fangirl shit

The last time your tongue flattens against Sabrina, her thighs clamp around your head. Expensive nails rake through your hair. Her fingers curl inward like a fist, deliciously pulling on your hair at the root. They scratch against your scalp in a way that makes you feel dizzy—nevermind the quick lack of oxygen.

She's soft and pliant against you. As the aftershocks of her high settle, her hips wither against your face. Everything about her is magical in this moment. The way she's got her hands in your hair like she needed an anchor, those desperate, blown out eyes, and the way your name is dripping from her lips.

You could stay here for the rest of your life. Held by her thighs. They're pollowy against your cheeks like down feathers. The scent of vanilla envelopes you, filling your lungs and infiltrating your mind like a decadent poison.

Lashes flutter against her cheeks as she gazes down at you. Still just a thin ring of blue, her eyes still relay the high she'd crested at. Her breathing was leveling out. There weren't any more needy gasps for air. She's breathing slower; normally.

The warmth of her cocoon gets exhausted all too quickly. She relents her grip. Her legs sag, turned to jelly against your soft sheets. A tired smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. She's glowing— from sweat or whatever otherworldly power she held beneath her skin. It made her look beautiful.

You weren't sure how long you'd had a grasp on her thighs. When you eased your hands away, the ghosts of crescent moons are etched into her thighs. They'd be gone by the morning. Like they were never there; You were never there.

Something pulls at your chest.

It breaks you from the moment. Enough to pull away, wiping her essence from your mouth and chin. You let your gaze take her in like it's the last time. Hell, for all you know, it just might be.

Straightening, you lean back on your heels. Let your eyes wander. She's completely naked beneath you, exposed to your loving stare. It was impossible to not be able to look at her without emotion. Her curls are fanned out on your pillow like a halo. She's moving her arm to tuck it beneath her head.

Sabrina levels you with her own stare. Slowly, her pupils shrink. It seems that reality has begun to settle in.

"Fuck, that was good." She sounds breathless, voice light and airy.

A polite smile creeps onto your expression.

Sabrina moves her head from side to side, sighing. Her eyes close for a moment. Like she's savoring this— being in your bed, surrounded by your scent, and the soft cotton that welcomes you each night.

You'd give up a lot to keep her here.

When she rolls over, her leg gets lifted over yours. She sits up and grabs her shirt. The clothing gets pulled over her head, doing nothing to smooth out the frizz in her hair. Her palms dragging down against the curls helps.

This was the worst part.

She'd gather her clothes, cover up, offer you a smile, then be out the door. Leaving nothing but the memory of her behind. Until, of course, she gets lonely. Or James messes up again. Then she'd be back at your door. Looking up at you with those gentle eyes. The same ones that always end with her in your bed, clothes strewn about the floor.

Exactly like tonight.

You couldn't be mad at her. Not logically, anyway. Because you'd let her come into your bed every time. Let her use your shower, wear your shirt, and eat the toaster strudels in your freezer. You'd let her in. Even knowing that she'd leave again.

A small part of you hoped she'd stay. That must have been why you always let her in—or perhaps you're a mascochist.

You feel the way your shoulders slump. They deflate as the familiar melencholoy settles in your chest. It unfurls down to your abdomen and spreads through the rest of your limbs. It makes your entire self feel smaller. Suddenly, the usual lump in your throat feels less choking.

You can breathe.

And speak.

"You know, I was thinking…" Your voice comes out thinner than you'd like it. Clearing your throat helps a little bit. "Why don't you just spend the night? It's already almost midnight."

Nonchalance wasn't a specialty of yours.

Emotions get worn on your sleeve. But if Sabrina could hear it fraying your words, she chose not to take it into account.

She turns her head over her shoulder, gaze finding yours. A grin is on her mouth. It's one of those passive ones you'd give to a coworker if they said a one-liner while passing by.

"You know I can't." Her curls move as she does. They're fluid—like they have a mind of their own. They follow as she leans down, grabbing at the panties you'd personally tossed across the floor. "James should be calmed down by now."

His name was equivalent to nails on a chalk board.

Maybe you flinched. Maybe you didn't. Either way, she hadn't seen it.

When she stands, she turns to gaze down at you. An appreciative sparkle in her eyes. They travel down your figure, spending a second too long on your exposed breasts. Then traveling back up to meet your eyes.

"What if he's not?"

Something has made you bolder.

Perhaps it's the hickey on your collarbone; the one she'd spent a good amount of time on making. She'd mouthed the words 'mine' into your skin afterwards. This was a natural reaction to something as intimate as that.

Sabrina pauses. She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth. Thinks for a moment. Then clicks her tongue. "Then he's not. It's not like I haven't delt with his dumb ass before."

She shrugs her shoulders like it's not a big deal.

But it really is.

Glancing down at your lap, you notice how your fingers are fiddling with each other. The revelation makes you feel self conscious. You start picking at the cotton sheets, feeling the fabric between your thumb and pointer finger.

Lifting your head, you try to sound stronger than you felt. "You shouldn't have to, Sab." Your brows furrow as you try to get your point across. "His petulance shouldn't be on you. Would you just… fuck, stay?"

For a second it feels like she's going to agree.

Her posture opens. Leans her weight on one foot, knee popping out towards you. The look in her eyes softens, brows furrowing as she looks on at you. You notice how the flush in her cheeks had dissipated.

Your name falls from her lips.

The way she says it—pleading. Like you've approached her with evidence she couldn't refute and the only thing left to do was to plead for innocence. Your chest tightens. It feels like the air had been punched out of your lungs.

"He's my boyfriend. I can't just.."

"What?" You ask, finally standing up from the bed yourself. Your hand juts out to grab the oversized shirt that had landed on your bedside table.

Pulling it over your head, you untuck your hair from the collar.

"Can't sleep at someone's house?" Your voice takes on a different tone—it frays the edges of your words. The ache in your abdomen has seeped into your words. "That's the least of your worries right now."

Sabrina bites her lip. Her shoulders square, back straightening like steel. Her eyes narrow into slants. The words spewing from your lips were mean before they fell, but now they just sounded downright cruel.

Regret flashes in your eyes.

This wasn't going the way you'd wanted it to. The only thing you wanted to come from this was for her to stay. Even just for a night. You selfishly wanted to keep her to yourself for a few more hours; try to will away the reality that was slapping you in the face.

Sabrina has a boyfriend. One that she won't leave. Because he's safe.

The world has come a long way— yet, there was still so much stigma in the industry.

Her head was probably filled with how she'd lose her fotting in the pop world. Or internalized homophobia had a vice grip on her. She'd never opened up to you enough for it to be clear.

Without another second wasted, she leans down to grab at her jeans. The denim gets pulled up her legs at lightening speed. Blinking made you miss her buttoning them up and yanking on the zipper.

"You have no idea about my worries." Her tone is venomous, seething from her mouth. "This isn't easy for me— and you know that!"

Your throat works around a swallow.

"It's not easy, period." You state firmly, trying not to feel hurt. "You think I want to sneak around? Because I don't. I hate just being something you run to when he messes up, only for you to leave because he's safe!"

"Safe?" Her voice raises a fraction.

"Safe!" You huff, hand finding purchase on your hips. "This is a risk. We're a risk. He's—He's just a safety net. You don't love him—"

"Who are you to say that?"

She cuts you off valiantly. Her eyes burn with hot anger, staring daggers into your soul. She's started to mimic your stance. But the straightness of her posture was no longer uncomfortable. It was because she was stone. Like she was waiting for a blow that would allow her to strike.

You splutter. The tongue in your mouth suddenly feels like a fat slug. And the thoughts in your mind have turned into static.

She stares at you hard.

"I'm the woman you've been sleeping with!" Heat runs up your neck, your own emotions making you feel hot. "If you loved him—James, right? Really loved this guy... you wouldn't be here."

Sabrina doesn't like the logic you've handed her.

She turns and stomps across the room, grabbing her shoes and jacket.

"Oh, c'mon, Sab." Watching her gather her things feels like a thousand tiny cuts. "I'm right! You know it."

"Then I wont fucking be here." She spits, pulling on her shoes and storming from the room.

Her speed picks up when she realizes you're following her. She turns sharply at the end of the hall, descending the stairs towards the front door. Her anger radiates off her. It's like an aura; one you can feel from six feet behind her.

"Are you serious?" You call after her, pulling at the fabric of your shirt.

"Very. This is what you mean, right?" She turns to look at you, not even blinking when you almost trip over your own feet. "If I'm here then I don't love him? Then I won't come back. Because I do love him. He's—he's…"

"Does he love you?" Your voice rings out like shattering glass.

It makes her stop.

"Of course he does." She says quietly.

"He wouldn't hurt you if he did." You raise your chin, begging yourself to stay strong. "You can go if you want—I can't stop you. But, shit, Sab, think about it. If he loved you he wouldn't be doing the shit he does."

Her hand grasps onto the doorknob. Her body stills like she's mulling it over.

"You know I'm right." You whisper.

Sabrina opens the door, turning to look at you over her shoulder. "Maybe you are."

Then just like, she steps from the threshold into the cool night. The front door closes when she leaves.

Gone.

join the taglist here! request something here or in my inbox!

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

Your skin freshly moisturized, every curve and line of your body sunken into the mattress. Your hair splayed out against the very pillow he was resting his head on right now. 

His hand brushes against the corner of the nightstand, then reaches for the book you’ve left there. He never reads these days anymore because he’s busy saving the city or stuck at work. In between your sheets, he is finally able to rest—he could close his eyes if he wanted to. 

But he doesn’t.

The door to the bathroom is slightly ajar, allowing him glimpses of your nightly routine. Clark watches as you wash your face, following the gentle movements of your fingers across your skin and the way you apply your products with such delicateness. It had been your gentle hands that led him right into your orbit. Like a ship steering towards a lighthouse, lost in the storm of his demanding life, into the comfort of your presence. 

He knows he’s staring at you like a lost puppy. There’s proof in every picture taken of the two of you: his eyes glued to you, body turned inwards, one hand on your waist. 

Clark almost feels a little embarrassed about being so clingy. He wonders if it’s too much, too soon. After all, this is still new and fresh. Delicate.

It’s the first time he’s ever slept over at your place, and at the beginning, he felt out of place. Too big to sit on your sofa, too large to move through your kitchen.  Your home mirrored you. Every corner had your essence embedded. The colors of the walls, the rugs, and the books you displayed throughout your house—even the way you stacked your shoes. He had even held his breath when he first walked in so that he wouldn’t accidentally corrupt everything you owned with his awkward height and large hands.

Until you told him to breathe. To slow down. To stop worrying.  Your smile glowing bright as you whispered that you wanted him here. 

As the evening had progressed, every bit of tension had fallen straight from him, and the strain in his body had turned into sweet relaxation. Comfort. 

Now, clad in his pajama pants and smelling like your toothpaste, he gazes at the only thing worth looking at: you. 

Part of him wishes you’d hurry up and climb into bed right next to him so that he could wrap you in his arms and press his nose into your hair. But he enjoyed seeing you like this, so relaxed, and so… you.

The sheets rustle as he adjusts his position in the bed to get an even better look at you, and you perk up. When your eyes meet his, an involuntary smile grows on his face. 

“You okay?” you call out to him. You still have a little bit of moisturizer on the tip of your nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great,” he replies. His fingers twitch, wanting to pull you into a hug and never let go. 

“Getting restless, Kent?” you teased softly, and turned off the bathroom light. 

He grinned sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head. 

“Just… I miss you.”

Your eyes soften, and there’s that look on your face that Clark loves. It’s filled with softness, and that one word neither one of you has said yet. 

As you walk over to him, holding out one hand, he reaches for it and pulls you onto him. With a soft ‘oof’, you land on top of him, and he grins. 

“Right where I wanted you,” he mumbles.

Your soft giggle makes him smile like an idiot. 

“Got something there,” he murmurs, and wipes over the patch of lotion on your face. He feels your skin warm underneath his fingers. 

“Thanks,” you whisper. 

He cups your face between his large palms and presses a kiss against your forehead. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he replies quietly. 

The two of you stay like this for a while, bodies pressed together, your head resting on his chest. He begins to let his hands dance over your back, up and down your spine, until you feel like you’re going to doze off. 

“Want me to get down?” you mutter, barely even lifting your head, “I don’t wanna squash you in your sleep.”

His deep laughter rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your own. 

“Not gonna happen,” he states.

As you begin to drift off after a barely audible ‘goodnight’ from your lips, Clark stays awake. It’s not restlessness that keeps him from following you into the dreamlands—it’s the fact that reality is so much better than any dream his subconscious might be able to muster. 

The light inside the room is dim, but he glances at you, nonetheless. And his mind starts to run. 

Valentine’s days in fancy restaurants, Christmas trees decorated, birthdays spent together. 

A sparkly diamond in the center of a ring, him on one knee, practically begging you to make him the happiest man alive instead of just the strongest.

Wedding bands, church bells, and rice in your hair. 

Children who are the perfect mix of you and him. Actually, maybe just mostly you. 

Grey hairs, smile lines, and crow’s feet that match. 

Clark holds you a little tighter and makes a promise to you, but also to himself: he won’t ever let go. 

He twitches as your fingers ghost over the prominent veins, the thick one, slightly off-center, catching your attention. 

“Jeez,” he gasps, tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip. 

You’ve never seen him like this before—the glimmer in his eyes, the tremble in his chin—it settles right between your thighs as you watch him.

You’re a little wary. Clark’s cock matches the rest of him, all big and thick and almost too much, and you’ve never done this before. You’re sat between his legs, one of your palms resting on his upper thigh while the other curiously explores. It’s rare that you do most of the work, and even now, Clark is apprehensive about letting you lift your fingers too much. 

His hand finds yours, warm and largely engulfing, as he keeps you from driving him too crazy. 

“Let me—,” he mutters, then adds, “Please?”

You nod, the butterflies in your belly fluttering around at high speed. 

Clark takes your hand and slowly strokes himself to full mast, his eyes falling closed and lips open, quick breaths dispelling in seconds. You watch with fascination, feeling the velvety skin under your fingers, then the sticky precum that begins to coat your palm. He’s hard as a rock and still soft at the same time—it’s a strange but mesmerizing feeling. 

“Gosh,” he mumbles, then stops abruptly, “Okay, okay. That’s—wow—I mean, you’re…”

His lack for words calms your nerves a bit. He’s as worked up about this as you are, with a mix of pride and eagerness reflecting in his expression. 

“Your hands are really soft,” he settles on, a bit of bashfulness flickering across his face. 

Your chuckle echoes through the space and makes him break out into a matching smile until he grows more serious again. 

“You know you don’t have to do this,” he states, concern knitting his eyebrows together. He takes your hand away from his cock and presses a kiss to your knuckles, dismissing his own sticky liquid completely. His eyes stay glued to your own, the divot between his brows deepening. He can’t help but worry at all times, even when you’re burning from the inside out to finally get your mouth on him. 

“I want to,” you insist, “Please, Clark, I wanna- I wanna learn. I want to make you feel good.”

Clark’s eyes close involuntarily, the corners of his lips twitching. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, but that’s all he manages to say. 

Keeping your eyes on him, you learn forward until your mouth touches the tip of his cock. He groans instantly, his hand flying up to your cheek as if he’s not sure whether to stop you or pull you closer. It settles there, right on top of your jawbone, his grip tight but gentle. 

You’re shy at first, a few wet kisses peppered nervously, but you gain courage as Clark’s barely contained mewls fill your ears. He’s quiet at first, just soft moans and breathless whispers that you barely make out next to the blood coursing through your ears, until he grows a little louder. A deep growl builds in his chest as you part your lips and let your tongue dart out through his slit. A pulse of precum beads at his tip and is quickly slurped up by you. The salty flavor blooms across your taste buds, heady and deeply masculine, just like the rest of Clark.

Your bravery reaches its peak once you fully open your mouth and allow the head of his cock to pop in, your eyes growing wide. Once he’s inside, he feels even bigger, heavy against your tongue and teeth. You’re not scared because you don’t trust him, but because you’re worried you might hurt him—scrape him with your teeth, or do something he doesn’t like. 

But that’s clearly not the case, not according to the gasps and words that flow from Clark.

“Oh gosh, darling—that’s- that’s… wow, oh—” 

His hips thrust unintentionally, inching him a little deeper into your mouth, but you take him gladly.

“Are you- are you okay?” he asks instantly, already tempted to pull out, but you only hollow your cheeks, sucking him in further. 

It’s a lot—it’s so much. You’re not sure where Clark ends and where you begin, but god, it feels so right. He’s everywhere in your mouth, his taste, his scent, the weight of his cock. Drops of pleasure mix with your saliva and roll down your throat, making you wish he’d fill you even more. 

Clark’s free hand takes your own and wraps it around the base of his cock. Then, he leans back but keeps his other hand on your jaw, massaging and stroking gently. You squeeze what you can’t fit in your mouth, and there’ still a lot of inches to be covered, but Clark makes you take your time. 

He allows you to get used to the intrusion, then whispers, “Take a breath, baby, yeah? Through your nose.”

His voice trembles more and more, breaking at the end of the sentence with pleasure as you let your tongue swirl around him.  You inhale based on his instructions, finding a rhythm, then work him deeper in your mouth. 

“That’s… that’s it.” Clark whimpers. He whimpers right as you swallow, bobbing your head closer to the neatly trimmed hair on his tummy. A lot of distance remains to be bridged, but you’re getting there. 

Your hand remains resting on Clark’s thigh—you feel the muscles tense and twitch below your palm, his skin slickening as he continues to hold back. The reminder of the strength that slumbers beneath his layers of restraint sends the heat pooling in your lower tummy right to your core. Creamy webs of arousal coat the gusset of your panties, but your focus lingers on Clark as he pulses in your mouth. 

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, “Is it alright if I… if I…” 

The words he won’t speak aren’t lost on you. You feel every minimal, subconscious thrust that originates from his hips, the way he’s aching for more—and so are you. 

You nod as best as you can and work your way further down his cock, swallowing and sucking, letting your tongue dance around him as he slides to the back of your throat. His tip meets some resistance, and for a second, you can’t tell where up and down is, your vision swimming from lack of oxygen, until Clark grounds you. 

His fingers caress your cheek, his eyes, still darkened with pleasure, meet yours. 

“Breathe, baby. Please,” he reminds you, and you do. 

Sweat trickles down your temples, drenching the fine hairs framing your face, but he’s right where you want him, and euphoria crashes through you. Clark’s cock is as deep down your throat as you can manage, a sense of pride filling you, making you even more determined. 

“Yeah, baby… good girl—” The praise shoots lightning bolts into every corner of your body, and you let yourself fall into the warmth and safety of Clark’s hands. His fingers thread through your hair, the gentle pressure on your scalp keeping you afloat.

Clark won’t close his eyes now, not when he’s so close. His eyes are half-lidded, but his pupils are trained on you, most of the blue iris swallowed by his arousal. 

He pulls out of your throat for a bit, then slides himself right back, making both of you moan. The vibrations of your pleasured sounds travel up through the length of his cock, and once again, you feel him twitch. He’s not holding himself back anymore. 

Clark’s hand on your head guides you—it doesn’t force. He thrusts into your throat, and you swallow around him gladly, watching with amazement as his mouth parts further and further, his lower lip trembling. His hips have found their own rhythm, entranced by the tightness of your warm, wet mouth. The stifled gasps that build in his chest come out broken and desperate, a whine here, a whimper there, but even at the edge of his release, he mumbles sweet nothings to you. 

“So good, baby.” “That’s my girl.” “Feels so great, oh my.” “Oh gosh, oh- oh- darlin’—“

He taps your cheek gently despite the raging fire of pleasure in him as a warning before the salty tang of his cum coats your tongue and throat as he empties himself in your mouth. You’re swallowing for what feels like hours, trying to catch every drop. Clark cums like he fucks—sweet, and gentle, and still so overpowering. 

Once the last drop of his iridescent arousal goes down your throat, he eases out of your mouth with such tenderness that your heart aches with an outpour of adoration for the panting man opposite you. 

A goofy, satisfied smile sits at the center of his face as he meets your eyes. 

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, reaching out to wipe away the last bit of his remnants from the corner of your mouth.  “Are you okay?” he adds just as quickly. 

Oh, you’re more than okay.  You nod instantly.

“That was… that was incredible,” you rasp, the wear on your throat audible. 

He can’t help the sheepish smirk that steals its way onto his face. “You’re incredible, sweetheart.”

He is too much of a gentleman to trouble your ‘ladylike’ ears (his words, not yours) with anything other than “What the hey?”, “Jeez Louise” and maybe the occasional “frigging”.

Not even during sex, balls deep in your cunt, the filthy sounds of skin meeting skin sounding through the room, will he say a word that would have sent his ma into tears. You’ll get a deep grunt, sultry whispers and even a few growls but he’ll keep it PG (as much as pillow talk can be).

So, you come up with a plan. It’s a little mean, even a little punishing for yourself. You withhold sex, not yet clarifying why – you don’t want to reveal your strategy. And it works like a fucking charm.

The first few days, he is so understanding, so Clark about it. When you whisper, “not tonight, baby”, he presses a kiss to your cheek and nods. “Okay, sweetheart,” he replies easily and spoons you until you fall asleep, despite the faint throbbing between your legs, caused by how much you want him. 

By day four, he starts getting a little antsy. Especially the lack of skin he gets to see from you – even in non-sexual situations (you change into your pajamas in the bathroom) concerns him as this has never happened before. No part of him wishes to pressure you, that’s the last thing he would ever do. But he worries, and he misses you. 

