“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I don’t know what happened, I—” Clark stammered, eyes wide and embarrassed, already grabbing napkins and paper towels as if trying to erase the very moment. His face was a soft shade of red, and you couldn’t help but notice how utterly clumsy and pathetic he looked in that instant, fumbling like a rookie instead of the calm, mild-mannered reporter you’d imagined. You barely made much of it—accidents happen. “It’s fine,” you said, waving him off with a small smile. “Really.”

But that was just the beginning.

Over the next few days, you noticed Clark acting…odd around you, and not in the usual shy, office-cute way. It was like he was walking a tightrope between wanting to get closer and being scared to take even a single step. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you from across the room, the faintest crease of worry on his brow, only for him to look away so fast you wondered if you’d imagined it. Once, when you passed by the coffee machine, he offered to get you a cup, but his hands trembled so much you ended up grabbing the pot yourself, smiling awkwardly at his flushed face.

“Clark, you okay?” you asked lightly, amused.

“Yeah! Just… uh, just fine. Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets like that would somehow hide his jitteriness. “I mean, no problem.”

Sometimes he’d stand too close when you worked late on a deadline, hovering just on the edge of your personal space, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Other times, you caught little things: the way his glasses fogged up when you leaned over to look at his computer screen while discussing an issue, or how his voice stumbled when he tried to ask you anything at all. It was subtle, but it was there—and it made you smile.

One afternoon, as you were digging through a stack of papers, Clark shuffled over nervously, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “I, uh, wrote a story. Would you want to—maybe—read it? And tell me what you think? I'm not so sure about it...” His voice was soft, almost hopeful. You looked up, met his uncertain gaze, and felt your heart skip.

“Of course,” you said, reaching out to take the paper. “I’d love to.”

He smiled, that shy, clumsy smile that made the whole office seem quieter somehow. And that’s when you realized: Clark Kent might be the most awkward person on the planet, but he was also the only one who seemed completely and hopelessly human in this whole damn office.

A few days later, you found yourself leaning over the cluttered desk of Jimmy Olsen, the newsroom’s resident charmer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man. You were deep in discussion about a tricky story idea—a feature on Metropolis’s urban development that could either make or break your footing in the Daily Planet. Jimmy, with his easy grin, was trying to convince you that the flashy angle was the way to go, while you argued for something more nuanced and honest.

“Trust me, you want the splash, the drama. People eat that up,” Jimmy said, his voice smooth as he clicked through photos on his screen. “Plus, you know I have a knack for making stories sexy.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Sexy isn’t exactly the word I’d use for city planning.”

As you spoke, your attention drifted briefly to the side, catching a movement behind Jimmy. There, just a few feet away, was Clark Kent. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by something else entirely—a crease in his brow that you didn’t remember seeing before, subtle but sharp, like a storm cloud hanging over his features. His eyes flicked rapidly between his computer screen, Jimmy, and you, like a silent witness to the conversation. You almost caught the way his chest puffed out slightly, the faintest sign of tension in the otherwise quiet room.

Before you could ponder it further, Lois Lane, ever sharp and always one step ahead, slid her chair beside you with a sly smile. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Looks like someone’s a little jealous.”

You blinked, glancing back toward Clark, who had quickly masked whatever emotion was crossing his face with a careful smile. But the faint flush rising in his cheeks gave him away.

“Jealous?” you echoed softly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Of Jimmy Olsen?”

Lois just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, you know, Jimmy’s kind of the office heartthrob. But Clark’s the one who’s all awkward and nervous whenever you’re around.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”

Before Lois could even answer, Perry White appeared beside you, his usual commanding presence filling the corner of the room. His sharp eyes swept across the desks, quickly surveying the hustle and bustle of reporters typing away, phones ringing, and the occasional shout from the bullpen. He cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew a little more focus.

“Alright, people,” Perry announced, “I’m making my rounds to see that everyone’s on top of their stories. No slacking today.”

You seized the opportunity, glancing up at him. “Perry, what do you think about the story I was debating with Jimmy? The corruption piece or the human-interest one?”

Perry nodded thoughtfully, about to answer, when you leaned in a bit, dropping your voice. “Actually, there’s an even more interesting lead—something about Superman. Some new developments, maybe worth pursuing.”

His eyes flicked over to Clark’s direction, and a knowing smirk crept across his face. “Well, if you’re chasing Superman stories, it’d be ideal for you to work with Kent. He’s been getting exclusive interviews lately. No one else has that kind of access.”

Clark, who had been quietly typing away at his computer, seemed to catch the mention of his name. He didn’t look up, but you could have sworn his cheeks instantly turned an awfully bright shade of pink—like someone just turned on a spotlight directly on his face. He was clearly trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed him.

Perry’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unmistakable: “Kent! You’re working with her on this one. Get your notes together, and no slacking off, got it?”

Clark jerked slightly at the sudden call, fingers hovering awkwardly above his keyboard before he forced himself to look up. His eyes met Perry’s briefly, then shifted toward you. For a moment, the pink flush in his cheeks deepened, betraying the storm of nerves swirling beneath his calm exterior.

“Yes, sir,” Clark managed, voice a little tighter than usual. He quickly averted his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his glasses as if to steady himself.

You smiled, trying to mask your own flutter of excitement. “Looks like we’re partners,” you said, leaning forward. “Guess I’m stuck with your coffee-spilling antics for a while.”

Clark’s lips twitched into what might have been a nervous smile. “I’ll try not to ruin the story this time,” he said softly, though you caught the hint of earnestness in his tone.

As Perry moved on, casting one last sharp glance around the room, Clark stood up, gathering his papers with a sort of determined clumsiness that only made him more endearing.

The very next day, the usual clatter of the newsroom was punctuated by a sharp thud as Perry White slammed a hefty stack of papers down on your desk, his expression all business and barely contained frustration. “Here,” he barked, eyes narrowing over the rims of his glasses. “This is your next big assignment. You two need to get to the bottom of it—fast.”

You flipped open the top sheet and began scanning the headline and notes: “Rising Movement to Place Superman Under Government Control.” The article outlined a growing faction arguing that Superman’s immense power was too dangerous to be left to his own judgment—that the world would be safer if he operated strictly under government orders rather than acting independently. The report highlighted heated debates in political circles, public protests, and the concerns of civil liberties groups.

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up to see Clark quietly approaching your desk, curiosity already written on his face. You tapped the papers with your pen. “Perry wants us on this one. They want to control Superman, make him accountable to the government instead of him just… doing whatever he thinks is right.”

Clark’s eyes flicked over the pages, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s… complicated,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s not just about control. It’s about trust. And freedom. If Superman is tied down by bureaucracy, what happens when there’s a threat the government doesn’t recognize? Or worse, a government that abuses that control?”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And the public’s divided, too. Some think he’s a hero who can do no wrong; others see him as a threat. We have to find the middle ground, the real story beneath the headlines.”

Clark shifted on his feet, glancing up at you. “We’ll need to talk to experts, politicians, maybe some of those protesters. And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone close to Superman.”

You caught the flicker of something in his eyes—you weren’t really sure of what, nor where you able to pinpoint it, something he wasn’t saying out loud. But you didn’t press. Instead, you smiled. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Both of you settled back into your respective desks, the din of the bustling newsroom slowly fading as reporters finished their stories and started filing out for the day. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones gave way to a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of the overhead lights. One by one, desks were abandoned until only yours and Clark’s remained illuminated, the soft glow of your lamps casting long shadows across stacks of notes and crumpled drafts.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you each dug deeper into your leads, following threads through interviews, anonymous tips, and public records. You scoured news archives for any sign of organized opposition, while Clark cross-referenced political statements and campaign funding reports. The story was more tangled than you expected—nothing straightforward or easily pinned down.

Just as the clock hands crept toward midnight, Clark’s voice broke the silence, tentative but urgent. “Hey… come look at this.”

You pushed back from your desk and made your way over to his, where his screen displayed a series of financial reports and internal documents that looked like they’d been buried intentionally. “LexCorp,” Clark said softly, eyes flickering between the screen and you, “is behind the campaign to control Superman. They’re funneling money and influence to politicians and media outlets pushing this agenda.”

Your breath caught. It was the kind of lead that could shake the city—and maybe the world—but Clark’s next words tempered the shock. “Still, the numbers show that only a very small percentage of the population supports this. The majority of the country—people who see Superman as a symbol, a beacon of hope—stand firmly against it.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a mix of relief and unease. “That makes sense. People want to believe in him, in what he stands for. But it’s worrying. A campaign like this—rooted in fear and control—can still breed hatred and division.”

Clark’s gaze met yours, the weight of it hanging between you. “We need to show the truth, not just the noise.”

Without a word, you gathered your papers and notes into a somewhat organized pile, lifted your chair, and walked it over to Clark’s desk, dragging it just close enough so your knees brushed the edge of his. He blinked up at you, surprised but not displeased, and you could almost hear the subtle stutter in his thoughts as he adjusted his glasses quickly—a nervous habit you’d come to recognize.

The second you sat down beside him, Clark shifted in his seat like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, though all he’d done was sit perfectly still. His hands hovered above the desk uncertainly, fingers curling slightly, as if unsure where to place them. He clearly didn’t want to invade your space, even though it was you who had crossed into his.

“I figured we’d work faster if we pieced this together here,” you said, sorting through your notes as you leaned in to glance at his screen again. “Also, my desk lamp is starting to flicker, and I value my eyesight.”

Clark let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh—but his smile was soft, a little shy. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Makes sense.”

Still, he sat stiffly for a moment, as though his very presence beside you might be too much. His shoulders were drawn slightly inward, and he was clearly trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. You, on the other hand, had spread your pages across the edge of his desk without hesitation, your elbow brushing his now and then as you gestured toward the evidence.

His knee accidentally bumped yours under the desk, and he jerked back like he’d been shocked, muttering a soft, “Sorry—wasn’t trying to—”

You just smiled and shook your head. “Relax, Kent. I’m not going to bite.”

That earned you another small laugh—quieter this time, but more genuine. He seemed to settle slightly after that, his posture loosening bit by bit as the conversation drew back to the story at hand. You discussed the implications of LexCorp’s involvement, the ethical concerns around power and influence, and the danger of letting fear shape public perception.

You worked in silence for a while after that, the occasional exchange of thoughts passing between you and Clark like smooth ripples across still water. Pages shifted, keys clicked softly, and the atmosphere between you warmed—not from proximity alone, but from a shared sense of purpose. The weight of the story wasn’t just journalistic anymore. It felt personal. Important.

Eventually, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes and speaking aloud what had been forming quietly in your mind. “I think the best move is to break this in two parts. First, a direct response to the growing fear—the rhetoric trying to paint Superman as a threat. We need something that calms the public down, brings back some clarity.” You glanced at Clark, who looked up at you, attentive. “A brief interview with Superman. Something measured. Controlled. Honest. People still trust him—most of them, anyway. If we lead with him, everything else that follows will hit harder.”

Clark nodded slowly, but you could see the flicker in his eyes—the guarded tension that always came with the mention of Superman. He adjusted his glasses, more composed this time. “And after that?”

You turned your chair slightly to face him fully, the pages spread between you like a puzzle finally coming together. “Then we go after LexCorp. Publicly. Thoroughly. We use the second piece to expose how this entire campaign—this whole attempt to regulate Superman like a weapon—is being run by a company with a known history of corruption.”

You tapped your pen against the notes, where you’d highlighted several lawsuits and whistleblower reports. “LexCorp has a decades-long track record of endangering the environment through illegal waste dumping, of committing large-scale corporate fraud, of lobbying its way out of accountability. And now, they want to play puppet master with the one person on this planet powerful enough to stop them from getting worse. They’re selling the idea that regulation means safety, but what they’re really selling is control. Control of him.”

Clark didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the papers for a long moment, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to process. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“Superman was never meant to be a weapon,” he said. “That’s not who he is. He’s supposed to be a symbol of peace. If he starts answering to governments—especially ones with corporate strings attached—he stops being that. He becomes something else. Something… dangerous.”

You nodded, grateful that he’d said it out loud. “Exactly. And that’s what we have to make clear to people. This isn’t just about Superman—it’s about what happens when fear is exploited by people who want power.”

The conversation drifted into silence after that—comfortable, if a little heavy. The two of you sat quietly, side by side, eyes scanning the notes and articles sprawled across Clark’s desk like pieces of a conspiracy no one else had dared to connect. Outside the windows, the city hummed in a low, sleepy rhythm; only the soft tapping of the building’s old radiator and the muted street sounds below remained.

