?”

“He has to love Calum,” you say immediately, certainly. “His love for me means nothing if he doesn’t love Calum.”

Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the moment—something so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotions—a storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentine’s Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets. 

“He’d be kind,” you say wistfully, “the kind of man who loves me because I’m someone worth loving. He’d know what I want before I even say it, and if I’m ever mad, he’ll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And… he should think that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I need to be important to him—he’d bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like I’m his world.”

“Ah, so you want to be spoiled?” He grins down at you. “That’s pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.”

You just roll your eyes. “I prefer the term ‘princess treatment’.”

“And… does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?” He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember. 

Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, “Tall.”

Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”

“Tall,” you repeat with a shrug. “‘Six foot four’ kind of tall. He’d be… ideally, he’d be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just… completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy too—”

He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. “Could you be any more specific?”

You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. “Light eyes… a strong jaw… big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skin—but not too dark to the point where it looks fake, y’know? There’s nothing more unattractive than a fake t—”

But then Clark’s fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.”

It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.

Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and you’re tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun. 

Everything you’d described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want. 

His nose brushes against yours. “Sweetheart… you’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?” 

“Like you want me.” 

You don’t answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth you’re tempted to deny. And then finally, “I don’t look at you like that.”

Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. “Sure, you don’t.”

“I don’t—” you start to protest, but your voice is weak and you’re putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t look at you like I…”

You can’t finish that sentence. 

“Yes,” he says, the smile never fading. “You do. When you think I’m not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.”

There’s a scratch in your throat, one that doesn’t disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. “You’re just… weirdly observant.”

He doesn’t respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. There’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.

“Give me the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would end—like it never existed to begin with.

His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. “Sweetheart, are you sure?” 

All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but he notices. He’s right. He always notices.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like he’s holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss. 

And it’s as if something just clicks into place.

One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.

Clark kisses you like he’s memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone aren’t enough.

By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting. 

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base nature—but then you’re kissing again, and this time it’s messier, hungrier.

A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soul—the dam between you has finally broken and you’re both helpless to stop what’s spilling out. 

— 

Somehow, you find yourself on Clark’s couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knows—can already read you better than anyone—that you’re not ready. And he’s the last person to pressure you. So, he’s been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that you’re eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer you’re alone—parted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like it’s the only language you both understand.

Despite it all—the endless passion and desire—there’s a permanent hunger you can’t seem to satiate. 

“We shouldn’t,” you pant out, breaking away from the kiss. 

You’re lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been ‘friends’ for months, and you’re only now telling me ‘we shouldn’t’?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively. 

Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. There’s lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess he’s made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips. 

He’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though he’s enjoying the banter, he wants more. He’s ready for more. 

The idea alone terrifies you. 

It’s been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy you’ve come to know so well. It’s been longer since you were actually invested in one. 

Clark is a good man, there’s no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calum’s father. That’s exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isn’t easy. Every guy you’ve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.

And now you’re laid back on his couch where he’s holding you like he’s already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands. 

That’s what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of you—of Calum, and raising your son by your side—isn’t worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?

“I just—”

He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m sorry.”

A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you can’t help but look away—his stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.

“I don’t know who hurt you,” he murmurs, searching your eyes, “but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say quietly. 

It’s a bold promise after all, one you’re sure he won’t be able to keep. 

“Do you, though?”

“Yes,” but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”

This time, you don’t respond. There’s something about the look in his eyes that tells you he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sigh—while unwarranted—is like a church choir, an angel’s chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in it—allowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that he’s ready to savour. 

Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want. 

It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours. 

“Can I show you?” he murmurs, slowly shifting until he’s lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart. 

When you don’t respond, he glances up at you. 

“Can I, sweetheart?” 

A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. It’s slightly forced, but you can’t find your voice—because you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.

“I need words, angel,” Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.

“Clark…” you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on you—there’s a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that you’re ready to throw it all to the wind and say ‘Yes’ to whatever he wants. 

“Say it,” he urges, voice husky but gentle, like you’re porcelain he needs to handle with care. 

You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. “Yes,” you breathe out. “You can.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When it’s clear that you’re not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly. 

