fawn

Late nights at the office used to be reserved for work, he was a bit of a crook but he was nothing if not a hard worker.

Unluckily for him, his night hours had been somewhat occupied since he hired his new assistant.

She was young, too young for him. A recent graduate of law school, she had been vying for any experience she could find in the industry. He's embarrassed to say, he decided to hire her the second he saw her.

There were other women before, but after his most recent wife it was mostly hookers taking up his time.

She was different, sharper than she looked. He was delightfully surprised to find she was actually very useful around the office because he didn't even bother to check her resume.

It was a good thing that she was helpful because she was a serious distraction for him.

After he sent her home it was like her presence was still in the air, he could never help himself. He checked the locks, watching her car leave the lot before he retired into his office for his nightly routine.

When he noticed the scarf she was wearing that morning in the lobby, he knew it was his lucky day.

His belt was off and the last few buttons of his dress shirt were undone to make it easier to roll up his shirt.

By the time he even touched himself his cock was already hard and leaking in his lap, practically begging for attention.

This wasn't right, he needed to be working right now. He had already spent a good portion of the day fantasizing about bending her over his desk and running his rough hands over the smooth expanse of her legs as he pushed her skirt up over her ass.

He already knew she wore lace underwear as he had caught a glimpse of it once when she bent over to pick up a paper he had dropped. That was a benefit of his age, she never thought anything when he asked for her to bend down and pick something up for him. In reality he was perfectly capable but he would never pass up a chance to see up her skirt.

When he imagined fucking her, he imagined keeping the lace panties on, pushing them to the side just enough so he could slide his cock into her. That way he could snap the waistband against her delicate skin and watch as a faint redness appeared.

He was so caught up in the fantasy and the slick sound of his hand gliding over his cock, that he didn't hear the knock on his office door.

He also didn't hear the subject of his fantasies walking into the room tentatively, shaky on her high heels after a long day on her feet.

“Oh fuck. I’m so sorry,” she gasped when she saw him. Despite her sentiment, she didn’t take her eyes off him. Her pupils were wide in the dim room, drinking in the sight of him sprawled out in his luxurious office chair.

"I left my scarf." Her eyes were now drawn to his hand, where he was clutching the aforementioned scarf.

He nodded, eyes wide, at a loss for words. How was Slippin' Jimmy gonna get himself out of this mess?

"Ew," she giggled, sauntering across the office to stand in front of him in a way that almost seemed taunting. "Are you jerking it right now?"

"I was," he replied gruffly, slowly unwinding his fist from his cock so he could pull his pants back up.

She took the scarf from his hand, very aware of what he had been doing and what he had been thinking about. "Kinda perverted," she teased.

"I'm really sorry, what can I do? I'll give you paid time off? How about a big Christmas bonus?" He scrambled to make things right, he'd offer her just about anything not to spill about what she had just seen.

"Pull your pants back down first of all." Her nails curled into the band of his boxers, carefully tugging them back down and exposing him to the stale air of the office.

"Is this ok?" she asked, her hand delving down to his cock and stroking it teasingly slow.

"Yeah. FUck, that's great," he groaned, hand tangling into her hair when she fell to her knees in front of him.

"Yeah?" she sighed, her tone light and breathy. The question was clearly ironic, since she could taste the salty precum beading at the tip of his cock when she sealed her lips around it. The evidence of his arousal for her.

He had no excuse now, not that he really needed it.

"God, this is so dirty. I cant believe this is happening." His head tipped back, eyes snapping shut when she tongued a particularly sensitive spot on his shaft.

She pulled back, letting a glob of split fall from her mouth and onto her hand that was still clasped around him. "I still want that bonus," she said before crawling into the office chair to straddle him.

"You can have whatever you want if you let me fuck that sweet pussy." He growled when she pushed her panties to the side and teased the head of him with her warmth.

"I don't want to be your assistant anymore, I want to be an associate." Her stare was sharp, she was serious about this. He wasn't sure how she was still thinking so coherently, because he sure wasn't.

Saul Goodman. The big-time criminal lawyer. 

- 

You thoughted back to that night as you worked your desk job in court filing paperwork for upcoming trials and whatnot. There you met him. Saul was famously known to be ‘sleazy’ but that didn’t stop you from blushing at each comment he made towards you. 

 The older man you secretly loved getting the attention from. He was so desperate to get you out the professional secretary space. 

‘C’mon doll let’s go out for dinner I know the perfect place’ 

Giving you gifts of flowers and small adorable stuffed animals to place on your desk. You found the gestures to be sweet. 

‘Please just one little drink together’ he begged leaning over your desk like a schoolgirl with a crush. Never has a man been so desperate. 

Until one late afternoon you gave in, and his blue eyes beamed like a puppy dog. He invited you out to a quiet dim lit bar with the promise of buying you ‘as many drinks as possible’ Saul was a charmer who showed interest in every detail about your life with his eyes occasional wondering your body. 

He made sure to compliment you throughout the night and it progressed into more lustful pace. Saul bit his lip as you reacted with a blush and a little look away. 

‘What? Has no one ever told you how absolutely beautiful your body is?’ he questioned causing you to laugh.  

‘You are the most stunning woman I’ve ever met, and God damn that ass kills me every time I see it’ you listened to him going on and on about your ass all night.  

The thought of having a little fling with the one and only Saul Goodman excited you. Yet the idea was little off putting at first considering if your co-workers found out you would probably be slut shamed for going with the sleaziest lawyer around.  

But at the end of the night, you didn’t care. You needed to let loose every once and while. 

Pulling Saul by his green patterned tie as you lead him inside your cosy little apartment was how it started. Hands roaming around your body you stared at him with utter desire unbuttoning his shirt slowly. 

Saul whispered sweet nothings into your ear as he left vibrant love bites on your neck. His touches were soft as if he was taking his time kissing everywhere on your body as he stripped you bare.  

Only when you finally made it to your bedroom his desperate and eager manner ramped up again. He pushed you to your bed causing you to gasp in surprise as he climbed up on top of you. His cock was so hard already as he kissed and licked your tits. ‘Can’t believe I can finally see what these babies looked like’ he groaned playing with them. 

The mixture of the alcohol and pure passion caused you to beg him like a slut. Moaning his name over and over as he now played between your legs. Making sure you were ready for him. Delving his long fingers inside you as his tongue followed along. Legs quivered he was so close to making you cum but suddenly stopped when you almost reached that sweet climax. 

 You whined and he chuckled pecking kisses on your thighs. ‘P-please Saul I need t-’ you tried to say but was cut off by a harsh slap to your behind. 

‘You made me wait so long baby I wanted you the day that I saw you’ the older man muttered in your ear with slight annoyance. You gave him a kiss of forgiveness to which he grabs your chin by force and makes you take his tongue  

‘So, you are gonna cum when I say so sweet face’ he told you kissing you some more. His hand moved up and down on his thick cock as you watched in a trance. Fuck... you wanted him inside you so bad. 