You leaned back in your chair, gaze softening as you looked over the scattered sheets between you. It felt like a moment suspended in time—two overworked journalists sitting in a room half-lit by stubborn desk lamps and mutual exhaustion. And something about that stillness made you brave.

“I think,” you began slowly, “we’ve earned at least one conversation tonight that doesn’t revolve around corruption, lawsuits, or Lex Luthor.”

Clark blinked, eyes drifting away from the papers to glance at you, a little startled. He looked so genuinely caught off guard that for a second you thought he might ask who you were talking to.

But after a pause—and a small, sheepish laugh—he adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I just—wasn’t expecting…”

“A human moment? Wow, you really think so little of me?” you offered, half-smiling.

He returned it faintly. “Something like that.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, turning more toward him, your voice easy. “So. What do you do, Clark Kent, when you’re not hunched over this desk pondering your next angle? What exists outside the bylines and bad coffee?”

He looked at you for a long moment, clearly searching for an answer—or maybe just still recovering from the shift in tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I guess I’m… kind of boring.”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“I mean it,” he added a little nervous now, like he was trying to prove something to you. “I read a lot. I walk a lot. I like old radio broadcasts—sometimes I help my mom with stuff around the farm when I have time to get back to Kansas. I, uh… I don’t really have hobbies that impress people at parties.” He trailed off and his brows furrowed for a second as if he himself didn’t believe a word he said.

You laughed softly, leaning your elbow on the desk. “Not everything’s about being impressive.”

He looked at you again, glad you had changed the subject, more fully this time. “What about you?”

You tilted your head. “Are we flipping the question back on me already?”

Clark gave a little grin, almost teasing, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, “Well… you started it.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly, your body cracking in protest after sitting for so long. “Well,” you said, considering his question, “outside of investigating shady billionaires and defending Superman’s honor in print... I like sleeping. A lot. When I can get it. And late-night takeout. And really bad movies.”

Clark’s brows lifted, intrigued. “Bad movies?”

You nodded with a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’m talking truly bad. I’m talking alien-invasion-budget-of-twenty-dollars bad. Practical effects made of paper plates bad.”

He chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “So, you’re saying if I brought over, say, ‘Attack of the Radioactive Squirrel People,’ you wouldn’t turn me away?”

You narrowed your eyes, playing along. “Only if you bring snacks and don’t ask logical questions during the film. Logic ruins the experience.”

Clark feigned deep thought. “Would I not be able to ask why the squirrels are radioactive?”

You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not. That’s part of the mystery.”

He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders relaxing as he leaned a little closer. “You know, I never would’ve pegged you for a bad sci-fi lover.”

“And I never would’ve pegged you for someone who listens to old radio shows,” you shot back with a grin. “You hide it well. You’ve got the whole ‘mild-mannered’ thing down to an art.”

Clark made a face. “It’s not an act, you know.”

You hummed, skeptical. “Mmhm. Sure. You just happen to be the only person in the office who never yells, never swears, and always holds the elevator even if it means missing it entirely.”

“That’s just manners,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed now. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

You tilted your head at him. “Weren’t you, though?”

He paused—then gave you a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You both laughed, the tension from earlier fading further with each second. The newsroom was almost completely dark now, lit only by your two lamps and the glow of the city outside. The silence between you felt different this time—not weighted by stress or urgency, but warm, companionable.

“I’m just saying,” you added casually, “if we end up working together more often, you might need to brush up on your bad movie tolerance.”

Clark raised a brow, teasing right back now. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You smirked. “Depends. How do you feel about sequels that make the original look like a masterpiece?”

He mock-shuddered. “Terrified. But intrigued.”

You leaned back again, your eyes catching on the scattered papers across the desk, but your focus had long drifted from newsprint and ink. Clark was still sitting beside you, uncharacteristically relaxed—well, sort of. His shoulders were tense, and he was very obviously trying not to look at you too directly, which only made your curiosity grow stronger.

“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light, your voice laced with just enough teasing to make him look up, “you never answered the question.”

Clark blinked. “What question?”

You rested your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your hand. “What you do outside of work. Like—really outside. People. Dating. A girlfriend, maybe?”

His reaction was immediate, if subtle—his hand, which had been draped stiffly on the arm of his chair, flexed so hard his knuckles whitened, and the veins along the back of his hand stood out like cords. His glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose from the sudden shift in posture, and he pushed them back up with a quick, nervous tap of his finger.

“What?” he said, far too quickly.

You bit back a smile, watching him carefully now—not just his face, but his whole frame. The way his body filled the chair, broad shoulders and long limbs all seemingly trying to shrink and fold in a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space he very clearly couldn’t.

Your knee was pressed up against his—had it always been that close? You weren’t sure. But now that you’d noticed, it was impossible not to notice. Especially when his didn’t move. Didn’t twitch or pull away. Just... stayed there, warm and solid against yours.

You tilted your head again, letting your voice drop just a little lower. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, Kent.”

He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t. I mean. No.”

You turned slightly toward him, lips curving into a slow grin. “No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”

“What—Why’s that surprising?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone scratchy, like his throat had decided to betray him.

You let your eyes trail down, briefly, taking in the way his forearms were tensed now too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those oddly strong hands. The tendons moved with every subtle grip and shift along the chair’s arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers had curled so tightly over the edge now that you were sure he’d leave dents in the wood.

You shrugged, still watching him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t know. You’re kind of charming in that nervous, buttoned-up sort of way. Some people are into that.”

Clark’s brows drew together slightly, his lips parting like he was going to respond—but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just a little, flustered exhale like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, like his brain had stopped functioning at the suggestion that someone might be into him.

His glasses slid further down his nose, and in his fumbling attempt to fix them, he knocked them a little sideways. His hands were big—awkwardly precise—and the way he pushed them back up just made it worse. He cleared his throat again, too quickly this time.

“Well, I—uh, I think that’s… that’s nice of you to say,” he finally managed, voice half-pitched and apologetic, like you were the one who had just walked in on him in a compromising position.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not cruelly, not loudly. Just a soft, delighted kind of laugh that bubbled up from your chest because God, this man was endearing. Six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad shoulders, and yet here he was—blushing like a schoolboy because you’d complimented him. Barely. Lightly.

Clark looked down, probably trying to hide the growing flush on his neck, which had started to crawl past the collar of his shirt. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like people are lining up.”

“Oh, come on, Kent,” you said, voice teasing now, elbow brushing his lightly. “Don’t play modest. I’ve seen the way some of the women in this office look at you. Even the new girl from research couldn’t remember her own name when you brought her coffee last week.”

“That was just because I brought the wrong order,” he mumbled quickly.

“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” you said, grinning. “And when she said she’d ‘never tasted anything sweeter’? Totally about the coffee.”

Clark groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as if he could physically rub the embarrassment away.

He finally looked at you again—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. His eyes were warm behind the lenses, full of something quiet and boyish and undeniably fond.

“You’re kind of mean,” he said, but there was no heat to it.

“And you’re kind of fun to fluster,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours again—deliberate this time.

He froze for a heartbeat. Just one.

Then he smiled, soft and crooked.

“I’m starting to think you like making me nervous.”

You tilted your head again, letting the silence stretch for a second too long. Then, with a little shrug, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”

Clark swallowed hard, then, with a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected, he let one hand slide gently to rest on the armrest closer to you—as if testing the boundaries, trying to be near without crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.

Your pulse sped up. You wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but something held you back—a delicate balance of respect and something else, something tender and new.

Before either of you could say anything else, the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet newsroom. The moment shattered like glass.

Clark’s hand jerked back quickly, and he adjusted his glasses with a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re not as alone as we thought.”

You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Guess the newsroom’s ghosts don’t like to miss out.”

He smiled, eyes still warm as he packed away some of the papers between you.

“Tomorrow,” you said quietly, “we’ll finish this. And maybe… talk about other things, too.”

He continued right after that, standing up and stretching. “I’d like that. Maybe you can come over tomorrow to write the piece after work. If you want of course— Unless you have something else to do? ”

"Yes, Clark, I'd like that. I'll give you a call." You sent him a smile, trying to prove to him he had nothing to be nervous about anymore. But something told you that this act wouldn't be easy to drop. The poor guy was a lost cause.

As you gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced back once more. Clark Kent—the man who was a mystery and a friend, awkward and brave all at once—gave you a small, hopeful smile.

The next day flew by in a whirlwind of stories, calls, and chasing down leads. The newsroom buzzed as usual, but beneath the noise, your thoughts kept drifting back to last night—the quiet moment with Clark, the way his nervous smile had stayed with you.

As the afternoon wore on and people began packing up, you were sorting through your notes when your phone buzzed softly. You glanced down and saw a message from Clark. You looked up and, almost without thinking, spotted him sitting across the room, his glasses slightly crooked as he fiddled nervously with a pen.

The message read: “If you’re still up for it, my place. 7 PM?”

You smiled to yourself and quickly typed back, your fingers flying over the screen: “You know you can talk to me like a normal person, right?”

Almost immediately, he glanced your way, cheeks flushing just a bit, before he sent a quick thumbs-up from across the room.

A little while later, as the last of the reporters packed up and the newsroom began to empty, Clark appeared at your desk with a hesitant smile, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at you.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “It’s not far from here. We can walk—it’s a nice evening.”

You nodded, gathering your bag and slipping on your jacket. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Together, you stepped out into the warm glow of the evening, the city buzzing softly around you. The streets weren’t crowded, just a few pedestrians and the occasional hum of distant traffic. Side by side, you walked—easy, natural—sharing bits of small talk that felt surprisingly comfortable.

Clark occasionally stole glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how the city lights caught the flecks of blue in his eyes, making him look a little less like the nervous, awkward guy at the office and more like someone who belonged here—right here beside you.

You found yourself smiling more than you realized, drawn in by his quiet earnestness, the way his eyes lit up when he described simple pleasures. It was a side of Clark Kent few got to see—behind the glasses, behind the awkwardness—a man who cherished the ordinary moments.

At one point, your knees brushed again, and this time neither of you moved away. Instead, Clark’s smile deepened just a little, shy but genuine.

As the outline of his apartment building came into view, nestled between a bookstore and a cozy café, the streetlamps cast a warm halo over the doorway. Clark pulled out his keys, fumbling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his endearing clumsiness.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said with a grin after taking the elevator and settling before his door, pushing the door open and holding it for you.

Inside, the space was simple and inviting, with shelves lined with books, a few framed photos, and a soft couch that looked perfect for late-night talks or movie marathons.

You both dove into the writing like something had possessed you—pure adrenaline and sharp focus, the kind that only came when the stakes were real and the story mattered. The laptop passed feverishly from one lap to the other, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes with a flurry of half-laughed instructions and half-bitten curses about formatting or sourcing. You’d never worked this quickly on any project, not even under deadline. But this—this felt different. Urgent. Important.

Clark had thrown off his suit jacket the second you'd settled into his apartment, letting it drape carelessly over the back of the sofa. His tie was askew now, loosened at the neck and clinging faintly to one side like it had given up trying to be proper. His white shirt was rumpled with the kind of lived-in texture that came from the day dragging on and on—and you couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung in places. His shoulders looked even broader without the layers hiding them, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, the definition in his forearms was downright distracting.

Every now and then one of you would catch a typo or notice something off in the phrasing, and you’d lean in to fix it together. Once, you’d missed a whole line—your fingers hesitating over the keys—and without saying a word, Clark had reached over. His hand engulfed yours easily, warm and solid, his fingers dwarfing yours as he corrected the sentence himself. He didn’t move your hand—he just covered it, guiding it with a quiet, gentle pressure, his touch firm but careful.

You were sitting side by side on the couch, your thighs touching, pressed flush together. It wasn’t a small couch, not by any stretch—but Clark somehow still managed to take up half of it. More than half, if you were being honest. His long legs sprawled slightly, the muscle clearly visible beneath the fabric of his pants, shifting every time he adjusted. You could feel the strength in him, just sitting there, all that quiet power contained and careful and... close. His thigh next to yours was solid heat, twice the size of yours, pressed from knee to hip.

His fingers lay sprawled casually across his own thigh, thick and unhurried, veins prominent against the backs of his hands. You watched them for a second too long, eyes tracing the way they twitched occasionally with thought—how one hand flexed when he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his back, drawing your attention to places you probably shouldn’t be looking.