So when you hit the seven-day mark of your celibacy, you practically feel like a virgin again. Not to sound crass, but you and Clark usually go at it multiple times a day. From soft, cuddly morning sex to a quickie during lunch, then an end of day shower that always becomes more – well, actually, let’s be crass: you usually fuck like rabbits.

And Clark is itching to get his hands on you. It’s a slow Friday, you both got off work a little early, had a nice afternoon together where you got groceries for the weekend and after dinner, you are curled up on the couch together, watching a movie to wind down. 

Your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you, a few candles flickering, it’s everything you could ever want and more. One of your hands rests on his thigh, at first only comforting and grounding. Then you start swiping your thumb across the material of his sweats while you keep your eyes on the TV. 

Clark shifts a little, not away from you but enough to readjust both your postures. Your hand slips a few inches higher. Now, your finger circles the inner side of his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. 

You feel his gaze on you which is why you stare at the screen playing in front of you, some terrible romcom that you hated the first time you watched it but right now you were practically glued to the TV.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. You feel him take a deep breath as if to steady himself but you can feel the tension in his muscles. Then you move a tiny bit. Your knee bumps against his, your hand travels further up – still appearing innocent enough to seem normal but for a guy who hadn’t gotten his usual fill, it flips a switch in Clark’s brain.

It starts small. His cheeks dust in the most adorable pink but then you stretch out your leg and your sweats ride up just a few inches. The sliver of skin exposed between your sock and the hem of your pant leg plus the teasing touches on his thigh are enough for all the blood to rush from his face to his lower region. 

You’re pretty sure you won at life because your boyfriend just got a hard on from seeing your ankle. 

Once again, he coughs and you wonder whether he is trying to distract himself or get your attention. He achieves neither. 

Instead, you just keep ‘watching’ that awful movie, the plot passing by without you absorbing anything as you focus on the heat growing just a hand width from your fingers. And then you brush up against his hardening length.

“Fuc- fudge.” That certainly sounded like the start of something else.  You do it again and he twitches – or at least, part of him does.

“Baby,” he breathes out, “What… what are you doing?”

“Hmm?”

“Your hand,” he explains and you turn to face him.

He sees the small smirk on lips and breathes a little funny. “You’re doin’ that on purpose?”

You spare him a lie and just grin. “You mean that?” You ask and brush up against the tent in his sweatpants one more time. He inhales like he would like to get down on his knees and start begging. Part of you wants to see that. But you already have him right where you want him. 

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, almost a little chastising.

Clark is one of the fastest men alive but he is so caught up in the haze that you’re slowly creating with your touch alone that he doesn’t quite register the way you move until you’re seated upon his lap.

He gazes up into your face like you just hung the moon while his hands find their place on your hips.

“What are you doin’ to me, honey?” He whispers, a faint shimmer in his eyes.

“I’m just testing a theory,” you reply, then you kiss him. His tongue slides into your mouth without question, tasting you from the inside. He flexes his hands at your waist, tightening his grip a little bit more than usual while you scoot closer to him. Your chest presses against his as you eliminate any distance between your bodies, your fingers raking through his curls. 

He groans into your mouth as your cunt grinds down against his hardened length, his hands digging into your sides involuntarily. Delectable heat courses through your veins as your clothed clit ruts over his thickness again and again. His breathing picks up and you smile into the kiss before you pull away a little. A wet, shiny string of saliva keeps you connected until it breaks. 

Then you roll your hips again, this time keeping your eyes on him to take in every delicious, pleasure induced tremor on his face. Your own heat begins to pool in your tummy, every move of your hips drenching the gusset of your panties a little more. 

His eyes gloss over like a trance captures him while he moves his hand to play with the waistband of your pants.

“Uh-uh,” you mumble and swat his hand away.

“Wha- what?” He stammers but you grind down on him again and all thoughts leave his pretty little head.  On any normal day, Clark could have already flipped the situation, caging you beneath him to take what he wants, needs. Not only would he never do this but he was also receiving the first bit of relief in a week after having been spoiled for months (- so were you) which is why he had pretty much gone boneless under the tight hold of your thighs bracketing his. The yellow sun of our Earth might as well have gone on vacation with how weak he had grown under your touches.

Your release builds fast and you’d be embarrassed if Clark wasn’t the one quite literally whimpering below you, muscles quivering every time you pushed your hips to meet his. 

“Baby, I- you- oh gosh,” he whines, “Lemme… please- clothes…”

Somewhere in your lust clouded brain you find the strength to keep denying him, tutting softly while grinding down harder against him as you chase the friction he kept providing. It grew more difficult to hold off on your own release once he started meeting your hips, shallow upwards thrust jerking your body over the messy, wet patch on his lap that you were leaving behind.

“Sweetheart, I- oh- fu…”

He ruts up into you, dropping his head back against the back cushions of the sofa while his chest heaves. It gives you the last bit you needed, a stifled gasp tumbling from your lips as the coil in your lower tummy snaps. Liquid heat bubbles throughout your core, your juices practically gushing onto his thigh, drenching the material below.

“I- my g- fuck,” Clark hisses and his entire body tenses as his hips jerk upwards one last time before the wet spot you had left behind grows even damper with him spilling into his pants.

A victorious chuckle falls from you as you slump across his heaving chest. 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You had never seen Clark go so red, a few hasty apologies stumbling from his lips before he suddenly shuts up and his eyebrows scrunch up.

“You did that on purpose!”

His tongue flicks over you, just once. Testing. Soft.

Your hips buck, and he moans. A low, needy sound that vibrates through your core.

“Oh—oh my god, Clark—”

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, already dipping back in. “You taste so good—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

His mouth devours you.

What starts as slow licks—delicate, reverent—quickly turns into something else. He’s starving. His hands grip your thighs tight, but not tight enough to bruise, and his tongue moves with more purpose now, more heat. He groans into you again and again, the vibrations sparking through your stomach, down your spine.

“You’re so good,” he pants, mouth wet and glistening. “So perfect. I’ve never tasted anything like you.”

He’s apologizing through it. “Sorry, baby—I’m trying—I’m trying to go slow but you taste so—fuck—so sweet—I can’t—”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You grind against his mouth because the pressure is too good. You’re trembling, thighs shaking, gasping.

And then—you fall apart. Right there. Your first orgasm on his tongue, and he moans like he’s the one cumming.

He pulls back slowly, eyes wild, lips wet, chest heaving. “I didn’t mean to do it like that,” he says, crawling up your body. “I was supposed to take my time.”

“You did,” you whisper. “That was perfect.”

His forehead rests against yours. His hips press against your thigh—and you feel him. Thick. Hot. Rock hard. Still straining in his jeans.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

You nod.

He undresses so slowly, so tenderly. His body is carved like a god, but it’s his eyes you can’t stop looking at. The way they burn for you.

When he settles between your thighs, he reaches down, stroking himself a few times before lining up. You brace for pressure, but—

Oh.

He’s slow. So. Slow.

You gasp, fingers curling into the sheets. The stretch is deep. Full. But so, so careful.

He watches your face the whole time.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, eyes watering. “It’s so much. But—I love it. Don’t stop.”

His breath shudders. His arms tremble slightly, like he’s holding back with everything he has.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he groans. “So warm. So perfect. I can’t—fuck, I can’t believe this is real.”

He rocks into you gently. Slow thrusts, sweet and shallow, his hand on your cheek, his lips kissing away every whimper.

But something’s building. In him.

He tries to keep it slow, he does—but your moans, the way your nails claw down his back, the way your hips meet him halfway—it’s breaking him.

“Please,” he begs, forehead pressed against yours. “Please, baby, I—I can’t hold back much longer. You feel so—god, you feel like heaven—”

He whimpers.

Yes. Whimpers.

His pace quickens. Still careful, but faster now, deeper. He holds your hips tight, trying to keep control. But it’s slipping. Every moan that leaves your mouth makes him lose a little more of it.

“I want to make you feel good,” he pants. “You do feel good. You feel like you were made for me. I can’t—please let me give it to you.”

You grab his face, breathless. “Then take me. All of me.”

And that’s it.

He snaps.

His hips slam into you, and you cry out—but it’s bliss. Pure, delicious bliss. He’s pounding now, feral, lips crushed to your throat, groaning into your skin.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “All mine. You hear me? No one else gets this. No one else can.”

You’re gasping his name, body quaking around him, and he thrusts harder, faster, each stroke sending you higher until—

You break again. Shatter. Crying out his name, clutching him as you cum for the second time. And when you do—he loses it.

He presses as deep as he can go, burying himself with a loud, desperate grunt, shaking as he cums inside you. His body trembles over yours, chest heaving, arms trembling, lips pressed to your cheek.

And then—it’s quiet.

Just the sound of your breathing. His heartbeat. Your fingers softly stroking his back.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Kisses your temple. Brushes your hair off your face with shaking hands.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You smile, blissed out, sore, full.

“I’ve never been better.”

He grins—wide, boyish, Clark Kent again. “I was gentle, right?”

You nod, laughing softly. “You were perfect.”

-

Later, when Clark shows up holding a grocery bag, rain-damp and smiling like he didn’t just waltz into the middle of your psychological unraveling, you can barely look at him.

The newsroom door swings open with a quiet hiss, wind curling at the threshold. He steps through it like something out of a slow-motion montage. Glasses fogged at the edges, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, coat shoulders darkened by rain. He’s flushed from the walk, a faint red climbing his cheeks, and he’s got that same boyish, bashful look he always wears when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.

He’s holding a grocery bag like it’s an offering.

You sit very still behind your desk, fingers stilling over your keyboard as he approaches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still here,” he says, voice warm and slightly breathless, like he jogged the last block. “But I figured… just in case.”

He reaches into the bag, rustling plastic, and pulls out a bottle of your favorite drink. The obscure seasonal one you can never find. The one the gas station down the street practically only stocks one of since you can rarely get your hands on it.

“They were almost out,” he says, smiling as he hands it to you. “Got the last one.”

(What you don’t know is that he flew to several different gas stations just to find you that one drink.)

His fingers brush yours when you take it. Just the barest contact. Skin against skin, warm and calloused and impossibly gentle. Like even now, even after however many late nights and coffee runs and shared glances across the bullpen, he’s still afraid he might hold you too hard and scare you off.

And that shouldn’t do anything to you. It’s just Clark. Sweet, considerate, hopelessly dorky Clark.

But your brain, traitorous and hungry, flashes to the way Jimmy said it. Gifted. The way she apparently sobbed at trivia night. The way Clark’s mouth looked just a little pinker than usual, lips parted as he caught his breath.

You don’t meet his eyes. Your grip on the bottle tightens like it might anchor you back to sanity.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong in your own throat. Too soft. Too high. Like someone caught in the middle of a daydream they really weren’t supposed to be having. “That’s… really nice of you.”

He smiles wider. “You always look for it when we do snack runs. Figured I’d do the legwork.”

You nod and think you might pass out at the thought of giving him some leg work.

You don’t hear what Lois says as she stands to pack up, taking her snacks from Clark. You don’t hear Jimmy teasing something under his breath. Your ears are filled with static and Clark’s presence. His warmth, his scent (something clean, like rain and cedar and laundry detergent), the faint scrape of his nails against the paper bag as he adjusts it in his arms.

“I’m gonna…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom.”

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your palms flat to the cool porcelain of the sink and lean in hard. You don’t look up yet. Not when your chest is still heaving like you ran a mile and your thighs are clenched tight in a desperate, involuntary ache.

You turn the faucet on and thrust your hands beneath the water, cold and sharp as it rushes over your wrists. It bites your skin, a jolt to the nerves, but it does something. Not enough to make you sane again, but enough to stop your knees from giving out.

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

You’re flushed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy with thoughts that have nothing to do with press conferences or deadlines or articles still sitting in your drafts folder.

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

You are not going to let a dumb rumor derail your professionalism. You are not going to picture his mouth anywhere near your thighs. You are not going to think about how big his hands are or how good he is with them or how they’d look spreading you open or how his ex apparently still cries when she thinks about the way he—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are a grown woman. You are a professional journalist. You have deadlines and standards and no time for spiraling horniness over your best friend’s mouth.

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

You open your eyes and stare yourself down in the mirror.

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

-

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

You sip your coffee to avoid elaborating. It’s cold. Empty. You’ve just been pretending to drink it for three minutes. You can feel Lois’s stare over the rim of your mug like a sniper scope.

You try to play it cool, but cool is a word you no longer understand. Not when Clark shows up each morning with damp curls and soft smiles and low “mornin’, sweetheart” murmurs that hit you like a fucking tranquilizer dart to the spine. Not when he hums while stirring sugar into his coffee or pushes his sleeves up to the elbow to carry a box of papers and you catch yourself staring at the veins in his forearms like a woman unhinged.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. If anything, he’s being his usual Clark self! So sweet and soft-spoken, relentlessly considerate. And maybe that’s the problem. You’re not used to your best friend occupying space in your head like this. Not used to the way your thoughts stutter every time he bites into something juicy. A peach, a plum, the fucking cherry from Lois’s yogurt cup. You’re not used to the way your thighs ache when he accidentally sucks a bit of pen ink off his finger and you catch the briefest glimpse of tongue, pink and wet and God-fearing.

You try to be normal but you overcompensate. Hard. You bring him drinks. Compliment his shirts. Tease him for being a square like you always do, except this time, when you say, “God, you’re such a Boy Scout,” it comes out breathless and weird and he looks at you sideways like he heard something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’re careful. Okay. You try to be careful. But it only takes a few days for your brain to short-circuit permanently.

At one point, you and Clark are drafting headlines side by side, shoulders brushing, low banter, his voice soft in your ear, and when he leans in behind you to whisper a suggestion, your whole body shivers. Visibly. Pathetically. Like a haunted Victorian maiden.

He pauses, his voice warm at your nape as he whispers, “You cold?”

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

He doesn’t press. He never does. He’s too polite. Too good. Too Clark.

The mirror is once again your enemy. Cold water on the wrists doesn’t help this time. Nothing does.

You try to last a few more days. You try not to think about it. You fail every hour. Every time he smiles at you. Every time he tugs his glasses down a little to rub at his brow or frowns in concentration or licks the salt off a pretzel. You are haunted. You are in hell. You are wet at work and it is his fault.

That night, you fold. You press your face into your pillow and slip your hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts and imagine. His voice. His mouth. His hands gripping your thighs, firm and reverent. Whispering things into your skin. I got you, baby. You just let go for me. Want to be good for you. And when you cum—fast, hard, embarrassingly desperate—you feel the shame roll in like thunderclouds.

Clark is your friend. Your coworker. He looks out for you when you’re sick and once helped your grandma reset her water heater because he just knows how to do stuff like that.

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

But then your brain does what it always does when it can’t stop obsessing. It reframes. It rationalizes. It weaponizes curiosity.

You are, after all, a journalist.

You chase leads. You vet your sources. You fact-check until your eyes bleed. You are trained to notice patterns and contradictions, to sniff out truth from noise, to dig through dirt and disinformation and find the core of something. And what you have now? What you’ve been given?

Is a lead. A whispered rumor. A salacious, staggering, potentially life-altering claim.

Clark Kent. Clark, your walking golden retriever of a coworker, the man who once blushed because you said he looked “nice” in navy blue, is apparently a legend with his mouth. A God-tier, Olympic-caliber, “no one else compares” type of lover.

You’ve heard it now. Can’t unhear it. Can’t unknow it.

You’ve run the mental diagnostics. Tried to make the data match the subject. Tried to rewatch the internal slideshow of Clark in his natural habitats: pressing his glasses up his nose, saying “golly,” covering your coffee tab with a sheepish shrug like it’s a felony.

None of it aligns. None of it should align. And yet…You’ve seen his hands. Long fingers. Gentle touch. Steady grip. You’ve seen his lips. Full. Soft. Focused. You’ve heard that voice, when it dips low and careful, when it wraps around your name like it’s something holy.

And maybe, maybe, the puzzle pieces do fit. Not in the way you’d expect. Not in any way you’re prepared for. And that’s when it hits you like the crash of a wave you didn’t see coming: the sheer, staggering need to know. Not want. Not wish. Need.

It’s practically professional at this point.

You sit at your desk in the ghost-quiet newsroom, half-eaten takeout beside you and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, and your brain starts composing headlines like it’s on deadline.

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

“Clark Kent and the Case of the Devastating Cunnilingus.”

You rub at your temples. You’ve lost it. You’re gone. Broken. The Pulitzer’s never coming now. God, at this rate you might never come either. Not without thinking about Clark Kent’s mouth.

But still, you lean back in your chair, heart thudding against your ribs like a warning bell, and let the thought settle. There’s only one way to know for sure. No secondhand testimony. No assumptions.

You need evidence. A primary source. First-person observation.

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

The phrase echoes in your skull like a siren song: Clark Kent eats pussy like a champ. And somewhere in the deepest, most depraved corner of your mind, a little voice. your inner editor, probably, says, Well… if you don’t report this story, someone else might.

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

You whisper it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like a final descent into madness, God help me.

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

You are going to investigate his mouth and you are going to write the hell out of this story.

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

-

You start small.

A skirt hem an inch shorter than usual. Nothing scandalous, just enough to make you feel aware of the breeze against the backs of your knees. A touch of lipstick, warmer than your usual shade. The kind that makes your lips look just a little bit bitten.

You start brushing your fingers against him in passing, accidental, then… less accidental. A casual hand on his forearm when you pass him a printout. The press of your fingers at his wrist when you reach for the same notepad. A palm flat between his shoulder blades as you squeeze by behind him, your body lingering just a second too long before you move on.

You stretch at your desk, arms overhead, spine arching. Completely overexaggerated, very theatrical. You sigh dramatically. He glances up and you pretend not to notice.

You lean over his desk during edits, purposefully slow, aware of how your blouse dips, how the fabric gapes just a little at the neckline when you angle your shoulders forward. You feel his eyes. See them flicker, just for a moment to your breasts, and then dart back to his screen.

It’s subtle at first. Barely a flutter in the newsroom’s carefully balanced ecosystem, but it’s deliberate. Calculated. A controlled experiment in desire.

You lace conversations with carefully planted landmines. A well-timed, “I just think communication is everything, you know? Especially when it comes to giving, not just receiving. It’s important when writing, too, duh, Kent.”

A “good partners are the ones who really listen. Just like good interviewers.”

A “sometimes, it’s not about how fast you go. It’s about how thorough you are. In an investigation, what else would I be talking about?”

All dropped like casual observations. All while sipping from your coffee cup like you haven’t just flung a match into dry brush.

Clark always blinks. Always takes just a moment longer than necessary to respond. He hums, or nods, or tilts his head like he’s considering it. Like he knows you’re playing a game and hasn’t quite decided whether or not he wants to play it too.

Clark plays dumb. At first.

He says things like “Gee, you think so?” when you compliment him in front of Lois. Grins when you call him charming, like he’s never heard the word and is still trying it on for size. He shifts in his chair when you lean close, laughs under his breath when you call him a goody two-shoes, and taps his pen against his knee like he’s working something out.

But then he starts doing things back. He starts calling you sweetheart again, but slower now. Smoother. He says it when no one else is around. Says it like it’s a question, like he’s waiting to see what it does to you.

He starts brushing his hand along your lower back when he passes you in the hallway. Not every time. But when he does, it’s always just enough for you to notice and ache.

And one day, after a long stretch of shared silence, you’re chewing on your pen cap, brow furrowed over copy edits and legs crossed tight in your chair, and he leans over your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck.

“Careful with that,” he murmurs, voice low, soft as felt. “Dangerous habit.”

You freeze. The pen slips from your teeth. His voice curls around the back of your neck like smoke.

You turn your head, look up, and he’s smiling. Soft. Knowing. The kind of smile you’ve seen him use exactly once before when a source lied straight to his face and he already had the receipts.

Your stomach flips.

Because he knows. He knows. And what’s worse? He’s letting you think you still have the upper hand. He has to be. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You spiral. Quietly. Elegantly. Desperately. You start watching him even more closely. The way his mouth curls around vowels. The way his tongue darts out when he’s thinking. The way he drinks from his water bottle, tilting his head back, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. You stare at his hands when he types. When he peels an orange. When he passes you a napkin with one corner folded like a triangle for no discernible reason.

You start dreaming about him.

Not always dirty. Sometimes it’s just him. Holding your hand. Brushing your hair behind your ear. Whispering your name in the dark.

But other nights it’s his mouth. Hot and firm and everywhere. Between your legs. On your stomach. Lapping into the soft place where your thigh meets your hip and telling you things like you taste so good, sweetheart, and don’t you dare run from me now.

You wake sweating and shaking, your sheets twisted and damp.

You think about calling in sick. But then you think about Clark, warm and smiling in the elevator, holding your favorite coffee, saying “morning” like it’s a secret, and you go in anyway.

You’re in too deep. You’re too far gone. And the thing that’s unsettling you the most is that you’re starting to like it.

-

You keep pushing.

A weekend happy hour turns into one too many drinks, one too many shared plates, one too many half-flirtatious “cheers” that clink too close to comfort. You’re buzzing, warm and slow in the limbs, your body syrupy with good whiskey and bad decisions, slouched into a booth with Lois and Jimmy while the bar spins softly around you.