‘Ass up sweetheart’ he ordered as if your pray was answered. You sighed as you throbbed at just the tone of his command turning onto your tummy and lifting yourself up in presentation. Saul hummed at the act smoothing his hand along your ass. 

‘I-I almost forgot to ask do you have any protection?’ you questioned quietly. You were on the pill but liked to be extra safe.  

‘No’ he simply responded wrapping his arm around your waist prepping kisses on your back. ‘Well, I guess you could p-’ he stopped you there with an annoyed hush sound. 

‘Oh, sweetheart I can cum in you if I want’ he whispered in a chuckle. ‘Aren’t you not on the pill?’ he then asked.  

‘Yes-ah!’ he cut you off again this time slamming into you causing you to gasp and moan. Saul’s arm wrapped tighter around you as he slammed into you again with a groan. 

‘Oh, doll you belong to me uh’ he tells you with another groan into your ear. His thick cock dived so deep inside you that you could only whimper at his words. Saul picked up a fast pace, but his thrusts were deep into you as he kept you in your place. 

Your small bed was jolting hard against the wall with his eager movements. As words of possessiveness and moans bounced off the walls.  

You cried out his name as his strong arm kept you falling onto the roughed-up sheets with your face. You had never had such a good fuck before you were kind of worried you become addicted to him. 

His thick cock stretched you so well kissing those sweet spots as Saul occasionally whimpered. 

You could hear him groan quietly something to himself but couldn’t exactly work out what it was. 

 His cock was throbbing hard within you ‘such a good girl hm’ Saul then chanted over and over as you felt the both of you becoming close to that climax. 

‘Beg me to cum inside you doll let’s make something beautiful’ he ordered but you didn’t quite think about what he meant by that. All that matter is that orgasm you have long waited for. 

‘Please c-cum in me please ah!’ you cried as his long fingers rubbed on your poor clit along with his harsh thrusts. 

‘that’s its baby cum with me c’mon y-you can do it’ he encouraged with a deep groan. He didn’t need to tell you twice as your entire body shook and you squeezed his cock so intensely. His thick load shot inside you coating your insides as you sighed in relief. 

He stayed inside you holding your body close to his resting his head on your back. You thought he would get off you and the night would end...but no 

Saul was insatiable he had you again and again in many positions like the man was possessed. 

And you now ended up pregnant. 

Sighing you held your head not sure what to do you were going have to confront him and figure out what you were going to do. Yes, you wanted a precious little baby, but you imagined having one in a stable healthy relationship not by a one-night stand with a big-time criminal lawyer. You couldn’t imagine him stepping up to become a father.  

There it was his office you parked in front of it deep in thought. How was he going to react? Would he send you straight to the unplanned clinic? Saul was a reasonable man you were sure at least he would do is have an in-depth discussion about it. 

Stepping inside the building you instantly noticed how busy it was. You should have called beforehand. Maybe you were too nervous to do so. A dark-haired woman looked up from her paperwork to see you awkwardly standing there. “Can I help you?” she asked. 

“I’m here to see M-Mr Goodman” you stuttered slightly. Nerves started to play. 

The woman huffed “Well your gonna be here for a while” Gesturing to all the clients with her pen. 

Nodding “It’s fine I’ll wait” you mumbled leaning against the wall.  

It felt as if hours as passed by when you finally heard his voice. 

“Who’s next for some excellent legal advice?” He asked his blue eyes scanning the waiting room. Then they fell upon you. 

“Ah Y/N look time no see” he beamed, and you smiled at him. God this is going to be one hell of a talk. Saul gestured you into his office and shut the door.  

Silence followed for a moment until he clapped his hand “So?” he started pulling out a chair “what can I do for you?” he questioned softly as you took a seat. 

You took a deep breath and started talking “well just to be clear I’m here on personally matters” you state quietly.  

Saul hums in a chuckle “Oh back for round two huh?” A part of you wishes heavily for that was the case. This man is always so horny. 

“There’s no simple way to put it-” Saul cuts your words. “Sweetheart you can tell me anything” he assures you getting up from his chair and walking behind you. 

You sigh softly as he begins to massage your shoulders in comfort. “c’mon tell me” He encourages. 

“I’m pregnant”  

Those two words left your mouth and Saul’s eyes grew wide. You weren’t exactly sure how what to make of it “Really?” he asked in a weirdly excited tone. 

You nod your head in confirmation, and he made a desperate move to give you a long kiss to the lips. The older man steps back and you gave him a confused look. 

“You are not unhappy or shocked at the news?” You questioned lightly and he just chuckles. 

“Quite the opposite extremely happy and surprised” he tells you with another kiss.  

“Stand up” Saul grabs your hand helping you up to your feet. He then places both hands to your body almost like he’s checking you out for approval. 

“Oh, baby you are gonna look even more stunning” he muses his hands feeling your body and then rests upon your tummy. Like you were already showing. 

“Gonna be such a beautiful mama” Saul’s hand reaches under your shirt on your bare skin. “I’m just imagining it now you all big and swollen with such a precious thing we created” Saul was over the moon. 

You just stood there confused of his reaction as he whispered to himself. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to be a papa” 

“I wonder what we are going to name you” 

“You are going to have an amazing life kid with a mama and papa who love you” 

All the words and phrases you never actually believed you would hear from a man like him.  

“Stay with me doll I will take care of the both of you” Saul promised softly. You didn’t know how to respond to that.  

A wild one-night stand (and probably the best sex you ever had) and all the sudden the famous criminal lawyer wants to be a family man. 

“I know how it is but trust me all I’ve ever wanted the most was a family.” he tells you. Stepping back, you give yourself some space. 

Saul reaches for his phone income button “Cancel and reschedule my appointments for the next hour Francisca” he excitedly ordered. 

Saul stares over at you with a grin and the look in his deep blue eyes you recognised from that night. Walking over to you again he strokes your hair “I think my future wife and I are in some desperate need of alone time” his voice deepens seductively.  

He didn’t give you a chance to speak as his head was suddenly between your trembling thighs again. 

From then on Saul made in clear how your life was going to head. Plans of marriage parenthood and ultimately being his beloved housewife. You expressed concern how fast it was all going but he never took ‘no’ for an answer. 

The sex was still amazing as ever, but it never distracted you on how much he controlled your life. The man was insatiable as ever having you in every position possible. Saul was never tired from working in fact he was desperate to see you in his bed. His perfect and pretty little housewife carrying his child.  

“Everything has to be right sweet face” he would tell you. 

But you would never find out the truth.  

A pharmacist named Daniel Wormald (aka peach cobbler) repaid Saul for his legal advice by completing a rather important request for him. 

And you do, grinding your clothed cunt down against his hard-on with a broken little moan that makes his head spin. your arms curl around his shoulders as his hands drop back down to your hips to guide you a little harder against him.

“There you go, just- fuck- just like that, baby.” He grunts, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the side of your neck, and you tilt your head to the side to give him more space, whispering out his name breathily when he sucks at the underside of your jaw.