After a while—maybe the fourth round of proofreading between the two of you—you sat back with a satisfied hum, eyes scanning the final draft on the screen one last time. It was perfect. Crisp, clear, bold. Every line landed. Every quote hit. The tone, the flow, the weight of it—dead-on.

Clark was rereading a paragraph you’d rewritten when you looked at him and grinned. “I think we did it.”

He glanced at you, then back at the screen. “We really did.”

Without even thinking, you held up your hand. “Fist bump.”

He blinked at it like it was a foreign concept, then chuckled and tapped his knuckles lightly against yours. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Not just finishing the piece, but finishing it together. You slumped back into the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Clark followed suit, both of you sinking into the cushions like deflating balloons.

It wasn’t even that late—maybe just past ten. The soft hum of the city drifted in through his windows, and for once, there wasn’t anything left to worry about. The story was done. All that remained was… whatever this was.

And well, you couldn’t let a moment like this go to waste.

You turned your head toward him, voice light. “So… as I was saying yesterday—no girlfriend?”

Clark let out a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said sweetly. “Especially when I see an opportunity to make a certain someone all red in the face again.”

“I wasn’t red,” he mumbled.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You so were. Somewhere between strawberry and a ripe tomato.”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not a crime to be single, you know.”

“No, of course not. But it is curious. Clark Kent, charming, gentle, built like he could bench press a building—and not a single soul to call his own?” You gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back further into the cushions and tilting your head toward him. “It’s practically a scandal.”

His hand came up to cover his face for a second, and you heard him mumble behind his palm, “You’re relentless.”

You nudged your knee against his. “I just think the people deserve to know. The truth is out there.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “You’re making this weird.”

“I’m making it fun,” you corrected. “And I haven’t even started with the follow-up questions.”

Clark gave you a look like he was trying very hard not to smile, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching—and more importantly, the way his shoulders had hunched up slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the couch. As if that was even remotely possible with how big he was.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—uh—dated before,” he stammered, eyes suddenly fixed very intently on the ceiling. “I’ve just been… focused. On work. And other things.”

“Oh? Other things?” you echoed, eyes gleaming. You leaned a little closer, chin propped on your hand like you were very seriously conducting an interview. “Mysterious. Do these things wear lipstick and heels or—”

“No—God—no! Not like that, I mean—” He fumbled, his voice jumping an octave, ears turning red now. “I meant like… just life things. Family. Writing. Coffee. The weather. Taxes. Normal things.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Taxes.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan. “Can we pretend I said literally anything else?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Clark Kent: tax enthusiast. Definitely the sexiest answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly like he wanted to vanish into a fold of the cushion. His shoulders were so wide that when he tried to hunch them, it only made them more obvious—like a mountain trying to duck under a table. His thigh was still pressed to yours, firm and warm, and when he moved slightly, your whole leg moved with him. The man was gravitational.

You tilted your head slowly, letting the silence stretch between you, a teasing glint sparking in your eyes. “You don’t?” you repeated, voice low and rich with mock innocence. “Do I make you nervous, Kent?”

It hit him like a sucker punch. Clark’s mouth parted as if to reply, then faltered. Closed. Opened again. Whatever he wanted to say, his brain wasn’t cooperating. His gaze darted to your face, lingered on your mouth just a second too long, then snapped upward toward the ceiling—like maybe salvation was written somewhere in the paint.

“Nervous isn’t… the word I’d use,” he finally muttered, voice deeper now, rough at the edges. “More like… wound up.”

You blinked.

The shift in the air was immediate—like someone had struck a match and held it between you. The words settled in, thick and full of implication, and you didn’t miss the way Clark immediately stiffened once he heard himself. His body locked up, like the realization hit him two seconds too late.

Your eyes met, and you watched it register behind his glasses—the double meaning, the subtext, the blush already blooming beneath his collar. His pupils dilated just slightly, and for a moment, he genuinely looked like he wanted to rewind time.

You smiled. No, you grinned. Slow and amused, dangerous in the way only a woman who knew exactly the effect she had could be.

“Wound up, huh?”

His ears turned bright red. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that happen to an actual adult man before. It was adorable.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. He sat up so fast the cushions shifted, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “I meant like—tense. Stressed. Not like that. That's— you're so dirty-minded.”

“Oh, no no no,” you said, turning toward him fully now, the couch creaking just slightly beneath your combined weight. You lifted a brow, voice thick with faux concern. “You already said it. Wound up. It’s okay, you don’t have to backtrack. It’s really bad for the human body to stay that way, y’know?”

He coughed—hard—into his fist, as if his lungs were trying to eject him from the situation entirely.

You inched in a little closer, chin resting in your hand like you were very seriously interviewing him. “When’s the last time you let off a little steam, anyway? That kind of tension? It’s terrible for your health. Builds up. Makes you twitchy. You could explode, in more ways than one.” You joked, clearly enjoying how flustered you were making him

His mouth opened, then immediately snapped shut. Again. His whole frame looked like it was short-circuiting—eyes wide, neck stiff, hands suddenly very still on his lap like he didn’t trust them to move. The tips of his ears were crimson now, and his knee gave a visible twitch where it touched yours.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse and absolutely not helping himself. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

You leaned in just a bit more, your voice dripping with playful condescension as you arched an eyebrow. “No one at work, then? No girls sneaking around, taking care of you? Or outside work? Surely someone’s keeping you from turning into a walking ball of tension.”

Clark’s face flushed deeper—if that was even possible—and he shifted awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller in the already cramped space. His broad shoulders hunkered down like he wished he could disappear entirely into the couch cushions. His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, veins standing out from the strain. His leg twitched where it pressed against yours, betraying how flustered he truly was.

“I—I don’t think that’s really... how it works,” he stammered, eyes flicking away, unable to hold your teasing gaze. His voice cracked just slightly as he added, “I’m not really—uh—good at that sort of thing.”

You softened your tone just a little, letting the teasing linger but adding a hint of genuine curiosity. “Alright,” you said, your eyes locking with his, “setting aside how things are—which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly thrilling—would you want that? For someone to take care of you? To take real good care of you, Clark?”

His breath hitched, and you caught the sudden catch in his throat. His body tensed for a split second, fingers tightening a bit more on the sofa’s edge. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before he met your gaze again—this time softer, more honest.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I’d like that. Someone to—take care of me. To make me feel… wanted. To help me relax. I don’t really know how to ask for it, but… I want it.”

His fingers twitched nervously on the edge of the sofa, and he shifted slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller—almost like he was half-expecting you to laugh it off. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, vulnerable and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.

“I just… I don’t know how to say it out loud. But I want to be held. To be touched… And—Um, well, yeah.” His voice faltered, thick with something unspoken, as he glanced up briefly, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.

You looked at him softly, your voice gentle but steady. “Would you let me help you with that, Clark? To… take care of you the way you need?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost speechless—like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“I… I—” he stammered, words catching in his throat. “Y-yes. Please.”

As he spoke, his voice low and whispery, you couldn't help but notice a sudden shift in Clark. His broad frame tensed subtly, shoulders stiffening like a wire pulled taut. Your eyes flicked downward, and there it was—an undeniable bulge pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. It hadn’t been there earlier, not when you first began talking, but now it had made its unmistakable presence known.

The sight hit you with a raw intensity. Was he really this pent up? This desperate, maybe? The way his hands clenched and unclenched on the edge of the couch, the quick, shallow breaths rattling in his chest—it all spoke volumes. His steady composure shattered, replaced by a vulnerability so fierce it almost scorched the air between you.

Clark shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust himself, covering the imprint of his twitching cock, like it would somehow disappear or at least be less obvious. One of his hands wrapped a hand around it, looking to shield himself from your view, trying to not seem like some pervy teenager. His thigh pressed a little harder against yours in the movement, muscles flexing under his pants, taut and commanding. Every subtle twitch, every tiny flex of those long fingers gripping the sofa’s edge, betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface.

Your gaze flicked to his clenched hand resting just above the unmistakable tent, and without hesitation, you reached out gently, sliding your fingers around his wrist. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as you slowly pulled his hand away, freeing the evidence of his need from its grip.

“You’re trying to hide this from me now, huh?” you tease, your eyes flickering between the bulge straining against his pants and the glaze settling over his eyes. “Can’t have that.”

Clark’s breath catches, and he swallows hard before meeting your gaze with a shaky, “Um, No, I’m not.”

As you take his hand from his lap, you finally place a hand over his cock. He was radiating heat, and from what you could feel as you rubbed your hand gently up and down the length of him, he was huge and ridiculously girthy.

Clark’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, barely-there noise escaping his lips—half gasp, half moan. His face flushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open, wide and vulnerable. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back whatever words or sounds threatened to spill free.

Clark’s breath hitched again, his eyes darting nervously as your hand traced slow, deliberate circles. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of disbelief and desire. “You’re… you’re really mean, you know that? You can’t just—do this to me,” he murmured, cheeks flushed deeper, words stumbling over each other as he struggled to keep control. “It’s… unfair.”

"Can't I? You want me to stop touching you? Because I can do that." You began, looking right into his eyes. Most of the time, the poor thing couldn't keep eye contact; his eyes flickered from your eyes to your hand, or to the ceiling. As you stared him down, the motion of your hand limited itself to his tip, feeling around the wet spot he had begun to make on his pants.

His breath hitched, voice shaky but earnest. “No! please don’t stop… I want this.”

A shaky sigh escaped him as his body tensed under your touch, every muscle stretched tight with anticipation and need. Despite the vulnerability in his eyes, there was something fierce simmering just beneath the surface—an unspoken surrender that made the air between you crackle with electricity.

Your hands stopped stroking him for a second, your fingers wandering around the strap of his belt, shuffling under the fabric of his dress shirt. "Then what do you want? I can't just do whatever I want with you, can I?" You raised a brow teasingly, pushing for an answer.

Clark’s voice trembled as he finally found the courage to speak more directly, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. One of his hands found the back of your head and cradled it, brushing soft circles against your scalp. “Um— well, you can… You can use me. You can use your hands on me too, if you want,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing deeper as the words slipped out, raw and unguarded.

You smirked, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. “That’s very unspecific, Kent. What exactly would that imply?”

Clark’s cheeks flared bright red, his breath catching as he swallowed nervously. “Don’t—come on, you’re really gonna make me ask for it, just like that?”

You chuckled softly, voice low and teasing. “Yup. Tell me what you want, big boy.” One of your fingers curled just below the hem of his pants, making him suddenly shiver from the unexpected contact. His abs and the muscles on his torso jerking suddenly.

The hand resting lightly on your head suddenly stilled. Clark shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering every ounce of courage to say what he felt but barely dared to voice. When he finally tilted his head toward you, his brows knit together and his eyes glistened with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He looked so raw—so close to breaking—and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him.

“Please, baby, jus’ touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can you—God.” He cut himself off abruptly, blinking up at you, clearly torn between shame and need, unsure if he could even say the words that were burning behind his lips. Yet, there you lay, watching him, waiting.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and desperate now. “Jesus… you’re really driving me backwards. Look at what you’ve got me saying…” His breath hitched. “Can you please jerk me off, baby? Put me to good use. Do something. Whatever…”

Your fingers fumbled almost instinctively at the buckle of his belt, heart hammering as you slid his pants down his thighs just below his knees, leaving him in his boxer briefs, feeling the tension release with the sound of the clasp. Calvin Klein— you weren't even surprised, he even looked like the models in the magazines. Without hesitation, you moved over him, settling on his lap, heat radiating from your bodies as you leaned in to capture his mouth with a hungry kiss.

His breath hitched when your legs came into contact with the flesh of his thighs, hands gripping your waist as the space between you vanished.

There was no gentleness here—only the raw need that had been building between you, unleashed in a rush of heat and urgency. His mouth opened beneath yours, inviting, desperate, and you wasted no time slipping your tongue inside to explore, tasting the sweetness of his tounge and the tremble of his lips.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, making you drag the heat of your clothed cunt against his leaking cock as if trying to make up for lost time. Your fingers pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. You began humping him, and so did he. He whimpered into your mouth every time his tip caught the seam of your jeans, serving him as some sort of satisfaction. His hips rolled hungrily against yours as he kept shamelessly moaning into your mouth, sounding like a desperate man, each whimper more needy. The kiss was possessive and wild, a fierce claiming that left no room for doubt about the fire burning between you.

