maria c.

Procrastination was a strongpoint amongst other behavioural habits that you keenly possess. There were several layers to this one singular habit, such as the very top layer being the ability to postpone menial housework duties, or change the batteries in, well, every battery powered item within your apartment. Second layer was for getting back to a text, which turns to three days and a mental response rather than a physical one that had been typed out. On a deeper level, your postponing events such as a Pap smear; may be up there with the top three most ludicrous things to delay. 

Which, is why when your husband comes back from the communal mailbox area, waving a brown envelope that had the words in rather imposing red block letters that read: FINAL NOTICE. It was safe to say you felt yourself shrink in size on the sofa.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to take it seriously. These things were incredibly important in catching symptoms of the worst case scenario at a much quicker rate than the whole ‘wait and see’ take. It was just…daunting. 

Exposing. Potentially traumatising? Anything that struck the fear into you, could be used as the explanation as to why you hadn’t ever booked that all too important appointment. 

(Plus, you had gone searching for horror stories, which only furthered your delays.) 

Speaking of explanations, when Clark approaches you with the letter in question; you wrack your brain for an excuse that would appease to inquiry that was burning on the tip of his tongue. 

“This looks important. Final notice, honey.” Clark frowns down at the letter in his hand, “Did you ignore another letter from the landlord?” 

“No, I did not.” (Yes, you had. But for good reason. The rental inflation was ridiculous and you rejected the landlord’s issue of the increase in monthly payments by just shredding the envelopes.) 

Clark nods, “So, what is this?” 

“It’s…junk mail?” 

“Honey.” Clark levels with you, “I am the one who sorts out junk mail. This is not junk mail.” 

“Then it’s harassment.” you retort plainly, finding great interest in your cuticles to avoid Clark’s searing glare—sometimes you wondered what it would be like to not be married to the world’s most enveloping abiding citizen. 

Clark flips the envelope in his hand. “It’s from your OB-GYN. I can see the address.” he pauses to think, blue eyes going wide, “Is there something we need to talk about?”

“No! No—God—How do you even know that’s their address?” you shake your head, “Actually, don’t answer that. It’s just…It’s just about a little Pap smear…that I haven’t gotten done.” your voice trails off at the end and you’re left speaking to a speck of dust on the floor, rather than at your husband. 

You really needed to vacuum. 

Clark falls silent. And not the good silent that is comfortable, where you can sink into the sofa cushions and listen to the quiet lull in content. If you were to spare him a look over your shoulder, you’d be able to see the scowl on his face, matching the crease between his furrowed brows; his nostrils flaring at your confession. 

So, you don’t look. You save yourself the non-verbal chastising by looking everywhere else in the hopes that the topic of conversation will be sucked out of the open window and into the windy air of Metropolis. 

It’s when Clark moves around the apartment like a man on a crucial mission that warrants his heavy footsteps against the wooden floorboards; that you eventually turn your head to watch him enter the kitchen in a storm, and exit with his phone pressed to his ear. 

You frown, “What are you doing?”

“I’m really disappointed in you, honey.” Clark pulls the phone away from his ear to press an option he had been prompted to select on the other end, “Are you aware of how serious Pap smears are? How cervical cancer is one of the most undetected cancers until it’s progressed to a stage that is untreatable? How long have you been ignoring these letters?” 

“Are you—Are you phoning my OB-GYN?” you stand, clambering over the back of the sofa when Clark affirms his intentions with a curt nod. “Clark!” you attempt to snatch the phone from his grasp, “You can’t just do that—I was getting round to it!” 

Clark deflects your feeble attempt at getting his phone, “I can, and I will. We are making this appointment right now, honey.” he advises in a tone of sternness. 

“My records are private. They won’t let you book an appointment for me.” 

“You gave permission last time we visited.” Clark holds a finger up when you swear under your breath, “Hello, yes, I’m calling on behalf of my wife—” he speaks your name and then tells the receptionist to take her time in finding your records, “Yes, that’s her. I’m her husband, Clark Kent.” 

“Unbelievable.”

Clark puts his hand across the microphone, “No, you’re unbelievable. This isn’t something you mess around with, honey—Yes, sorry.” he continues to glare at you, contrast to his polite tone toward the receptionist, “I’ll have to apologise, our mail got mixed up in our communal area where the mail is sent to, so she has missed several letters summoning her for a Pap smear…Yes, she is here. I’ll pass her onto you right now.” 

“Don’t you fucking—Hi, yeah, hello.” you lilt. Clark crosses his arms across his broad chest as he watches you carefully. “Yeah, I can come this afternoon. Yeah. I’m aware of the importance of getting checked. Absolutely, I will see you at 2PM. Thank you for your time. Okay. Bye.” 