He needed this after today’s shit show, just a little TLC from you— and god knows he could spend hours like this with you all around him smelling like vanilla and so incredibly warm, he needed to feel you, your bare skin, so he quickly tugs his gloves off, throwing them onto the floor to run his hands all over your curves, rough palms tracing over your waist and up along your back.

“You’re so soft, so pretty.” He whispers against your mouth before pulling back just to lift your shirt— his shirt— over your head. His lidded gaze drinks you all in with a boyish grin, like he was proud of himself. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he drawls out, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbing over your nipples.

“Ah!- Robert-" you gasp when he pinches the hardened peaks, and you arch into his calloused palms with a broken whimper— giving a lazy roll of your hips that makes him writhe needily beneath you.

“wanna see you- need to-”

Your fingertips clumsily brush along his stubbled jaw, slipping under his mask and pushing it off his head. his freckled cheeks are slightly flushed, and his hair is all tussled, even more so when you run your fingers through it, coaxing a sigh from him.

“Missed you.” your words instantly soften something inside him, then your peppering warm kisses against his cheeks, and he just melts completely— arms wrapping around you like you’re the only thing grounding him… and in some way, yeah, you were.

“m’here now, baby, not going anywhere,” he promises, breath fanning over your collarbones, sloppily kissing back up your neck to your mouth— his lips slick with a mixture of your spit and his, all red and kiss-bitten. “I’m here.”

You clench around nothing as you rock down against his hard cock that is strained against his suit, the rough texture of it rubbing perfectly against your clothed clit— the cotton fabric of your panties completely drenched, leaving a filthy wet patch where you’re grinding desperately. your fingers tug at his hair, which only makes him jolt and buck under you making all sorts of needy moans that only encourages you to move.

The kiss is hot, wet, with his tongue licking into your mouth and his teeth nipping at your bottom lip— swallowing back all your whines whilst his hands grope at you, fingers sinking into the fat on your hips almost bruisingly.

“Gonna make a mess on me, huh?— come on baby, c’mon.” you can tell by the strain in his gruff voice that he was close, the way he tucks his face into the warm crook of your neck, panting hotly.

He mouths lazily at your collarbones as you practically soak his lap with a whiny: “Yeah— Robbie, coming— fuck, m’coming.” and he follows embarrassingly quick after you, coming in his underwear and ruining his suit even more than it already was— a very warm and sticky mess pooling wetly between you.

Your thighs twitch at either side of his own, and you collapse against his chest with a shuddering breath whilst his fingers run soothingly through your hair, trailing along your spine.

“You alright?” he asks breathlessly. you respond with a nod, and he grins against your shoulder, “bed?”

“Fuck yes.”

there isn't disappointment on his expression, but rather, understanding. it makes you feel even worse, so your head tilts to hide between the pillows.

"yeah? that's okay. hey — look at me."

your cheeks are warm to touch, and it was evident that you were beyond embarrassed about it. he pecks you once on your cheek, then to the corner of your pouty lips.

"oh c'mon. don't pout. it's really okay…"

"but i want to," you interrupt, voice insistent. "jus'…feels like it might…hurt? i dunno…"

clark hums in thought, idly dragging his thumbs across your nail beds, then picks your hand up — your smaller ones, now warm in his. you watch as he presses a comforting kiss to your knuckles, then to your wrists.

"that scary, mm?"

you nod, tight-lipped, a lot less unnerved at the softness of his mouth, easing the tension in your nerves. "but you're my brave girl aren't you?"

hesitantly, you meet his gaze. nodding.

your hand is pulled away from his lips, and he places it to his chest. his heart was beating, likely as hard as yours were. if not, even more.

clark looks far from composed, despite his words. the look he sizes you with — in complete and utter pain from restraint. your fingers trail past the tuft of hair on his chest, to the coarser ones below.

you hold your breath.

then…exhale, letting your digits naturally spread along the downward length of clark's erect cock. he physically holds back a grunt when you're bolder with your touches, acquainting yourself with his arousal.

"hm… —…see…?" you blink hazily at him when he speaks up, "m'just, yay big."

you snort out a laughter, along with the knots in your gut when he pinches his fingers about two inches apart, which was probably just the width of his girth alone — definitely not his dick.

"dummy…"

he looks at you intently, cheeks dented in a lopsided smile.

"mm. feel up for it still? cuz honey, i might pass out just from how hard i am."

you bite the inside of your cheeks at the falter of his composure, and in your final show of bravery, you mutter a hesitant okay.

clark huffs out a quick oh-thank-god under his breath to himself, then presses a quick, sheepish kiss to your forehead.

your nails scratch along his back as he readjusts your position, tugging your thighs snug around his hips. he doesn't turn away, his deep, blue eyes locked on yours.

he doesn't make a move until you're giving him another brave little nod. it's much less scarier somehow, being able to look at him, for reassurance, courage — anything.

your pussy stretches around the girth of his cock, to its full extent. a quick, panicked breath leaves you when you feel like the sting could turn to actual pain, but it doesn't.

clark's brows knit into a furrow, his own pants mixed with yours as he slowly eases himself into you, coming absolutely undone.

"gosh…look at'you…holy…hell."

you aren't able to get any words out, not with the way he'd stuffed you full with his cock. the ache quickly turns to a dull pleasure, and soon, you needed the motion.

"clark…" you finally manage, in a softer voice, "need you t'fuck me. for real now. please."

he lets out a prolonged groan when your pussy pulses around him for emphasis of your intentions, head slumping low in a slow shake.

“Did you call me earlier?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about you. It’s alright, I didn’t have anything important to say, I was just stealing a break.”

“Oh, okay, good. I’m at the mall. King’s Arcade. Just… clothes shopping.” 

“Great, can I come meet you?”

You squeeze the phone, turning away from the lingerie you’d been eyeing in a rush as though Clark will catch you immediately. “Sure,” you say, slightly breathless, “how far are you? I can come meet you at the front?”

“No, don’t worry about that, I’ll come find you, I’m like five minutes out. What store are you in?”

You turn back to the polka dot panties with the lettuce hem and the tiny black bow and its matching bra decisively. There’s a Bath and Body Works right next door. “By the candle shop,” you say, snagging the panties in your size. Baby steps. 

You pay for the panties and shove them with the receipt in your bag as Clark turns the corner. 

He squeezes your hand in hello. Asks if you’re thirsty and buys you a drink. Then you sort of follow one another around for a bit until Clark spies your lack of clothes and encourages you into a store with your style in the front window. 

Could he get any more perfect? (Yes! He pays for the two things you picked up, swiping his card before you can get yours out of your purse like he’d been waiting with it between his fingers.) You flush all over thinking he’s seen the panties in your rush to get your purse out and ruin his plans, which doesn’t help. 

“I’m sorry if I undermined your independence, but you have to let me pay for you sometimes. It’s more for me than it is for you,” he says, having noticed your displeasure, your joined hands swinging gently. 

“You didn’t undermine my independence, Clark.”

“Is that sass? Are you sassing me?”

You recognise his teasing as something that could spiral out of your control and try to duck away, but Clark pulls you right back in. 