You broke the kiss suddenly, something which thankfully lent you the view of his soft, plump lips now swollen and red, his cheeks and ears rosy as ever, and his glasses, as always, lying askew on his nose. You latched onto his neck, and he let out a high-pitched noise. He's so cute. As your tongue lapped against the skin of his neck, your hands wandered down to the hem of his boxers and slowly snaked themselves under them. As your hands wandered further, you could feel how soft the skin of his abdomen was, and later, just below, you could also feel he was trimmed, and then, just further down—

Jesus. Christ.

He was fucking huge. Your hand wrapping around the base of his cock basically counted as a miracle; you almost couldn't clasp your hand into a fist around it. He was long, too, your hand wrapped tight around him, and you stroked him once, earning a shiver from him. Even without looking at it, you could feel the ridges of the veins running along the side of his cock as you stroked him. God bless this man, truly.

"Mhmph." He flinched as he clearly had tried to say something, but that was the only thing that came out of his mouth. A pathetic sigh.

Just as your lips left a blooming mark on the side of Clark’s neck—deep, flushed, and unmistakably yours—a flicker of something wicked sparked to life in your mind. You let your tongue trace the edges of the bruise for one last second before your hand, which had been steadily working his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, suddenly stilled.

He gasped, a breathless whimper catching in his throat at the loss of contact. You slowly withdrew your hand, dragging it out deliberately, your fingers slick with proof of just how far gone he was. He let out a soft, pitiful noise, equal parts frustration and pleading, as if you’d stolen the only thing keeping him grounded.

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—your own gaze dark and commanding. Then, you lifted your hand, palm up, just beneath his face.

“Spit on my hand, Clark,” you said, low and deliberate, your tone a perfect blend of authority and challenge.

His breath hitched. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to determine whether he’d heard you right. His lips parted, trembling slightly.

“I—wha…?” he stammered, voice thready and wrecked. “You want me to…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you murmured, voice like velvet and sin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed. You could see the war in his head—modesty clashing with the overwhelming desire to please you. Finally, he nodded, barely perceptible, and whispered:

“O-okay.”

Clark’s breath hitched audibly, chest rising with a sharp inhale as you pulled your hand back and held it in front of him. His eyes—already wide and glassy—darted to your fingers, then up to your face. You could see the war inside him, flickering right behind his glasses. Some part of him still wanted to be composed, respectable. The other part, the one unraveling at your words and touch, was clawing its way to the surface.

His jaw tensed like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a bit. His breath brushed against your palm. And then—

Spit.

It was small, and hesitant as he let it drip from his mouth to the palm of your hand, but it was there. His cheeks flushed instantly deeper, as if even the action startled him. He didn’t look away, though. No—his gaze held yours, almost defiantly now. There was shame in his expression, yes, but also something else. Want. Trust. Hunger.

You let a smirk tug at your lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, low and warm like velvet. The way he shuddered at just that made your pulse kick up. His fingers were still clenching the fabric of your pants, like he was holding himself back from... something.

With your other hand, you reached down and tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers fumbling slightly against the elastic. Finally, you hooked them properly, intent clear in your movements. Clark let out a shaky breath, lifting his hips in a silent invitation, and his own hands moved to help, pushing the fabric down with an urgency that betrayed just how far gone he already was. For a second, the waistband caught his shaft, making it even harder to pull down.

What a sight.

This was probably the first time you'd ever seen a man having a hard time taking off his boxers from how utterly huge he was.

Finally, in an act of desperation, he yanked them down, freeing his cock from under the fabric. It sprang out, slow and steady, oscillating back and forth from the front of your jeans to his belly button. Jesus. His tip was a deep shade of red, leaking with eager drops of precum, coasting hungry down the very slit. He was thick, like oddly girthy. His shaft was very faintly a darker shade of skin than the rest of his body, something tending towards pink or light mauve. Veins, humming with desire, painted the sides of his shaft, making it all the more intimidating. Clearly, you had been staring for too long because his breath hitched, and his whole cock twitched before you, swaying towards him. His eyes darted away for a moment, glancing anywhere but at you—as if the weight of your gaze made him suddenly self-conscious.

He shifted slightly, the vulnerability of the moment pressing on him, and yet there was an undeniable softness in the way he looked back, hesitating but trusting. “You’re… really looking at me, aren't you?” he joked quietly, letting out a soft nervous laugh.

You became aware of the look on your face, and your eyes darted towards him. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you're aware of how big you are, Clark." You let out a breath as your hand, still slick from his spit, slid down to stroke him once and for all. Your hand glided down effortlessly, making wet and sloppy noises under you.

Clark blinked, clearly caught off guard by your words. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shifted uneasily, sucking in a breath and puffing his chest the second your hands started working on him. “I—uh, dont give it much thought…” he murmured, voice soft and a bit breathless. “You really think so? It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose.”

That made you scoff, but your hand kept working at the same pace. You wanted to put your mouth on him so bad, but considering how he was reacting now, he'd probably implode from just having your tounge on him. But then again, wasn't that the whole point? So then you decided to do so. You got off his lap, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, working him oh so sweetly, and as soon as your knees found the carpet, you brought your tounge to his tip, swirling the slick around it.

Clark flinched suddenly, muscles tensing like coiled springs beneath his shirt. You had begun to stroke his cock faster, your mouth taking him deeper into your mouth, you kept one hand at his base helping yourself with what you couldn't take fully. The flesh of his thighs tightened and strained, every movement charged with raw energy. His head fell back against the cushion of the couch, eyes closing briefly as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep within him.

Without hesitation, his hand shot up to your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Despite the strength behind the motion, his touch was soft and soothing, cradling you at the base of your skull and tracing slow, comforting circles along your neck.

You arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as your hand continued its slow, deliberate motion. “That feel good?” you teased, voice dripping with mischief. Your grip tightened just slightly, testing his reaction, fingers sliding with purpose along his shaft.

Clark’s breath hitched again, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a mix of surprise and something deeper. His voice came out husky, uneven, betraying how much your touch affected him. “Y-yeah… Fuck,” he cursed. He cursed?

That was the first time you had ever heard Clark Kent curse, really curse.

That only ignited you. Your mouth and hands began to work at new speeds. You kept yourself coordinated, sometimes pulling away to spit on the very tip, or to pull away for a second to look at him from under your lashes. The poor man was done for; you could tell he was close by the way he had begun to hold onto the back of your head tighter, pushing you down onto his cock.

Clark’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as his eyes darkened with something raw and unguarded. The usual calm that defined him seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of desperate yearning that made his entire body tense and shiver.

His gaze locked onto yours, glazed and unfocused for a moment—as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but the heat of your touch and the magnetic pull between you. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as if he struggled to find the right words, but none came.

Then, something completely and utterly unexpected happened: he spoke—without being coaxed, prompted, or begged. His voice, low and certain, cut through the air like it had always belonged there. He furrowed his brows, lips pulling into the faintest pout as he locked eyes with you, unblinking. And then, like some quiet ritual had reached its climax, he reached up and slid his glasses off, tossing them onto the table behind you with a casual flick of his wrist.

In an instant, he changed. Not in a subtle way—not in a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. It was seismic. Gone was the quiet, anxious boy who shrank into himself. He rolled back his shoulders like he’d just remembered he had them. His knees spread wider, his posture now dripping with a kind of authority that hadn’t been there a minute ago. It wasn’t just confidence—it was control. Power. Presence.

He looked like a completely different person—no, he was a different person. And you were choking on that realization as much as you were on him.

What the actual fuck just happened?

"Yeah? Y'taking me so good, you know that? Jesus— your mouth's so warm, baby." Then the hand on your hair pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was close, you could tell. His hips bucked involuntarily, making you take him completely, and for a few seconds, he held you there, nose nestled against the trimmed hairs of his pelvis.

"Taking care of me so nicely. Just like— just like that." He tilted his head to get a good look at you. "Atta girl," that sent shivers down your spine, only fueling you further. Your head bobbed with your newfound speed, only making him groan louder.

He began once again, "I’ve been trying to be good. Trying not to think of you like this— always so nice to me. But you've made it so hard— God." You moaned around him, and that's when you began to feel his cock twitch around your lips, so you sped up. "Hell, you made it so hard. Tried not cummin' in my pants like a teenager every time you walked with one of those tight little pencil skirts."

"Tried not to think of you like this. Never touched myself—God, never, not once. I felt so bad thinking of you this way after you had been nothin' but nice to me. Such a sweet angel. Nothin' but a good little girl to me." You smiled as you bobbed your head faster, helping yourself with your hands every now and then. He really was such a kind, pure-spirited person (putting away the fact that his cock was shoved down your throat). Even if you had begun to guess how he felt about you the first few weeks, it was still sweet hearing him say it. Spit had begun to pool around the corners of your mouth, making the noises coming from your lips even filthier. They were wet and sticky, echoing around the room, sometimes interrupted by a sudden pop when your mouth slipped away from his cock.

"Oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." He brought a single knuckle to your lips and cheeks and began brushing off spit. "M'gonna cum in your mouth, honey, can I?" His finger then caressed your cheek as his breaths began to grow rapid and unsteady. You nodded with a small hum.

His hand stayed pressed against your head, still holding your hair into a ponytail. Even now, knee deep in such filth, he was still such a gentleman. But then, his grip shifted—tightened. A low, instinctive reaction. His eyes, darkened and wide, dropped down to meet yours. The soft blue was now nearly eclipsed by pupils so dilated they looked black in the dim light. His chest rose sharply with each breath, muscles tight under his shirt, as if his body couldn't quite decide between tensing up or melting down completely. And just when you thought he might say something—anything—he tilted his head back again with a low, stuttering whimper, shoulders twitching like he’d lost the strength to hold back.

"M'gonna— God, taking me so well, such a messy girl. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fuckme, fuck-" His words died out on his throat, and his throat closed up. Your mouth continued to lap at him up and down, forcing him into your throat and bobbing your head to meet the snapping of his hips. Suddenly, with one last thrust, he moaned, and you felt the warm sensation of cum trickling down your throat. He held you there by the back of your head, pressed flush against the skin of his pelvis. His hips stuttered and his muscles flexed as he let out a string of incoherent words.

As he continued to paint your throat, he tried to excuse himself and be the gentleman that he is once again. He sounded like he was about try cry, and for a second you were sure he was when you saw a tiny speckle of light catching a tear on his cheek. "I'm not usually like this—Oh!" You tried not to cough or choke, but eitherway the sounds of your throat closing up on him were nothing but quiet. "M'sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. So good to me, making me feel so good..."

Finally, he let go of the grip on your hair, and you swallowed everything he gave you. You pulled away from his cock with a small pop as a string of saliva followed your lips. He looked so genuinely fucked out, his breaths came in uneven rhythms, your cheeks were flushed red, some tears had gathered right around the corner of his eyes, and most definitely in yours too.

You sat beside him, curling a hand around his shoulders, gently combing through his damp hair as he softly opened his eyes. His lashes fluttered like he was waking from some fever dream, and for a moment, he just stared—like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he blinked a few times, the last of the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and let out the softest, shakiest breath.

"Hi," you whispered, your thumb brushing a stray lock from his forehead. God, what a ridiculously gorgeous man—even flushed and undone, or maybe especially then.

"Hi, right back at you," he managed, voice breathless and rough-edged. He giggled—just a short, embarrassed sound, like he couldn’t believe himself. His hand found your thigh, grounding himself.

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You know…” you murmured, voice all soft and teasing, “You’ve still got to get that Superman interview.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t blush like he usually did when you got close. Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough that his mouth nearly brushed yours, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got the right person for that.”

The way he said it—low, smug, a little amused—sent a flicker down your spine. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. Not the bashful gleam of Clark Kent fumbling with his words. No. This was something else entirely. A secret he was daring you to notice.

Clark’s eyes darkened with playful mischief after that as he suddenly shifted, moving with surprising speed to pin you gently against the corner of the couch. His broad frame hovered over you, breath warm against your skin.

A slow grin spread across his face. “But I think,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “It’s your turn now. Pa always said a gentleman knows how to return a favor.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, that mischievous smile still playing on his lips. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in just slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken promises.

And just like that, the moment hung suspended—waiting, electric—before the world around you slipped away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, perfect pause.

– thursday, 9:42 P.M.

it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.

you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.

then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.

you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."

clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"

you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."

clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."

you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."

clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.

he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."

your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."

clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.

maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.

you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."

clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"

"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."

his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"

you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"

he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.

your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–

clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.