“Beautiful,” he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he pleads. “I wanna see. Please, let me see you—”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He immediately goes to tug your panties off. It’s just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, “So pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.”

Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until you’re left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.

“Please, Clark…” 

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slit— 

And the first taste is fucking heaven. 

— 

Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine. 

It’s a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. He’d flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. He’s certain you can’t tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. You’re not a drinker, after all—he’s made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that.  

But he remembers you once mentioning that you haven’t had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you. 

Surprise you, more like, because you technically don’t know he’s coming for a ‘date night’ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousin’s again to spend the night, he’d instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.

The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours. 

“‘Hey, sweetheart’,” he recites to himself, “‘I’m here to… surprise you.’ No, that’s weird. ‘Surprise’? Boring. ‘Clear up your schedule, tonight it’s just me, you and Netflix’—?”

That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that it’s worth, he’s not the flashy type, and he’s terribly uncorny. He’s not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, he’s willing to try.

Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the words—two people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they drive 

Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fear—and repulsion—in your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly who’s at the door.

Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father. 

“You gonna invite me in or what?” The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. He’s tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for days.

 Clark instantly clocks what–or rather, who—he’s looking for. But he knows that Calum’s with your cousin, and he can’t help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.

You don’t seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.

Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, and—

“Clark,” you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.

Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clark’s towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clark’s tall—always has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clark’s stare dead-on. 

Clark’s gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesn’t exist. “Hey,” Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. “I didn’t know you had company.”

You blink. “Dylan was just… stopping by—”

“Dylan?” Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of ‘Dylan’s’ visit .

“I’m Calum’s father.” Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. There’s an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himself—and an arrogance that makes Clark’s blood simmer. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylan’s hand, but it’s brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.

“Clark Kent,” he says, taking Dylan’s hand gingerly. “I’m her upstairs neighbour.”

“He takes care of Calum when I’m at work sometimes—” you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, “So, what brings you around?”

“I was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didn’t realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.”

Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylan’s smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so stressed—Clark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex. 

“Funny.” Clark’s tone is flat, unamused. “Because last I checked, fathers who actually show up don’t need to justify it.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, “I don’t need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone else’s kid.”

Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way you’ve hurt her. “I take care of your son when she’s working. That’s hardly playing house.”

“You telling me you haven’t fucked her yet? Haven’t even wanted to?”

The venom—and truth—in his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesn’t seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark. 

“Pretty boy’s all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like he’s on a date, and you’re seriously trying to tell me he hasn’t been in your pants.” Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. “C’mon, babe.” 

“Get your dirty hands off her,” Clark growls, wrenching Dylan’s arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clark’s fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other man’s body. “Don’t touch her.”

“Or what?” 

“Stop it, you two,” you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. “This isn’t a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.”

It’s clear, by just your voice alone, that you’re not putting up with their childish argument. “Dylan—” you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your son’s father isn’t about to back off. 

“Don’t.” Clark cuts in to hold you back.

“So you’re telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, he’s your daddy or something too—?” 

Clark’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylan’s shirt. Dragging him forward until they’re face to face, Clark growls, “You disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time… and I won’t be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.”

He leans in closer, his grip on Dylan’s shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isn’t violent—or at least, the Clark you know isn’t violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night. 

Dylan opens his mouth to protest. 

Wrong choice. 

Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like he’s about to piss himself out of fear.

“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.

“But—”

“Get inside.”

You’ve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyone—let alone you—the way he’s looking at Dylan now. Like there’s something about Dylan’s presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, don’t even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment. 

The moment it closes, you hear it. 

Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.

Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, no—you hear. 

You wait one… two… three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know it’s Clark speaking but you can’t tell what he’s saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, “Okay, yes, I will—”.

Then a thud as—you’re safe to assume—Clark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, before—

“Open the door.”

Clark’s voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way in—though at this point, he’d be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument. 

“What the hell was that, Clark?” 

You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like you’re scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. You’ve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quickly—a moment ago, you didn’t even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.

“He was an ass.”

Clark says it like it’s explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie you’d put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where you’d been sitting and it’s clear you hadn’t been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movie—some dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. It’s background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop. 

That’s when you notice it.

“You brought wine.”