“You’re being mean to me,” he says into your cheek. 

“You’re mean to me!”

“I’m not trying to be!”

Giggly and content, you make your way out of the mall, the short walk to his apartment becoming dawdlingly long. You’re tired as you shuck out of your shoes. Clark palms briefly at your back before throwing himself ahead. “I’ll make dinner,” he says.

So he does. You eat dinner with your heel pressed to the top of his foot, and share an ice cream for dessert from the same bowl with two spoons. 

You shower first. Clark kisses your cheek when you return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, eager for his own, and leaves you with pajamas he’s laid out including a simple pair of pink panties and a soft bralette for sleeping. Just a suggestion, never expected, which is good. You swap the panties out for your new polka dot ones and get dressed, fix your hair, laid up at the top of the bed scrolling down your phone by the time Clark comes in dripping wet. He sits down on the end of the bed, taking the towel from around his shoulders to scrub at his curls. 

Even his back is rippled with muscle, the skin tight as he leans forwards. 

Okay. So. Your seduction was mainly panties-based and you’re not sure how to show Clark that they’re new without initiating. The point was that he’d see your new panties and the effort you’re making and start salivating in a more casual situation. You should’ve waited to get dressed until he was in the room, but it’s too late now. 

Clark tips backwards, his hair hanging in wet, dark coils behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“I had a funny feeling about you.” 

Or he’s using his super senses for personal gain. “I’m fine, just thinking.”

“Yeah?” he asks. 

You shuffle down the bed to be closer. “I had this idea…”

Clark spots your timidity a mile out. Usually he’d reach to comfort you, but perhaps there’s more in what you’re not saying, because he bites down a smile that’s surprisingly amorous. Maybe he’s just wires-crossed, what with his lack of pants. “What was your idea?” he asks quietly. 

What to tell him? You nibble the inside of your lip. 

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” he says. 

“It’s not working out how I imagined.”

Clark’s eyes go wide. “What’s not working out? Me and you?”

“No.” You smile at him, then shrug diffidently. “I was trying to be cute, I guess, but I didn’t–”

“Sweetheart, you are adorable,” Clark says, twisting so you can see the defined ridge of every abdominal muscle, better to see you, and better to look at him. 

Your mouth goes dry. All you can think of is how you want him to see your new panties, and instead you’ve trapped him in reassurances. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, grabbing your knee. “You don’t have to try to be cute, you’re already the cutest girl I know.” 

Well, cute was a cop out. Saying sexy out loud felt silly in the moment. This is the messiest of messes. 

You let your head hang, defeated. Morose. “Thank you, Clark.”

You are kissed and cuddled, left dampened by his wet hair. 

You aren’t brave enough to ask Clark to watch you strip, nor are you eager to stand in the middle of the room and do it. The panties feel soft but too warm all night, every shift a pull of elastic against your skin. You’re a little wet and a lot warm, wanting Clark but not knowing how to ask, and he’s so worried about your self esteem that he doesn’t try to kiss you long enough to let you respond and prompt any action. 

It gets to the point where you’re thinking a white lie is in order. You let your heart calm down, and then you get out of bed pretending that you’re gonna turn up his AC. “If that’s okay?”

Your asking helps trick poor Clark. “Obviously you can,” he says, frowning at you where you linger by the door. “You don’t have to ask stuff like that, baby, just go ahead and do it. This is your place too.”

It’s really not, but you like how he says it like he believes it, offering him a bright smile. You practically skip to his thermostat and mess with things, then shuffle back far more calmly, stopping again in the door. 

Clark lays against two plush pillows, sheets down, t-shirt ridden up to show his abs again, like he’s trying to drive you crazy. He turns his head against the pillow, brow nearly quizzical at your hesitation. 

“What?”

“It’s so hot, do you– am I weird if I strip down?” 

Clark sighs, pained again. “What did I just say? This is your place, as good as. Treat it like your own home.” 

You take your shirt off first, meandering toward the bed, then pause to shuck it on the bed. Clark picks it up and folds it, but you can see him slowing in your peripherals as you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants and bring them down your thighs. You bend to grab them, but then you have nothing to hide behind, dropping them on the bed and climbing back where you’d been, legs up and knees pressed together. 

This is when Clark shrieks. 

It’s like– quite girly. You imagine he’d make a similar noise when winning the lottery. Multiple lotteries. 

“Baby, what are you wearing?” he asks. “Oh my gosh!” 

He sounds so, so happy, you are immediately hot from top to toe. “What?” you ask, failing to maintain even a semblance of calm. 

“Can I see?” he asks, gentling. “Please?”

You let your legs fall flat without rush nor reluctance. 

Clark peers down at you like this is deathly important. 

“They are so– you’re so sweet, look at those, you’re so pretty,” he breathes. “When did you get these? I’ve never seen them.”

“Uh. Today, actually.”

“Yeah?” Clark goes to touch you, then hesitates. “Can I?” he asks. 

“Of course you can, Clark,” you say, trying not to fall into whispers, “this is your place.”

He grasps the curve of your hip and the silky fabric of your new panties, pressing it down to see the front of you, the bump of your cunt hugged by softness, better displaying the polka dot pattern and the lettuce edged hemming that kisses your inner thighs and tummy. 

“I’d say something about your joke if there was enough blood left in my brain,” he says, then blanches, “I mean– darn, you’re so pretty, I’m being too much, I’m sorry.”

“I got them for you. Wore them for you. It’s okay if you like them.”

Clark Kent looks close to tears. 

“I love them,” he says, “you are the most beautiful thing, and this is–” He swallows. Shakes his head. Maybe Clark’s laying it on thick, but if he is, you like it. “This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. You really got them for me?”

You turn toward him slowly, letting your leg fall onto the other, and covering his hand with yours to press slowly to the apex of your thighs. “I got them for you,” you confirm. Your heart races, but your voice doesn’t tremble. You’ve wanted him to touch you for hours. “Something fun.”

Clark feels the warmth there under his fingers and closes his eyes, groaning quietly, right from the depths of his chest. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says. 

You move very gently against his hand. “Please don’t die right now.”

His eyes flutter open, pupils like dimes and a pretty pink flush spotting up his neck. “I almost don’t wanna take you out of them.”

“You could pull them to the side?” you whisper. “I mean– if that’s– you know, if that’s not weird.”

The first, with a blue sticky note taped to the corner of the frame with Clark’s chicken scratch writing that read: CALL MA, was a photo taken of Clark and his parents on the Kent Farm. A recent one that he had picked from the bunch Ma Kent had sent in an envelope with a heartfelt letter attached to the city of Metropolis, that her son now resided in.

The second one? A photo of you—with Clark, of course—that Jonathan Kent had taken on the porch of his home. A handful of years younger, faces slathered in mischief, the photo captured the essence of your friendship. Bunny ears behind heads, tongues stuck out with the stretch of Kansas land in the background. The same night that you laid in the tall grass on a gingham picnic blanket, stomachs full of Kolaches and Lost Trail Root Beer and the array of stars in the sky that beared witness to Clark Kent falling in love for the first time.