"okay."

your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.

his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."

you blink. "yeah?"

he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.

you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."

"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.

"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"

your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.

"um... now?"

and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.

a beat passes.

"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.

he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.

"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.

clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.

it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.

he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.

the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.

he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.

your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.

you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.

your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.

you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.

there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.

clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.

he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.

your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.

"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.

you nod breathlessly. "please."

he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.

it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.

but this...

this is different.

this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.

his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."

you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."

"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.

"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.

"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.

his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.

you swallow. "you want it back?"

clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.

he kisses you again.

it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.

clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.

"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.

a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.

clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.

with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.

"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.

you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.

clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.

then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.

"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.

he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.

you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."

he lets out a breath, nodding.

clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.

his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.

your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.

"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."

you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."

he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.

clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.

"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."

his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.

you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.

he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.

your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.

"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.

"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.

"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.

your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

"clark, i'm– oh my god–"

you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.

"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.

you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.

when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.

you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.

"your turn," you murmur against his lips.

clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."

you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."

he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."

you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.

clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.

you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.

"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.

clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.

your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.

your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.

"jesus, clark," you whisper.

"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.

"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.

"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."

he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.

"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.

"sweetheart..." he trails off.

there it is again. that damn pet name.

"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."

his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."

you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.

"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.

you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.

your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.

"feel good?" you ask.

clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."

you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.

you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.

you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.

he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.

you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.

clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.

you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.

"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"

you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.

"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.

why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?

you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.

clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).

you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.

he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.

"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."

"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."

and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.

your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.

you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.

his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.

"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.

"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.

you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.

he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.

you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."

clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.

you lift your hips up in answer.

he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.

you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.

"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.

you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"

he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."

your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.

you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.

it's clark after all.

any woman would be lucky to be with him.

you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."

the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.

clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.

is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?

then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.

you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.

"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.

"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.

he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.

you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.

clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.

"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."

"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."

he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"

how sweet.

"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.

he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.

"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.

you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?

with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.

for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.

"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.

you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."

clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."

and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.

he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.

"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."

his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.

he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.

you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.

"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."

you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."

clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.

you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.

then he presses a kiss to your forehead.

and that’s when you know.

you’re fucked.

totally, completely, emotionally fucked.

the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.

the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.

your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.

you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.

his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.

you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.

how could he just... leave? no goodbye?

your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.

you shake your head bitterly.

but the ache in your chest says another story.

your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.

you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.

maybe not.

but still!

a text. a note. something.

you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.

it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?

you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.

within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.

you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.

"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.

you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."

he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."

your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.

he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.

apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.

still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?

you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.

the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.

around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."

you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"

"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."

and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.

you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.

but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.

and how different everything is now.

what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.

the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.

with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.

you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.

clark hadn't.

by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.

if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.

monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.

he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."

you blink. "thanks," you murmur.

the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.

now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.

you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.

at least not that you can tell.

lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."

you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.

"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.

you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.

by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.

you haven't looked clark in the eye once.

not really.

you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.

you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.

today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"

"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."

you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.

you don't touch it.

today 7:15 P.M.

and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.

but there's a knock at the door.

you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.

you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–

"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."

your stomach flips.

you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.

there he is.

normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.

you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.

"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.

you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.

"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."

it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.

clark doesn't say anything right away.

behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.

he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"

you nod and start the shut the door.

he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.

but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.

you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.

clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.

you freeze.

"what?"

"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."

your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.

clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.

you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.

"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.

clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."

"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."

clark waits. patient. unmoving.

the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.

but you don't.

you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.

"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.

clark's brow creases. "different?"

"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.

he waits.

"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."

clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."

"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."

with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."

you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.

"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.

clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"

you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."

a beat passes.

you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.

here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.

"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."

clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.

then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.

"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."

that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.

his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."

"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"

"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"

clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.

"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."

"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."

you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."

clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."

you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"

his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.

"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.

"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."

your breath hitches in your throat.

clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."

"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."

you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.

"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."

your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.

his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.

your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"

"i think you know."

"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.

he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."

your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.

"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."

your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.

so you choose to act instead.

you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.

it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.

he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.

he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.

his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.

"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.

you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.

"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.

you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.

the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.

so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.

"i need you," you whisper finally.

his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.

he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.

when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.

"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."

you shake your head. "please don't."

and that's his green light.

his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.

"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.

"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.

you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.

his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.

he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.

you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.

you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.

your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.

he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.

he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.

you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.

"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.

that damn pet name.

he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.

then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.

you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.

you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.

except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.

"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.

he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.

"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "

you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."

before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.

you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.

he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.

"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."

you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.

"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.

he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.

he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.

and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.

so, so close.

he pulls back.

your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."

you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.

"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.

"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.

"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."

"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.

he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.

with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.

"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."

clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.

"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.

you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.

"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.

"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.

his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."

you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."

clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."

you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.

"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.

"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.

"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.

clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.

"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"

you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.

it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.

then, finally, he bottoms out.

a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.

clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"

you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.

his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"

you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."

he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."

"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.

his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.

you must have the kindest man inside you right now.

"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.

he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.

clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.

the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.

"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."

you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.

"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.

"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.

"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.

you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).

“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”

he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”

“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.

his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.

“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”

your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.

your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”

your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”

you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”

with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.

"you okay?" he asks softly.

you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."

he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.

"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.

clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.

the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.

"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.

his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."

"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.

he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.

"you better."

sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.

for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Luke’s voice carries gently through the baby monitor — a low, sleepy hum as he sings one of his sweet, nonsensical lullabies. The kind that makes no sense to anyone but Eden and somehow works every time. Your little girl is curled around a stuffed bear three times her size, one she refuses to sleep without, her tiny body finally stilled in sleep.

You lie on your bed, propped up on one elbow, head cradled in your palm, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You watch the monitor like it’s your favorite show, heart melting as Luke finishes his made-up song — even though Eden had fallen asleep minutes ago. He stays there a little longer, crouched beside the crib, gently smoothing her curls back from her forehead.

It never fails to hit you, the way he is with her. The patience. The gentleness. The quiet strength when she’s crying. The goofiness when she’s giggling. The complete surrender in every moment he gives her. Watching Luke be a dad is like falling in love with him all over again, every single day.

Eden’s two now. Old enough that you sometimes get a full night’s sleep. Still young enough that “sometimes” is generous. She’s clingy in the most adorable, exhausting way — a velcro baby through and through. If she had it her way, she’d sleep pressed right between the two of you every night, one chubby hand on each of your cheeks like a hostage negotiator.

It’s been ages since you’ve felt Luke touch you in any way that wasn’t a fleeting kiss on the cheek, a sleepy forehead press, or a soft hand at your waist as he passed by in the kitchen. Sweet, yes. Loving, always. But you missed the other kind of touching. The kind that made your toes curl and your thighs ache.

On the monitor, Luke leans down and kisses Eden’s head, slow and reverent. His smile — that bright, easy thing you’ve always loved — is crystal clear on the tiny screen as he rises to his feet.

Sighing, you shift in bed, letting your body melt into the mattress as you roll onto your back. Your eyes trace the ceiling lazily, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time since dinner. That nighttime routine was no joke. Eden had been on one tonight — not a meltdown exactly, just her usual chaos cranked to eleven.

She was particular. Meticulously particular. Luke liked to say she got that from you — always with a teasing smirk and a kiss to your temple, like he didn’t find it completely adorable in both of you.

Dinner had been its own disaster-slash-comedy special. Eden refused her pasta outright until Luke made her laugh so hard she accidentally snorted a bite. Then came the bath — where, midway through rinsing, she got the zoomies and took off through the house naked, squealing with delight as she chased a bewildered Petunia. You’d run after them like some exhausted sitcom mom, while Luke collapsed against the hallway wall laughing too hard to help.

Then came the bedtime stalling. The “just one more story” and “just one more kiss” protests — Eden’s greatest hits. You’d lost count after five kisses. Luke had given her six. Of course he had.

Parenthood wasn’t easy. Your back hurt. Your privacy was a myth. Half your laundry was tiny socks you swear didn’t exist an hour ago. But God, it was worth it. Every bone-deep ache and stolen moment was soothed by a little girl with his dimples and his blue eyes and a giggle that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

And then there was him.

Your husband. The love of your life. The man you’d somehow become wildly, inconveniently feral for in the most domestic circumstances imaginable.

Like when he knelt beside the crib with that sleepy, adoring smile. Or when he’d hoisted Eden onto his hip with one arm and stirred mac and cheese with the other. Or when he stood at the sink washing baby bottles with those long, skilled fingers like he was doing the most sacred task in the world.

No man should look that good covered in banana puree and Goldfish crumbs. It should be illegal. And yet, there you were — staring at him like he was a centerfold in Hot Dads Monthly, wondering how the hell you were supposed to go another night without climbing him like a tree and thanking him for doing the dishes with his shirt half off.

Outside the room, you hear the familiar drag of tired footsteps padding down the hall — heavy, slower than usual, exhaustion stitched into every step. Luke’s making his way toward you like he’s been moving through molasses since bedtime.

The door creaks open a moment later.

He steps in, and even through the low lighting, you catch the way his eyes find yours right away. That sleepy, boyish smile blooms across his face, soft and crooked, as he closes the door behind him and leans his full weight against it like it’s holding him up.

“Hey, handsome,” you grin, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.

Luke rubs his eye with a knuckle, stifling a yawn. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs — voice thick and scratchy with sleep, but tender in the way it always got just for you. It was the voice he used when Eden was napping on his chest, when you whispered secrets in the kitchen after midnight, when he told you he loved you without needing to say the words.

He sighs as he pushes off the door, dragging a hand through those mess of blond curls and shuffling toward the bed like he’s been walking for miles.

“Sometimes I wish I had the stamina she does,” he says with a sleepy laugh. “Imagine the shows I could put on.”

You snort, swinging your legs off the side of the bed just long enough to peel the covers back before slipping underneath them again. “Your stamina is plenty impressive, babe,” you say casually, eyes twinkling. “If it was any more intense, we’d have, like, seven more toddlers wreaking havoc in the living room.”

Luke grins, standing at the edge of the bed as he grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it over his head in one motion.

Your mouth goes dry.

Because, of course, he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. He rarely does — a personal crime you’re convinced is 100% intentional. Your eyes sweep over the soft slope of his stomach, the faint lines of muscle, the sharp cut of his V, and that maddening trail of golden hair leading straight under his sweatpants like a neon “pull here” sign.

Your thighs clench. Reflex.

“I’d love that, y’know,” Luke says as he tosses the hoodie onto a nearby chair. “Seven little yous. Or mes. Or some chaotic mix of both.” And then he flops into bed beside you with a groan, face half-buried in your pillow, long limbs sprawled like a starfish.

You let out a soft giggle, crawling over to him on your hands and knees — slow and playful, your sleep shirt riding up just enough to make him stare. Luke watches you with that look again. The one that’s almost too much to bear. Like you hung the stars. Like he can’t believe you’re his, even now, even after everything. Reverence, pure and radiant, etched across every sleepy line of his face.

His cheek is smushed into the pillow, hair falling messily across his forehead, lashes fluttering as he follows your movements. You lean down and press a kiss to the tip of his nose — he scrunches it a little — then trail another one to his shoulder, and another to the dip of his back, lips brushing over soft, warm skin still humming with the heat of the day.

“Mm,” he hums, low and pleased, voice vibrating under your lips.

You giggle again and plop down beside him, reaching over to flick off your bedside lamp. The room melts into a soft hush, bathed in the faint blue glow from the hallway nightlight.

Luke shifts closer, immediately, instinctively, like he can’t bear not to touch you. His chest meets your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, and his breath is warm against your neck — slow and steady and his.

You settle into his embrace, threading your fingers through his and tugging his arm tighter around you. His hand splays across your stomach, palm warm and grounding. You sigh into the safety of it all.

“I love you,” you whisper, turning your head just enough to brush your lips against his. The kiss is feather-light. Sacred.

You feel him smile into it, soft and sleepy. “I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and full and certain.

You close your eyes again, letting your body go soft in Luke’s arms. The quiet hum of the fan and the low, steady static of the baby monitor blend into a kind of lullaby — one that dulls the ache in your thighs and slows your racing thoughts, just enough to pretend you’re actually going to fall asleep.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Luke’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt — slow, deliberate — the callused pads brushing against the sensitive skin of your waist. Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat stutters.