Clark had been invited but he’d been sent on a last-minute assignment and couldn’t make it. You’d pretended not to be disappointed. You’d definitely pretended not to imagine what it would’ve felt like to slide into the booth beside him, legs pressed together, your thigh warm against his in that tiny, accidental way that would’ve driven you insane.

Instead, you’re nursing your third drink and laughing too loud at something Jimmy said about a printer jam when your phone buzzes in your hand. A text from him. Clark, asking if everything went smoothly with the event write-up.

You glance at the screen and smile.

You mean to text Lois. You really, truly mean to text Lois.

Your fingers are slow. Sloppy. Buzzed and traitorous as they move across your screen. The keyboard slides a little and autocorrect isn’t on your side and… your drunken hands are no longer attached to your fucking brain. They’re attached to your traitorous cunt.

Clark Kent texted me. The Oral God. It’s the glasses. I know it is.

You hit send.

Your brain doesn’t process what’s happened at first. It takes a second, two, maybe three, for the fog of whiskey to clear just enough to read the blue bubble again.

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

You freeze. Horrified. Paralyzed. You stare down at your phone like it’s just grown fangs. Your entire body flushes with heat. Scalp prickling, chest clenching, stomach plummeting like a trapdoor just opened beneath you.

“No,” you whisper. Out loud. “No no no no no.”

Jimmy’s talking. Lois is laughing. The world carries on like you haven’t just detonated a bomb in your own lap.

You watch the message sit there. Taunting. Bright and unedited and unmistakable. And then the fucking typing dots appear. Three little dots. Bouncing. Mocking.

You press a hand to your mouth like that might somehow physically keep the scream in. You are going to pass out. You are going to combust. You are going to become legendary newsroom lore.

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

You want to melt into the floor. Crawl under the table. Launch yourself into the sun. Anything would be better than sitting here red-faced and holding your phone like a live grenade.

You try to fix it. You fire off a string of panic-texts that only make it worse

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

You punctuate the shame spiral with not one but two cry-laugh emojis. Two. A war crime. Something you’ve never done in a professional setting. You should be disbarred from journalism on principle.

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

You stare at it. A single winky face. So casual. So simple. So loaded. You don’t know if you want to scream or faint or cry into your mozzarella sticks.

He doesn’t follow up. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t drag you. But he also doesn’t let you off the hook.

You toss your phone face-down onto the booth bench and press your hands to your eyes. You are never drinking again. You are never texting again.

And most importantly? You are never showing your face at the Daily Planet again.

-

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

Not crudely, he’s still Clark, still gentle, still maddeningly polite in that Kansas-boy kind of way, but there’s a new edge to it. A weight behind the way he says your name. A flicker in his eyes when you lean a little too close. He lets your touches linger now and doesn’t shy away. Doesn’t flush and stammer and change the subject. No, now when your hand brushes his arm or rests against the small of his back in passing, he holds still. Leans into it. He lets it happen long enough to feel it.

There’s something else, too.

A change in his voice when you talk about relationships, especially when you let your sentences trail, when you say things like “I just think… being understood is more important than anything. In a relationship, I mean. Someone who listens, someone who pays attention to details. Someone who…”

You don’t have to finish the thought because when you look up at him, his gaze is locked on your mouth. Focused. Intent. Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your lips, like he’s picturing them parted. Open. Responding.

It rattles you. But worst than that? It excites you.

The tension stretches between you like something alive. Something volatile. You poke at it with your words, and he starts poking back.

And then, one afternoon, it breaks a little more.

You catch him in the hallway, fresh off a phone call, tie loosened, hand raking through his hair in quiet frustration, and something in you tips. Maybe it’s the way he exhales. Maybe it’s the way his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he cradles his phone in one hand. Maybe it’s the residual heat of that winky-face text still echoing in your bones.

You press your palm to his chest, flat. It’s curious but it’s more than that… it’s deliberate. Not playful anymore.

The cotton of his dress shirt is warm beneath your hand. You can feel the slow, steady thump of his heart under your fingers, so solid and unbothered. Like he’s entirely in control. Like you’re the one who needs a reality check.

“Why do you always disappear during breaking news, Clark?” you ask. Your voice is light, but there’s something behind it. Something quiet. Something investigative.

He freezes, but not in panic. Not in fear. No, it’s calculation. For a second, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise. Awareness. Sharp. Focused. Like a wire pulled taut.

His brow lifts slightly, mouth quirking at the corner. “You asking as a friend…” His voice dips. Just a touch. “Or a reporter?”

You tilt your head. You’re still touching him. Your palm is still flat to his chest, your fingers curled slightly against the fabric. He smells like clean soap and newsroom paper, like rain and static and something inherently Clark. Familiar. Steady.

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

He chuckles, but it’s quieter than usual. Rougher. The sound curls low in your stomach. “Thought you were investigating the mouth thing, Bernstein.” He smirks a bit, leaning closer to your personal space, “Or Woodward. Whichever one was better at getting to the bottom of things.”

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

“So you do know about that,” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Hard not to,” he replies. “After the wrong text thread.”

The silence between you thickens. You swear he’s looking at your lips again. Or maybe that’s your imagination. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s—“It was for science. Or, investigative journalism?” you blurt, cutting off your mental reverie.

His grin doesn’t falter. “I’m sure it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tease or press. But as you start to walk away, your pulse still thrumming in your ears, you feel his heavy gaze slowly land on your back.

And when you glance back over your shoulder you catch him looking. Boldly, openly. His eyes flick down your body, then lift to meet yours. No apology. No embarrassment.

Just interest.

Intention.

It’s subtle, but it undoes you. Because Clark Kent knows.

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

-

Then comes the charity gala.

It’s a haze of champagne flutes and low lighting, all glittering gowns and polished marble floors. The kind of evening where you’re supposed to make nice with board members and whisper the right things to the right people and maybe snag a quote for Monday’s column. You’d worn something new, sleek and dark and fitted, maybe a little too bold for a work event, but tonight feels… different. The air is charged, and Clark’s in a black suit that fits too well and smiles too softly every time someone compliments your dress.

You lose him for most of the night. You’re working the room, laughing at half-interesting jokes, trying not to check the door every time someone walks in.

You don’t remember how it happens. Who reached first. Who asked.

One moment you’re sipping the last of your champagne near the edge of the dance floor, your heels aching and your body buzzing from a flirtation that’s been running on fumes for weeks and the next, there he is.

Clark Kent. In his tux. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. A crooked smile on his mouth as he holds out a hand.

“You look like you need rescuing,” he says. His voice is warm. Steady.

“Wow, a real superhero,” you tease and take his hand before your brain can catch up to your body.

The music is soft. Something old-fashioned and slow. Strings and piano and a rhythm that tugs you gently into his space. His hand slides to your waist, broad and warm through the fabric of your dress, and your palm finds his shoulder as he pulls you in, easy and unhurried, like you’ve danced together a hundred times before.

He hums along under his breath. Not words, just the melody. Low and rich and dangerously close to your skin.

You’re close enough to smell him. Something like cedar and soap and quiet rain. Something that sinks into your bones and stays.

With every sway, your chest brushes his. Barely there. Barely touching. But it makes your breath hitch all the same. His thumb traces a slow, absent pattern over your hip, lazy, circular, grounding, and it should be innocent. It should be.

But it’s not.

Your skin is on fire. Your lungs are tight. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, blooming low in your stomach, dizzying and slow.

“Careful,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. Your lips barely move. “You keep holding me like this, people are gonna talk.”

Clark’s hand shifts slightly at your waist, holding you closer, firmer. Still gentlemanly. Still polite. But there’s a message in the way his fingers press through the fabric. A message you’re desperately trying not to file under Exhibit A: Intent to Destroy Me Gently.

“Let ’em,” he says, smiling like it’s harmless, dimple popping cutely. Like you’re not melting from the inside out. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. People might already be talking.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how your knees are already halfway to gone. “Just doing my job.”

“That so?”

“I’m a journalist, Kent.” You tighten your grip on his shoulder, lean in like it’s casual. It’s not. “It’s my duty to investigate rumors.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“Mm-hm.” Your voice drops, low and pointed. “I’m looking into a particularly… compelling story, as you know.”

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

A flicker of something darker shines in his eyes. He leans in, mouth brushing just behind your ear now, and you can feel him smile.

“Well, then,” his voice is velvet. “On the record… I’m a very good listener.”

Your heart skips. You keep your voice steady, but barely. “And off the record?”

His breath hits your skin. “Off the record…” His grip tightens ever so slightly. “You’d never doubt it again.”

Your knees buckle. It’s involuntary. Embarrassing. Heat rushes to your face, down your spine, straight between your legs, and he knows. He catches you instantly without faltering, without blinking, like he was waiting for it.

You’re clinging to his suit jacket like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

You manage, somehow, to breathe out, “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, lips still too close to yours. “Off the record,” he murmurs again, “I can say whatever I want, Ms Journalist.”

And then the song ends.

He releases you slowly, deliberately, like he’s rewinding time. Like it never happened. Like he didn’t just crack open your ribcage and whisper into your soul.

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

And you stand there, dazed, vibrating, ruined, clutching your recorder of a brain and praying it got it all down.

-

Later that night, you find yourself nursing your drink at the edge of the ballroom, your body still humming from the dance and doing your absolute best not to replay every second of it on loop like some starry-eyed teenager with a crush.

It’s not working.

“Okay.” Lois slides up next to you, wine glass in hand, smirk firmly in place. “You’re gonna let him take you to dinner at least, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Jimmy appears on your other side like a devil on your shoulder, expression matching Lois’s far too well. “She means Clark,” he says, popping a grape from the cheese table. “Mild-mannered reporter. Looks like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. Just slow-danced you into a different dimension.”

“I-,” you start, then stop, heat crawling up your neck. “It was just a dance.”

Lois raises her brows. “Sure. And I’m just a Pulitzer finalist.”

“She was glowing,” Jimmy says, eyes wide like he’s narrating a true crime reenactment. “I’ve seen less sexual tension in French film noir.”

“Her knees buckled,” Lois adds helpfully. “I saw it happen.”

You groan, bury your face in your hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“Wrong,” Jimmy says brightly. “We’re your friends.”

“And friends don’t let friends ignore when their soulmate’s ready to risk it all in front of a nonprofit board of directors.”

Before you can respond, snark, deflection, a halfhearted plea to please never say “soulmate” again, Clark reappears.

His cheeks are flushed. His curls are damp at the temples. His bowtie is slightly askew. And there, thank God, is the version of Clark you recognize: the one who looks like he’s never felt fully comfortable in formalwear, who gets bashful under group attention, who still straightens his glasses like a nervous tic.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head as he approaches. “What’d I miss?”

Lois practically pounces. “Nothing major. Just Jimmy and I dissecting the devastating sexual chemistry between you and our dear friend here.”

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

Jimmy claps him on the back. “Relax, Kent. We’re just saying, if this journalism thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a solid backup career as a ballroom heartthrob.”

Clark’s face turns scarlet. He fiddles with his watch. Shrugs. “I-I was just trying not to step on her feet.”

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

Because this is the Clark you know. The one who gets flustered when you compliment his writing. The one who nervously adjusts his tie at press events. The one who talks to dogs on the street like they’re people and never lets you carry your own coffee if your hands are full.

This is your best friend.

But tonight, on that dance floor… that wasn’t just your best friend. That was someone else too. Someone confident. Grounded. Intentional. A man who pulled you into his arms and whispered things that still have your thighs clenching hours later. A man who knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted.

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

And not just in a he’s hot and sweet and might be secretly incredible at oral way. Though, yes. That is a factor. But it’s more than that.

It’s everything.

It’s the way he dances. The way he listens. The way he catches you before you fall, even if he’s the one who made your knees go soft in the first place.

You want to know all the pieces of him. Not just the sweet ones. Not just the blushing, too-big-suit-jacket-wearing-wearing ones. You want to know what else he’s been hiding. What else he’s capable of. You want to know the man behind the glasses and the one behind the whisper.

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

Clark smiles at you then, small, warm, a little nervous, and your heart actually stumbles.

You smile back.

But god help you, you might be in love with your best friend.

-

The night after the gala, you don’t go home right away.

Instead, you and Clark end up where you always seem to find yourselves when everything else quiets down. Up high, away from the newsroom chaos and the noise of the city below. The rooftop of the Planet is half-rusted and windswept, the skyline cut clean against the dark. You’re both coming down from a half-botched stakeout. No source. No leads. Just cold fingers and coffee gone stale in your thermos.

The wind tugs at your coat, slipping under the hem to bite at your legs. You burrow into it a little tighter, eyes on the streetlights far below.

Beside you, Clark stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, coat unzipped like the chill doesn’t touch him. You wonder if he feels it at all. Probably not. His cheeks are pink from the air, hair tousled from the wind, but he looks relaxed. Calm. Like he could stand there all night.

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

You glance sideways at him. “You’re holding out on me.”

He turns his head, brow furrowed, lips twitching. “About what?”

You lean back against the ledge, arms crossed. The city stretches behind you like a live wire. “Your legend,” you say simply. “Oral God Kent. I’ve yet to confirm any findings.”

For a second, his expression doesn’t change. But then his mouth curls like he’s surprised you’re still playing the game and maybe a little impressed that you haven’t flinched yet.

He looks away again, back toward the skyline. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”

You pretend to take notes. Flip your little pocket notebook open dramatically and click your pen. “Clark Kent: evasive source. Potential deflection tactic,” you glance up at him, all mock-seriousness, “flirtation.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. It’s low and short and curls in your stomach like smoke.

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

That silences him. For a minute, all you can hear is the wind rushing over the rooftop, rustling the collar of your coat, tugging at the edges of the moment like it wants to unravel it completely.

Then he looks at you. His eyes are soft. Glasses catching the reflection of a passing plane. Lips parted like he wants to say something he hasn’t let himself say before.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it’s the stillness around you. Maybe it’s the honesty in his voice, calm, certain, without bravado.

He flirts with you. You know that. You’ve been baiting him to. You’ve been bending this line so far for so long you almost forgot you were the one holding the tension.

But this? This isn’t teasing. It’s a confirmation.

An invitation.

You feel it in your throat. Tight. Hot. You hold his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna stop until I get a quote.”

He tilts his head. “A quote about what?”

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

His breath catches, just barely. You catch the shift, the subtle way he stands a little straighter. The faint glint of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

“I’m a journalist,” you say, voice light, tone not. “I believe in sourcing my claims.”

“And you think I’m going to just give that to you?” he murmurs, stepping a little closer. “Off the record?”

“Not give.” You look up at him. “Prove.”

The wind swirls between you, sharp and cold, but you barely feel it anymore.

Clark’s close now. Not touching, but enough that the air feels thinner. His coat flutters around his knees. His hands are still in his pockets. He’s not doing anything. And yet, you can feel him.

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

And then he does something that makes your pulse spike. It’s barely a movement, but enough. He tilts his head slight and smirks.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and careful and ridiculously effective, “If I gave you that story…” His eyes drop to your lips. Stay there. “You wouldn’t have the words left to write it.”

You swallow loud and hard. Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

His gaze doesn’t leave your mouth. “You sure you’re ready to find out?”

Your heart stutters. And then, as if some cruel part of him knows you’re right at the edge, right at the tipping point, he steps back half a pace. His hands are still in his coat pockets. Smile soft. Eyes gleaming.

“Let me know when the story’s ready to run,” he says simply. Then he turns, walking back toward the stairwell.

You’re left at the ledge, breath shallow, body trembling, notebook still open in your hand. The wind cuts across your cheek.

You don’t move for a long time because Clark Kent just flirted with you like it was breathing. Because Clark Kent just promised something without touching you.

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

-

It was supposed to just be your weekly run. Perfectly innocent, your regular post-work run. Originally it had been Clark’s idea after you complained about not enjoying running alone because of nerves. And it wasn’t his first idea either. He’d had plenty of others, especially recently. Like walking home instead of taking the train. Like splitting a coffee and pretending it isn’t a date. You’d said yes too quickly, barely thinking, like your body trusted him more than your brain did.

You’d forgotten what it feels like to run next to someone like Clark. Like gravity shifts to make room for him.

The first half is completely harmless. You’re sweaty and breathless. The run is filled with the kind of laughter that feels safe in your chest. You keep pace with him on principle, even though it’s killing you.

And then the storm breaks. No warning. No distant rumble. Just the sky cracking open above the skyline, sharp, fast, and angry.

Sheets of rain slam down, soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your tank top sticks to your skin. Your sports bra gives up entirely. Leggings glued to your thighs. Your shoes squelch with every step. Water beads down your face and into your collarbones.

Clark doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for your hand, quick, firm, and steady, and pulls you with him.

You’re laughing as you run. Laughing because this is so stupid and so cold and so unlike you. But he’s laughing too. Mouth wide, glasses fogged, hair darkened and dripping across his forehead as he tugs you around a corner and into his building’s stairwell, both of you panting, soaked, and more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

By the time you make it to his apartment, you’re shivering. The door clicks shut behind you, and your whole body jolts from the sudden change. The heat inside presses close, wrapping around your limbs like a towel just pulled from the dryer.

His place smells like him. Cedar. Warm laundry. A faint note of books and something darker, something earth-deep and low and safe. You’ve been here before, but tonight it hits different. Tonight, it feels like stepping into his chest. His heartbeat. His gravity.

“You’re gonna freeze,” he says, already moving, always moving. He disappears down the hall and you hear him rummaging through drawers. You picture him pulling out towels and clothes until he returns with something soft that looks like a flannel in one hand and a towel in the other. “Here. Get out of those. I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

You start to protest. Some nonsense about modesty. Boundaries. Sanity.

But he turns to you, his eyes soft behind fogged lenses, hair curling at his temples, holding out the flannel that’s threadbare and worn at the collar. “I won’t peek,” he says earnestly, voice so kind it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

You peel your clothes off one piece at a time, the fabric sticking to your skin. You keep your back to him, just in case, even though he’s already disappeared into the other room. You towel off quickly and slip into the flannel. It’s soft and worn, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. The hem hangs low enough to skim the tops of your thighs. It clings in places from the leftover rainwater on your skin. You don’t bother with pants. It doesn’t occur to you to feel shy in this moment as your damn ovaries seem to override your rational thought processes.

You roll the cuffs up and sit on his couch. You try to breathe through it. Down girl, you think to yourself. But the scent of him is everywhere. On your skin, in your hair, wrapped around you like a second body.

His body could be wrapped around you, an evil little voice whispers in your mind. It sounds suspiciously like Jimmy Olsen, who started this whole damn mess.

Taking a loud deep breath, you tuck your legs under you, fingers pressing into the fabric at your stomach like maybe if you hold it tight enough, it’ll quiet your heart.

When he returns, he’s drying his hair with a towel. His sweats cling low on his hips, and the shirt he’s wearing is the same soft gray cotton, rain-soaked top he had on outside. And it’s clinging. It’s so thin it might as well be a second skin. It outlines the lines of his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle along his arms like a sketch.

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

You look up, flannel riding high on your thighs. Your legs bare. Damp in places that have nothing to do with rain and everything to do with him.

His breath catches.

You stare at each other, and the silence hums between you. It’s electric.

You could speak. You should. You could joke. Could make a crack about the weather. Could talk about how soaked your socks were, or the way your mascara probably looks like war paint. You could thank him. You could ask for your clothes.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve been pretending for weeks. Laughing through it. Flirting through it. Circling this thing like it hasn’t been waiting for you to make the first move.

But now? Now your skin is buzzing. Your lungs are tight. And the way his eyes flick from your face to your bare legs and back again makes you ache.

Because this is the moment. You feel it. Something inside you snaps and this time, you don’t stop it.

So, you say it outright.

“I want to know.” It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. The words come softly, barely above the crackle of rain still ticking against the window, barely enough to cross the space between you. But they land like a drop into still water.

Clark stills, and for a moment, you think maybe he won’t move. That maybe you’ve said too much. Pushed too far.

But then slowly he crosses the room. His steps are quiet. Unhurried. Like he doesn’t want to spook you, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He just sinks to the edge of the couch beside you, body close but not crowding, and lifts one hand to your jaw. His fingers are warm and steady. They brush against your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’re real. His thumb drags along your bottom lip, feather-light. You feel his breath before you feel his mouth, and by the time he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours you’re already shaking.

“I don’t want to wonder anymore,” you say, quieter now. “I don’t want to guess.”

He’s so close now, his knee brushing yours, his other hand settling carefully on your thigh. You feel the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way the air around you seems to shift just from his presence.

He searches your face slowly. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s trying to find the edge of your breath. The line between teasing and truth. He licks his lips and swallows. His thumb strokes once more over your cheek before his hand drops to your waist, firm and steady.

“If we do this,” he says gently, “we don’t go back to pretending we’re just friends, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a vow. A choice you’re both making now that the thread between you has been pulled too tight to ignore.

You can’t think about anything except his hand on your leg. The way he’s watching you. The memory of your fantasies about his mouth between your thighs is like a livewire just beneath your skin.

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you for another second. “You’re sure?”

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t flirt. You don’t deflect. You just meet his gaze and say the only thing that feels true.

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

It starts slow, tentative, and testing. A soft press of your lips to his, like a question you’re terrified to ask. He’s warm, gentle, steady beneath your mouth. Familiar in the most unfamiliar way.

And then he answers. With his hands. With his mouth. With the quiet groan he lets slip as he deepens the kiss.

His grip tightens on your waist, and you gasp softly as he shifts, pulling you into his lap. One smooth movement, like it’s instinct, like he needs you there. Your knees come up to either side of his hips, and suddenly he’s beneath you, solid and sure, and your chest is pressed to his.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this. Like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do since the moment he met you.