(The picture was initially kept in his wallet. Until it went dog-eared and faded.)

It felt irreversible, that tender fondness for you. Tucked between his ribs, it stuck to him like adhesive. An itch he was unable to scratch, because it would take a leap of courage—and the downfall of a friendship—for Clark to profess the harboured secret he kept in the depths of his heart.

Through the journey of self-revelation and denial, Clark had pinned his little crush down to the fact that you came with his history in the Midwest. He loved Smallville, Kansas and by proxy, it meant that he had to love you because you came with the property that provided a sweet warmth of nostalgia.

He was merely homesick! Not in love!

And, then, you visited Clark in the bustling streets of Metropolis, far beyond your comprehension of reality, and it began to slowly dawn on him that he didn’t long for his home on the Kent Farm; he longed for…you.

So, by the next afternoon after some prolonged admiration over a picture and under the guise of feeling ‘homesick’, Clark had made it in record timing to Smallville, Kansas. More specifically, the Kent Farm, in which he presented himself in his tailored suit—courtesy of Ma Kent’s nimble sewing work—and an apologetic smile when Martha Kent had to be scraped off the ceiling at the sight of her son sauntering through the front door, clutching a briefcase, as if he hadn’t been gallivanting the skyscrapers of Metropolis for five months.

One high-pitched voice down the phone, Martha cancelled all plans with her lifelong friend to visit the Farmer’s Market and stay at home to fuss over her son. (Some people were just born for the role of a mother.)

A plate of chilli and cinnamon rolls that Clark had eaten out of politeness rather than hunger, the family sat on both sofas in the living room with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.

Distracted by the chess game at hand—with Martha as the referee whilst she crocheted—Clark had missed the sound of an old farm pickup truck coughing down the dirt path on the farm. It was only when the front door opened with force, that all heads turned on a swivel to see you in the doorway; eyes wide at the sight of your childhood friend.

As pretty as the day he had left five months ago, your skin had the sheen of slick sweat from the Kansas humidity, fingers curled around the punnet of fat strawberries from the Farmer’s Market, in which—coincidentally—had been the place you had heard through the grapevine that a particular Kent resident had shown face unexpectedly.

With a successful eavesdrop, it was just you and your punnet of strawberries against the world. Or, less dramatically, against the long line of customers waiting to be served that put a wedge between you and the discovery if the rumour mill had been spinning some honest truths on an average Tuesday afternoon.

Clark had once referenced the notion as: ‘Boots on the ground journalism.’ Metropolis lingo for being nosey.

You took a breath, “Well, I’ll be damned.” You stepped across the threshold casually, “Look at what the cat dragged in!”

Your blue-eyed target perked up and his father, Jonathan Kent let out a snort of a chuckle, a gentle shake of his head at your cool facade. He had always been fond of you, despite the bad influence you had on their rather tame son during your formative years.

Three steps round the sofa that Martha Kent was perched on, you handed her the punnet of strawberries; eyes pinning Clark to the spot.

“These are for you, Mrs. Kent. Hand-picked by yours truly. Although, I ate a few before the cashier weighed them.” Your tone nonchalant as you tore your attention away from Clark to press a kiss to the older lady’s cheek. When she foiled your white-lie with the question if the strawberries were truly for her, you answered with a shrug. “No. But, you know I don’t come empty handed. Ma raised me better than that.”

(If it had been socially acceptable, Clark would’ve dipped and kissed you right there.)

And then, the attention was back on him. Like an LED spotlight for interrogation. Because, he hadn’t told anyone he was dropping by, and you were usually the first to hear about his annual visitations prior to his arrival on the rural grounds of the Kent Farm.

Oh boy.

“You look like Metropolis threw up on you.” You said with a little venom attached to your words. Nothing objectively hurtful, more so an immature prod. A deflection.

Clark stood, tugging at his suit pants to cover his embarrassingly funky socks. “I’m a real deal journalist now. I have to dress the part.” With the long span of his arm, Clark tugged you in for a bone-crushing hug that translated all the missed you’s in one swift squeeze. He pulled back with a lopsided smile, “Don’t you like it?”

You stepped out of his warmth and gave him the once over. How could you possibly express your thoughts that the grey suit and pink tie did wonders for the level of attractiveness that Clark Kent sat upon. It would be a dishonour to your roots to feed the Metropolis ego. (You missed the plaid shirts and blue Levis.)

So, you settled for a hint of attraction with a devious smile and a flick of his tie that sent the pink fabric over his shoulder.

“I’ll tolerate it, Metropolis.”

Jonathan and Martha Kent shared a look.

Then the fire pit had been lit by Jonathan Kent before he retired for the night with his wife in tow. Who also happened to leave a packet of marshmallows and sturdy sticks amongst the bundle of patchwork blankets for you two to gorge upon, because Pa Kent was sometimes plagued of his own nostalgia the night he told Martha Kent he couldn’t picture a future without her being the centre of it.

With a singed first-try of a marshmallow at the end of your stick, the sunlight minimal in the distance and the sound of chirping cicadas—which you had learned to tune out—and other ambient noises, you and Clark sat together as if personal space was an unfamiliar concept.

(Very telling. In hindsight.)

Curls tighter from the humidity, Clark had forgone the Metropolis streetwear, and swapped for a white t-shirt that clung to his bodily assets in a way that had you occasionally peering from your peripheral.

You were a red-blooded woman after all.

He spun the stick between his fingertips, his thoughts deep in the amber fire.

“Good to be back?” You asked after some comfortable silence. You watched as Clark affirmed with one curt nod and nudged him with your elbow, “What made you come back so suddenly?”

You. Clark bit the short answer that lay on the tip of his tongue, nostrils flared as he found self-restraint in the stars dangling above your heads.

Without the stretch of distance that kept Clark away from you, the apprehension to be honest nipped at his Achilles heel, and it had ultimately succeeded in relinquishing his true intentions by biting at his weak spot. His head dropped back from viewing the expanse of the night sky, marshmallow now char which earned a soft giggle from the back of your throat.

Despite the symphony from your mouth; Clark chose to put his confession to the back of his mind.

Not on the first night. If things went sour, he’d have liked to have a couple of untainted days with you.

“Homesick.” Clark answered in a deep tone. And, then once again to convince himself. “Just homesick.”

You dropped your head to the broadness of his shoulder, “Glad you’re back, Clark.”

The next morning, whilst the morning dew was still fresh across the grass, you found yourself in the Kent household before the sun had fully woken itself.

You stood at the end of Clark’s childhood bed. A single mattress on a metal frame, one—evidently—four sizes too small for a man of Clark Kent’s stature. He was all shoulders and muscular limbs.

He was dead asleep. Face down, arm dangled over the edge of the bed with his fingertips brushing the wooden floorboards, mouth hung open catching flies with the additional attraction of drool on his chin. You had climbed through his window that he always forgot to shut, allowing him a couple more minutes of slumber.