He keeps going. Tracing your stomach, skimming your ribs, until his hand stills just beneath your breast. A pause. A warning.

Then his thumb moves — just a soft, slow stroke — and your body arches into it before you can stop yourself.

“Luke,” you whisper, sharp and breathless, as he abandons all pretense of subtlety. His hand fully cups your breast, warm and familiar, and then he’s pinching — just enough to pull a quiet whimper from your lips, your hips twitching instinctively against his.

He grins against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of it. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful, “this whole trend of big shirts and tiny shorts around the house…”

You shiver as his teeth graze your skin.

“…is really fucking with my self-control

Your back arches slightly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to catch the moan threatening to escape. Slowly, you press back into Luke, feeling the growing hardness straining against your ass.

“Says you,” you whisper, breath hitching as his hand trails down from your chest, toying with the waistband of your sleep shorts. “Taking off your hoodie like a fucking slut.”

You feel his smile against your neck, smug and shameless. “God, I can’t believe you’re real,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hand slips under your shorts with no hesitation. His fingers tease just above the fabric of your panties, while his hips grind forward, pressing into you with aching need. “My wife. My fucking woman.”

His other hand sneaks back up beneath your shirt, finding your chest again, greedier this time. You gasp — only for it to die into a moan as his fingers rub slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit. It’s just enough friction to make you dizzy.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts softly, amusement laced through the heat in his voice. “Can’t wake Eden up, remember?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as he keeps going, every brush of his fingers a cruel kind of heaven. You bring your hand to your mouth, trying desperately to smother the breathless whimpers that spill out anyway.

But Luke’s grinning behind you now, nose brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so bad at being quiet, baby.”

And god, you are.

Your thighs are trembling, eyes squeezed shut as Luke keeps working you over, patient and relentless. Every touch feels amplified — sharpened by the risk of being caught, by the thrill of finally being touched like this again.

“Been dreamin’ about having you like this,” Luke breathes, grinding up against you, hard and desperate, like the only thing keeping him from losing it completely is the thin cotton barrier between you. “Dreamin’ about those pretty little moans… how wet you get when you have to be quiet.”

But then—he stops.

You freeze.

For a second, your heart stutters. Maybe he heard something — Eden fussing, a creak of the crib, the soft rustle of sheets. But before you can spiral further, his hand slips down, confident and cruel, sliding your panties aside and dragging one long, slow finger through your slick.

Your eyes roll back. A breathy whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Immediately, Luke clamps a hand over your mouth — warm and rough, wedding band cool against your cheek.

“Oh my god,” he groans into your ear, low and wrecked, as his fingers return to your clit, teasing slow, devastating circles. “You’re soaked. All this for me, baby?”

You nod frantically, muffled moans caught in his palm, the heat of his body burning into your back. He’s pressed up against you, rock hard and trembling with restraint, and the thought of him finally sliding inside sends a full-body shiver down your spine.

Then his fingers dip lower, just barely skimming your entrance — playing, circling, torturing. Not yet. Almost.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whimper, burying your face into the pillow as you try to grind back against him. Luke hisses into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, and your breath stutters hard.

He circles your clit again — barely there — then finally dips down, gathering your wetness before slipping two fingers inside. Your mouth opens in a gasp, but you bite your lip to keep the sound in.

“No, baby, that’s all you,” Luke murmurs against your skin, grinning as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you with slow, deliberate pressure. “When’s the last time you even wore a bra? I swear I’m turning into a full-blown pervert.”

You manage a breathless giggle. “Maybe that was— oh, fuck— the plan all along.”

He hums, low and dangerous. “Shhh, baby,” he laughs softly, licking the shell of your ear while keeping that maddening rhythm. “Let me have my way with you. But I can’t do that if you wake Eden up.”

Your face is nearly buried in the pillow now, thighs trembling with restraint. The wet sounds of Luke working you open are obscene, slick and needy — the kind of sounds that always seem to follow him wherever he touches you.

“Mm, keep doing that,” you groan into the pillow. “And you’ll have another kid to worry about not waking up.”

At that, Luke’s thumb begins to circle your clit again — slow and focused — and your entire body jerks in response. You fist the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, biting your lip to keep from moaning too loud.

“Just like that, baby,” Luke whispers, voice thick with praise. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Then his hand stills.

He slowly withdraws his fingers from your body, and you let out a desperate little whimper, lifting your head to glance back at him, confused and breathless.

“Calm down,” he murmurs, grinning as he tugs at the waistband of your shorts and underwear. “Just wanna get these out of the way. You can be patient for me, yeah, love?”

You lift your hips instinctively, just enough to help him slide the fabric down and off. He tosses them aside, leaving you in nothing but one of his old band tees — worn, oversized, and hitched high around your waist.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand wrapping around your thigh to coax your legs open again. “Look at you. Such a pretty mess.”

You shift slightly, pressing your ass back against the hard outline of his cock through the soft cotton of his pajama pants. His breath catches — barely audible — and then his fingers are inside you again, slow and deliberate.

You glance down, watching as his fingers slide in and out, slick and glistening. Your breath hitches. It’s obscene. It’s everything.

Your hand reaches back, finding his hair, curling your fingers into the thick mess of it and tugging gently at the roots.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, voice raw and soft as you turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his.

He doesn’t kiss you — not fully — just breathes against your mouth, forehead resting against yours, his entire body wrapped around you like a secret. The spooning position makes everything feel more intimate. More tender. More desperate.

Like if he could crawl inside you and stay there, he would.

“Missed you more,” Luke murmurs, lips trailing down the curve of your shoulder in slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Fuck, I’ve been so horny lately I got hard just watching you walk up the stairs.”

You let out a breathless laugh, grinding your hips back into him. He whines — an actual, desperate sound — and buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s the only way to survive you.

“Good to know I still have it,” you whisper, smug.

“Shut up,” he mumbles against your skin, and his fingers pick up speed, leaving you gasping. “You gotta keep quiet, my love. Don’t forget.”

His long fingers work you open effortlessly, the occasional swipe of his thumb over your clit sending jolts up your spine. You shiver when he moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through you, skin breaking out in goosebumps.

He’s slow. Intentional. Like he’s savoring this. Like there isn’t a ticking time bomb of a toddler down the hall.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” Luke breathes, his lips brushing your jaw. “Thinking about how my cock’s gonna feel, hmm?”

Your eyes flutter shut. You nod frantically, biting down on your bottom lip to keep the noise trapped in your throat.

Luke shifts behind you just enough to press his cock more firmly against your ass — hot, hard, and barely restrained beneath his pajama pants. The pressure alone makes your mouth water.

“Baby,” you gasp, fingers digging into his bicep. It flexes as he keeps fucking you with his hand, slow and relentless. “Please. Please, I need you.”

“Need me to what?” Luke asks, all false innocence, voice like sin. “Need me to fuck you stupid, baby?”

His fingers slide out of you, dragging your slick up through your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s teasing again — slow, measured, cruel in the way only Luke can be.

You jolt at the sensation, hips moving on instinct, grinding against his hand with raw, frantic need. The kind that’s been simmering under your skin for days.

“Baby,” you hiss, voice hoarse from the effort of keeping it down. “If you’re not inside me in the next five minutes, I’m divorcing you.”

Luke stills, then lets out a hushed laugh, biting your shoulder to muffle it. “You’re so fucking needy,” he chuckles, wicked and breathless. “Fine. Just because you beg pretty. And because if I tease you any longer, Eden’s definitely waking up.”

His hand slips from between your thighs, and he brings his fingers to your lips, glistening.

“Clean me off first,” he murmurs. “Be a good girl.”

You don’t hesitate. Your lips wrap around his fingers, tongue licking them clean, moaning around the taste of yourself. Luke groans softly behind you — that guttural, broken sound you know means he’s barely holding it together.

“Fuck. That’s so hot.”

His fingers slip from your mouth with an obscene pop that echoes through the quiet room. Behind you, Luke shifts just enough to shove his pajama pants down, freeing himself with a soft grunt.

You feel the heat of him immediately — his cock thick and flushed, grinding slowly against your ass, teasing you both with the drag of it.

His hand slides down your thigh, guiding your leg up and over his hip to open you wider for him. That same hand wraps around his cock, and he groans through gritted teeth as he strokes himself, slow and tight.

Your breathing quickens, chest rising and falling as the anticipation builds — and then you feel him. The head of his cock, hot and slick with precum, rubbing through your folds. You whimper at the contact, and Luke groans in response.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, burying his face in your shoulder and biting down gently to stifle himself.

He teases your entrance, circling it once, twice, before finally starting to press in — slow, unhurried, deliberate.

The stretch is divine — just enough to make you gasp, every nerve lighting up as he pushes deeper. You shift slightly, craning your neck just enough to see his face. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, bottom lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to lose it completely.

A soft moan slips from him. “Shit, baby… you’re so fucking tight,” he pants. “Can feel you sucking me in. Such a greedy girl for me.”

Luke sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, every push setting off a new wave of pleasure that shivers down your spine. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, grounding you. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin as he groans softly — almost like it’s too much. Almost like you’re too much.

When he finally bottoms out, it feels like coming home.

He stills, fully sheathed inside you, twitching each time your walls flutter around him. You’re soaked, throbbing, completely wrapped around him — and Luke can barely breathe.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “I missed being inside you. You’re so fucking wet and tight—I can feel everything.”

“I missed you,” you whisper back, cheek pressed to his. “Missed being stretched out like this. Missed us.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, holding you like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go. The stillness hums between you, thick with want — not rushed, not frantic, but aching. A moment suspended in the kind of intimacy that makes your chest burn and your thighs tremble.

You both just breathe for a second.

Wrapped around each other, finally giving in to the slow, simmering need that had been building for days.

Luke presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, barely more than a brush, before gently tugging your shirt up until it bunches just above your chest. His hand slips beneath, finding your breast again — warm and reverent, his palm cradling you like he needs the contact just to breathe.

Then he starts to move.

Slow, deep strokes that make your whole body shudder. You bite down on your wrist to muffle the moan that threatens to escape, the sound caught in your throat like a secret. Luke isn’t faring much better — soft, breathless whimpers spilling into your skin as he rocks into you, his hips pressing close with every push.

His teeth graze your pulse point, dragging gently. A moment later, his tongue follows, soothing the sting, leaving you trembling.

“You take me so well, love,” he whispers, voice thick and ruined, hips picking up their rhythm. The pleasure builds with each thrust, slow but devastating, until your eyes roll back and you’re forced to bite into the pillow just to stay quiet.

He groans into your neck, almost desperate. “So fucking good for me.”

Luke rolls his hips, settling into a pace that’s just slow enough to draw it out — to keep you aching — but steady enough that you can feel the tremble in his hands from how tightly he’s holding himself back.

“You have no idea what it does to me,” he whispers, voice low and cracked, each word punctuated by a deep, deliberate thrust. “Seeing you with that ring. Wearing my name. Raising our kid.”

“Full—full of you,” you whimper, gasping as he hits that perfect spot. His rhythm never falters, but you feel the way his grip tightens at your waist, like he might lose it at any second. “God, I missed being fucked like this.”

Luke lets go of your breast, shifting just enough to fuck into you harder, the bed starting to creak beneath the motion — soft, rhythmic, dangerous. You both freeze instantly, breath caught in your throat, bodies locked together as you listen with baited breath.

Silence.

No tiny footsteps. No sleepy cries. Just the quiet hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand.

“Luke,” you hiss, desperate, wiggling your hips back against him. “Please—fuck, please don’t stop. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

That does something to him.

Luke brings his fingers to your lips, pushing two into your mouth without warning. Your lips part automatically, sucking them in with a moan. Your back arches as he pulls them out just as quickly, trailing down your stomach before slipping between your legs.

He finds your clit easily, rubbing slow, steady circles in time with the deep roll of his hips.

“Just like that, baby,” he coos, voice gone sweet and filthy. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You nod frantically, lip caught between your teeth as your thighs twitch, the pleasure winding tighter with every passing second. His fingers stay lazy on your clit, teasing you through it, never giving too much — just enough to drive you insane.

“I love you so much,” Luke murmurs against your neck. “You look so fucking pretty stuffed full of my cock.”