You hand Clark back his phone without a word and trudge through to the bathroom to take a shower in the lead up to the spontaneous—and well overdue—appointment with your OB-GYN. Clark watches you disappear into the bathroom with a satisfied smirk on his face, the unsteadiness of his heart at a more steady pace now that you had been booked in promptly. 

(The idea of the worst outcome due to your own personal procrastination had blinded him with a new sense of urgency. Clark would move mountains to keep you healthy.)

“See, honey?” he calls down the hallway as you turn the shower on, “Was it that hard?”

“Clark, will you please just talk to me?”

The car rolls to a stop at a red light and you turn your head to look at your husband. He’s, for all intents and purposes, sulking. And he’s being pretty loud about it with his actions too. 

For what it’s worth, it was kind of entertaining, watching your sturdy built husband turn his body toward the window of the passenger seat he was currently sat in. Even from your position as the designated driver, you were able to see his pink bottom lip jutting out further than necessary to tell you he was upset. 

It was juvenile. 

It was completely Clark Joseph Kent. 

The day took a turn after the two-hour mark in the Metropolis Overstreet Mall. You had spent the day perusing the windows of the retail clothing branches in search of a wedding guest dress for an upcoming wedding back in Smallville. After about an hour and a half of skimming the clothes racks with Clark as a second pair of eyes to try strike gold in the plethora of shops, you decided to stop by the food court to grab a bite to eat before retiring back to your home for the afternoon. 

There, is where it went wrong. 

The waiter—no older than sixteen, you’d guess—came to the table with the bill for your lunchtime munchies and, without much thought behind it, you use your card to pay for the meal. (Keep in mind that it was only $20 without a tip.) 

You grab your things after thanking the waiter, and look over to your husband to green light your departure. Only to find his blue eyes intensely boring into your face, his lips in the deepest set frown you have ever seen—and you’ve seen Clark frown hundreds of times. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask worriedly. 

Clark blinks at you, “What the hay was that?”

“What was what?” you look around the food court in search for a visible answer, “Did you see something?”

“Yes.” Clark states matter of factly, “A complete sacrilege of our marriage.” 

The sentence alone makes you choke out a laugh.

You tilt your head, “Sacrilege? Are you—Oh, you’re being serious. What part of this was a sacrilege, Clark? I thought we agreed on this place to eat.” 

Clark huffs and stands, “What sort of husband am I, if you think you have to pay for our meal?” he informs dramatically, “That completely goes against our marriage vows.” 

“It really doesn’t.” you stand with him with more nonchalance, because his reaction was nothing short of preposterous. You begin to walk, “Come on. You can cry and walk, if you’d like.” 

Clark obediently trudges behind you, his shoulders rounded, knuckles white as he grips the fabric of his jacket. You can feel him staring at the back of your head, so you slow your steps and begin to walk backward for a moment. 

When Clark diverts his gaze to the decorated walls of the mall, you simply roll your eyes and keep silent until you reach the elevator that takes you down to the underground parking lot beneath the building.

Despite being upset, Clark still holds his hand against the elevator door to prevent it from shutting on you on both entry and exit. He still walks on the outside, keeping you safer from oncoming cars attempting to locate an empty parking space; and he still opens the car door for you—without a kiss, but he still opens and shuts it for you. 

Then, he sits in silence. Big body turned away like a sulking toddler. (And you begin to question if toddlers may be easier than this sudden manchild carpooling with you.) 

“Clark.” you prod his thigh. He turns his head even more. “You’re really not talking to me over a $20 meal? I’ve legitimately paid for other things for us in the past. It’s not a big deal.” 

Clark inches his head back to look at you. “I don’t care. I make the money to give you the luxuries, honey.” he says earnestly, which makes you almost laugh. Almost. 

“That meal does not fall under the category of luxury.” you lilt, “What? It doesn’t!” 

“Unbelievable.” Clark mumbles with a shake of his head. 

The red light turns green, and you ease out onto the road again. Your fingers happily tap away at the steering wheel, unbothered by your husband’s petty moping over disposable income and how it is spent.

You hum a song, beep at a driver and turn down one wrong road and Clark’s mood still doesn’t shift.

You exhale as you come to a resolution in your mind, “How about…” you mull it over, “Okay, remember the dress I tried on in the third shop we went into? You said you loved it, and I said I wasn’t a fan of the way the hem of the skirt landed on my legs?” 

Clark nods. 