You roll your hips once and he groans against your mouth, full-throated and unrestrained, like the sound’s been buried deep for too long.

His lips drag along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. “You don’t know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

Your breath shudders out of you. “Then show me,” you whisper. “Please.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown. His cheeks flushed. His glasses are fogged at the edges and slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Off the record?” he asks.

You nod. You’re light headed already and barely breathing.

“Then lay back,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, voice low and certain. “And let me give you the evidence you’ve been looking for.”

Your body obeys before your mind does. You shift back onto the couch cushions, heart pounding, limbs loose with want. The flannel slips down your shoulders and pools beneath you like soft surrender. You’re left in just your panties, chest rising and falling as he kneels between your legs like you’re something he’s about to worship.

He takes his time. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t gloat. Just eases his hands up your thighs like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His glasses are still on, slipping slightly down his nose, fogging faintly, but he doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s been dying to see you like this. Like he’s starving.

He bends and kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then again. Again. The kisses climb your thigh, slow and warm and open-mouthed, until his breath ghosts over the thin, damp fabric of your panties. You jolt. His grip firms on your hips.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice steady.

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. He mouths at you through the fabric, and you gasp, body arching, hands flying to his hair. The first long lick sends a bolt of heat down your spine, and the second has your thighs clenching around him instinctively. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. Just licks again, slow and certain, like he already knows exactly what you like.

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

He slides your panties down, slow and careful like he’s unwrapping a gift before tucking them into the pocket of his sweats. And then he sees you, completely and totally bare, and groans. It’s a low and wrecked sound. Like he wasn’t prepared.

“Gosh,” he whispers. “You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just lowers his head and presses his mouth to you like he’s been aching for it, like the world won’t spin right until he gets his tongue on your cunt and learns the shape of your pleasure by heart.

Your gasp isn’t just a sound. It’s ripped from you, involuntary, like the air itself gave out. Your hips jerk. Your legs tense. Your hands scramble for something, anything, to hold on to.

His tongue licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your whole body arches like it’s being tuned to him. He groans at the taste like he’s just had the first bite of something forbidden and holy.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again, until you’re shaking, until your thighs are trembling against his broad shoulders, until your head tips back and your breath leaves you in soft, shattered little moans that don’t even sound like you.

When his mouth closes over your clit, it’s gentle at first, testing, teasing, reverent. But the flicks are so precise. So rhythmic. So confident. Like he’s listening to your body, your breath, your broken little cries and following each one like sheet music.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. He groans into you and the vibration makes you see stars.

His hands tighten. One anchors your hip, grounding you with strength that borders on desperate. The other presses firm and steady against your lower belly, holding you down like he knows you’re about to fly apart. That you need something to keep you tethered when it happens.

And it does.

You shatter.

Not slow. Not soft. You come like he’s pulled the truth out of your body with his mouth. Like your soul recognized his tongue and decided to rise to meet it.

It hits like heat lightning, sharp and sudden and white-hot, flashing behind your eyes and ricocheting through your limbs. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. Your back bows off the couch as his mouth never leaves you, riding the wave with you, through you, for you.

And even as your breath hiccups, as your muscles spasm and your voice breaks around a ragged moan of his name, he doesn’t stop.

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

It’s slow and careful. The thick press of one finger first, his thumb stroking your hip, voice low and grounding, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Then a second, stretching you open so gently you feel like you might fall apart just from the patience in it.

And when he curls them, your hips buck. The pressure is perfect. Devastating. His tongue finds your clit again in the same moment, suckling, circling, teasing you until your thighs shake and your mouth falls open with a choked sound that could be a sob.

He hums when he hears it. He likes it. You feel the low vibration of it in your core, feel it echoing against his fingers buried deep inside you. His pace doesn’t change. It builds. Grows. Deepens. Like he’s tuning you to the edge of something greater.

You’re clinging to his hair now. His shoulders. The couch. Yourself. But it’s too much and not enough and please don’t stop, and he doesn’t, not even as you pant, “Clark, oh my god, Clark! Please! ”

He lifts his head just a fraction, lips slick, voice hoarse.

“One more.”

You don’t think you can. You try to tell him, your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your body is already shaking. Too much. Too sensitive. Too everything.

But he just whispers again, mouth hot against your thigh, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can. You’re doing so good. Just one more. Give it to me.”

You break again. The second orgasm tears through you. bigger, deeper, dizzying. Your spine arches. Your thighs quiver. Your eyes blur with tears you hadn’t even realized were coming. You cry out for him, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say, like it’s your anchor to the earth.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. His fingers keep curling inside you, working you through it, coaxing more and more and more until you’re sobbing, full-body, hiccuping sobs that melt into moans.

You think he says your name then. You think he kisses your hip. You think you say something too, about wanting him, but it’s a blur, everything soft and shuddering and electric.

And then he lifts his head. His glasses are fogged, hair mussed, lips red and wet and slightly parted. His hands are still on you. One at your hip. One cupping your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

He looks at you and brushes his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You just said…” he starts, voice hoarse, quiet, wrecked. “You said you’ve wanted this forever.”

You freeze. Your heart stops in your chest. You blink. Blink again. “I did?” you breathe, barely above a whisper.

He nods, gaze steady. Gentle. “You did.”

You should lie. Say he must have misheard you. You should laugh. You should say it was the orgasm talking, that you didn’t mean it, that this was just about the rumor, the curiosity, the investigation. But the truth is in your skin. In your chest. In the way you’re still trembling beneath his hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

His smile is soft. Not cocky. Not surprised. Relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally, finally, gets to exhale.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs.

You look at him. This man who knows your take out orders at more restaurants than you can count. Who saves your favorite snacks from the vending machine. Who leaves notes in your desk drawer when you’re having a bad day. Who just brought you to your knees without asking for anything in return.

“I did now,” you say, voice cracked and full of something else now.

You reach for him again and this time when he kisses you, slow and deep and filled with promise, you don’t pretend it’s about anything else. You’re the one who sighs into him this time. Loosens. Melts. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and his arms slide around you. The heat of him seeps into your skin like sunlight.

He pulls back, forehead to yours, and whispers, “Come with me?”

Your nod is barely there, but it’s all he needs. He lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a breath. One arm under your knees, the other across your back, and his eyes never leave you as he carries you down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale him, letting yourself be held.

His bedroom smells more like him than the living room did. The rain still taps against the windows, soft and rhythmic now as opposed to the heavy sheets earlier, as he sets you down on the mattress with the kind of care that makes your chest ache.

He kneels beside you. Fingers brushing your cheek. Still a little breathless. Still looking at you like you’re a miracle he didn’t believe he deserved.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says quietly, like it hurts to get out. “You. Us. For a long time.”

You blink, throat tightening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, and ducks his head, sheepishly. “Because you’re… you. And I’m just… well, me.” His hand curls at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you saw me that way. And then…” He looks at you, brow furrowed with a tenderness that floors you. “You started teasing about the rumor. And I didn’t know if it was real. If you wanted me, or just… the idea.”

“Clark,” you start but he silences you with a chaste kiss.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we have.” His voice is low now. Barely there. “Didn’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

You sit up and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I didn’t want to risk it either,” you whisper. “But I’ve been falling for you the whole time we’ve been friends.”

His blue eyes go soft, shining lightly behind his glasses. He leans in and kisses you like the world outside the bedroom doesn’t exist. And when he pulls back, voice wrecked and reverent, he whispers, “Let me love you now.”

“Please,” you nod.

He kisses you again like he’s learning your mouth from the inside out, deep and slow and filthy. Tongue sweeping against yours, steady and patient, even as your nails catch at the hem of his damp t-shirt. You’re reminded in that moment how you’re already bare and trembling. Still wet with everything he’s already given you. And he’s… completely clothed.

And now, you want him. All of him.

“Too many clothes,” you whisper against his lips, panting as your hands tug his shirt up.

But he doesn’t let you pull it off just yet. Instead, he pins your hands to the bed, gently and firmly, and drags his mouth down your throat.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips warm against your pulse. “I like seeing you like this.”

You shiver.

“Completely bare,” he says, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Completely mine.”

You groan, arching up into him. He still hasn’t taken a single piece of clothing off, and the contrast is killing you. Your naked body against all that soft cotton, his glasses still on, his shirt sticking to the curve of his back.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he says, dipping his mouth lower. Kissing between your breasts. Down your ribs. “Every time you smiled at me like you didn’t know what you were doing. The shorter skirts. Touching me in the office.”

“I did,” you breathe. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He laughs quietly, the sound coming out completely reverent, and kisses your hipbone. “Mmhm,” he murmurs. “Knew you did.” Then he moves back up, crawling over you with slow, deliberate grace, until he’s above you again, his body a solid heat over yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. How many nights I had to stop myself.”

You reach for him again, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweats. “Then stop stopping,” you whisper. “I want you inside me. Now.”

His breath hitches but he listens. He stands, eyes never leaving yours, and finally strips. T-shirt peeled off over his head. Glasses set gently on the nightstand. His sweats and boxers sliding down long, muscular legs until he’s completely bare in the low lamplight.

And God. You’ve imagined, sure. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him like this. All smooth skin and broad shoulders. His hard cock is standing flushed and heavy against his stomach, thick and aching, curved and already leaking at the tip.

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

He kneels on the bed again. One hand stroking his cock with slow, lazy pumps, while the other caresses up your thigh.

“I’ve thought about this every night for so long,” he says, breath ragged. “What you’d feel like. Sound like.” He lines himself up and looks at you, one last question in his eyes. One last chance to stop.

“Please, Clark,” you whisper with a nod.

And then he slides in, one slow inch at a time. So painfully slow, stretching you open like he’s trying to carve his name into your body.

You gasp. legs trembling, hands clutching his back. He moans as he bottoms out, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus baby, you’re so tight. So, so wet. Fuck,” he pants. You’ve never heard him swear like that. It wrecks you almost as much as his mouth had earlier.

He stills inside you, breath trembling, body shaking. “I’m not gonna last long,” he whispers. “You feel too good. too perfect, I’m sorry. I want to last longer for you.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, his words making you clench around his thick cock, causing you both to let out loud groans. “Just move. Please, Clark.”

And when he does it's not fast. It’s not rough. It’s everything you’ve ever needed. Each stroke is deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His mouth never leaves your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. One hand cradles your head. The other slips between your bodies to rub slow circles over your clit again. And it’s too much. It’s perfect.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs. “Been in love with you since the first time you smiled at me.” Your heart stutters. Your body arches. He thrusts deeper. “Wanted you every damn day,” he says, voice shaking. “And now…now you’re under me, around me, and I just,” you clench harder, nails digging hard into his back as you arch up into him, legs wrapping tightly around his hips, ankles locking against his ass. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t… don’t do that, not if you want me to last.”

You gasp his name. Tears prick your eyes again not from pain, not from pleasure. From everything. From him. “I love you,” you whisper, the words falling out like a confession you didn’t mean to speak. You cling tighter to him, snapping your hips to meet his in perfect time.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes soft and devastating. “Me too.”

And then he kisses you through your next orgasm. Kisses you like he’s sealing it in your skin. Like he’ll never let it go.

His thrusts start to falter shortly after your orgasm. You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath catches on a broken moan against your throat. His hands tremble where they hold you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

“Oh gosh,” he gasps, “baby…sweetheart, so good. Feels so good, all for me.”

You press your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper, wrapping around him tighter, wanting to feel every second of him unraveling.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice frayed and reverent, your fingers stroking up the nape of his neck, threading through damp curls. “Want to feel you. Want to keep you.”

That does it. He breaks. With a choked cry, your name torn from his throat, he buries himself to the hilt one final time and cums hard, his whole body tensing above you as he spills inside you. Heat floods you, thick and warm, and you hold him through it, clutching, kissing, whispering his name over and over until the tension melts from his limbs.

He collapses on top of you, full-bodied and shaking and undone, forehead resting against yours, sweat-slick skin pressed to yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it.

You stay like that for a long time. Breathing each other in. Letting the room tilt gently back into quiet.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek. Then your nose. Then your jaw. He shifts off of you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break, but only long enough to pull you against him again, your back to his chest as he spoons around you.

You sigh in content. You’ve never felt so warm, or full, or safe. And then he moves you again a few minutes later, like that wasn’t a good enough way to feel you against him. He turns you, gently guiding you onto his chest. You go willingly, melting against him like it’s your favorite place in the world. Which it might be now that you’ve experienced it.

His arm wraps around your back, hand stroking lazy, soothing lines up and down your spine. His other hand rests on your thigh where you’ve thrown it across him like you’re staking a claim.

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

“Yours now, Ms Journalist?” he murmurs, teasing.

“Was there ever a question?” you mumble, lips brushing against the curve of his pec as you press a slow, possessive kiss there. He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost a prayer. His fingers slide into your hair and stroke gently. Lovingly.

You close your eyes.

The rain outside softens to a whisper and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, you fall asleep on his chest, warm and full and his.

-

The morning unfolds in amber. Sunlight pours through the slats of the blinds, casting lazy golden stripes across the room and over the tangled mess of limbs on the bed.

His skin is warm under your lips. Muscle and softness and the kind of impossible heat that still hasn’t left your bones. He smells like sleep and cedar and you. Like the sweat and slick and sweetness of the night before still clinging faintly to his skin.

He’s already awake.

You can tell by the way his thumb is tracing the bare line of your hipbone in slow, lazy loops. The way his chest rises and falls with practiced calm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear, strong and grounding, like it always is.

“You drooled on me,” he says, voice gravel-rough and low.

You smile against his chest. “Price of admission.”

A soft chuckle rumbles beneath your cheek, not just amused, but fond. Full of something heavier. Something real. His hand slides higher, smoothing over your back, fingertips drawing invisible shapes along your spine.

Eventually, he coaxes you out of bed with a promise of hot coffee and warm breakfast, his flannel shirt exchanged for one of his oversized tees that swallows you and smells like him. You grumble. He grins. And while he disappears to the shower, you wander barefoot into the kitchen, already planning to steal another kiss the moment he returns.

You don’t have to wait long.

He heads straight to the stove when he’s done, barefoot on the tile, hair wet and curling softly over his forehead, the collar of his tee damp from where he towel-dried in a rush. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to be unfair. The hem of his shirt rides up every time he stretches for the spice rack, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.

You cross the room without a sound and your arms around his waist from behind. Then you stretch on your toes and press your lips to the side of his neck, right where his pulse kicks up immediately beneath your mouth.

Clark drops the spatula.

You smile against his skin, teeth just barely grazing. “Oops.”

“You’re distracting me,” he says, breath catching mid-word.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Just because you can. Tongue darting out to taste salt and warmth, breath pooling over damp skin. You feel him shiver.

“I’m trying to make you breakfast,” he mutters.

“And you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you whisper, words curling with amusement as your hands slide up under his shirt, palms skimming hot skin. “Five stars for effort.”

He exhales slowly. Then turns. There’s that smile again, sleep-soft, crooked, so damn pretty it makes your stomach flip. You can still see the crease from the pillow on his cheek. His lashes are wet at the tips. His eyes, though, are clear. Bright. Fixed only on you.

“You always this handsy after Pulitzer-worthy investigations?”

You bat your lashes up at him. “Just trying to… fact-check my findings.”

One brow arches. He steps in closer, nudging you gently against the edge of the counter, towering over you, voice dropping an octave. “Anything I can help clarify?”

You drag your fingers down the front of his shirt, stopping just above the waistband of his sweats. “Might need a follow-up interview.”

He hums, like he’s thinking about it. Then lifts you in one smooth, effortless motion, hands warm under your thighs as he settles you onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all. The marble is cold beneath you, but he steps in between your legs, and suddenly all you feel is him, his thighs, his hands, his heat.

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

He kisses you then, slow, teasing, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is warm, familiar now, but it still makes your stomach flutter like the first time.

“I have excellent retention,” he murmurs against your lips, “if you want to review last night’s data.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and bite his bottom lip. “You’re cocky.”

He leans in closer, nuzzling your jaw. “I’ve been reviewed. Oral God confirmed.”

You smack his shoulder. “Stop reading my texts.”

“Mmhm, like you actually mean that,” he grins and kisses you again. Deeper, this time. Filthy and slow. Like you’re the only thing he wants to taste for the rest of the day.

Behind him, the toast burns. Something beeps. Neither of you notice. Or care. Because Clark’s hands are on your hips. You’re tugging at his shirt. And breakfast, apparently, can wait.

-

Weeks later, you’re back in his lap on a Sunday morning, both of you tangled up on the couch with the news playing in the background, a half-drunk mug of coffee cooling on the table.

You’re thumbing through one of his old notebooks, pretending not to read his scribbles, even though they’re suspiciously detailed for a guy who always claims he “just got lucky” with the Superman exclusives. His arm tightens around your waist. You glance up.

“You still investigating me, Bernstein?” he asks, eyes warm behind his glasses.

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always,” you say. “But don’t worry. This one’ll take me a while.”

And maybe it will, because right now, you have no idea he’s Superman.

You just know he’s your best friend and the man you’re in love with. But you will.

Something twists low in your belly. A slow, aching warmth that builds with no name, no permission, no clear beginning.

Eventually, eventually, you drop your gaze. You reach for your pen and scratch something meaningless into your notebook just to fill the space. You wonder if your hands are trembling. You wonder if he noticed.

Across the bullpen, Clark shifts in his chair. The creak of it is startling in the quiet. He clears his throat gently, like he wants to say something. But no words come.

You don’t need them.

Not tonight.

The silence says enough.

-

You’re the last ones to leave.

The elevator’s hum fades as it closes behind the intern from Research, and for a moment, the building feels like it belongs to just the two of you. The city outside is dressed in moonlight and motion, neon signs flickering like blinking eyes, streetlamps pooling golden halos onto wet pavement. It had rained earlier. You hadn’t noticed until now.

Clark holds the door for you as you step out into the hallway. Your footsteps echo down the corridor, a gentle rhythm matched only by the tap of his beside you. Neither of you says much. You don’t need to. There’s comfort in the quiet, a kind of shared solitude you’ve both grown used to.

At the building’s entrance, you reach for your coat, crumpled over your arm, too lightweight for the chill that’s crept into the evening.

“You’re not walking home in that,” Clark says, already slipping out of his own.

Before you can protest, he’s draping it over your shoulders, soft wool still warm from his body, smelling faintly of soap and something subtle and earthy you can’t name but know instinctively as him.

You freeze under the gesture. Your hands find the lapels, tugging them closed as if to trap the warmth inside. His fingers brush yours as he reaches for the buttons, slow, deliberate movements, not quite touching you, but close enough to feel. He starts fastening them from the bottom up, and it’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Buttoning me up now, smallville?” you tease, voice tight with something you hope sounds like humor.

He smiles, just barely. “You don’t do it right,” he murmurs, and there’s that familiar, fond amusement laced through every syllable.

Your heart stutters. “I do fine.”

“You skipped the middle one last time. That’s how you end up with a lopsided jacket and a cold.”

“Maybe I like it lopsided. It’s called style.”

“It’s called cold,” he says, buttoning the second-to-last one slowly, carefully, like each one matters.

You glance up at him, meaning to throw back another retort, but his face is close now. Closer than you expected. Close enough to see the soft shadows under his eyes, the curve of his mouth as it tugs with a barely-there smile. Close enough to count his lashes if you wanted to. Close enough to forget how to speak.

He doesn’t look away.

The last button goes untouched.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, softly, almost nervously, he reaches up to straighten your collar, fingers brushing against the side of your throat. Your breath catches.

It’s nothing.

A single touch.

A casual adjustment.

But your skin burns where he touched it. And when he finally pulls his hands back, you feel the absence like a drop in pressure. A loss.

You shake your head, eyes flicking toward the street. “You always this much of a gentleman?”

Clark huffs a laugh, low and unsteady. “Only with you.”

Your pulse flutters. You pretend not to hear the way he says it, quiet, certain, like it’s already been true for some time.

The wind tugs at your hair as you step outside together. It’s colder than you expected. The kind of cold that creeps into your sleeves and kisses the backs of your knees. But his coat is warm. Heavy. Like being held.

He walks you home without being asked.

And you let him.

-

The city is quieter at night, but never silent.

There’s always a hum, cars gliding through distant intersections, someone laughing too loudly on the corner, a train groaning somewhere underground like the bones of the city shifting in its sleep. You’ve always liked it best at this hour, when the chaos softens and the edges blur. When everything feels less like survival and more like floating.

You hadn’t meant to call him.

It wasn’t even a real call, just a message sent at 11:47 p.m., half-joking and a little sleep-drunk:

can’t sleep. bet you’re still up, night owl.

wanna meet me at that sad diner with the good pie?

He didn’t reply with words. Just a car honk outside your apartment fifteen minutes later. Headlights cutting through the fog. That’s how Clark always answers, without needing to be asked twice.

You pull on the first hoodie you find, tug it over your head, and step out into the night, the chill brushing your bare shins like cold fingertips. He leans against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like it’s no big deal. Like this wasn’t a declaration.

His eyes crinkle when he sees you. That’s the first thing you notice, always. The way he smiles like he already knows what you’re about to say.

You slide into the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath you. The engine purrs to life.

“You really gonna drive me to the world’s worst diner at midnight just because I was lonely?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says, like it was never a question.

-

The diner is nearly empty.