Your hand reaches back blindly, tangling in Luke’s hair and yanking at the roots. He groans into your neck, hips stuttering before he picks up the pace again — faster now, more desperate — and so do his fingers.

That familiar coil in your belly starts to tighten, fast and sharp. You can feel him everywhere, every inch of him buried deep, every snap of his hips jolting through your spine. Your stomach flutters, your thighs twitch, your whole body buzzing like live wire.

“Bet no one would believe what a pretty little slut you are for me, hmm?” Luke growls, voice rough and wrecked, the edge bleeding in. “That you’re the most gorgeous fucking cockwhore — mine. Bet if I told you I was close, you’d beg me to stay in, wouldn’t you?”

“Please, baby,” you sob, the words falling out broken. “Wanna be dripping with you for days. Want you to come inside me, please, please—”

Luke’s hand flies up to cover your mouth, silencing your cries as his teeth sink into your neck, biting down just hard enough to sting. You gasp beneath his palm — the pain sharp, the kiss that follows it soft and soothing, a cruel little contradiction that makes you whimper into his skin.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he pants, fingers circling your clit with perfect pressure, filthy and reverent all at once. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock like the perfect little thing you are?”

You nod frantically beneath his hand, body trembling, seconds from unraveling. Stars begin to bloom at the edges of your vision, your thighs quivering as you squirm back against him, chasing every last bit of friction.

“Yeah, just like that, baby,” Luke grunts, voice thick and desperate. “Come for me — I’ve got you.”

With one final, devastating thrust, your body breaks. You bite down on your wrist, muffling the cry as the dam bursts open. Your back arches into him, muscles locking tight, legs shaking with the sheer intensity of your orgasm. The world narrows to heat, motion, and Luke — still buried inside you, still moving, still whispering in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he moans, breath ragged. “That feel good, baby? So good for me.”

Your body sags against him, boneless and buzzing, completely undone — and Luke doesn’t waste a second.

Without warning, he pulls out, and before you can even catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your stomach. A sharp gasp escapes you as your cheek hits the pillow, and then his hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades, holding you down just enough to make your breath hitch again.

A wave of heat pulses through you at the shift — that sudden, dizzying change from softness to raw possession. Your heart skips as the realization sinks in. You’re not done. He’s not done.

And God, that only makes you wetter. You bite down on your lip in anticipation.

“You gonna let me use you now?” Luke pants, hovering over you, his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head for balance. His voice is wrecked, low and hungry. You nod — small, breathless, already trembling — and that’s all he needs.

You feel the thick head of his cock drag through your soaked entrance before he sinks in with one hard, brutal thrust.

You arch beneath him, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it. Luke slaps his hand over your mouth again, groaning into your ear.

“Be quiet,” he tuts, voice tight with restraint. “Don’t need a fussy baby interrupting while I’m busy fucking my wife into the mattress.”

His hand drops from your mouth and curls around your throat again, warm and grounding — claiming. Then his hips pull back and slam into you, fast and unforgiving.

Each thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, sending shockwaves through your body as he finds that perfect spot over and over. You bury your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the sounds clawing up your throat.

Luke is panting, gasping, barely keeping it together. “I’m not gonna last,” he grits out, voice breaking. “This pussy’s too fucking perfect. Perfect — and mine.”

His words dissolve into growls, each one filthier than the last. His hand tightens around your throat just enough to make you dizzy — never enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you belong to. His thrusts get rougher, messier, his control slipping with every desperate snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, his forehead falling to your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. Please — let me fill you up, baby. Please.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you flex your leg back just enough to push him deeper, lock him in place.

Luke lets out a broken moan — almost a sob — as he comes, spilling into you with a sharp, shaking groan. A string of curses and your name fall from his lips like a prayer, wrecked and reverent. He exhales hard, thrusting once, twice more before collapsing onto his back beside you, totally spent.

You’re both breathless, the room quiet except for the sound of your hearts pounding. You turn your head just enough to look at him — and, of course, he’s already looking at you. That lazy, fucked-out grin is spread across his face, curls messy, lips kiss-swollen.

“I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs, still panting.

You roll your eyes, resting your cheek on your palm. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease, reaching over to brush a damp curl from his forehead. “You talk a lot for someone who has a mess to clean up.”

Luke’s eyebrows lift, amused, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nudges your thigh and gently rolls you onto your back. He hovers above you for a moment, then starts kissing his way down — slow, deliberate, worshipful. Every inch of exposed skin is met with his lips, his stubble, the heat of his breath.

When he reaches your thighs, he spreads them apart with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“You always look so fucking pretty when I’m dripping out of you,” he says, almost dreamily. His finger drags through the mess between your legs — a light, filthy stroke that makes you shiver — before he leans in and licks into you without another word.

His tongue is warm, slow, unhurried as he laps up every drop he left inside you. You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut, sinking into the bed as his mouth works — greedy but soft, careful with your overstimulated body.

He places one last kiss to your clit and your legs twitch instinctively. Luke chuckles, smug, and crawls back up your body, kissing along the way until his mouth finds yours.

The taste is unmistakable — both of you, hot and sweet and earthy on his tongue.

You sigh into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, hands roaming across his broad back. You never want him to move.

“I really fucking love you,” you murmur when he finally pulls away, settling beside you again.

Luke grins, flushed and glowing. “Yeah?”

Instead of answering, you crawl onto your knees, shooting him a sly grin. His cock rests against his stomach, still half-hard, glistening. You lean down and drag your tongue in one slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip.

Luke lets out a filthy little moan, head falling back onto the pillow as you take the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirls along the underside — that sweet spot just beneath the crown — and his legs twitch in response. You can taste yourself on him, and the mix makes your head spin.

“Christ,” he exhales, voice already wrecked. “You’re fucking insatiable—”

He’s cut off by the rustle of sheets and the unmistakable sound of a sniffle, soft and pitiful.

You both freeze.

A glance toward the monitor confirms it: Eden’s sitting up in bed, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest, face crumpled into the world’s saddest pout.

Luke groans. Not the sexy kind. The parental kind.

“Rain check?” you whisper, flashing him a sheepish smile as you reach for your discarded underwear and shorts.

He’s already sitting up, dragging his pants back on with the sort of defeated slouch that only comes from being cockblocked by the literal love of your lives.

“If we can squeeze it in before Eden turns eighteen,” he mutters, deadpan. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You weren’t supposed to be home tonight.

Picking up shifts at the diner, unfortunately, were unpredictable at times. The restaurant was either over-staffed or under, with no inbetween. So when your phone rang during the twenty minute drive to town, there was a fifty percent chance you’d get the don’t bother, it’s slow spiel from the manager.

After confirming twice – just to be sure, of course – that your presence wasn’t required tonight, you decide to swing by and grab a bite to eat before returning to the apartment. You fire off a quick text to your roommate, Luke, asking if he’d like anything. He’s a terrible, terrible cook. Can’t use an oven to save his life, poor thing. The two of you mainly survive off of your passable skills of recreating TikTok recipes Luke wants to try and Luke’s obsession with takeout.

When you don’t receive a response before placing the order, you decide to choose something for him anyway. The only thing Luke’s worse at than cooking is answering his phone. Half the time he’s left it somewhere with no knowledge of its whereabouts, and any other time he’s got Do Not Disturb on, so there’s really no point in contacting him at all. That’s a problem for his future girlfriend slash eventually wife, not you, his long-time friend and reluctantly, current roommate.

Living with Luke isn’t all bad. He’s got a beautiful voice. When he sings in the shower it’s like a personal concert, and although he leaves wet towels on the floor and finishes off the shampoo without telling you, he’s respectful. He doesn’t bring any girls home, so there’s no explicit noises wafting through the thin wall separating your bedrooms. And in return you do the same, keeping any activities strictly elsewhere.

It’s not like you’re having much luck in that department anyway.

Guys these days, at least the ones you’ve been meeting, don’t take too kindly to your best friend. The number of times you’ve heard oh, that’s him? you’re sure you’re just friends? is honestly ridiculous. God forbid you’re close with someone platonically these days.

And like, okay, yeah, you know Luke’s an attractive guy. With his stupid blonde hair he never styles but always falls perfectly, and his pretty, sparkly blue eyes, he’s honestly a main love interest in a romance novel for sure. But you’ve been there for Luke’s horrible acne and shuffle-dancing obsession, for his drunken karaoke nights that consist solely of the HSM3 soundtrack, you’ve seen him at his worst. 

But that’s the whole thing. He’s.. He’s like, the cutest guy on campus. The one who dates the cheerleaders or volleyball players or something equally cliche. He tells you about his failed sexcapades and shitty dates over popcorn and dollar store candy. You’re best friends, nothing more, nothing less.

Even if sometimes you wish that wasn’t the case.

Yeah, a girl with a fleeting crush on her guy best friend. A terrible cliche, really. But you know it won’t go anywhere, especially considering the fact that you’re one hundred percent not Luke’s type at all. If his hookup stories are anything to go by, you’re the moon and he’s out there looking for the sun. He likes submissive women. Luke’s not bossy but he wears the pants in the bedroom, as he says, and that’s so incredibly far from what you’re into it’s funny.

Stupid crush aside, you head back to the apartment, shaking the thoughts of Luke around in your head like a loose screw in a drawer. You’ll only be living with him for six more months, and when the lease expires on your apartment the two of you will go your separate ways. He’ll probably move in with Calum and Michael and you’ll figure something out. You can’t be stuck with him forever.

With your head full of fuzzy, Luke-centric thoughts and armed with a bag of delicious takeout from your favorite spot, the trek up to your second floor apartment seems to pass by in a blur. The fluorescent lights buzz and hum and flicker above you and eventually, within what seems like seconds, you’re fishing the apartment keys from your pocket to unlock the door.

Except nothing could have ever prepared you for what welcomes you on the other side.

The apartment is dark, save for the television illuminating the open living room in a soft glow. Your heart leaps into your throat after the door clicks shut, shoes squealing on the cheap flooring as you freeze in place, and somehow you manage not to drop your dinner. 

You can’t make out what’s unfolding on the television but you hear it, the noises and sounds of skin and pleasure, yet what catches your attention solely is your roommate. Bare skin flushed, lounging on the couch with his thighs splayed open, head tilted back with his plush, pink lips and the whiniest sounds spilling out of them. Hands roaming in places you’ve only imagined you’d ever see.

“I–” Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. Like lead, preventing you from making your presence truly known. It feels all types of wrong, witnessing Luke like this, while he’s clearly in the middle of something and hadn’t expected you to be home.

You’re torn. Should you chalk this up to an awkward moment? One you can laugh about later on, and never truly acknowledge the swarm of lustful butterflies stirring inside you? Or, do you just rip the moment apart and start packing your things?

Despite the low light and gentle sounds from the video Luke had put on the t.v., you can clearly hear the sharp, low breath he sucks in when his eyes flutter open. Glimmery, sapphire blue you’d liken to the ocean, now a dark navy that makes your skin prick with goosebumps. It was a look you’d only read about in stupid books, so desperate and hopeful and sinful all at once.

“You’re– you’re home,” He sounds hoarse, as if every moan he’d retched around the apartment reduced his voice to a mere rasp. Luke’s hands don’t halt their exploration, one wrapped loosely around himself while the other traces the inside of his left thigh delicately. “Got a little ahead of myself. M’sorry.”

What the fuck?

You’re incapable of speaking, mouth fallen open like a fish out of water because what?

“Luke, I..” Your words almost sound slurred, blending into the soft sounds in the apartment. You slowly set the takeout bag on the floor, feeling so dirty with the way your eyes refuse to leave Luke. He looks almost ethereal in the television light, like something out of a magazine. “What..”

“I was hoping– hnnnf– hoping you’d wanna watch,” The way Luke’s looking at you feels wrong. Wrong, because that’s how Luke looks when he’s on the prowl, when his sights are set on some girl at the bar. Never you, though, because you’re not his type. Nothing makes sense. “From what you’ve told me – shit – you like watching. Like being in control,”

Luke’s breaths stutter as his chest begins to rise and fall a bit quicker. “And– fuck, Y/N, you have no idea how long I’ve– been thinking about it. Fantasizing. Wishing you’d come home and find me like this. Telling me where to touch, when to– I– oh fuck.”

Luke’s clearly on the edge already, desperately clinging to anything to keep himself from going over the cliff. He squeezes the base of his cock with a low hiss. “Please,” He says. Almost a plea, with how whiny it is. “Please.” He repeats.