“I was lying.” you admit with a strained smile, “I loved it too. I just saw the price tag and thought I couldn’t justify buying it—or you buying it, if we’re apparently splitting hairs this afternoon. So, you can buy the dress for me and that will be us even on this ridiculous argument. Capeesh?”

“It wasn’t an argument. It was a statement—” you deadpan and Clark changes his tune, “—You’re right, honey. I’ll buy it for you.” he surrenders happily, leaning across the console to kiss you—seeing as he didn’t do it when he held the car door open for you on the way out from the mall.

The apartment was completely empty.

The white walls still smelled of fresh paint, and every step echoed across the hardwood floors without a single piece of furniture to soften the sound.

Once the realtor finished showing you around, you wandered through the place together.

Clark was studying it with the kind of focus you'd expect from someone diffusing a bomb.

You were already deciding where the couch would go, which wall would be perfect for hanging paintings, and where your shoes would inevitably end up piling together.

It wasn't until you reached the hallway that you frowned.

"Babe."

Clark looked up from the kitchen.

"Yes, honey?"

"It has three bedrooms."

"Uh-huh."

"It's just the two of us."

"Yeah..." Your boyfriend didn't seem to understand what the problem was.

"So why do we need three bedrooms?"

"Because it can be your studio," he answered as if it were obvious, gesturing toward one of the empty rooms.

You raised an eyebrow.

"My studio?"

Clark nodded as he stepped into the empty room, taking in the walls, the window, and the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the floor, already picturing it as yours.

"You can put your pottery wheel here. Your easels and sewing machine would fit a lot better. We can keep all your yarn, your brushes... You wouldn't have to pack everything away every time people came over. You'd have more space. More privacy, hon." He said it so naturally that he didn't seem remotely aware of how enormous that gesture was.

To Clark, there had never been another option. It was simply logical.

Your silence made him turn around.

"Unless you don't want to... We can keep looking."

"No. It's perfect." You shook your head. "It's just... I've never had a studio before."

He smiled with that quiet tenderness that seemed woven into his very existence. After crossing the room, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Well... now you do."

In that moment, you knew you couldn't have chosen a better man to build a life with.

"What about the third bedroom?"

Clark pursed his lips, thinking.

"We'll figure something out."

Months later, you'd discover your boyfriend had always known you'd eventually claim the third bedroom too. Simply because there wasn't enough room in your studio for all your hobbies.

"Sweetheart."

You looked up from the sculpture you were restoring.

Clark was leaning against the doorway of the museum's conservation studio, wearing that smile reserved exclusively for you.

"Ready?"

He almost always picked you up after work. It didn't matter if it was raining, if you got out late, or if Perry White had just sent him across Metropolis to cover a story.

The only thing capable of stopping him was a criminal particularly determined to destroy the city.

Other than that... he always found his way back to you.

Sometimes you'd walk home together.

You loved wandering through the city together as the sun began to set, stopping for ice cream along the way or simply talking about nothing at all while your hands stayed intertwined.

But whenever you were too tired to walk, Clark would simply pick you up and fly you home.

Dating Superman definitely had its perks.

Like flying all the way to the museum just because he missed you... and discovering halfway through having sex in the employees' restroom that the walls were surprisingly sturdy.

Over the next few months, the apartment stopped feeling new.

The first thing anyone saw upon walking in was a photograph of the two of you kissing beneath the falling snow the day Clark asked you to be his girlfriend, just above the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you that afternoon. Beside it was the first front page he'd ever made at the Daily Planet. Farther inside the apartment—framed just the same—was your name written across the sky in clouds by Clark.

A half-finished scarf rested over the back of the couch in the living room.

The bookshelves were crammed with novels, plays, and CDs that Clark insisted on organizing by author, while you kept rearranging them by color just to mess with him.

And perched on a shelf, a cactus was slowly dying because neither of you could ever remember to water it.

In many ways, the apartment had become a museum of your relationship.

One afternoon, Lois showed up with an urgent lead she needed Clark to look into.

You were knitting tiny hats for the Fortress robots. Clark was reading.

She watched the scene for a few seconds before saying that you acted like grandparents.

She took it back a week later after walking in on the two of you hurriedly pulling your clothes back on in a storage room at the Daily Planet.

You were heartbroken when Clark refused to ever have sex there again.

It had taken time to get there. To find that perfect balance between peace and chaos.

Getting used to Clark had never been the difficult part.

It was getting used to the man who disappeared halfway through dinner because a bridge had collapsed, who showed up late because someone needed saving, who sometimes came home bruised and battered.