One elderly couple nursing coffee at a corner booth, a single server behind the counter scrolling on her phone. The lights are too bright, flickering overhead like they haven’t been changed in years. The booths are sticky with old vinyl. Everything smells faintly of burnt oil and sugar.

You love it.

Clark orders black coffee without even glancing at the menu. You both know he’ll ruin it with an incredible amount of sugar once it gets to the table. You get your usual, extra whipped cream, too much cinnamon. He watches you over the rim of his cup like he can’t quite believe you exist, like you’re a moment he keeps trying to memorize.

The conversation is light, easy. Small talk about the story you’re both editing, the intern who misspelled “catastrophe” three times in one headline, Lois’s latest tirade about clickbait. You make him laugh, and the sound warms the space between you better than the coffee.

But somewhere between sips and quiet looks, the air starts to change.

It happens when he reaches across the table to nudge a napkin toward you, your chain necklace catching the light as you lean forward, slipping out from beneath your collar, dipping down towards you cleavage. He stares for just a second too long. You notice.

He notices you noticing.

Your cheeks heat, and you make some dumb joke to break the tension, something about pie being a weak excuse for flirting.

Clark doesn’t laugh this time. He says, “Look up.”

You do just a little, eyes settling around his strong jaw line, expecting a light, maybe a distraction. But he’s still watching you. And he says it again, lower this time. A breath more than a word.

“Look at me.”

And when your eyes rise, when they finally meet his, you feel it.

That thing you haven’t wanted to name. That soft gravity in your chest pulling you toward him. There’s nothing overt in the way he looks at you. It’s not lust or longing, not in the way you’re used to. It’s quieter than that. Fiercer.

It’s knowing.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Your shoulders brush when you slide out of the booth later, his hand briefly catching your elbow, thumb tracing the crook of it like he forgot he was allowed to touch you.

You don’t pull away.

On the drive home, the silence is full again. Heavy with everything you didn’t say.

He doesn’t park. He just slows to a crawl outside your place, headlights splashing across the front steps. You don’t move to get out right away.

His hand lingers on the gear shift. Yours lingers on the door handle.

“I’m glad you texted,” he says, barely audible.

“I’m glad you showed up,” you whisper back.

And that’s it.

Not a confession.

Not quite.

But it feels like one.

-

There’s a different kind of silence in his apartment.

Not sterile or stiff like hotel silence, or echoing like your empty place when you forget to leave music on. It’s a lived-in quiet, layered with warmth and soft memory. The faint tick of the clock on the wall, the rustle of pages from the newspaper you abandoned on the coffee table, the distant hum of the refrigerator. The ceiling fan creaks slightly on its lowest setting, spinning a slow circle above you like time means nothing here.

You’re curled at one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing a pair of his old sweatpants rolled a few times at the waist that you never officially borrowed. The drawstring is uneven, knotted with your impatience. The hem still drags over your ankle every time you shift.

He’s on the other side, just close enough to share the blanket, not quite touching. His socked foot brushes yours now and then, absent-minded and gentle, like he’s reaching without knowing it.

Neither of you speaks.

The movie ended half an hour ago. You can’t remember how it ended. You don’t think he can either.

The television screen glows blue in the darkness, the credits long since faded to the streaming platform’s idle menu. But neither of you has moved to turn it off. There’s a quiet understanding here, something wordless but mutual. Neither of you is ready to let go of this moment.

You lean your head back against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded. It’s late. So late it’s almost early. But you’re not tired. Not in the way that matters.

Clark shifts beside you, elbow settling more comfortably on the armrest. His thigh brushes yours. It’s the smallest point of contact, but it zips straight up your spine like static, barely there, but impossible to ignore. His body is solid warmth next to yours, heat radiating through layers of cotton and proximity.

Your heart beats louder in the quiet.

And that’s when you realize it.

It isn’t in the things he says. Not in the coffee runs or the jokes about your cluttered desk, not in the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk or buys the snacks you like when you’re on deadline.

It’s here. In the silence. The way he sits beside you like it’s the only place he wants to be. The way he doesn’t need to fill the air with words, because he already knows the ones that matter haven’t been said yet.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

Not staring. Not bold. Just… there. Fully present. Eyes soft, mouth slightly parted like he might say something but doesn’t.

He doesn’t need to because you can feel it. Like a heartbeat between you. Like a breath you forgot you were holding.

You’re in love.

You’re in love with Clark Kent, and somehow it happened so slowly and so completely that you didn’t notice until it was already true. Until it was obvious.

You shift, stretching out your legs until they press against his, and when you don’t pull away, he doesn’t either. His eyes dip to your bare knee. Then lift again.

“I should get up,” you say softly.

“You don’t have to,” he replies, just as soft.

You stay. The screen dims to black. The room darkens with it. Neither of you moves. And in the hush of it, in the shared breath between dusk and dawn, you feel it again.

That quiet truth pulsing in the stillness.

You are in love.

-

You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.

The last thing you remember is the warmth of Clark beside you, the soft hum of city noise outside his window, and the slow way your body melted into the cushions as his shoulder pressed gently against yours. There was no plan to stay. There never is. But sometimes staying just happens.

And sometimes, he doesn’t let go.

You wake to golden light spilling through the curtains, slicing warm across the floor and striping the furniture in honeyed bands. It smells faintly like burnt toast. Like someone tried to cook and forgot they were hungry halfway through.

Clark is still asleep behind you.

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in his bed. Only that at some point during the night, he must’ve lifted you off the couch with that casual strength he never talks about. Like it’s just another kindness he offers. Like carrying you to bed is no different than carrying your groceries.

You’re curled into his chest now, legs tangled beneath the comforter, your body tucked beneath his like he’s been guarding you from the cold. His arm is draped over your side, hand resting low on your stomach, large and warm and steady. Your face is pressed against the soft cotton of his T-shirt, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

It’s the kind of sleep-touch people only allow when they trust you. Or when they ache for you. You don’t know which this is.

Maybe both.

His scent is all around you, clean laundry, warm skin, and something quiet and grounding, like cedarwood and earth. It makes your throat tighten. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d missed this kind of closeness. Not casual intimacy. Not sex. Just… being held. Without expectation. Without performance.

Just him, holding you, like it was inevitable.

You shift slightly to look up at him. His brow is soft in sleep, jaw slack, lips slightly parted. There’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. His glasses are folded neatly on the nightstand beside a half-drunk glass of water and a well-worn copy of Catch-22 with a torn page corner.

You smile into his shirt.

You don’t move. Don’t dare disturb the moment.

Instead, you let yourself sink a little deeper against him, your fingers curling gently around his forearm, tucking under the hem of his sleeve where his skin is bare and warm. You feel him stir, just barely. His breath catching for a moment before it evens again, and his hold on you tightens instinctively.

It isn’t possessive.

It’s protective. Familiar. Like he’s holding something he doesn’t want to lose.

The smell of toast wafts in stronger now, charred and faintly sweet. Somewhere in the kitchen, the toaster is probably still smoking, forgotten mid-thought.

You imagine him distracted, half-asleep and barefoot, shuffling around the kitchen trying to make you breakfast before you woke, just to come crawling back into bed before it was fully done. The idea makes your chest ache.

He’s trying. Not in grand gestures. But in all the quiet ways that matter.

You close your eyes again, nestling further beneath his chin.

You’ve made it a habit to keep his shirts when he lets you stay over. He never asks for them back. And you always assumed he forgot. But last week, you caught him folding one of yours, the one you left by accident, and tucking it into the drawer beside his own.

You keep his shirt.

He keeps your place in his life.

And for once, you stop counting the exits. You stop worrying about what happens next. The ghosts you usually keep tethered to your ribs are quiet this morning. Your fears are somewhere far from this room.

He stirs again, his voice a soft scrape of gravel behind you.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You hum. “Your toast is burning.”

He breathes a laugh against the back of your neck. “Gosh darn it.”

You smile. He still hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

One step. Not much.

But it says enough.

-

It happens after a fight. Not a big one. Not cruel. Just… sharp edges clashing.

The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re both frayed at the seams. Too many rewrites. Too many phone calls that went nowhere. A triple-shot espresso on an empty stomach. Frustration building under your skin like static, waiting for something, or someone, to ground it.

Clark made a comment, innocuous on the surface. Something about how he’d already pulled the city records you’d been planning to request. Efficient. Helpful. But it struck the wrong nerve, lodged itself beneath your ribs like a splinter.

You snapped. Not loudly, but sharply. Clipped words about autonomy. Space. Boundaries. About how he always seems to know what you need before you’ve said it out loud, and how sometimes, you just want the chance to ask.

The second it’s out of your mouth, the air changes.

Clark doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to explain himself. He just stills. His lips part like he might respond, then close again. His jaw shifts. His shoulders draw in slightly, like a retreat, measured and quiet. One hand rises to rub the back of his neck, fingers threading through the mess of hair there.

His eyes dim. Just a little.

And then he says, very softly, “Okay.”

That’s all.

No defense. No counterpoint. No wounded expression to pull guilt from your spine.

Just… okay.

It cuts deeper than anything else could have.

You turn before you can say something worse. Your boots echo against the linoleum, and you pretend you don’t feel his gaze follow you out of the bullpen. The elevator ride is too quiet. The hallway to your apartment feels longer than usual. The key sticks in the lock when you get home.

And the silence that waits for you inside is nothing like his.

His silence is warm. Mutual. Full of meaning.

This silence is cold. Impersonal. It hums with unfinished sentences and unspoken apologies, a low buzz beneath your skin that doesn’t stop, not even when you curl beneath your blanket and press your face to the pillow he slept on once.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t even try.

-

You wake up early, groggy and cotton-mouthed, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, a headache curling at the base of your skull. The streets outside are still blue with morning, the city yawning itself awake.

You make two coffees when you get into the breakroom.

Muscle memory, mostly. One dark, one sweet. His favorite mug, the navy one with the chipped handle, is already waiting in the cabinet. You hesitate before filling it. It feels like crossing a line, like folding an apology into ceramic and sugar.

But you do it anyway.

You don’t leave a note. You just place it on his desk and walk away.

He finds you ten minutes later in the breakroom, back braced against the counter, your hands cradling your own mug like it might shield you. You can’t meet his eyes. Your fingers are trembling. The silence stretches. Not tense, but wary. Like a wound neither of you wants to reopen.

Then, slowly, he steps forward and takes your hand. His palm is warm. His grip is steady. Familiar in the way only he is, anchoring and impossibly gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll break and not realizing you already have.

You finally look up.

His eyes are soft. Not forgiving. Not forgetting. Just present. Still here.

Still him.

Your throat tightens. You squeeze his hand back. You don’t say sorry. You don’t have to.

-

Later that night, after the tension has been carefully picked apart and folded into shared sentences, after apologies are passed back and forth like fragile things, you end up walking home together again.

The city feels gentler than it did earlier. Less like something pressing in, and more like something exhaling around you. The storm that had been sitting above your heads all day, unspoken things, raised voices, clenched jaws, has passed, leaving behind a dusting of quiet snow.

It clings to your lashes as it falls. Light, wet flakes that melt the second they touch skin, sliding into your collar and the nape of your neck. The air smells clean. Frozen. Like static and distant chimneys.

You walk slowly. Not because the sidewalk is slick, though it is, but because neither of you is in any kind of rush to be anywhere else. Your shoulders bump gently as you step in time, the rhythm of your boots a steady thud softened by snow. His elbow brushes yours again and again, and this time, you don’t move away.

There’s a looseness in your chest now. A kind of surrender. Not weakness, just relief. That he’s still here. That you’re still you. That even when you mess it up, he doesn’t let it stay broken.

The snow swirls under the halo of a streetlamp ahead, catching the light like glitter tossed from above. You tilt your chin up to watch it, lashes heavy with melted flakes, lips parted to breathe it in.

“You look pretty,” he says, quietly. “With the snow in your hair.” It’s so soft you almost miss it. Carried on the hush of passing tires and the far-off bark of a dog, but still you hear it.

You turn to him, squinting through the light. “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”

He shrugs, hands deep in his coat pockets. Shoulders tight against the cold. “Might be.”

You take a step closer. He doesn’t move away.

The streetlamp above flickers once, twice. Then steadies. Pale gold spills over the sidewalk like spilled milk, washing the world in something dreamlike. Snow collects in the crook of his collar. His breath ghosts visibly between you in soft bursts, white and warm.

Clark is already watching you. Not with hunger. Not with expectation. Just that wide, open look he gets sometimes, like he’s seeing all of you at once, and he doesn’t want to miss anything.

Your hand lifts without thinking. You reach toward his glasses, brushing away a snowflake caught in the metal rim near the corner of his eye. Your knuckles graze his cheek.

He catches your wrist. His grip is gentle. Not pulling, not holding you in place, just a touch. Just a tether.

The air feels warmer suddenly. Thicker. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then back up.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not sudden. It doesn’t crash into you. It happens the way a slow tide rolls in, patient and sure. His mouth finds yours like it’s done it a hundred times before, and yet still carries the tremble of first contact. A question, not a demand.

Is this okay?

Can this be real?

You answer him in the way you lean forward, in the way your hands curl into the lapels of his coat. He exhales into you, relief and wanting stitched together in one quiet sound, and lets his arms slide around your waist.

The kiss deepens for a heartbeat. Just enough to draw a soft, helpless noise from the back of your throat. Just enough to make your knees sway. But then it softens again. Eases. Like neither of you wants to scare it off.

When you pull back, the tip of his nose brushes yours. His glasses fog. Your smile tilts lopsided.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whisper jokingly.

He nods, eyes warm, voice low. “I know.”

“And you take your coffee way too sweet.”

“You drink dessert in a cup,” he murmurs. “You don’t get to judge me.”

That makes you laugh, quiet and breathy. You kiss him again before you can stop yourself, just a press of lips and the taste of snow and heat and the shape of something you can’t take back.

His hands grip the back of your coat tighter this time. Like he means it. Like he’s scared you might vanish into the snowfall.

You don’t.

You stay.

Because this sidewalk, wet and half-frozen, lit only by streetlight and snow, it’s not just a path anymore. It’s the scene of a shift. A turning point. The place where something that’s always lived in your silences finally stepped into the open.

You’re not afraid of the fight anymore. Because you talk after. Because you try after.

Because whatever this is, this warmth in your bones, this ache in your chest, this feeling blooming behind every smile…

It isn’t fragile.

It’s real.

-

You wake one night months later to the weight of him thinking. Not moving. Not speaking. Just… awake.

And heavy with it.

The kind of quiet that hums beneath the surface of skin, that fills a room without sound. The air feels denser than it was when you fell asleep, the space between his body and yours too warm, too tense. The sheets have slipped low, baring your collarbone to the night air, and there’s a crease in the pillow from where his hand had been, not touching, but close. He’s always so close.

You blink the haze from your eyes and lift your head just enough to see him.

Clark is sitting up beside you, back arched slightly forward, elbows on his knees. His silhouette is cut in soft silver by the moonlight pooling through the window, casting delicate shadows across the curve of his spine, the edge of his jaw. His glasses are gone, abandoned on the nightstand. His hands are folded loosely, knuckles pale.

He doesn’t look at you but you can feel it pulsing off him, whatever it is, like heat off a flame. Contained. Controlled. Barely.

You whisper his name into the dark.

He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t startle. He just closes his eyes, presses the pads of his fingers to his mouth like he’s holding something in.

After a moment, he breathes out your name in return. Like a confession.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, low and hoarse.

“No.” You shift slowly onto your side, sheet rustling like breath. “Couldn’t stay asleep.”

Another beat. Then, still facing forward, he says, “It just… hit me all at once. How fast it’s all changed. How close I am to something I don’t know how to name.”

You don’t respond right away. Because God, you feel it too. You feel it every time his hand brushes yours and lingers just a second too long. Every time he brings you coffee the exact way you like it and doesn’t mention how he noticed. Every time he walks beside you with his arm just close enough to reach for if the world starts falling apart.

And especially now, his voice rough with something unspeakable, his shoulders hunched with the burden of needing something he’s too scared to ask for.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally. “Me too.”

He turns his head then. Just enough to look at you.

The light catches his eyes. They’re wide. Raw. Like he’s seeing you differently now, or maybe letting you see him for the first time. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. The air between you stretches thin.

He shifts slowly, drawing his legs back under the covers. But he doesn’t lie down.

Instead, he leans over you, propped on one elbow, the sheet slipping further off his chest. His other hand lifts hesitantly, hovers near your jaw, then drops back down before it can land.

There’s a pause.

And then he says it, soft and steady, like the words have been pacing inside his chest all night, desperate to be let out.

“You’re my best friend.”

It shouldn’t feel like that much. It shouldn’t. But the words land like an earthquake beneath your ribs. Because when he says it, it doesn’t sound like friendship. It sounds like home.

It sounds like I want to kiss you every day forever but I’m scared to lose what we already have.

It sounds like you’re the one I fall asleep thinking about.

It sounds like this isn’t just a phase for me.

You stare at him, mouth parted, heart crawling its way up your throat. He’s not blinking. Not moving. Like the entire world hinges on what you do next.

You lift your hand, slow and careful, and press your fingertips to the curve of his jaw. Just a touch. Just enough. His breath stutters.

You feel it right beneath your fingertips, where the pulse leaps in his jaw. He’s close enough that his exhale ghosts across your cheek, warm and sharp. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he’s afraid he’s imagined it.

You press your hand a little more firmly against him. Not to guide. Not to demand. Just to say I’m here.

That’s all it takes.

The distance between you breaks.

Clark surges forward, not rushed, not reckless, but hungry. Like the restraint he’s been carrying for months finally cracked. His mouth finds yours with a soft, stunned noise in the back of his throat, and it’s so gentle it hurts. He kisses you like he’s scared you’ll pull away. Like he’s still asking.

You answer by threading your fingers into his hair and pulling him closer. He groans, quiet and breathless, into your mouth.

The kiss deepens with every breath. His hand slides to your waist, fingers splayed wide like he wants to cover as much of you as possible. The heat of him bleeds into your skin, and his other hand follows, skimming down your ribs to your hip. His touch is reverent, almost shaking. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

You shift beneath him, your leg hooking over his hip instinctively, and the sound he makes is raw. Muffled. Desperate.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Just enough to ask again Are you sure?

You answer without words. Just a soft, “Please.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth finds your neck, open and hot, and you gasp as his teeth graze the soft skin below your jaw. His hand slips beneath your shirt, slow, searching, fingertips trailing up your side like he’s feeling you breathe. When he cups your breast through the thin fabric of your sleep top, you arch into him, breath catching. His thumb brushes over your nipple, and you whimper into his shoulder.

“Gosh,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You’re so soft.”

You reach between you, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He lifts up just enough for you to tug it over his head. The moonlight paints silver across the planes of his chest, the soft line of his stomach, the curve of his biceps. He’s solid warmth and muscle beneath your hands, but nothing about him feels intimidating.

He feels safe.

Familiar.

His mouth is back on yours before the shirt hits the floor.

You feel him, hot and hard against your thigh, and the knowledge that he’s holding back, that even now, with his hands all over you, he’s trying to be careful, makes your stomach twist.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you whisper against his lips.

His hand freezes. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want all of you. Not just the part you think I can handle.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He groans, low and wrecked, and his grip tightens on your waist. His hips press into yours, slow and firm, and you feel him grind against you, the friction catching right where you need it. Your whole body arches in response, desperate for more.

Clothes disappear in pieces. Breathless kisses. Fingers brushing skin that’s never been touched this way. Your shirt gets tugged off. His pants slide down his hips. You both fumble with your underwear, laughing softly between gasps and moans.

And then he’s above you. Kneeling between your thighs, one hand stroking gently over your knee, the other holding the base of his cock as he looks down at you. Not with arrogance. Not with hesitation.

With awe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. Like it’s the first time he’s said it aloud. Like he’s been thinking it forever.

You reach for him.

He sinks into you slowly.

The stretch is deep and aching and perfect, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he groans, long and low, at the feeling of being inside you.

He stills.

Lets you adjust.

Forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does, when he pulls out just enough and slides back in with that thick, delicious pressure, you both gasp. His hands grip your hips. Your legs wrap tighter around him. Every thrust is slow, deep, intentional.

There’s nothing hurried here.

Nothing casual.

Every movement feels like a promise. Like he’s trying to tell you something he doesn’t know how to say.

He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His name spills from your lips like prayer. Yours spills from his like surrender.

You come with his forehead pressed to your collarbone, your hands in his hair, your body trembling beneath him.

And when he follows, when he breaks with a gasp of your name and spills inside you, it feels like the last wall between you crumbles.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t leave your arms. He just holds you. Breathing hard. Mouth pressed to your temple. One hand stroking your hip in lazy, slow circles like he can’t bear to stop touching you.

You lie there like that for a long time. Sweaty. Shaking. Quiet.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because this, this, was never just about sex.

It was about everything that led here. About how you found each other in the silence. About how love was already here.

You just had to let it in.

-

The world doesn’t change the next morning. The sun still rises through the haze of city smog. The Planet still dings with elevator doors and Jimmy still spills his coffee before nine. Your inbox is still a mess. Your deadline’s still looming.

But you feel different.

You move through the day a little slower. A little softer. Like you’re underwater in a warm current. Like you’re still carrying the weight of his hands on your hips, the shape of his mouth on your neck, the sound of your name wrecked from his throat.

You don’t talk about it. You don’t have to.

Not when his hand finds yours beneath the table during an editorial meeting. Not when he brushes the hair from your forehead as you pore over city records in silence. Not when he leans over your shoulder to whisper a note about a source, but lingers just long enough that your eyes flutter closed.