He doesn’t respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. “I wanted to treat you.”

You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like it’s getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You don’t know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for. 

“I wanted to,” he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. It’s clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, “I didn’t hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.”

“He’s harmless—” you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when it’s clear that he’s not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.

Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadn’t even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stutters—not because he’s right, but because he’s him. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. “I wanted to.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t push you. Simply waits in silence until you’re ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if you’re not keen to talk but, for him, you’ll open up. 

“Dylan… he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didn’t even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.” You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together forever—that’s just how it is when you’re young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he just—he left, Clark.”

A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. “It’s not as if I’m still in love with him or anything—he’s a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but I—”

You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. “It’s just—honestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?”

He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freely—anything to distract you. 

Clark doesn’t say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear he’s willing to get yapped off. 

“I was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,” you murmur. “I ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasn’t ideal but we made it work.”

“Jesus,” Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. “You were a baby—”

“I was old enough to know how to use protection,” you correct, “and I paid the price for not using it. But… I don’t regret it.”

Your gaze flicks to Calum’s bedroom door, carefully painted blue and red—Superman’s colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldn’t change any of the interior, you’d still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow ‘S’ painted with the brushstroke of a mother’s dedicated hand. 

Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, he’d been obsessed. 

Truthfully, you haven’t taken much to your son’s interests—god only knows where you could find the time to. But that’s not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happy—Superman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. He’s dressed up as Metropolis’s hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume. 

“He’s my blessing. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

“You’re a good mother.” His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that he’s here—always has been. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you concede, and before he can protest, you say, “Calum loves you. You’re… more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.”

It’s a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Cal’s whole life. 

Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.

“It’s been hard,” you say quietly. 

He just nods. “I know.”

“And… at first, the…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.

I’m here, it says, it’s okay.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. “After giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like me; I didn’t feel like a mother. I just… felt like a fraud. But you… Clark, you’re the first person who’s made me feel normal in the last four years. Like I’m not alone in this, and I—I couldn’t be more grateful.” 

“You’re worth it,” he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. “You and Calum, both.”

For the first time in a long time, you believe him. 

—

It’s a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. You’d given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and it’s safe to say that he’s enjoying the privilege. Very much so. 

The smell of raisin toast—your favourite go-to breakfast—drifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. You’re sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, “In here!” the moment you hear the doorknob turn. 

He doesn’t announce himself, but you immediately know it’s him. Not just because you’ve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this point—every curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. It’s engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever he’s unimpressed with something. “You made your own tea.”

“You took ages to get here,” you say. 

He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourself—he much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know it’s really just princess treatment. “How’d you sleep?”

“The bed was cold,” you tease. “I was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and he’s like, super sexy—have you seen him?”

He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clark’s mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. It’s far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, but if he’s realised, he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls away—albeit a little reluctantly.

“I do not hog all the blankets,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.

He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, “Brat.”

The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with ease—he finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the act—even though it’s just fucking toast and butter—warms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.

—

“He thinks you’re Superman,” you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where you’d already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. It’s become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each other’s apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when you’ve got work, but lately, you’ve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else. 

Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You don’t notice—of course you don’t. He’s too good at masking his emotions and you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto. 

So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. “What? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?” 

You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. “Honestly, I don’t know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasn’t as imaginative as him at this age—” That’s when you turn to him with a smirk. “Are you brainwashing my son or something?”

He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “The only thing I’m teaching him are some manners.” He frowns jokingly. “Haven’t you realised, sweetheart? I’ve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.”

“Ah,” you play along, “of course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.”

Clark’s pretend-frown deepens. “He only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.”

You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clark’s living room floor. “God, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.”

“Hey,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re real good with my kid, Superman.”

It’s only a joke, but Clark’s heart clenches at the truth behind the name. “He makes it easy.” He pauses, before murmuring, “You both do.”

You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s weighing what not to say. 

“Okay, but… seriously,” you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. “Are you like… friends with Superman, or something?” 

He doesn’t say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.

Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clark’s still silent so you continue speaking. “I know you interview him a lot, right? For work.”

“Mhm.”

There’s something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bit— “So do you, like… bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?”

“He does!” Calum giggles, but the older man doesn’t answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.