And who, despite everything, always smiled the moment he saw you.

Little by little, Clark learned how to quiet your fears. And little by little, you learned to stop waiting for the worst every time he disappeared.

Because loving each other was easy.

Maybe you knew how to restore paintings that had survived for centuries. Maybe Clark knew exactly what words to write to expose an injustice.

You painted, knitted, made pottery, drew. He could lift buildings with his bare hands.

But loving each other...

That was the one thing that never seemed to take any effort.

It was perfect. Ridiculously perfect.

Then your phone vibrated against the worktable.

"We need to talk after work. Not over the phone."

"So... you're taking care of Clark's cousin now?"

The question breaks the silence that has settled over lunch with your friends for nearly a full minute.

The three of them have just heard your very condensed version of the past few weeks.

You simply take another sip of your coffee.

"Well, I'm not doing it alone. It's... Clark and me."

One of them frowns.

"Clark."

You nod.

"The same Clark you've only been living with for a year?"

"Yes."

"Your boyfriend—not your husband—who's always late 'cause he keeps having... 'emergencies'?"

You grimaced.

"Yeah..."

"And now you're raising a teenager?"

"We're not raising her."

They look at you like you've completely lost your mind.

"Girls..." You sigh. "I chose this. I'm an adult. I'm his partner. And... Kara didn't have anyone else."

That part, at least, is completely true.

You've been extremely careful about how much you tell them. After all, you can't exactly say: "She's an alien teenager whose planet exploded. Her cousin happens to be Superman, who also happens to be my boyfriend."

So you've simplified the story.

Kara is Clark's cousin. She lost her entire family. And now she lives with the two of you.

That's enough.

One of your friends sighs.

"So... how's that going?"

The question catches you off guard.

You think about your answer for a second before forcing a smile.

"Good."

The three of them fall silent again, exchanging a glance before turning back to you.

"Three days ago you texted us saying that girl hated you."

"She doesn't hate me..." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, though you don't sound entirely convinced. "I was being dramatic. She's been through something horrible. She misses home. She misses her family. She doesn't know anyone here."

Your gaze drops to your coffee.

"I know what that's like."

They immediately understand what you mean, but you try to lighten the mood before any of them can reply.

"We're doing better."

Absolutely no one at that table believes you.

Especially not you.

Two weeks earlier, when Clark sent you that message, he apologized for scaring you, but he still arrived at the museum earlier than usual.

You were already waiting for him, your coat on and purse slung over your shoulder, as always.

The only thing that was different was the knot twisting in your stomach.

"We need to talk."

You'd been living together for a year, and the only recurring argument you'd ever had was about the obscene amount of salt you insisted on putting on almost everything you ate.

You had no idea what could possibly have led to this conversation.

And it terrified you.

Clark came walking toward you, a backpack slung over one shoulder, moving with that slightly awkward gait he always had whenever he was nervous. But he wasn't alone.

Walking beside him was a girl. A teenager.

You blinked several times, your gaze darting between the girl and your boyfriend—already wearing an apologetic look.

Before logic had a chance to intervene, your brain reached the most catastrophic conclusion imaginable.

That's his daughter.

Clark has a daughter.

Your boyfriend—the one you've been living with for a year—has a daughter he's somehow never mentioned.

The air left your lungs.

He noticed the exact moment the color drained from your face, immediately hurrying toward you with one hand half-raised.

"No," Clark said, already sounding dangerously close to panicking. "No, it's not that. It's not what you're thinking."

Without taking your eyes off him, you whispered, horrified. "You have a daughter?"

"No!" he hissed back.

The girl looked between the two of you with obvious confusion.

He took a deep breath. "She's... my cousin."

Suddenly, you remembered how to breathe.

A second later, your fist was already halfway to his chest before you remembered there was a teenager standing less than three feet away.

"That's what all the suspense was for?" you demanded. "Clark, I thought you were about to tell me she was your daughter! Or that you'd cheated on me! I didn't know your parents had siblings, but what's the problem?"

"Good gosh, no!" Now he looked completely horrified. "First of all, I would never cheat on you, and I definitely don't have any children." He paused to catch his breath. "And second...that's not what I meant."

"So what?"

Clark swallowed.

"Remember the ship I've been tracking?"

"The one you thought was Kryptonian." You nodded slowly, trying to piece everything together.

"Yeah... Kara was inside." He glanced at the girl. "We never imagined there'd be a teenager... or that she'd turn out to be my cousin. But... that's how it was."

You studied him for a few long seconds, saying nothing. Long enough to make your boyfriend visibly anxious.