Everything is the same.

And everything has changed.

-

It becomes a rhythm.

A routine.

Weekends melt into each other in slow, golden hours. Grocery runs where he pushes the cart and pretends not to judge your cereal choices. Quiet nights where you lie tangled on his couch, legs overlapping, reading aloud from the paper or falling asleep with your head on his chest.

The snow comes heavier one evening in December. Fat, drifting flakes that hush the city and paint the streetlights in halos.

You’re walking back from the corner store, your gloves forgotten, cheeks stinging, his scarf wrapped twice around your neck. You’re laughing at something dumb he said, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only warm thing left in the whole damn world.

You pause under a flickering streetlamp and tilt your face to the sky.

Clark doesn’t say anything.

He just steps behind you, slides his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder as the snow falls around you.

You sway together. Barely moving. Not dancing, not really. But close. Steady. Quiet. Like you’re the only two people on Earth.

You don’t say I love you. Not yet. But it’s there. In the steam of your breath. In the way your mittenless fingers find his and hold tight. In the press of his lips to your temple.

It’s there.

-

He keeps a picture of you at his desk.

You find it by accident one night when you stop by after hours. You meant to drop off takeout, he missed lunch again, and when you place the container on his desk, you see it tucked just behind his monitor.

It’s not posed.

Not framed.

Just a print Jimmy must’ve made—grainy and candid. You’re in the bullpen, mid-laugh, head tipped back, a pen tucked behind your ear and his flannel hanging off your shoulders. You don’t even remember the moment being taken.

But he does.

It’s the kind of photo someone chooses on purpose.

You lift it carefully, thumb brushing the edge. There’s a small crease at the corner like it’s been handled often, maybe taken in and out of his wallet before he gave it a safer home.

Clark comes up behind you, footsteps soft. He doesn’t say anything at first.

You turn slightly, the photo still in your hand. “You kept this?”

His smile is shy. A little sheepish. “Yeah.”

Your heart stutters.

“It just… reminds me,” he adds quietly. “What I have. What matters.”

You look at the photo. Then back at him. He doesn’t try to kiss you. He just reaches for your hand. And when his fingers lace with yours, something inside you steadies.

You get it now.

Why people go to war for love. Why they lose their minds, write sonnets, chase ghosts. Why everything you’ve ever tried to put into words never quite measured up.

Because this, this soft, sure thing you’ve found with him, isn’t made of grand gestures or burning declarations.

It’s made of quiet mornings. Candid photos. Snowflakes in your hair. The way he says your name like it’s both question and answer.

It’s made of knowing you’re held, even in the silence. Even in the dark.

Because you’re in love.

And this time, you know it so wholly you’ll never be able to unknow it.

-

It doesn’t happen on a grand night. No gala, no rooftop, no headline to chase or city to save.

Just a Tuesday.

Late. Raining.

You’re in his apartment, barefoot and damp from the walk up. Your coat hangs dripping by the door. Your hair’s still wet from the storm. He towel-dried it as soon as you walked in, murmuring something about catching cold. Now you’re curled into the corner of his couch in one of his oversized sweatshirts, legs tucked beneath you, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug you both refuse to throw out.

Clark sits across from you in the armchair. But his eyes are somewhere else. On you. Always on you.

You can feel it.

There’s music playing faintly from his speakers, something slow and distant, like memory. The rain ticks softly against the windows, blurring the world outside. The room glows gold with lamplight.

You don’t talk much. Just trade glances. Quiet smiles. Let the space between you speak louder than conversation.

It’s the silence that gives it away. Not tense. Not awkward. Just full. Saturated with something unnamed.

“Can I tell you something?” Clark asks. His voice is low. Barely above the rain.

You nod.

He sets his mug down. Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands fidget once, then still. He looks at you like he’s about to step off the edge of something he’s been circling for years.

“I think I’ve loved you since before I even understood what that meant.”

The room stops.

Your breath does too.

He keeps going.

“I used to think love had to be loud. Big. Dramatic. But this,” he gestures softly, hand drifting toward you, toward the space where you sit curled up in his life, “this snuck up on me. You snuck up on me.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words pressing into every inch of your skin, curling warm behind your ribs.

“I tried not to say it,” he says, voice tight now. “Because I didn’t want to risk… us. But I wake up next to you and it feels like I’ve already made every choice.”

You’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved.

He rises too, breath caught in his throat.

You cross the room in two steps, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Not soft this time. Not hesitant.

Certain.

Because you’ve been carrying it too. The same truth. The same ache.

You pull back only far enough to whisper against his lips, “I love you, Clark.”

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in days. You press your forehead to his. You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to. Because now it’s real.

It’s spoken.

The thing you’ve known in every glance, every hand held, every night spent in each other’s arms, now it has a name. And you wear it like a second skin.

You hold him there, swaying slightly as the rain continues outside.

No one watching. No deadline waiting. No need to rush.

Because you’re in love.

And finally, finally—

It’s simple, a small phrase which lets you know that despite the sense of closeness the holiday season evokes, he still yearns for you, and god do you yearn for him too. It’s been a week of quick, chaste touches, but now that has caught up with you both. An ache had begun tugging at both of you, ready to snap now that you two are really alone; no decorating, no holiday traditions, and no last-minute gift wrapping taking precedent.

You turn your head to him, your nose running gently along the side of his cheek. “Missed you too.” And now it’s your turn to press your lips against his cheek, but they don’t stop there. You trail them down lower, along his chin, his jaw, and then the soft skin of his neck. Clark lets out a soft breath at your kisses, but it quickly turns into a small whine when you kiss a particular sensitive part of his neck.

He decides then he has had enough of these light, featherlike touches. It's been too long since he's properly had you, and now he decides it's time to rectify that as his hand comes to cup your jaw, keeping you in place as he presses his lips against yours. This kiss isn’t gentle like the ones from just a few seconds ago. This one is fueled by a hungry need that had been building steadily- like he is trying to tell you just how much he wants you with his tongue.

If you wanted to hear those words come from him, though, you don’t have to wait much longer. With a soft pop, he breaks the kiss to whisper against your lips, “Been wanting this all day. Wanting you all day.”

You open your eyes, and you see his are on your lips, which are parted and shiny from him. That familiar pang of desire shoots through you, and when he decides to brush his thumb against your bottom lip, you swear you physically melt into him.

Any resolve in your body snaps. You spin around in his arms, fully facing him, and now it's your turn to pour all your desires into his mouth. In a flurry of desperate movements, Clark pulls you up against him as he begins carrying you.

You don’t think you can ever get used to the weightless feeling that accompanies being held by him. Your mind is in a haze of desire and light-headedness, so you don’t process where he is taking you when he begins to walk. You don’t process it either, the fact that he is now lowering both of you into the rickety recliner a couple of feet away. And you certainly don’t process the loud protest of the chair as Clark sits down in it with you in his lap. It isn’t until a loud snap jolts you out of the haze of Clark that you realize something’s gone wrong.

Suddenly, the air is knocked from your lungs as you drop a solid foot, landing hard on Clark’s lap. Instinctively, you clutch Clark, horrified by whatever just happened. You look down, and it takes you a second to process what took place. You slowly look back up at Clark, face burning in both shame and trepidation as you squeak out your next words.

“Clark... I think we just broke the chair.” His eyes are wide in disbelief.  For a moment, the two of you are a tangle of limbs- a grunt of shock from Clark and  a quiet “oof” from you- as you both try to untangle yourselves, wedged awkwardly among the broken, misshapen pieces of the recliner.

"Son of a gun," Clark mutters. "I told Pa this thing was on its last legs-"

He doesn’t get to continue much longer before getting interrupted by the sound of his parents’ door slamming open and their frantic footsteps following the sound to where you and Clark still lie in a heap of fabric and sawdust. It dawns on you that you are still in Clark’s lap, and you all but leap up off of him just as his parents round the corner into the living room. You love Clark, you truly do, but there is no way you're taking the blame for this.

Jon and Martha Kent take in the scene before them, Clark still folded in the now broken recliner and you standing a couple feet away looking utterly horrified. Concern floods their features as they take in the damage.

“Oh, honey, are you alright?" Martha fusses, giving Clark a quick once-over to check for any obvious injuries. Jon looks down at the recliner, eyebrow raised.

“Looks like that old chair finally gave," Jon says, shaking his head. His tone is light, but you swear you see a glint of amusement in them as well. You stay rooted where you stand stiffly and awkwardly. Clark shoots you a fleeting look, a mix of pleading and embarrassment behind his eyes. He sees that you're not going to bail him out, so he resigns and turns his attention back to his parents.

"Yeah, guess you were right, Pa," he admits with a sigh, getting to his feet. He gingerly steps over the pieces of the broken chair.

Jon, ever the practical one, claps a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Well, looks like we just found our weekend project. We'll have to head into town and buy a new one." And just like that, your chance at fucking Clark this visit goes down the drain.

The second attempt honestly still has you wary of the Kent’s cows.

It’s a sunny, spring afternoon on the farm this time. The sun filters in through the cracks in the walls of the barn, casting beams of golden light across the dirt floor. You are supposed to be helping Clark feed the cows, but instead you've chosen to dote on the cows while he does all the heavy lifting. If you think about it, how can you help a man who is able to lift one, two, probably even ten bales of hay over his head while not even breaking a sweat? Exactly, so showering the cows with love and affection is naturally the only job that makes sense for you.

Clark is carrying a bale of hay across the barn, muscles flexing effortlessly with the weight. He glances over at you and grins at the sight of you cooing over one of the particularly fluffy cows. It's utterly endearing. He drops the bale of hay, dusting his hands off on his jeans.

"Look at you," he teases, sauntering over to you in that easy, casual way of his. "I think you're sweeter on that cow than you are on me."

“Not possible,” you reply, still petting the cow. “This cow doesn't cuddle me every morning and bring me breakfast in bed just because.” Clark lets out a little laugh at your rebuttal.

"Hmm. Fair point," he murmurs, stepping closer behind you. He gently grabs one of your hands that’s busy petting the cow and softly guides you to turn to him. Once you are fully facing him, no longer distracted by the fluffy animal begging for your attention, his arms slide around your waist pulling you gently into him. "And I'm pretty sure she doesn't kiss you like this either.”

And just like that, the barn fades away as he lowers his head to catch your lips in a loving kiss. If his goal was to distract you, it worked. There's only the soft hum of sunlight, dust in the air, and the slow, intoxicating movements of his lips across yours. You don't even notice that he is backing you up against one of the barn walls because he 's kissing you so thoroughly and deeply, like he's desperate to consume you, to melt completely into this moment. His hands slide up your back, beneath your shirt, needing more contact. More you.

You're trapped there between his body and the wall of the barn, completely enveloped in Clark. But you don't mind in the slightest. Not one bit. And you definitely don't mind when his hands begin traveling from their original placement. His fingers begin dancing across the curves of your hips, working their way down to your thighs, only to come back up and softly palm your chest through your shirt.

His bold actions have you gasping into his mouth. He takes it in stride, using the slight part of your lips as an invitation to softly intertwine your tongues in a dance you two have come to memorize. Obviously, you can never let him have the complete upper hand, so your hands begin to travel down from where they rested on his shoulders. They trail down until they meet the top of his jeans, where you decide to hook your fingers through his empty belt loops and tug. Hard.

“Mmmph-" Clark breaks the kiss as he staggers slightly as your hands work his belt loops, pulling him against you with delicious force. His breath hitches as your tongue slips once again into his mouth, sweet and demanding.

"Gosh... Sweetheart..." he whispers between kisses, voice thick with need. "We're gonna get caught... we should stop..." But the way he's holding you? The way his hips grind forward ever so slightly? Yeah, he's not stopping for anything.

“We should,” you agree, your actions saying the opposite as you begin to trail sloppy, wet kisses down Clark’s throat.

"Should," he repeats raggedly, his eyes fluttering shut as your lips move along the column of his throat, wet and sloppy and absolutely sinful. He whimpers, a sound only you can pull from the man of steel. He's panting now, body trembling in anticipation against you as his hips roll forward again of their own volition. He kisses you like a man drowning, drowning in you. Your lips, your scent, every part of him frantic and aching for you as his hands slide over your body.

"God, I need you-" he rasps, like a confession. "I want- no, I need to taste you-" He kisses the curve of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, as his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt again. He groans low as he feels the softness of your bare skin. It’s now your turn to writhe under him as he continues working his kisses lower and lower, down the expanse of your torso until he is kneeling in front of you, kissing the sliver of exposed skin above the waistband of your bottoms.

Clark’s pupils are blown wide as he looks up at you through his thick, beautiful lashes. The sound that escapes you is nothing short of pure desperation as the weight of his earlier words begins to sink into your skin, all the way down to the marrow of your bones when you realize exactly what he wants. He’s still looking at you, silently asking for permission. As soon as you nod your head, Clark, in one smooth motion, he lifts you, pulling your legs until they are draped over his shoulders and you’re effectively trapped between him and the wall with only his broad shoulders to keep you stable.

His fingers hook into your waistband without hesitation. “Look at me,” he says softly.

You do.

His eyes blaze with love, hunger, and worship. He then lowers his head until his mouth is on you, and despite kissing through the layers of fabric, it's hot and wet and oh god, making you cry out into the silence of the barn.

“Clark!”

He hums against you. “Mmm… yeah?” His voice is muffled. “This okay?”

You can’t even answer. You’re already trembling, and he hasn’t even started yet. Your hands fly to his hair where you tangle your fingers into his soft, black curls to keep his face rooted right there between your legs. Your eyes stay on him as he continues to press wet kisses on the inside of your thighs. Just when you’re about to let all your inhibitions fly, you spot two furry legs behind Clark’s head.

You look up and make direct eye contact with the cow from earlier. You jump in Clark’s arms, almost losing your balance if it wasn’t for Clark’s lightning-fast reflexes coming to steady you. “You alright?”

“Clark... a cow is staring at us. I think it’s judging me.”

“What?” He turns around, and sure enough the cow is right there, staring at you with its beady, unblinking eyes. Its unrelentless as it continues to stare. It’s deeply unsettling how the animal is somehow looking right through you, like it’s seeing right into your soul and hates what it finds. There’s something weird about how it just keeps watching, like it knows exactly what you’re doing and doesn’t approve.

“Seriously?" He whispers up to you, humor laced into his words. "We're being judged by a cow.” The longer it looks, the more it feels like it’s judging you. You can’t help but feel self-conscious, as if the cow is silently telling you to stop.

“Yeah, and it’s starting to freak me out."

“This was supposed to be sexy," he murmurs, dropping his head against your thigh with a sigh. "And then a cow had to go ruin our moment." He lets go of one of your thighs, letting it drop to the ground in disappointment. You get your footing right and bring your other leg to the ground. Clark groans as he stands up from his position between your legs.

“I don't think I'm ever gonna come back to this barn,” you laugh, but you aren’t sure you're entirely joking at that. Clark sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist once more.

“Well, I guess we have to get a little more creative now.”

The third attempt reminds you of the lesson you should have learned from your first one.

It starts innocently enough with a nice walk around the Kent property with Clark. Sunlight warms the late morning air, the scent of hay filtering through the breeze. Clark walks with a relaxed, easy gait to his stride in his worn jeans and plaid shirt, looking completely comfortable and at home.

You walk beside him, arm in arm, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the farm. Just the sounds of birds singing in the trees, the clucking of chickens in the coop nearby, and the occasional thump of a cow bumping into the fence. It isn’t until you find an old, clearly unused truck sitting behind one of the many random farm buildings littering the property that your little walk turns into something akin to a getaway.

You aren’t exactly sure how you both ended up in the driver's seat of the truck; you on Clark’s lap with your tongue down his throat, and him with his hands making their way up your shirt. You think it may have started with a challenge- a bet, more likely. Maybe it was a bet on whether the truck still ran after all these years of abandonment.

You vaguely recall Clark mentioning the truck being his high school car, and how he's amazed his parents still kept it. You think you told him how the truck looked completely unusable under all the leaves and overgrowth, and Clark may have said something about the engine possibly still being good before running off to go find the keys. The things that took place after that are a blur, but there is a much clearer memory of Clark pulling you into his lap after the truck fails to start.

You decide not to fret too much on the semantics of how you got to where you are now, choosing to focus more on how solid and warm he feels under you in this moment. And then, like always, the world fades. Just you and him. No parents, no farm obligations, no sneaking. Just Clark: sweet, solid, yours. Your kisses grow more frantic, all tongue and teeth as you and Clark try to drink in as much of the other as physically possible.

It's been almost two weeks since you’ve had each other, with life being so hectic and all: Clark and his Superman duties, the daily pressures of both your jobs, and the prepping for the trip to Smallville. Neither of you has had the time or the energy for anything else. But the stress of your everyday lives melts away when you roll your hips into Clark’s and are met with a delicious friction.

Your body reacts before your mind does; a small whimper escapes your throat as you involuntarily clench around nothing and roll your hips once more to try and chase after that feeling. He moans into your kiss, the soft noise lost in your mouth, and his hands tighten at your hips to pull you closer, to make sure that there's not a single millimeter of space between your quickly overheating bodies. You grind your hips into his again, and it feels so good.

You have to break away from Clark’s mouth to catch your breath, and he takes this opportunity to dip his head to your neck and trail his lips all over your throat. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he changes the angle- just enough so every roll of your hips hits deeper, harder, and right against where his dick is straining against the zipper of his jeans. The old springs scream beneath you two, but neither one of you pay it any mind.

“God- Clark, just like that," you murmur, leaning back slightly and your eyes fluttering shut. "Feels so good."

The truck groans and complains with every move, creaking like it's about to fall apart at the seams, but you don’t care. All you can feel right now, and all Clark can focus on, is the overwhelming pleasure building between you two as you dry hump him. The way you fit in his arms, the way you sound so out of breath, the way you move has him getting desperate for more.

"Oh, please," he whispers, begging for nothing and everything at the same time. His mouth is still against your neck from where he was pressing hot kisses against it, but now all you feel is his hot breath from where he is panting and moaning into your skin. It’s driving you crazy, and you can’t help but grind into him harder. He then tilts his head back against the seat, chest heaving, eyes dark with need as he watches you ride him through jeans and fabric. "Yes- Use me, baby. Gosh, just wanna make you feel good...."

You can’t help but moan and nod at his words. You lower your head so you can take in the image of him; his head thrown back, yet eyes zoned in on where you two meet. His muscles are trembling with the effort to keep control. He keeps moving you against him, helping rock you both in a frantic but deep rhythm. You’re both already getting close,  the tendrils of your orgasm spreading through you.

Both of you are also too focused on chasing those highs to notice just how much the truck is screaming in protest at your movements. It can barely keep up, and ultimately it doesn’t, as a loud, sudden pop rings through the air as one of the old tires bursts from your activities.

For a moment, you don't notice- caught up in too much heat to do anything except keep moving against each other as you race toward the edge.  But then the truck lurches to the side, so violently you're yelping in surprise as you almost fall off of Clark’s lap into the center console. Clark catches you just in time with those big, strong hands, but he's left staring back at the car’s roof, eyes wide and breathless as his heart pounds in his chest. He can hear and feel yours as it hammers against your ribcage in shock.

"...Okay," he says finally, voice still thick and rough. "...Think we fully broke the truck." You’re still trying to catch your breath as the reality of the situation catches up to you. When it does though, just a second later, you can help but laugh. Hard.

Clark blinks at you, chest still heaving, and then lets out a startled laugh too; warm and deep and completely disarmed. He pulls you closer to his chest, kissing your temple as the two of you dissolve into helpless giggles in the now slanted cab of his old pickup.

"Well," you say between breaths, “At least she went out with a bang.” Clark groans at your word choice, and you can’t help but laugh even harder. The heat from earlier has now fully disappeared between you two, replaced with something lighthearted. You kiss Clark’s cheek before getting off his lap and back into the passenger's seat. The truck lets out an even deeper groan, and your eyes snap up to Clark’s as a pang of anxiety shoots through you.

“Okay, that was fun, now time to get out before this thing tries to kill us... Again.”

The final attempt isn’t even much of an attempt as much as it was just an act of desperation in its purest form.

Suffice to say, you and Clark have thoroughly learned your lesson, fully giving up on the idea of having sex at his parents’ house. Still, that doesn’t make you any less frustrated while visiting. You’ve managed a few stolen makeout sessions and heavy petting when his parents weren’t around, even tried fooling around against the wall once after they’d gone to bed, but it never quite worked out. The furniture is too loud, the walls are too thin to go any further, and so now you’re stuck, thirsting over your sexy ass boyfriend and thinking of all the things you’ll do to him once you’re back home.

Tonight is one of those nights where your mind just won’t behave, even as you sit at the Kents’ table, pretending to focus on dinner. You honestly can’t help it, daring to say it’s all Clark’s fault, really. He and his father went out to help a neighbor put up a new building on their farm, while you opted to stay with Ma Kent for the day, and you’re glad you did.

You’re glad, not just because the two of you had a lovely day tending the farm and shopping at the local market, but because you’re fairly sure you wouldn’t have survived seeing Clark working like that: muscles flexing, hands dirtied, all strength and seduction and sunshine.

You barely managed to keep it together when he walked back in at dinner time, clothes all messy, sleeves rolled up, and hands dirty. There’s just something about seeing Clark, usually so polished and professional-looking, so effortlessly rugged, that makes your heart race and your body ache in ways you can barely disguise.