“I suppose that Superman is…. my friend,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. “Started calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”

That’s the thing: it is. It’s the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew. 

“Does he visit often?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s on an… availability basis.”

“That’s nice of him,” you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. “You should introduce me to him one day.”

“Absolutely not,” Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calum—the little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams ‘Don’t you dare say a word’, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal ‘shut your mouth and throw away the key’  motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping  back in his chair. 

“Why?” Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. “Is someone jealous?”

Clark’s neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. “I… that’s not why—”

You don’t think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed “jealousy” endearing. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. “Superman’s just a guy in spandex. I already have you.”

—

Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet. 

A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you haven’t had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isn’t flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day. 

Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky. 

It’s not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble you’ve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet. 

“Shit,” you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.

But it’s then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards you—and in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square. 

A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.

“What are you doing?” Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. “Run!”

You don’t hesitate.

The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction time—you’re fast now, faster than you’ve ever been, at responding to threats like it’s second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything else—the quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.

It takes a short while, but eventually, there’s a whoosh in the sky—a telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attention—the ‘S’ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.

Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you can’t bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way that—

Oddly enough, it seems like he’s getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like he’s heading straight for you.

Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that you’re frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, you’re flying.

A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits you—Superman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... it’s gonna be okay. I’m getting you to safety.

Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesn’t pay it much attention.

It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like you’re precious cargo—there’s a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.

Home. He’s taken you home.

You turn to face him where he’s still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, you’re sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyes—his stare doesn’t put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, that’s the most unsettling part of it all.

“How…” There’s a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. “How do you know where I live?” 

His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and there’s a tiny, knowing smile on his face—one you’ve seen aimed at you for months now.

That’s when it all clicks. 

“Clark.”

His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, you’re going to say something you’ll regret.

That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up close—at his place, when he’d answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. “A work call,” he’d said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, you’re sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now. 

Superman—Clark, you correct yourself mentally—floats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. “Sweetheart…”

He doesn’t deny it.

“You should’ve told me,” you say quietly, almost accusatorily. 

“I wanted to—” he tries to defend himself, but he doesn’t look all that remorseful for lying.

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt. “You made the choice to…” ‘Lie’ feels wrong. Too strong a word. “You made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your ‘friend’. “You let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just… you lied to me.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret. 

“I think your friends are looking for you,” you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lantern’s got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monster’s eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, they’re not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.

Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.

“They’re not my friends—” He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. “I mean, they are, but they’re not…”

Important? Special?

You?

You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, “They need you, Clark. Go… save the city, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Please—” Clark’s face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like you’re not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.

“Okay,” he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay, but this isn’t over. We’re talking about this later.”

All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, you’re not quite sure if it’s a conversation you’re looking forward to. 

—

That night, you find yourself sitting at Clark’s dining table. 

The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you would’ve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He’d turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful face—half fondness, half amused—and pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.

Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him. 

Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you. 

It hits you then, the weight of it. 

Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie. 

Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance that’s settled between you.  

Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.

“You look different,” you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and you’re finally seeing him.

The real Clark.

Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. You’d once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Superman—himself. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact once—sky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little. 

Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me you’re sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasn’t just a lie.

“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” 

He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. “No, I’m not.”

Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. “I just… I just wanted to protect you.”

“I let you around my son—” I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything that’s happened—the danger he’s put Calum in, time and time again—you still love him.

You’ve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be true—possible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldn’t have to come with this kind of cost.

“I would never do anything to harm him,” he pleads. “I care about Calum, I swear I do.”

“It’s not about harming him, Clark,” you snap, “it’s about the fact that you lied to me! It’s about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Superman—regardless of if it was a joke or not—you told me ‘no’.”

“Sweetheart…” He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, “I love that kid, okay? I didn’t plan to, but I do, just like I love yo—”

“Don’t.” 

The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate he’d made you untouched. “I’d prefer it if you just… stay away from us. Please.”

Clark doesn’t listen to you. The thing about him is, he never does—too stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. “You’re the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world better—because the two of you deserve a world that’s good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldn’t I try?” 

“Because you can put us in danger—”

“And I can protect you!” The words end in a crack, like it’s taking everything to just keep himself together. “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows you’re vulnerable—a bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.