It came as a surprise that he hadn’t heard you coming. Or the profanities that left your mouth when your clothing snagged on a nail protruding from the windowsill.

OK. You decided that the longer you stood and watched your friend sleep, the more absurd you looked.

Your boot came to the plush mattress, and you gave one swift kick that had Clark jolt upright. You grinned cutely, “Wakey wakey, Metropolis!”

Clark dropped his head back onto the flat pillow, a groan elicited from the back of his throat, “I thought we pinky-promised to not do the darn old school alarm clock?”

“Yeah—Well. That was then and this is now.” You retorted. “Anyway, you need to be up and ready in 20 minutes.”

“Why?” Clark peered at his phone on the bedside table. 7AM. Luck was on your side that love clouded Clark’s visceral reaction at the time.

You dangled your car keys on your forefinger. “Road trip to Colonial Gardens, Blue Springs. It’s an hour drive, and I need to get back for the lunchtime graze with my heavily pregnant and vicious mare.”

The light that came from the window made Clark scrunch his face up as he manoeuvred his body to look at you as you spoke. Dust particles floated around you, moving out of the way due to your gesticulate hand movements whilst you went on a tangent about the horse you cared for that was expecting her first foal any day; and how her bite was a lot worse than her metaphorical bark.

Golly. You were so pretty at all hours of the day. Clark would silently thank your parents throughout his visit to Smallville.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Clark blinked the bleary sleep from his eyes, “Yes.” (He had completely missed what you said.) “Pregnant horse.”

“You shouldn’t call Ms. Tracey that.” You teased mercilessly. “I said, Ms. Tracey—the one that runs Betty K’s—is getting those second trimester cravings and desperately wants enough jars of the wildflower honey to get her through this pregnancy and postpartum. So, I volunteered. Which in turn, means you—“ You nudged his side with your foot, “—are making yourself useful and tagging along.”

“How many jars are we talking?” Clark’s voice was thick with sleep. It was attractive enough to send a jolt of electricity through your veins. He lazily stood from the bed, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

You did the mental math. “Enough for you to put those biceps to use.” You paused, “This conversation is eating into your time to get ready. Go take a shower and meet me out front in…” You looked to the clock on Clark’s wall, where time stood still and waved it off, “Whatever. In fifteen minutes.”

Clark was ready in twelve. Curls damp from the haste preening, a plaid button down haphazardly thrown over a white tee and jeans, you had beamed from the driver’s side of your beloved green pickup that had enough rust to be classified as the colour orange instead.

As Clark shifted the passenger seat back to allow himself the privilege to extend his long legs, he caught sight of you outwardly staring at him. Admiring. Ogling. And, suddenly, he was rendered pink-eared and bashful beneath the syrupy tension.

White-knuckled and pushing down the lewd thoughts of a backseat escapade with your friend, you turned the key in the ignition and held out a prayer that the engine hadn’t made the decision to call it quits on the Kent Farm.

It wheezed awake and you patted the dashboard.

Clark chuckled. “This belongs in a junkyard.”

“Some of us aren’t in the Metropolis tax bracket for a new car, Clark.” Your tone laced with saccharine, “You treat my baby with respect or you can walk to Blue Springs in those shoddy red shoes.”

The red boots referred to as—quote, unquote—shoddy, were the same ones that he wore to save the city of Metropolis from miraculously falling apart.

In simpler terms: Clark forgot to pack others. And his office shoes looked silly with his outfit.

He threw you a petulant look, dimples deceptive when he tried to feign annoyance as opposed to your rather valiant one, as if there had been an underlying competition of insults to win; bouncing around the inside of your truck.

You both fell into a comfortable silence. The windows rolled down to embrace the breeze, your attention trained to the road—because you couldn’t chat your way out of another ticket—Clark would find himself observing you more than the scenic landscape surrounding you. The bright sun hit the dashboard and your features illuminated, emphasising a rare beauty you withheld in the entirety of Kansas and far beyond. You were humming along to a song that crackled from the radio of your car, fingertips tapped against the steering wheel that had gotten hot under the relentless sun above.

Suddenly—with his heart tank full on you—the plan to stick to a couple of days of radio silence on the admission of love to spare him the breakdown of a cherished friendship…Clark was finding it most difficult to keep his lips sealed.

He could feel the itch become more apparent. From the neck up. If he could just muster the courage—

The thought was cut short. “Alright, City boy. Welcome to Colonial Gardens. Home of the pregnant lady’s cravings.” Clark straightened up in the seat, the warm leather creaked beneath him. You tilted your head at his dazed expression and leant between the two front seats, your shirt riding up to expose a slither of skin Clark had once envisioned kissing downward on, and pulled an empty mason jar from the backseat. You showcased it, “You can pick some flowers for your Ma after the shock you gave her yesterday.”

So, Clark abided by your orders. Carefully curating a colourful bouquet of Zinnias, pink Dahlias amongst other flowers, for Ma Kent’s empty vase on the kitchen windowsill to brighten the room up with fluorescence and a gentle apology for leaving her unprepared for surprise visit; whilst you bought jars by the dozen of wildflower honey to ail Ms. Tracey’s acute cravings.

He carried the load of the jars in two wooden crates to your truck whilst you indulged in your own sweet-tooth cravings with two ice cream cones happily clutched in both hands.

“You want these in the back?” Clark grunted. (He had to keep up appearances of an average civilian at times.)

With your attention torn from your own ice cream, you witnessed the sleeves of the plaid shirt Clark wore, taut against his biceps that flexed beneath the weight of the crates. A singular curl fell out of its immaculate placement and drooped over his forehead, his pink lips parted ever so slightly to allow himself the relief of a small, raspy whimper. You were being led to believe that the gods had spared no mercy on your poor soul.

Kansas looked good on Clark Kent.

Distracted, the scoop of vanilla ice cream in your grasp melted enough, the uneaten blob making a splat against the asphalt beneath your feet, the sudden cold spits of cream hitting your bare legs; shaking you back into the reality before you.

It felt like a hard pill to swallow.

“Oh.” You stammered, “Uh—Yeah. Backseat. Please.”

Clark spared you a look of mild concern and nodded. “Could you…unlock the car?”

“Yes!” You swapped the cone into your other hand and dug into your pockets for the car keys. Relief washing over your face when Clark turned his broad back to you to slot the crates in the narrow seats in the back of your car.

“You want me to buy you another ice cream?” Clark called behind him as he fought with the wooden crates momentarily. He stood at full height again, the knowing smirk prominent on his stupidly handsome face.

You grumbled, “No. It’s the consequences of the Kansas heat.”

”We’re at the state-line of Missouri.”

“You are splitting hairs here, Clark Kent.” You waggled your free hand at him, “It’s hot. Ice cream melts when left neglected under direct sunlight. Don’t delve deeper into something here.”

Clark’s shoulders bounced whilst he laughed, his hands held up in surrender. “Alright, alright.” He sniffed, “Here.”