You try to concentrate during dinner, but every accidental brush of Clark’s leg against yours as he sits next to you burns and tugs at the ever-present ache in your body. He is oblivious to your inner struggle, making it ten times worse because you can’t really get mad at him for teasing you since he isn’t doing anything on purpose.

What is done on purpose, however, is him placing a hand on your upper thigh when he turns to talk to you. He gives it a gentle squeeze before resting there casually, thumb rubbing against your skin, and you think you're about to combust right there at that table.

You honestly can’t help the clench of your thighs at his touch, and you accidentally trap his hand right there between your legs. You have no idea what he just said to you, but he seems to forget it too, as he accidentally chokes on his food, having to take a large gulp of water to relieve his quick asphyxiation.

What you don’t realize is that Clark can feel everything where his hand is; he can feel how hot you are under him, how your thigh trembles slightly, and god, he thinks he can feel how wet you are through the thin layers of fabric separating him from your-

He has to take another sip of water to calm down. Clark swallows thickly, trying his hardest to focus on the conversation his parents, who are blissfully unaware, are having, but it's becoming increasingly difficult for him to do so. You are squeezing so tight, he knows he can’t move his hand away without making it obvious. He can feel every little move your thighs make, his hand growing more and more trapped between them.

You don’t know why you keep his hand there, maybe as a punishment for him unknowingly torturing you, but you refuse to let go. It isn’t until Martha asks Clark to pass a napkin that you finally do. Clark’s thankful you did because his mind is whirling. His hand burns with the memory of being trapped by your thighs, and he can't help the desire pooling in his stomach.

The meal continues, but there is a slight stiffness to Clark’s body you’re able to catch. You know he could feel how much you want him, and the only way you’re able to tell that he’s just as affected as you are is the way he is now angled to press his leg against yours under the table- a small touch; a wordless promise.

You truly don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to keep this up.

It's all just stupid, stupid, stupid.

You glare at the wall between you and your stupid, sexy boyfriend. You've never been hornier in your life. Visiting his family is great, but the involuntary abstinence that ensues is torture. Trust, you and Clark have tried breaking said abstinence, but every piece of furniture and door in this house makes noise, and you’ll be damned if you ruin your relationship with your in-laws just because you can't keep your hands to yourself. You hope he can feel your telepathic glare through the thin wall, but knowing Clark, he's oblivious to how much he affects you.

Your glare eventually fades. You stare up at the ceiling and clench your jaw, frustration building. The familiar ache starts; you squeeze your thighs together, trying to relieve it, though you know it’s useless. You sigh and let your fingers trace lightly over the waistband of your shorts. Do desperate times really call for desperate measures?

Realistically, you know you should just handle it yourself. But you also know the extent of how bothered you are- the craving twisting inside you is far too big, stretching beyond anything your hands could fix. Clark is close, and you swear you can sense him through the wall.

Actually, you think you can hear him.

His bed squeaks with any small movement of his body. You can picture him lying there, trying to get comfortable, but he's definitely outgrown that bed since the last time he used it. A small chuckle bubbles up in your throat at the mental image. You hear another small squeak as he moves, paired with a muffled sound from him. You bet with yourself that he just hit something, probably his head on the headboard.

It dawns on you then that he's still awake. A swift glance at the clock on the wall next to you reveals that the time is 11:49 p.m. Huh. It's pretty unusual for Clark to be up this late. Clark usually got up with the sun. Despite both of your compromises in setting a sleep schedule that you can both follow, it's still unusual that he is up at this time of night. Excitement begins thrumming under your skin.

Maybe this is your in...

As quietly as possible, you get up from your own bed. It still gives a squeak in protest, and you almost tell it to shut up. You stop before the mirror, giving yourself a swift once over, fixing your hair and straightening your clothes before opening the door slowly. The hinges also squeak, and now you’re mentally cursing the whole damn house. Does no one have a can of WD-40? Why does everything squeak?

You open your door just enough to slip through, taking the few steps to stand in front of Clark's room. Pausing before the door, you listen. It's quiet in his room, and you almost think you imagined hearing him a second ago, but then you hear it again. The squeak of his bed as he moves. You're still gathering your courage to knock on his door when all of a sudden it opens.

And there, standing in front of you, is your stupid, sexy boyfriend. His hair is slightly ruffled from his tossing and turning, and his cheeks are lightly dusted pink. He's shirtless, of course, chest rising and falling quickly, and his pajama pants ride low on his hips where—oh.

Your eyes go straight to the unmistakable shape beneath the thin fabric, and you realize he's already hard. The image nearly makes you lunge at him on the spot, but you force yourself to stay in place. Suddenly, those noises earlier weren’t him just shifting or hitting his head, but something else entirely. Another sharp pang of desire shoots down you at the thought of Clark being just as affected as you.

“Well... this was easier than I thought,” you softly mutter more to yourself than to him, trying your best hand at a joke right now to prevent yourself from literally throwing yourself at Clark. Your eyes trail up to meet his, and you can see your same desire echoing in his eyes too as he looks you over, hungrily.

“Yeah, it’s um,” Clark clears his throat, eyes now avoiding yours as he gathers his words, “I could... feel you through the wall. More like smell you, actually, but I didn’t want to-” Your face heats up at that, cutting him off with a small, mortified sound.

“I’m just going to pretend you never said that, cause that’s actually super fucking embarrassing.”

“Hey, you know I can’t help that! And it’s not my fault you're so turned on for whatever reason, it can permeate through walls,” He squawks quietly, his bright red cheeks giving away that he is equally as embarrassed as you are over this.

“Just shut up.” You decide to give up this natural game of cat and mouse. There are more important things to deal with, like the incessant throb between your legs that is not going to go away unless you finally get your hands on him.

Reaching up, you place one hand on each side of Clark’s face and pull him down, finally bringing his lips to yours in a needy kiss. He gasps into it, promptly wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your sides tight. Your tongue traces over the seam of his lips; a low, needy sound escapes from deep in his throat as he parts them, letting your tongue slip into his mouth.

Clark begins guiding you backwards toward his room, both of you still kissing. Once inside, he leans back and, without breaking contact, slowly shuts the door as quietly as possible (which still isn’t all that quiet). You feel him, hard and heavy, pressed between your stomach and his hips, and the heat between you rises until it feels like fire racing through your veins. He then crouches, wraps his arms under your thighs, and hoists you up with practiced ease, carrying you effortlessly toward his bed, and now it's your turn to mewl against his mouth, clutching at his inky locks in an eager attempt to get him even closer.

The second your back makes contact with the bed, it lets out the loudest screech you’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing. You both cringe at the sound, quickly breaking the kiss and looking at each other wide-eyed in alarm, breaths coming in pants.

“Do you hear anything? Did they wake up?” You whisper frantically to Clark. He pulls back from you slightly, tilting his head in the direction of his parents’ room. You stay as still as humanly possible, letting him listen out for them. The irony is not missing you as you now pray he uses his super senses to tell him they’re still asleep.

He finally turns back to you, shaking his head no. “We’re good.” And that’s all it takes before your mouth is back on him. This time, your teeth gently bite at his plump bottom lip, soothing your tongue over it right after. A sharp, ragged breath tears from his throat as your teeth graze his lip. Combined with the soft stroke of your tongue afterward, he can't help but shudder. Hard.

"Gosh, I need you so much..." Clark’s voice is barely there, a broken whisper hot against your lips. His large hands fly to your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His knee shifts between yours on the bed, just enough to press against you and-

Creeeeek.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Your head flops back onto the bed, and it reacts with yet another, but smaller, squeak, as if mocking you - which it most definitely is at this point.

“Language,” Clark chastises, a useless thing he does. He doesn’t care what kind of language you use; he just likes to give you a hard time, and that is really not appreciated at the moment.

“Clark, I couldn’t give less of a damn about that right now.” And you truly don’t, because your ears are too busy straining to hear any sign of life from his parents’ room.

“Fair enough,” Clark sighs, sitting up from where he was originally lying on top of you, hands moving to your hips. He looks down at you, his lips parted and slightly swollen, while his eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on you with almost dizzying intensity, and god, if your panties weren’t soaked before this, they definitely are now. “I really don’t think we can continue this on the bed.”

“No shit,” you laugh, breathlessly. You think for a moment, trying to come up with any and all alternatives.  The need to feel him under your hands and against your body completely clouds your brain, but you try to string together some coherent ideas. “Do you think we can sneak outside?” Clark’s response is quick, shaking his head swiftly.

“Absolutely not, the second we even touch that doorknob, they are going to wake up. Trust me.”

You sigh, hand coming up to trace absent-minded shapes against the hand he has still on your hip. “Against the wall is definitely a no-go...” You tried that once, a couple of visits ago. Suffice to say, the wood panelling is not as smooth as it looks, and you definitely aren’t desperate enough to ignore a billion tiny splinters in your back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and you both lapse into silence, thinking. Clark glances around the room, hands moving to fidget with the edge of your shorts. You watch as his brows furrow with concentration, and then-sure enough- his ears turn an even more vivid shade of red. He keeps his eyes fixed anywhere but on you, mouth opening and closing twice before he finally speaks.

“Hey, um... this might sound stupid, but-” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “How do you feel about... me, uh, floating us?”

He winces as he says it, his voice barely above a whisper, clearly bracing himself for your reaction. The blush now fully spreads to his neck, and he still can’t meet your gaze, suddenly fascinated by a spot on the floor.

“Absolutely the fuck not-”

“It’ll be quiet!”

“Yeah? And risk having you drop me and crack my head open on the floor is fine?” Clark’s offense is immediate, his hand coming up in a defensive gesture.

“I would never drop you, are you serious?”

“Yes, and then you can explain to your parents why I’m bleeding out in the middle of the floor from a massive head wound!”

“You are being so dramatic. I have never once dropped you in all the times I’ve picked you up. Or flown you, for that matter.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything, Clark.” He groans at your words, dragging his hand down his face in exasperation. For a moment, he just sits there, eyes squeezed shut, as if hoping he can will away your stubbornness, or maybe the vivid mental image of dropping you midair. The fight soon leaves his eyes as he realizes you're never going to give in to that idea. He drops his hand and looks down at you.

“Alright, do you have any different ideas then?” Clark asks, the smallest hint of a pout forming on his lips. It’s cute, really, and normally you would say that, but now it's your turn to come up with another idea, and it's much harder than you think.

You scan the room one more time, frustration mounting as you realize that every piece of furniture threatens betrayal with the slightest movement. The bed is out, the desk is even worse, and the chair- don’t make me laugh. Your brain cycles through increasingly precarious ideas until, suddenly, inspiration strikes. A mischievous grin tugs at your lips as you hatch the only plan that might actually work.

Clark’s face morphs from confusion to pure horror as you wriggle out from beneath him and drop down to the floor, right next to his bed. The carpet is scratchy, the floorboards cold, but you’re undeterred. You shoot Clark a challenging look and pat the ground next to you, eyebrows raised in invitation. "Come on, big guy," you whisper, voice low with anticipation. "Let’s see if this is as good an idea as I think."

"The floor?!" he whisper-yells, cheeks hastily deepening their blush. You didn’t know the poor Kryptonian could blush this much.

"Well, you already said no to sneaking out! And I am not letting you float us, so what else is there?!"

"Baby, that's hardly a place to... to make love"

"Clark, sweetie, I love you, but I'm not trying to make love to you- I'm trying to fuck you. So grab a blanket or something and get on this floor with me, or so help me god-"

"Oh my gosh," he croaks, clearly overwhelmed by your intense look. You can tell Clark is debating it in his head. It’s the only option left, really, so you wait patiently for him to figure that out. Despite his embarrassment, he concedes to you again.

He steps away from the bed, pulls the comforter off, and crouches down to spread it on the floor, smoothing it out as a makeshift surface. He settles down in front of you, leaning back on his hands. “Happy?”

You nod, deciding to reward him by climbing into his lap and taking off your shirt, leaving your top half completely exposed for him. Clark welcomes you by pulling you closer, the feel of your bare skin against his sends another wave of arousal down you, and you can’t help the sound that leaves your lips as he begins kissing down your neck, stopping to tongue at a sensitive spot below your ear.

Your hips grind down into his involuntarily, craving friction, craving him. Clark’s hands fall down to your hips, grabbing them and pulling you down hard against him so you can feel exactly how much he craves you too.

“Hng... you feel that?" He whispers against your neck, voice trembling. "That's all for you. All of it."

“Let me have it, yeah?” Your hands trail down his sculpted torso, hot and heaving under your fingertips as they make their way down to the waistband of his pants. Clark’s breath hitches in his throat at your words. You dip your fingers underneath them slightly. His body arches into your touch, and he nods vehemently. Clark thinks you could ask for anything in the world right now, and he would find a way to give it to you. 

​It almost physically pains you to get off his lap. Every part of your body is screaming at you to touch him again, to tease him with gentle touches and needy kisses until he’s begging under you, but the hungrier, more aching part of you needs to have him now. So you get off and tug at his pants. Clark, eager as ever, lifts up his and hurriedly slips them off, tossing them aside. His dick, hard and impossibly thick, gently slaps against his lower stomach. No matter how many times you see him, you still have to pause and gather yourself when you’re reminded how big he really is. Another wave of pure need courses through you, and you’re reminded of the task at hand.

It’s now your turn to rid yourself of your bottoms, and you do so hastily. Goosebumps spread along your skin again, but you’re not cold. In fact, you're so hot you think you might combust. It feels like a coil is wrapped tightly inside of you, getting ready to snap at any moment. You’re back on Clark in an instant, climbing into his lap and  chasing his lips once again, swallowing both of your moans.

Your hand goes down to your labia, gathering as much of the wetness as you can before you bring it to Clark's cock. Your hand is soaked, and so it glides easily over the sensitive skin of his shaft. His body instinctively responds to your touch as you give him a few languid strokes, lubing him up. "Oh, gosh," he moans, his head falling back and abs tensing.

You've forgotten one crucial detail in the midst of all this: Clark Kent absolutely cannot shut up during sex.

"Shhh!" Your hand stops stroking, instead bringing your cunt closer, pressing his very hard cock against you and rubbing it through your lips in an attempt to spread more of your wetness. "Quiet!"

At the feeling of being rubbed against you, Clark moans again, "I can't help- ah, can't help it, sweetheart. You feel so so good already- oh my gosh." You've begun sinking on him now, regretting your actions for two reasons.

"I thought it was implied that this is only going to work if you shut up.” There is an edge of discomfort to your voice as his huge, bulbous tip splits you. Your walls flutter around the intrusion, trying their best to fit his enormous length, but you still feel the wind being knocked out of you. 

"I will, I will, please, don't stop," he begs, breathless and stomach tensing as you slowly sink further and further down onto him, trying your best to adjust to his massive size with no foreplay. Clark, ever the gentleman, normally preps you at least once with his mouth and hands before he even attempts to fuck you. He’s terrified of hurting you, but tonight neither one of you seems to care. Tonight it’s just pure need.

It’s a challenge and it burns significantly, but you'll be damned if you don't make it work. You go a little slower, but steadily. Your wetness makes it easier the deeper you take him, but it still takes a long time before you manage to bottom out completely. An ache is ever persistent as you try to adjust to him, and all you can focus on is the stretch of you around him. It takes a bit for the pain to go away, but once you’re able to see past that, your focus is now on the wrecked man beneath you. Right away, you can tell he still is not going to shut up. His breathing is ragged and whines and praises are still spilling past his spit-shiny lips.

"Baby, baby, god, you feel so perfect I-" You cut him off.

"Okay, nope, this isn't going to work." You begin slowly lifting off of him, wincing at the feeling, but his hands rush to grab your hips and still you.

"No, please, I can be quiet, yeah? I promise, just give me another chance, please."

"Nuh uh, you've had your chance." He then says your name like a prayer, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground right now. His arms circle you and fully stop you from moving.

“Please, you can't stop this now." You know he's right, but the sight of him begging underneath you, his blue eyes pleading and lips parted in both a pant and a pout, makes you want to press him even more- see how far you can push him.

“Oh, Clark, you know I love how loud you can get, but that’s not going to work tonight. Unless you want this whole farm to know how much you want me to fuck you.” Your words earn you a whine and a harsh roll of Clark’s hips into you. Now it’s your turn to gasp, feeling him press even deeper inside of you. He mouths at your neck, trailing down to your chest, where he litters your breasts with wet kisses and small sucks. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth and sucks hard, one of his hands coming to cup and lightly pinch at the other. You press closer to his mouth and hand, the pleasure travelling straight down to your already dripping pussy, but you see through his actions.

“You think keeping your mouth on my tits is going to be enough?” Clark continues his mini assault on your chest till you're covered in his spit and his admiration. To test him, you give him one roll of your hips, and you are rewarded with another whine that’s barely muffled against your slick skin. An idea pops into your head, and you're really starting to think you're a genius when you’re turned on. 

“Uh uh, not enough... but maybe we do just need to keep that mouth of yours full.” Clark looks up at you, meeting your eyes and trying to figure out what you could possibly mean by that, but you're already turning away, reaching behind you for your discarded clothes. Your hand just barely brushes the fabric enough to grab what you're looking for, and you're thankful you didn't toss them too far. 

In your hand, you hold up your panties- black cotton, simple yet sexy enough for your idea. They’re clean apart from your earlier arousal still clinging to the fabric. You showered right before going to retire to your room earlier, so you have no shame for your next orders. “Open up, baby, you’re gonna bite on these while I ride you.”

Clark’s reaction is immediate- his mouth parts open in a mix between shock and lust, and his pupils dilate even wider upon seeing them. You swear you feel his dick twitch inside of you, getting impossibly harder. “Holy-” you shove them in his mouth before he can finish whatever he’s trying to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind. At least you think so when you see his eyes close and brows scrunch up like he's having to physically fight back the urge to cum right then and there. His grip on your body is bruising, holding you impossibly still as he takes in the taste of you on the fabric. His breathing is even more erratic than it was before, and you feel yourself clench around Clark involuntarily.

He cries out at that, perfectly muffled behind your panties. He still doesn’t let you move, which just confirms your earlier suspicions. “You like it? Like tasting me while I fuck you? I can feel it, how much you like it.” You press a couple of tender kisses to his cheek and jaw, fingers playing in his hair. “You look so pretty like this... already on the verge of cumming just from my panties in your mouth, but I’m not done with you yet. Let me know when you’re ready.” Clark nods, but his hands never cease their grip on you. 

You continue to press sweet kisses to his overheated skin, and your hands travel all over to trace meaningless shapes into his skin. He’s so sturdy and warm under your palms. The juxtaposition of his hard, enormous body and soft, pliant demeanor is so so sweet, you think you could never get enough of it. Eventually, Clark calms down enough to open his eyes and look at you. You reward him with a small smile. “Ready?” He nods, his hands traveling to your thighs to help support you. 

You begin moving up and down him, careful not to bottom out and fill the room with the sounds of your skin meeting. Your thighs are already beginning to ache from sitting still in this position for so long, but at this point, you're so desperate to finally be getting some friction that you ignore it and fight through. Any previous discomfort has melted now, and it's replaced by a quickly blossoming pleasure as you begin to move up and down on him. 

He stretches you like no other has before; no man, no toy, and definitely not your own hands. It’s addictive, truly. It’s also a miracle that you're able to keep your sounds at bay, especially when his tip brushes right past that sensitive spot inside of you with each bounce. Your back arches and your hips instantly pick up their rhythm, trying to chase that high that's beginning to rapidly form inside of you. It’s almost all-consuming and all too soon as you feel your orgasm building stronger and stronger.

Clark can feel it too, just as close to the edge already as you are. He helps you glide over him by grabbing your thighs and helping you ride him. He so longingly wants to kiss you, to swallow all the moans and gasps you’re silencing by biting your lip, but he knows the second he tries to take your panties out of his mouth he is doomed. Instead, he whines behind the fabric and presses his hips upward into you. 

A loud smack fills the room at that, but you’re too gone to care. You can feel it, the tightness in your stomach about to burst, but your legs can't keep up with the strain of moving up and down. Your pace is faltering, that dull but rising burn spreading through your thighs till you eventually start losing that high. You try to replace it with grinding, letting your clit brush against his lower stomach, but it’s not enough. "Fuck, Clark, I can't-"

And that's all you have to say before you feel Clark’s strong arms wrap around you, swiftly laying you down on the floor behind you, all while keeping a hand behind your head to soften your landing.

Clark grabs one of your legs and puts it above his shoulder, and now it's his turn to pound incessantly into you. The new angle and brunt of his thrusts send a whole new type of pleasure coursing through you as he hammers right into your G-spot. It's white hot, blurring your vision by making you see stars. Out of pure instinct, you sink your teeth into Clark's shoulder to keep from crying out, and your hands clutch hard on his back. If it wasn't for his supernaturally impenetrable skin, you believe you would have made him bleed with how roughly you are clawing him to try to keep some of your composure.

Clark cries out behind the gag of your panties. The combination of the bite of your teeth, your nails raking down his back, the squeeze of your cunt, and the taste of you on his tongue almost sends him over the edge. You can feel how close he is by how hard his thrusts are, how tight his muscles above you are, and how many sounds he's barely muffling behind your now soaked panties between his lips. Soon you're right back on the edge, but Clark knows he's not going to last much longer, and he frantically needs you to cum with him.