“I know,” you respond firmly—you refuse to let yourself waver. “I know you’re not him but that doesn’t mean you won’t break me the same way.”

Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t mean you won’t leave pieces of me behind when you go. I won’t put myself through that again.”

His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. “But I won’t go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could get hurt, Clark!” You burst out, and this time, you can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill over. “You could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“I saved your life today!” 

“You broke my trust today!” 

“Sweetheart—” he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… keep my distance. I promise.” 

He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isn’t there—resting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. It’s a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nights—a quiet only you could give. Well… gave.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, lower this time, like he knows it’s not enough. Like it never has been.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyes—the one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul. 

Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You can’t bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that he’s more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clark’s waiting arms.

When he realises that Krypto isn’t leaving your side  anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppy’s ears perking up—almost Pavlovian in the act. That’s when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lips—the kind people give when they’ve already made up their mind—and he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clark’s side.

“You don’t need to go,” Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. It’s not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.

You finally glance at him. A mistake.

He’s standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like you’re his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, he’d welcome you home with open arms—where, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, he’d let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love you’re not ready to give. 

And dear God, but that’s worse.

“I do, Clark,” you whisper. “I really do.”

—

Dinner is a simple affair—it’s been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate. 

“Baby,” you start, “you need to eat it—”

“I am eating,” he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. He’s gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the sky—a glimpse of his favourite person. 

“Calum.”

Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you won’t tolerate his attitude.

A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpected—Clark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, “Cal, listen to your mother.” His voice—quiet but unshakable—would cut through the tension because that’s what Clark’s always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the ‘bad cop’ act wore thin and your patience ran dry.  

You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasn’t looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His anger—and his pain—is clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. He’s struggling as much as you are. Now’s not the time to be selfish.

“Hey,” you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. “Look at me, Calum. What’s wrong?”

He’s still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if it’s somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is about—you just want to hear it from his own lips. 

“Look, I’m sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddy—” 

“He said… he said he loves you,” Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, “I love him too.”

You’ve never said those words out loud—not to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you can’t deny or take back, and a promise that’ll never be fulfilled, all at once.

“Then why can’t he come over?” His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. “You said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And you’re being mean to him—”

“That’s different, Calum. You’re my son—”

“And he’s Mr Clark!” 

It doesn’t slip past you, the fact that he says ‘Mr Clark’. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the ‘Mr’, and Clark had simply become ‘Clark’. 

Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just don’t know what it means anymore. 

“Honey…” you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Mr Clark… he broke Mama’s trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?” 

Calum doesn’t respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you can’t show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smile—he can’t tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesn’t make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when it’s not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s a pain you haven’t felt in a long, long time—not since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you. 

“Mr Clark broke Mama’s trust,” you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. “And… I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I can’t do that if Mr Clark lied to me.”

Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.“But I want him!” 

“I know, baby,” you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. “I miss him too.”

You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. It’s hard to soothe a child who’s hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesn’t want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until you’re terrified you’ll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together. 

—

Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men you’ve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life. 

There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and security—around him, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.

For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. He’d been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed help—or when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after you’d spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself. 

You’re not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. You’ve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy who’s become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you. 

Before Clark had ripped it away from you.

The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you. 

But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clark’s arms. It’s a dangerous thing—imagination—and it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now. 

A little part of you knows that he’d answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. It’d be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you though—the one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimistic—hopes that he wouldn’t. Because answering means he still cares. It means that he’s not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesn’t feel guilty about breaking your trust. 

It’s late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. You’ve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but you’re not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes. 

That’s when you hear it. 

Two heavy knocks on your door. 

Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. “Coming!”

The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.

Clark. 

He’s the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight. 

He’s not wearing his glasses. 

He looks different without them, you’d realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden. 

 The second thing you notice is that he’s tired—his eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you. 

The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. It’s a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.

Your favourite kind. 

“I… I got these for you,” he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No ‘hi’. No ‘I missed you’. Just ‘here’. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight. 

As if it hasn’t been weeks since you’ve seen him, let alone spoken to him. 

Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. “Why?”