Something inside of you snaps, then, like a rubber band pulled and pulled and pulled so tightly, a flush taking over your cheeks and body, ears hot. Your feet move of their own accord, brain a frenzy of the most ridiculous thoughts, as you slowly step closer to the couch.

Despite stretching across the entire sofa, even with his legs bent and thighs open the way they are, Luke looks so small. The way his dark lashes flutter, his hair messily strewn across his forehead, lightly dampened with sweat. He looks beautiful. 

You want to ruin him.

“You’re so desperate for it,” You say, arms crossing over your chest, nerves fluttering and buzzing every bone in your body. Words come easy, ironically now, like they’re not coming from you at all. “You did all this,” You gesture to him with your chin, eyes narrowed. “Hoping I’d be into it?”

Luke’s cock kicks in his hand. “Yeah,” He says breathily, plush lower lip tucked between his teeth. “Even if you weren’t, I’d probably get off to you yelling at me for it.”

Good Lord, is Luke Hemmings even real?

“Slow down,” You scold softly. “You’re working yourself up too much. It won’t be worth it,” He sucks in a tiny whine, you watch as his throat bobs with the noise catching there. Luke’s hips shift, as if it pains him to slow but he complies. “What else have you fantasized about?”

Luke looks bashful, then, and tears his eyes away from yours. “No, look at me.” You tell him.

He listens so well. You consider complimenting him, telling him just that, but perhaps you’ll save that for later. After this, whatever the hell it is, is over.

“Just– um,” He shudders, working himself slowly, thumb running over the tip of his cock. “Fuck, like– thought about you riding me – my face, actually. God, I love your thighs.”

“You want me to ride your face?” You ask. 

“Yes.” He whines softly, hips jerking.

“Do you think you deserve that?” 

“No.”

“At least you’re self aware,” You snort, stomach twisting as color floods Luke’s face. So bashful and embarrassed, though he doesn’t stop touching for a second. Slow and tortuous. “What do you think you deserve?”

Luke squeaks out a rasped, “Nothing.”

You watch in awe as pre-cum pools at his tip, swiped away by his thumb, beautifully slick along the length of his cock. You can’t help but let your mind run wild with the worst scenarios imaginable. The positions you’d put him in – the noises you could draw from him. He’s simply putty in your hands and you haven’t even touched him. 

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” You hum, arms uncrossing. “You at least deserve to cum.”

Luke hisses thankfully at that.

“But I’m trying to figure out how.” You say. 

Luke tosses his head back with a low, strangled groan.

“Oh, I know. You poor thing,” You tilt your head, tone mocking, as if talking to a puppy. “Think you can be a good boy and make some room for me? Just sit up a bit.”

“Fuck. Yeah, ‘kay.” Luke nods quickly, so eager to please, letting go of his dick in favor of shuffling up, sitting halfway against the arm of the couch. 

With the length of his legs there isn’t much room but it’s enough. 

You’re slammed with a thought so sudden it makes your head throb. Holy shit, this is happening. The nerves have been dormant, though you’ve been well aware of them, resting below the surface of desire that swims in your veins. The one thing you deemed unattainable, dangling like a treat in front of you.

Willing and oh so pliant. 

“Don’t touch,” You tell him, his hand quivering on his abdomen. Fingers itching to get ahold of himself again, cock kicking against his stomach. You don’t bother kicking off your shoes or discarding any clothes – that’s all part of the scene, the power imbalance between yourself and Luke. With him exposed like this, with you covered up. It sends warmth pooling between your thighs. 

Your knees sink into the couch between his splayed thighs, guiding one down so that his foot rests flat on the floor, giving you more room. Luke’s hips shift at your simple touch, so featherlight, cool fingers on hot, flushed skin. “You’re not the only one who’s been fantasizing.” 

“Y/N,” He moans softly. God, it sounds so heavenly.

“It’s funny,” You continue, letting your eyes wander, but not touching. Keeping your hands from feeling him in every way you’ve been thinking about for so long. “You talk this big game, that you call the shots. With those big shoulders and big hands, oh I’m sure you could hold me down and do whatever you’d like. And yet, you’re desperate for me to tell you what to do. How funny is that?”

With every demeaning little quip from you, Luke’s cock kicks out another spurt of pre-cum. It dribbles onto his stomach, sticky and slick. And despite your desire to watch him squirm and beg and not give in, you find yourself wondering how he tastes. 

“Y/N,” He says again, a frenzied tilt to his gravelly voice. “Please, I’m begging. Anything, do anything.”

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” You hum. “I won’t make you do it, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m dying to get your cock in my mouth.”

Luke’s face screws up, as if he’s fighting the urge to cum right there. Stomach tensed, cock flushed red and oh so hard against his stomach. He’s so beautiful. 

Carefully, you take him into your hand. He’s velvety smooth and warm, veins tensing beneath your hold. Slick at the tip, so inviting. Something akin to a squeaky, broken moan escapes him. “Yeah? You’d like that?”

“Please,” He almost slurs. “Please, Y/N. Please.”

“So polite,” You shuffle closer, warm breath fanning over the tip. You lick tentatively, keeping your eyes on him to see how he reacts. He preens instantly, a muttered yes slipping from his open mouth. “Be a good boy for me. Don’t touch.”

It feels hot in the apartment, video playing on the television drowned out by Luke’s heavy breaths and the blood pounding in your ears. The moment his tip slips past your pretty, slick lips, Luke’s absolutely gone. He’s heavy and desperate on your tongue, pulsing from the sudden heat of it, only fueling you further. Slow movements, not to overwork yourself.

Your hand rests on the base of his cock, while the other plants firmly on his hip to keep him steady. He could overpower you at any point, no doubt, but you believe firmly that he won’t. He likes this too much. Your point is proven when you witness his face crumble, tongue hanging out of his mouth like a fucking dog, desperate. 

You hum around him, letting your throat relax, keeping a consistent pace. Letting him writhe, just barely, below you.

“Y/N,” He pleads brokenly. “I– I’m– I’m not gonna–”

You withdraw from his cock with an obscene, slick pop. “Hm? What’s that?”

“I’m not gonna last long,” He says between breaths. “I swear, I’m not usually like this, I–”

“But you’re so worked up, baby,” You tilt your head, pouting your lips. “It’s alright if you’re a little quick on the trigger tonight. We’ll work on that.”

Instead of working him with your mouth, you gather a decent amount of spit and let it dribble down the length of his cock. Your hand moves slowly, so torturous, feeling every inch of him. “You know what? I’m feeling generous. If you beg me enough, I’ll let you taste me. How about that? You think you can do that?”

“Christ,” Luke mutters, his voice rising in pitch. “Fuck, Y/N. God,” His eyelashes flutter as you work him leisurely. “Please. Fuck, wanna taste you so bad. I’ll be so good, I fuckin– I swear. Won’t– won’t touch. Please, I’d– I’d be so good. So good. Please.”

He’s so debauched. Destroyed, sweat-slicked and persistent. 

“Hm, I don’t know if you want it enough.” You hum.

“I do, I swear,” Luke sounds so broken, like he’s seconds away from cracking entirely. Unable to catch his breath properly, wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes. Exactly what you’re looking for. “Y/N,” Your name sounds like a prayer falling from his mouth. “Please. Let me taste you.”

“That’s better.”

You withdraw from him entirely, and Luke can’t seem to decide if he’s upset about the lack of contact with his dick or excited about the idea of what’s to come. Regardless, you make a slow show of it, unbuttoning your pants and dragging them slowly down your legs. A lustful, yearning shade of navy blue swims in his eyes, as they zero in, hazily, on your thighs.

Your underwear join your pants soon after. “Alright baby, go ahead and lay down for me.”

Resisting the urge to coo in praise when he does exactly as you say, you drink him in one more time before doing as promised. Luke looks thoroughly wrecked, put through the wringer and he hasn’t been given the chance to cum yet. You wonder if he’ll get off to tasting you, but that thought doesn’t last long because you know he will. 

He’s flushed in shades of red, patterned across his pale skin, not easily seen from far away. The blooms look like flowers of all shapes and sizes, and your fingertips graze over his chest and neck. Luke tilts his head up to give access, silent permission, before letting his eyes fall shut when your hand tangles in his sweat-slicked hair. “You want me?” You ask.

“Yes,” Poor boy sounds so used, pent up and ready to burst at any second. Like a gust of wind could float through the apartment and he’d spill all over himself. “God, yes.”

The couch isn’t the biggest but you’re able to get comfortable, settling your thighs on either side of Luke’s head. The heat radiating from his body is delicious, warming you thoroughly. You tug carefully on his hair to draw his eyes open. They flicker to your heat first, then meet yours.

“Don’t touch,” You remind him again, but gentler this time. You can tell his mind is hazy, thoughts likely jumbled and not making a lick of sense. He nods, blinking slowly, tempted to find your heat again. “You’ll get the okay when I’m done, alright?”

Luke nods again. You swear there’s a small dribble of drool in the corner of his mouth.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” You adjust yourself accordingly and Luke doesn’t waste a fraction of a second before his tongue swipes across your cunt, warm and wet, humming in satisfaction at the taste that greets him. You can hear him shuffling beneath you, restraining himself from touching his neglected cock, wishing to clamp his hands around your thighs.

He mouths at you like a man starved, lacking finesse but showing off his greediness, his willingness to please. You can’t judge him too harshly, for you’ve scrambled his brain a good bit. You have time to teach him properly. If he’s interested, that is.

A moan claws its way up your throat with every flick of his tongue, nips of his teeth, his desire to prove he’s worthy enough to have his head between your thighs right now. It’s adorable, you think. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, slowing his frantic movements to guide him, allowing your hips to rock ever so slightly, the friction delicious and eliciting moan after moan from your chest. Perhaps you’re in the same boat as Luke, so pent up so quickly, for your stomach begins to coil with a sharp, electric heat and you know it won’t be long now.

Your toes curl, hips finding their own way, chasing every movement of Luke’s tongue and teeth and lips and everything they’re after. His eyes are wet, mouth hot, and the rubber band finally snaps.

It isn’t intentional but your grip on Luke’s hair is almost lethal, hips forcing downward, the friction of his nose nudging your clit the final nail in the coffin. You let go, allowing your moans and whines and shuddering sighs to fill the apartment alongside the slick sound of Luke’s overeager mouth, receiving your release with pleasure-ridden hums.

“You can touch,” Your brain feels like static, warped and numb. But there’s no movement beneath you, no yearning to get himself off. Instead, Luke’s arms clasp around your thighs and draw you impossibly closer like a madman.

Then, a broken, muffled moan against your heat, vibrating and thrumming beneath your skin. Fingers sinking into your thighs, locking you in place. The overstimulation of Luke’s tongue against you is overwhelming, but you don’t mind it. Not for the sake of what you’re considering the best night of your life.

You lift your hips, pulling at Luke’s hair to detach his greedy mouth, his lips slick with your release, eyes distant and watery and a softer blue.

A glance behind you proves he had gotten off to tasting you. Pearly white ropes decorate his heaving chest and stomach. 

You return your gaze back to him. His eyes have fluttered shut. “You did so good,” You tell him, words almost blurring together from the post-orgasm haze. Your knees cry in agony from the awkward position on the couch, and you relent, climbing off of him and collapsing into a heap of sweaty limbs on the floor. “So good, Luke.”

It feels like an eternity passes, your hearing slowly recuperating and fixating on the video still playing on the television at a low volume. You find the remote and switch it off.

The apartment is blanketed in darkness, then, aside from the small stream of moonlight poking through the curtain behind the couch. Enough to make out Luke, still breathing heavily, laying flat. 

“You okay?” You ask quietly.

“I think I’m in love with you.” Luke says into the shadows.

“Luke–” He isn’t thinking clearly. He’s riding the aftershocks of his orgasm, is all. 

“Don’t worry about it now, Y/N,” He says. “We have so much shit to talk about but I’d rather do it tomorrow.”

Your anxiety rears its ugly head. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then?” You don’t get the chance to even attempt to stand before Luke’s hand clasps around your wrist.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He asks, no heat behind his words. 

“To my room, to sleep?”

“Hell no,” Luke scoffs, a light laugh following. “You’re staying in my room tonight, Y/N. And after we talk, I’m getting my mouth on you again.”

You don’t have the energy to quip back at him, to make a joke. Instead, you nod, leaving your abandoned clothes in favor of following Luke to his room. The thought of your dinner still wrapped up on the floor doesn't even cross your mind.