One of his hands slithers down to run tight and hard circles into your sensitive clit. He buries his head into your shoulder, needing to get as close to you as possible. Your body is now physically trembling beneath him as the pleasure comes in so hard and hot you swear all the only thing keeping you aware is him. He's practically in your stomach, waves of pleasure rolling through you all the way to your toes. You're so close, so so close, you can almost taste it. You're on the verge of sobbing into Clark's shoulder, and all he can do is clutch onto you with a bruising grip and pound mercilessly into your tight, weeping pussy

Finally, Clark cries out, sound muffled as he manages to keep your panties, soaked and now probably ripped, in his mouth. His thighs tremble underneath your already shaking legs, and his hips snap into yours with a hard, brutal thrust, sending him somehow deeper, almost buried all the way to your cervix. You feel his cum, thick and hot, coat you inside, mixing with your juices and making a sticky mess between your legs.

That's all it takes to send you right over with him, cumming hard around his cock. Your hips buck up into his as your body arches off the floor and your thighs lock around his hips, keeping him right where you want him. Your cunt squeezes around him so tight Clark swears he can see heaven from right there between your legs.

All you can see and feel is him as your orgasm wracks through you. It starts where Clark is buried deep inside you, but quickly wades through the rest of your body, leaving you a shaking, sobbing mess in his arms. You bite down on Clark's shoulder even harder, both to ground yourself and keep quiet as you fall apart around him. At the feel of your bite and nails in his back and hair, Clark lets out a few more spurts of cum, which instantly drip out of you from how full you already are.

Your body falls limp beneath him as you finally come down from your orgasm. Your mouth pops off his shoulder and a small string of spit stretches between you as you rest your head back on the floor. Your breaths come in ragged, audible pants as you suck in some much-needed air. Clark is also limp on top of you, but he’s holding onto you, still so determined to keep you close.

It takes a minute or two before he lifts his head up and pulls your now ruined panties from his mouth. He looks down at you with his eyebrows still scrunched and his lips red and wet. He’s dazed and breathing hard. "I love you," he mumbles, voice scratchy and unsure, his declaration more like a question than a statement.

That gets a breathy laugh out of you, and you bring your head up to sweetly peck his lips. "I love you too, Clark. Did so well for me. Now, please tell me your parents are still sleeping after all of that."

That earns you a grunt as Clark drops his head down to your shoulder. He pauses for a moment or two before he nods and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You, in turn, press a couple of kisses to his cheek and hairline.

The front door of the Kent house jingles on your arrival.

The smell of Martha Kent's town-famous pies infiltrating your nostrils as soon as you entered the door. Martha, who usually was out of the house most of the time, seemed to have some spare time because she's baking again.

And God knows how happy you are that she is.

"Sweetheart, I set you aside some pies and muffins for you and Clark to eat over the weekend," Martha says, giving you a quick peck on the cheek like a mother would. "I have to go to New York with Lionel for a charity ball… you know we need the sponsors."

You hum, taking a utensil from the drawer to eat the sliced pie on the counter. "That's great, Mrs. Kent! Though I'm not sure Clark'd appreciate you going with Lionel."

"I know," she sighs. "But it's what I gotta do. I can't run the senate seat without sponsors, we need the funding."

The moment you feel the pie melt into your mouth, you're done for. You moan loudly, jerking your fork back and forth making Martha laugh.

"Sorry—have you told Clark about it?" You lean on the counter, voice slightly stuffed as you continued eating.

Martha shakes her head, "Still trying the right time to."

She sets the topic aside, beginning to talk about things happening in the senate. Both of you occasionally laughing when she talks about something particularly ridiculous that the other senators do.

It was a sweet and lighthearted conversation you had with your boyfriend's mother; it always is. Aside from the incredible being that is Clark Kent, you're also thankful that he had such a cool mother and a wonderful father behind him. Makes you feel all the more lucky to be part of such a family.

When you finish your pie, you feel a lot more rejuvenated. Like you could take on the world. Let fate give you their biggest challenge, who cares?

"Want another slice? I have one more—"

You spot Clark come out of the tool shed through the kitchen window, the white shirt he had on was littered with black stains and possibly some oil grease. The fabric clinging onto his body like second skin, barely letting his biceps breathe as he hoisted up some tool his shoulders, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he began heading elsewhere.

Your mouth waters, mind drifting off to the image of Clark underneath you, utterly ruined and glistening with sweat. Hips stuttering, cock begging to be tended to.

Sorry Martha Kent, I just found something else I wanna eat.

"Actually, I'll eat the last piece later with Clark," you tell her, putting on a sweet, innocent smile on your face. "D'you happen to know where he is?"

Martha's mouth forms an 'o', looking behind her to glance through the window. "I think he was at the shed earlier… you should probably go check the barn. I think he's fixing up something there."

You were already by the door when she finished, waving happily. "Thanks!"

A loud mechanical sound comes from the barn, practically reverberating all throughout the farm with how loud it was. You clasp your hands behind your back, discreetly walking inside only to see the first floor empty.

Your eyebrows furrow confusedly, hands coming apart to grip the strap of your bag, looking around the area for your white-shirt wearing hunk.

"You got home early," a voice comes from above.

You immediately looked up, an amused scoff coming from you as Clark leaned down on the wooden rails, grinning at you endearingly.

"Didn't you miss me?" You ask teasingly, face beaming as you made your way to the stairs, meeting with him at the center. Arms immediately thrown upwards to pull him close. Clark chuckles, not expecting you to lunge yourself towards him. Definitely not when he's sweaty and dirty.

But that's how you like him—sweaty and dirty.

"I missed you real bad, sweets. It was—oh—hard fixing the farm without a human radio beside me," Clark grunts in the middle of his sentence, suddenly feeling your hand over his clothed member, rubbing him gently through his jeans. "You okay? I just… I just finished bringing some heavy stuff up the loft and it's…"

Clark's words trail off as you began kissing the thick column of his neck. Messily licking the sweaty skin while your hand continues massaging him, your other one resting on his shoulder.

You feel his chest heave. A low, almost silent, groan leaving his mouth the moment you bite on the spot between his neck and collarbone, same time as you pull at the hairs on the back of his neck with your free hand.

The manly smell of sweat oozing off of him has you grinding your body on his. The hand you previously had on his center, slowly moving up and under his white shirt. His firm abs flexing under your touch.

Just as his eyes roll back, he snaps into reality, pulling away haphazardly.

"B-baby! What's gotten into you?" Clark laughs shakily, confused at the suddenness of your actions. "Look, I'm all dirty," he moves his arm up to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. "Let me take a quick shower and we can continue this, alright?"

Your face drops, "No."

He laughs again, this time with an expression that has you rolling your eyes. He stared at you like the word no was the least of his expected responses. "What do you mean no? Baby, I'm all sweaty—look, my shirt's dirty. I'm dripping of sweat, sweetheart, your clothes gonna get all messed up."

The smile he offers to you was a consoling one. Telling you that he'd really wouldn't want you to be with him in such a state wherein he's not clean and spotless.

You look at him through your lashes, lips separating as you stood on your tiptoes, moving close to his ear while he quickly leans down to your touch. "All the more reason to let me suck your cock, Clark."

When you pull back, you grin devilishly when Clark looks at you with bewildered eyes. His adam's apple bobbing uncontrollably. You push him back onto the steps of the loft, his body falling defenselessly on the top section of the stairs, the two of you hidden by just a few wooden panels.

Clark swallows on nothing, the heat of your voice has blood rushing into his cock, jeans tightening quicker than usual. You throw your bag somewhere in the loft, the rattle of your things being the least of your worries.

You turn to Clark, taking one more look at him; sweaty, flushed, and very much aroused. The evident bulge in his pants and shirt has you drooling.

You climb on top of him, Clark's hand immediately holding your body to make sure you won't fall back. You kiss him with much hunger in you, aggressively swiping your tongue and biting his bottom lip.

Your hips grind on his clothed cock, the rough material of his jeans making you mewl into the kiss. Clark lets you in without a fight, tongue tangling itself with yours as he has his own exploration underneath your top. Big, manly hands cupping your breasts through your bra.

You grind even harder on his cock, a coil building up in your core despite the two of you still fully clothed. You pull your hand up to slide underneath the waistband of his pants, feeling the weight of his hardening cock on your hand. The fabric of his boxers slowly getting wet by the tip.

Clark pulls away to let out a rough whimper, raspy and breathy, his forehead scrunching up with the way you jerk him softly through his boxers. The sound makes you feel hotter, urging you to ruin him even more.

The two of you separate for a brief moment, Clark's hands immediately moving to take off his white shirt, already holding the hem when you put your hand over his. You shake your head, smirking.

"Shirt stays on, handsome," you wink at him, leaning down to kiss the firm center of his chest, keeping his eyes locked with yours.

Clark throws his head back, grunting. You take the moment to hop off of his lap and pull his jeans just past down his knees. Clark helping you out to quicken the process, now equally as aroused as you are… probably even more.

His boxers tent shamelessly, the thin piece of blue fabric failing to hide the outline of his dick as you make out a darker colored blue right at the tip. Your mouth waters at the thought of his cock leaking just for you.

You pull down the waistband of his boxers, completely captivated at the way his cock proudly stands up, just barely hitting past your lips. The ridiculous size of it has you clenching your legs together, doing your best to fight the urge to just take him right then and there.

However, you had other plans, some that supersedes the ache between your thighs… like making sure Clark Kent remembers never to wear a white shirt when you're coming over.

His cock twitches on its own, the tip pulsing with an angry shade of red. It was so hard, you swore it looked like hurt. And for Clark, it actually did—even more so when you stare at it like it's the only thing you ever wanted. His hips move impatiently, Clark doing his best to stop himself from grabbing you and doing the job himself.

Finally, your hand cautiously grabs his shaft, involuntarily licking your lips at you began jerking it off, testing the waters as you flicked your eyes up to your boyfriend.

Clark's barely hanging on. His mind is going dizzier and dizzier by the second. Feeling his sanity hang by a single thread now that you're starting to move your hand even faster. Trying to hold in the moan in his throat when you put your lips around his tip, rolling your tongue around the fat head of his cock.

The salty taste of his pre-cum made you sigh contentedly, the vibration in your mouth making him twitch.

"You taste so fucking good, baby," you rasp, holding out your tongue to lick one thick stripe on the underside of his cock. Making sure you keep your eyes locked with his, not letting him miss a single moment of your version of heaven-on-earth.

"Oh God," Clark groans, now slightly high-pitched. His eyebrows furrowing upwards, lips falling apart.

He stays there, incapable of looking away from you as your tongue began slobbering all over his cock. Tasting and tracing every vein that trail from it, like an artist mimicking lines for their piece.

You take him in your mouth, slowly and deliberately, making sure to breathe through your nose as you already feel him at the back of your throat, lips stretched to the max as you did your best to take him in, both in length and in girth.

Clark's cock is only halfway inside of your mouth when you gag, the tip hitting the back of your throat making you swallow involuntarily. His hips jerk up, chasing after the tightness of your throat as the sound finally escapes his mouth.

The sound. The whimper.

It was brief, quiet, and subtle, you wouldn't have caught it any other day but fortunately today wasn't those days. The sound makes your insides swell as Clark finally falls back on steps defeatedly. His arms stretching to the back of his head, his biceps spilling out of the sleeves of his shirt, the thought of the fabric ripping because of it making you even more motivated.

You pull off his cock with a loud breath, gasping like you had just been submerged underwater way longer than you should have been. Your hand moves up and down the remainder of his cock—the part you didn't manage to suck—your other hand coming to your lips as you spat on it loudly.

A grin comes onto your lips, Clark's eyes rolling to the back of his head when he watches you rub your spit all over his cock. Making sure every inch of him is covered by you.

You put him back in your mouth, this time having an easier time fitting him in. When you began bobbing your head up and down his cock, tongue licking the shaft, Clark's unable to control his moans. Whimpers and whines spilling from his mouth, clearly trying to use whatever sanity he has to manage the volume of his sounds.

You don't want him to, though. You want him utterly wrecked, broken, head too deep in the pleasure to even worry about who hears his beautiful sounds.

"Fuck, baby—oh god, that's…" Your sudden hand on his balls has him moving uncontrollably. Clark pulling himself up to prop on his elbows, lips red from biting it over and over again, his lust-blown eyes staring at where your hand fondled with him.

He drops his head back, feeling you swallow around his cock. One hand stroking him event faster, the other massaging his balls. Everything around him begins to blur as he slowly loses the reins of his mind.

You let him thrust inside of your mouth, keeping your breath going through your nose, letting him hear the loud and dirty sound of your gagging.

"O-oh!" He gasps loudly, eyes closing shut when you moan around his cock. Slipping off for a second to run your tongue over his bails, popping each one in your mouth before taking his cock back in. "Fuck, that feels so good baby. Don't—mhmm—don't stop, baby, please, right there."

You don't stop the smile that tries to come on your lips, every time your name slips from his mouth is like an angel whispering to you the greatest of songs.

Clark's control disappears. Abandoning his care for anything else besides you on his cock.

You do a quick motion to pull his shirt back just a bit, giving yourself some eye candy—his sweaty abs flexing—as you hurriedly try to push him off the ledge.

Clark grabs the hem of his shirt, almost pulling off his white shirt when you stop him. "I said it stays on, handsome."

He groans, dropping the fabric from his hands and putting them on either side of your head. The moment he does, you know he's got nothing else on his mind now aside from getting himself off.

Clark begins to chase after his own release. Hips thrusting into your mouth with a roughness that has you stuck on the spot. Eyes watching every strain of muscle in his features. His cock hits the back of your throat multiple times but you didn't care. Not even a bit.

All you cared about, at the moment, was letting him finish himself, letting out every bit of frustration he has about the world inside the warm inside of your lips.

"There, shit—nnghf, fuck, stay like that baby," Clark says, whiney and breathy. Pleas of your name falling endlessly.

He feels the coil in his lower stomach twist even harder. The familiar white spots appearing in his vision as he clenches his teeth together, doing his best to tip himself off the edge without accidentally hurting you.

When your fingers tighten around the base of his cock, just enough to give him mind-dizzying pressure, he looks down. Your eyes locking with his in the most erotic way you could. Then he lets go.

Clark's lips split open to let out one of the deepest groan you ever heard from him. Ropes of his cum coating the inside of your mouth as he rides out his high, grunting and whimpering every time his dick touched the softness of your cheeks.

"Shit, that was… Oh fuck," he sighs, slowly coming back down to Earth as he looks around.

You grin at him, holding your tongue out to show him his masterpiece. "Baby." he says, running his hands through his hair as the aftershocks of his orgasm still made his thighs clench.

You swallow his cum without a question. Throwing your hair to the side as you shifted in your place, peeling off your panties from underneath your skirt.

Clark smirks lazily, thinking he knows what comes next.

Unfortunately for him, you weren't done yet.

You throw your panty over to him, Clark catching it with ease before he holds it close to his face, just enough to get a whiff of your wetness on it. His eyes darkening the moment he sees it absolutely drenched.

"You did so good for me, handsome," you purr, coming on top of him to nip at the neckline of his shirt. Licking the beads of sweat twinkling down his neck. The salty taste of the liquid making you hum contentedly. "So fucking good."

"Let me take care of you now, sweets. Must be so drenched for me, huh?" Clark tries to slide off your top, running his hands all over your sides.

You chuckle, the glint in your eyes telling him something different. "I'm not done with you yet, baby. Just relax for me, m'kay?"

You sit back up, sitting on top of his thighs, your skirt bunched around your hips to give Clark a sight of what's happening to you underneath that composed facade of yours.

Clark watches you with anticipation, tongue coming out to lick his lips as he tries to prop himself up with his elbows again.

"H-hey!" Clark stutters, eyes widening when your hands grab his cock again. It was still hard, leaking, and even aching. You're not sure just one release gets the job done. "Sweets, I just came…" he breathes, voice cautiously low. "It's your turn now, c'mon. Let me take care of you." He tries to pull you up from your position, maybe even have you sit on his face as a way to return the favor.

You don't budge though. You slap his hand away with your free one, leaning down to put your face beside his cock. The lewd sound of his cock sliding in and out your palm paired with the subtle tingles of overstimulation, and your erotic eyes, it gets the same fire inside of him burning again.

"Just give me one more, Clark. One more and I'll let you take me," you pause, tilting your head to his cock, spitting on it loudly, "…however you want."

Clark glares at you, jaw clenched and body tense, his eyes holding a sense of determination that tells you he's not turning down your offer.

A proud smile comes on your lips, giving the base of his cock one kiss before you start jerking him off. Using your spit and his pre-cum to slide it smoothly. You use both of your hands now, one at the top focusing on his tip, while the other moved up and down his length.

"Mhfm," Clark groaned, his tip being too sensitive right now. His face getting warmer by the second, body clenching uncontrollably. "B-baby, it's… oh… fuck."

"Yeah?" You raise an eyebrow, taking your hands off abruptly making him thrust upwards into nothing.

He looks at you wide-eyed, shocked and confused. You only chuckle at him, slowly placing your hand by his face, open palm by his mouth. Clark stares at you, awaiting your word.

"Spit." Clark gathers up his saliva for a second before spitting it all in your hand.

You smile, thanking him sweetly before you went back to your position. Letting the feeling in his stomach subside before placing your hands back. The hand with his spit placed over his tip, swirling his own liquid around the engorged head.

It was right then did Clark understand how fucked he was. How fucking dirty all of this is.

Worst of it all, he can't even do anything. He's fully at your mercy. Having to take everything you're giving to him without a complaint.

You find your pace, wasting no time to finally get that second release you desperately wanted from him.

Clark doesn't fight it anymore. He lets out every groan, whimper, and moan he has in him. Your name being at the top of the his lungs as he continuously called out for you, begging and pleading to let him come.

"Please, baby, I'm—I'm almost there baby."

"You gonna come f'me?" You tease, batting your eyelashes innocently.

"Uh-huh, keep going," Clark nods repeatedly, his features scrunching up as he feels it start to hurt, start to tingle. Somewhere between the pain and pleasure of the overwhelming sensation—that's where he is. Almost at the top. "Yes, baby, just like that."

You decide not to torture him even more, letting him have his release as you continued to move your hands with a faster pace. The sounds of his cries slowly getting louder.

Then, you hear a voice downstairs.

"Clark? You there sweetheart?" Martha Kent.

His eyes shoot open, hand immediately slapping over his mouth to stop his own moans. He looks to you with panic, but you only smile wider.

"I've finished baking!" Martha called again. Apparently she's been looking for you as well. "When you find her, head to the kitchen, alright? I tried a new recipe for my muffins, try 'em out."

You swiftly, and carefully, move to his ear, whispering: "Answer her."

He shakes his head, "No," he says quietly.

"Now," you say, dropping one hand from his length to his balls.

Clark's eyes roll back, taking his hand off of his mouth. "Y-yeah, mom, we'll check… check it out in a bit!"

His voice was shaky, but you applaud him from even trying. Staring at him proudly, stars dancing in your eyes as you hear Martha's great! see you! in the back, footsteps slowly disappearing.

Clark releases all over your hand the moment you sit back on his thighs, wet slit touching his bare thigh. An aching and almost painful groan ripped away from his throat as more strings of cum shoot out of his cock. Generously falling down the tip and onto the base.

Clark's breathing heavily now. Chest moving up and down after what felt to be like the last orgasm in his lifeline. It was so strong—so intense, he couldn't even wrap his head around what just happened.

Why you were still smiling at him as your tongue licked up the cum dripping on his length, as if you didn't just swallow it minutes ago.

You clean him up, his cock finally softening just a bit in your hold. You move up to him, resting your chin on chest. "You’re so pretty."

Clark's weak scoff enters your ear. Arm weakly wrapping around your back. "Have I been neglecting you or what?"

You laugh at him, kissing his lips lightly. "Never stop wearing white shirts."

When you start rolling away to get up, Clark tightens his hold on you.

"Oh, baby," he shakes his head, tongue poking at his cheek. "You're not getting off that easily. Up the loft, c'mon. It's my turn."

It's like every other night, you're straddled over his lap, legs on the other side of him. His hands are on your hips, more as a placeholder. Because you're in control. You're holding his jaw with both your palms, pressing your weight onto him while your lips are notched with his. You feel him twitch beneath you when your tongue slides into his mouth. His hand wanders up your back, the other, rested around your hips. It takes a few more licks that you feel him attempt to pull back. But you hold him tight. Biting on his lower lips, enough for it to sting. You feel him groan in your mouth, a slight tremble on his fingers. But nothing more.

You're fully feeling his hard cock poke your ass through his slacks, and you take the opportunity to grind down on him. Your saliva is coated around his mouth, and his yours. It's not until you suck on his tongue that he fully pulls away from you with force. Pupils dilated, panting. It's clear, that you've flicked a switch in him.

He doesn't tear his lips away from you after that. Not even when he's turned you over onto the couch, your belly rested on a embroidered cushion. His lips are on you. Sloppy, chasing kissing at the corners of your lips. It's wet and sticky the way your mouth connects, evident by the string of saliva that follows when they part. Clark has your jaw held up with his palm, while he bullies his thick cock into your weeping cunt.

He'd swallow all your moans, letting you drool around his fingers when he's nosing the nape of your neck. When he spits in your mouth, testing, you fucking smile. He physically feels his brain circuit when you stick your tongue out for him in a half broken smile, wanting & waiting. Looking at him cheeky and sweet. Clark holds back flooding your pussy with his cum right then. So he opts to suck on your tongue, lips, jaw all while he fucks you into the couch.