His forefinger and thumb plucked a pink Dahlia from the cool watered mason jar, the green stem wrapped in the fabric of his white tee to dry it off before he slotted it behind your ear with ease. His blue eyes drank you up, the pink flesh of his cheek bitten between his back molars to try prevent a wide grin spreading across his face.

You performed—as you always had—and posed. “How do I look?”

Like you belong in a photo for my wallet to kiss when I’m lonely in Metropolis.

“Floral.” Clark settled on.

You shoved his ice cream into his hand with a laugh, “OK, charmer. Let’s go home.”

The bouquet from Colonial Gardens had a positive reception. Sat pretty in full bloom, in a clear vase on the windowsill of Martha and Jonathan Kent’s kitchen, the pink and orange petals brought additional warmth to the family home on the farm.

Martha Kent had been nestled in the kitchen all afternoon. With it being Clark’s penultimate day prior to his return back to his second home, Metropolis, his Ma had insisted upon a hearty meal at the barely used dinner table.

She was also one to play matchmaker, and invited you along under the ruse of a ‘best friend must attend a goodbye dinner!’

You turned up somewhere around the time that the table was being set, in your best Sunday garb that had Clark crack one of Ma’s plates that she only brought out for special occasions. (He got a clip round the ear). The aromatic scent of barbecue brisket that wafted from the kitchen made your stomach grumble as you toed your boots off.

To further Clark’s inward turmoil from the mere sight of you beneath the glow of the warm lighting, you gifted his Ma with a handmade doily, made by the talented hands of your Nan as a gift to pass on to Martha; because your statement always rang true.

You never arrived empty-handed.

And, according to the acceleration of his heart…Clark found your generosity, wildly attractive.

Then, he was succumbed to two hours of torture. Situated across from you—albeit a privilege—Clark had to spend half the night stuffing his mouth full of brisket to prevent an overspill of a confession at the dinner table with his parents as witnesses. You weren’t helping matters, chin rested against the palm of your hand, lashes fluttering with a gorgeous smile as you listened intently to his Ma’s in depth discussion on the brisket she had been sweating over for the whole afternoon.

Knuckles rapped against the oak of the table, his left leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table as he felt the familiar itch become rather bothersome whilst his blue eyes flitted back to you intermittently.

Clark was having trouble believing you were real. Sure, he had grown up with you, spent the past week joint to your hip, but perhaps it was the domesticity of it all. That any version of his future he had pictured, he had envisioned you sitting at the table in the warm glow, eyes glittery whilst his Ma doted on you like a daughter she never had.

Although, the one thing missing at present was a ring on your left hand.

Baby steps. Baby steps.

“Who wants a couple of rounds of Bullshit?” Pa Kent asked once the dinner had concluded with you assisting Ma on transferring the empty plates to the sink for a clean up later.

You called halfway out of the kitchen, “I do!” You reappeared with a smile on your face and Clark dragged the chair out from next to him for you to sit on. You added sarcastically, “Can you handle another loss, Clark?”

“If you don’t cheat.” Clark mumbled as Pa Kent passed him the deck of cards to shuffle.

Once Ma had sat back down at the table, there were three rounds of Bullshit in Jonathan Kent had won by the skin of his nose. The fourth round was where the revelation that perhaps you knew Clark Kent better than the back of your own hand.

Even amongst prolonged intervals where you were—figuratively—worlds apart, you still managed to maintain the knowledge of every corner of his being. The obvious ones, where he would flush a sweet shade of pink from his neck to the tip of his ears when rendered embarrassed, or how his eye-contact dropped to minimal when he was irritated by something said. These weren’t groundbreaking, but good to know in a game of barefaced lying.

Then came the more acute tells. Like how, on the rarest occasion, that Clark Kent was lying—never over something marginally important—he would sniff once and his forefinger would tap against a surface, be that his own thigh or a table.

“Two Kings.” Clark sniffed. And then he tapped the table just once.

“Bullshit.” You called out, cards close to your chest. When Clark looked toward you in surprise, you narrowed your eyes, “You heard me, Clark Joseph Kent. Bull—shit.”

Clark blew out hot air, a hand rubbed at his jaw out of mild frustration that he had been caught out. When he reluctantly picked up the deck of cards, you openly rejoiced with your arms shooting above your head in celebration.

Ma and Pa laughed at the scene, Martha Kent clapping in response to her son’s satisfying loss at the game.

“You know him so well, honey.” Martha commented warmly. Amused. There was an underlying hint of mischief in her choice of words, but neither of you could prove it.

You bashfully tilted your chin to your shoulder, lashes batting in Clark’s direction which earned spluttered cough in order to coverup an uncontrolled whimper from the depths of his chest.

You patted his shoulder. “I suppose I do, Mrs. Kent.”

Nobody missed the way Clark looked upon you as if you had hung the darn moon. (Pa Kent quick to fire up the fire pit once more. This time, with even less blankets to share.)

And then, the night prior to Clark’s departure from Smallville came and it was a prime example of an initial failure to launch in words, but physical actions resulting in a more gratifying outcome. No, he hadn’t outwardly professed his undying—and potential unrequited—love for you. But the sentiment was there, all the same.

You were three beers and a little woozy whilst sat at the pond edge with Clark next to you, swatting at the pesky mosquitoes. Sitting atop of the same gingham picnic blanket from your teenage years, the two of you had been enjoying each other’s company for the last time for the foreseeable.

Or, until one of you caved and visited the other.

It all felt a little bittersweet.

Whenever Clark departed from Smallville, it felt as if you were walking around with one shoe and only half a blue sky above you. Tethered by a lifelong history together, it was hard to get the independence of your life moving with a crater in your chest from the absence of your friend; and vice versa.

There had been a hitch in his decision to leave. Because, if Metroplis didn’t have you, then what desire was there to return to the bustling streets? Sure. To keep the civilians of the city safe, that is what he was raised to do. It was at his very core to put lives before his very own.

But, you seemed to have a gravitational pull that Clark was starting to struggle to fight against.

“You wanna go for a swim?” Your bare feet kicked the surface of the water as you raised the question after some silence. You supposed, if you fluttered your lashes and tucked your chin to your shoulder; Clark would relinquish any rejection.

Clark frowned. “We—I don’t have any swimming trunks.”

“Me neither, Metropolis.” You stood abruptly, Clark’s gaze following up your body. You grinned, “We’ll do it old school. Come on. Last one in is a rotten egg.”

With little time for Clark’s objections toward it all, you tugged at the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head which left you bare chested, nipples already pebbled from the dip in temperature. Then came your shorts and underwear, your foot kicking them to the side with little regard to the idea that you were stood stark naked before your childhood best friend.

Clark shifted on the blanket. He wanted to avoid any accusatory finger pointing in his direction for mild perversions over human anatomy, so—despite his jaw slackened and fingernails drawing blood from his palms—Clark Kent found solace in the fluffy clouds above.

(The pink that crept from his neck to the tip of his ears was a dead giveaway.)

A laugh bubbled from your—very naked—chest before you broke into a sprint down the wooden dock and into the murky water beneath. When you resurfaced, you let out a sharp gasp, spluttering the water that you had inhaled from the shockwaves sent through your body from how bitterly cold the pond was.