“You said…” he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. “You told me that day… you’d want flowers every Sunday.”

Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before it’s tamped down. That was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d remember that conversation, let alone act on it. 

“By the man I love.” It comes out flat, blunt in a way you don’t recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all. 

“And I love you,” he rasps softly. “That’s excuse enough for me.”

 “You don’t have a right to say that.” Not anymore.

The venom in your words makes Clark’s heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. He’s certain it still would—you always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his. 

And now this is what you’ve become—what he’s done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he could’ve held together on his own if he’d just given himself the chance.  

“You’re right,” he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a moment’s pause would seem too much like hesitation—or worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”

His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clark’s palm is big—always has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protected—warm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature. 

Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says lowly. “I never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please… don’t keep me away. Don’t make me spend another day apart from you. I can’t survive that. I won’t. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. You’re the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.”

Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than you’d like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before. 

 “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clark’s love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylan’s. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.

That had been Clark. 

And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hope—to wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?

He notices your flinch—and immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. “Hey… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Because that’s Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadn’t been as grateful as you should’ve been during your time together. Maybe that’s where your faults first started—tiny cracks that quickly, and quietly,  

“I’m scared,” you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak. 

He doesn’t need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blows—rolling punch after punch until you’re bruised and battered and broken.

So you can’t help but to blurt out, “What if you realise you don’t want me and Calum?” 

Clark doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s never going to happen,” he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“He’s not your son.”

“I love him like one,” he counters.

There’s a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clark’s arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that he’s always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feel—that  he inflicted on you—and carry it for you. 

“Stop that,” Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. “Stop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Don’t you see? Sweetheart, you’ve made Metropolis home for me.”

Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that he’s always looked at you with.

“Clark…” you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, you’re a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until you’re sharing the same breath. You don’t let yourself hesitate. “I know.”

“You know but you’re not believing it—” Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.

“Mama?”

The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clark’s hold. Somehow, it feels like you’re sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldn’t be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.

Calum’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. “Mama, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, baby,” you say softly. It’s hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his son—for years, you’d prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that it’s Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calum’s shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. “Go back inside—”

“What’s Mr Clark doin’ here?” Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like he’s not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.

“He’s… just dropping by, Cal.” The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesn’t quite buy it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been the best liar.

He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you here to make Mama happy again?”

The expression in Clark’s eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, he’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue.  

“If your mother wants to be happy, then…”

Then I’ll stay, is what he doesn’t say.

“In,” you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, “I’ll see you around.”

But you both know that’s a lie—you’ve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you don’t pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. It’s simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when you’re both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator that’ll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.

Clark, for all that it’s worth, doesn’t seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongue—too painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.

For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him. 

“Let me try again,” Clark pleads, words rushed like he’s worried that taking too long will shatter the moment—or worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. “No secrets, no lies—just us.”

It’s tempting. God knows, it’s tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks he’s given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. “I know I hurt you—”

“Stop that,” you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought you’d left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isn’t aimed at Clark alone—you know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.

“Just… stop.” The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. “You made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.”

Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance. 

Clark’s eyes soften when he realises that you’re offering him a middle ground—a chance to start over again.

He waits for a heartbeat.

Then two.

And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. “Can I come inside?”

You pause—hesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, “I haven’t washed dishes in three days, though.”

Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet click—for good.

It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes, his glasses started to slip on the journey. They sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on, just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You felt like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he did it without even breaking conversation, just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story where he saved a cat from a tree or performed was he described as ‘life changing’ head after he saved your favorite food truck from being smashed to smithereens.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly had a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark had a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wear a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here-“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and lips pulling out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. Your words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re horny, you’re not thinking straight, and in all honesty you’re pissed he didn’t let you keep kissing him.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears going bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I’m the one who climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

You actually consider it for a moment. It is a big meeting, and you do still need to review the slides, an early night is probably a good idea. But then another thought interrupts you. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your cunt pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel it already. If you were any less turned on you’d be embarrassed. Besides, what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like map to your ultimate goal.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. Next, his jeans your hands almost clumsy with your excitement.

You yank them off, fast and aggressive, barely giving him a chance to process. You only have his briefs left, your index fingers crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picture it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

Your cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.