Clark could hear your heartbeat and in an instant, he was stood with his eyes finding you flailing a little bit in the middle of the pond. There was no doubt if you could swim, Clark had seen you swim, and pretty well at that. But his judgement was clouded by the spike in your heart and his actions were immediate as he pulled the shirt from his body; jeans pooled at his feet before he dove in after you.

He got to you within seconds. Complete disregard to your level of nudity—again, Clark was all sense of the word mature—as he grappled the skin at your hips and raised you above water level and kept you there. Pressed to his own bare chest.

You pinched your nose to rid of the water before your hands came to his shoulders. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just got a shock, that’s all.”

Clark huffed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Yes, sir.” You mocked, feeling the shock wear off, so you pushed off of Clark to create the smallest of gaps between your bodies.

The wet tendrils of Clark’s hair stuck to his forehead, droplets of water resting on his unfairly long lashes. It made you laugh softly, your hand coming up to brush the mop of hair out of his eyes; not without escaping the burning hot stare he had pinned to you.

His eyes dropped, and yours followed to note that your breasts were just above the waterline. (Not intentional, but if it were to help the train chug along, so be it.)

Your arms folded across your chest with a bashful giggle and that blissful noise that Clark had adored for, oh so many years, happened to be the gateway to his next movements.

Fingers wrapped around your wrists, you looked a little alarmed as Clark tugged at your arms, your body wading through the water to meet his body for a second time. He guided your arms around his neck, and free hands came to the meat of your thighs, silently hauling you up to his hips where you instinctively wrapped them around his frame.

Your bodies impossibly close, Clark nudged your nose with his own, hot breath fanning your lips before he allowed himself the painstakingly slow pleasure of kissing you. From the minute you made contact, it was feverish, teeth knocked, noses smushed to attempt to get closer to one and other. Clark let out a whimper, his tongue met yours in the middle and it sent his head reeling.

Skin bruised from how tightly he was clutching your thighs, you had forgone your pain threshold to keep the momentum of the kiss going.

(And, shit. He could kiss.)

It seemed with the last brick thrown at a wall that had been built over the span of your lifetime so far, the overspill of unspoken years of emotions had become an enormous wave. And, neither of you were willing to give the relief up so soon.

“Clark.” You whispered against his mouth, stomach in knots when his large palms grasped at the flesh of your backside. One hand came to rest against his cheek, your skin ablaze when he pulled back briefly to smirk.

He hummed against you, “Tell me.”

“I need—” You breathed, head tilted back as Clark kissed down the column of your throat. “—Holy shit. What do I need?”

This had Clark chuckle against your skin, “Take your time.”

It was dizzying. The way he spoke. The way he kissed. You might’ve allowed him full access to your body, if it hadn’t been in the murky water of the pond next to his parent’s house; in which, if looked out of the window correctly, they would see your heated interaction from afar.

Right. Of course. Parents.

You had to—regrettably—reel it in.

“Have you heard of those parasites?” You mumbled, eyes to the sky whilst Clark pressed featherlight kisses against your collarbone. “The ones that swim up your urethra?”

Clark halted. “No.” He blinked a water droplet away, “But now I have.”

“Yeah.” You shrugged.

“Do you want me to stop?”

No. Was the honest answer, but for the sake of public decency, you lied.

“I like this pond. I don’t want to have impulsive sex in it.” You curled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “But—I’d gladly continue in a hot shower?”

Clark beamed.

And with one additional kiss, and some wrangling of clothes back onto wet skin, you then found yourself stood in the middle of Clark’s bathroom in his parent’s home with steam billowing around your frame. You had made it in record timing, fingers entangled with Clark’s; hearts soaring as you fumbled your way through the home with a few hushed giggles.

It was all so adolescent. But, you had put that down to the fact that both of you had been patiently waiting for this moment since your own adolescence.

The room felt larger than you had remembered. With Clark’s broad back faced toward you as he adjusted the water temperature to—in his terms—scolding hot, because that’s just how you like it; the space between you felt sizeable enough that you suddenly missed the closeness in the waters of the pond.

You shifted from one foot to the other as you waited, suddenly aware of how the fabric of your clothes clung to your skin. How a person you had spent growing up beside could reduce you to a puddle of nerves, you weren’t so sure.

You’d put up a mighty good fight to conceal it, though.

“Alright.” Clark mumbled and turned back to you, “I think it’s hot enough.”

“Seventh circle of Hell, hot enough?” You teased, the joke feeling a little sour on your tongue considering how jittery you were.

Clark stepped into your space, his hands coming to either side of your face, “Seventh circle of Hell.” He repeated and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his hand tapped the closed toilet seat lid, “Sit.”

You obliged and sat, knees knocked together.

Clark followed suit, his own knees cracking as he crouched to meet your eye-level, the sudden confidence that shone from within had you like putty left out in the sun. His hands smoothed down the expanse of your leg, straightening it out in order to remove your boots one by one.

He placed them neatly to the side, and then decided to cause a stutter in your heart.

Lips met your inner ankle and followed the trail of bare skin up to your knee, where his blue eyes shot up to meet yours. Clark looked—in simpler terms—submissive to the privilege of being allowed to freely kiss your body parts. When his kisses travelled further, your hand pressed into his drying curls and he grinned against your thighs; long fingers hooked around the fabric of your shorts to tug them downward for you.

You lifted your backside off of the toilet seat lid to assist Clark in the removal of your shorts. (You were sure you were seeing spots in your vision at this point.)

There was less of a care about your shorts than your boots as he haphazardly tossed them into the corner closest to the door, before diverting his attention back toward you. He made quick work to tug at the damp fabric of your shirt, you lifted your arms above your head and he pulled it off swiftly; leaving you bare in front of him once more.

It felt unequal.

“You’re still fully dressed.” You whispered, your own fingers fidgeting with Clark’s white t-shirt.

Clark hummed, “And, you’re beautiful.” He kissed you properly but left little time to melt into it. “Would it be so terrible if I were to admit that I have been in love with you for quite some time?”

“Hypothetically…” You tapped your forefinger against your chin, “No. But, save it for after the shower. I don’t want the grandkids hearing that you professed your love fully clothed and me completely naked.”

Clark kissed you again. And then again for his own gluttony. (He had waited this long. What was a few more stolen kisses?)

You gave a pathetic tug at the collar of his tee as he spoke, “Grandkids?”

“Behave.” You stood, fingers threaded in Clark’s hair whilst you laughed at his refusal to move. He pressed a kiss to your navel and you had to side-step to prevent any defilement in the middle of the Kent bathroom. “Come on, Metropolis. You’re wasting water on being a giant sop.”

Clark stood, pulling his own shirt over his head, pants kicked off for the second time that night. “Yes ma’am.”

His hands found your naked hips as you walked together into the shower that was far too small for both of your bodies to fit comfortably.

Amongst the muffled giggling and delicate kisses placed against searing hot skin; there was a confession in a breathy gasp from the euphoria met.