"Okay..." Finally, you let out a slow breath. "I mean... wow, but... okay."

He nervously licked his lips before reaching for your purse, slipping it over his shoulder alongside the backpack.

"I'm sorry for showing up like this. I wanted to surprise you by telling you I'd found the ship, but... I was the one who ended up surprised." His voice grew quieter and he let out an incredulous laugh. "I couldn't leave her alone. And I didn't want to tell you something like this over the phone. She doesn't speak English. She's completely alone and..." His smile faded almost immediately. "She doesn't have anyone left."

"Hey..." You gently rubbed his arm, slowly shaking your head. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize. We'll figure it out."

Clark closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

"I don't want to force this on you. I don't want you to feel like you have to take on something this big when we haven't even talked about having kids." The words came tumbling out, as if he'd rehearsed that speech the entire drive over.

Kara looked back and forth between the two of you. She didn't need to understand English to realize her arrival had just turned both your lives upside down.

"You're not forcing me into anything." You took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes. "I'm your girlfriend. And one who has no intention of letting you go through this alone." It didn't matter that, on the inside, you were terrified.

Standing perfectly still, he finally released the breath he was holding ever since leaving the Fortress. Clark looked at you as though he still couldn't quite believe you'd actually said that.

Then he kissed your knuckles. And then your forehead.

"I'm so in love with you."

You couldn't help laughing.

He smiled too before turning toward the teenager.

"Kara."

You raised a hand in a shy little wave—with absolutely no idea whether that meant "hello" on Krypton or a formal declaration of war. So, you decided to trust the odds.

She answered with a smile so small, and so forced that something inside your chest tightened.

While his cousin wandered off to study one of the paintings in the hallway, you leaned closer to your boyfriend again. "Just one question."

"Yeah?"

"Are you absolutely sure you two are really 'the Last Son and Daughter of Krypton'?" You lowered your voice even further.

Clark already knew exactly where this was going the second you used that tone.

"I mean, another cousin isn't just gonna show up? Or a long-lost aunt? A secret wife? Five children scattered across the universe?" You pointed an accusing finger at him. "I'm not about to find out you have another life besides being Superman—like—a third life?"

Clark was genuinely concerned by your remarkable ability to imagine catastrophic scenarios, but, as always, it softened into a mixture of resignation and affection.

"I can assure you," he said at last, "I'm not married... I don't have any children... and I definitely don't have a third life."

You narrowed your eyes for a moment. He seemed to be telling the truth, so, slowly, you nodded.

"Okay." You took a deep breath. "Then let's go home."

Clark smiled softly before pressing another kiss to the top of your head.

The decision had already been made.

You were going to take care of Kara.

At first, you were far too hopeful.

On the way home, Clark explained everything Four—the robot from the Fortress of Solitude—had translated: Argo survived for years. Kara's mother had died slowly from radiation poisoning. Her father sent her to Earth when there was nothing left to save.

By the time you reached the apartment, the girl remained silent as her eyes wandered over the photographs on the walls, the framed paintings, the dried flowers you'd carefully preserved, the books lining the shelves.

The home you and Clark had spent the last year building together.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that all it did was remind her that hers no longer existed.

The room that was meant to be hers didn't help much either.

Only a few hours earlier, it had still been one of the places you disappeared to whenever inspiration hit.

There were paint stains on the walls, a few forgotten paintbrushes, balls of yarn scattered across the floor, scraps of fabric draped over a chair, and several half-finished craft projects waiting to be picked up again.

The moment your boyfriend stepped inside, he let out a sheepish little laugh.

"I forgot this was your little lab."

Looking around the room, suddenly you just wanted to crawl under the bed.

"We could give her my studio..."

"No. That's yours," Clark answered softly. "This'll be her room." He looked around the room for a moment before turning back to you and his cousin. "Just... not tonight."

You managed a faint smile.

"I'm so sorry." Even though the girl couldn't understand a word you were saying, you started gathering up balls of yarn, paintbrushes, jars of paint, and open sketchbooks. Clark crouched beside you almost immediately, after setting Kara's backpack down next to the bed.

Neither of you said another word.

That night, she went to bed fully dressed without eating a thing.

As you watched her for a few moments, your heart ached for everything she'd been through.

All those years you'd spent trying to rebuild yourself after the fire that destroyed your home had been leading to this. Because you knew what it was like to lose a home. You knew what it meant to start over.

And you were convinced that if anyone could understand Kara... it was you.

You thought that would be enough.

Clark closed the bedroom door with the same care someone would use when trying not to break something that's already broken.

He leaned against the hallway wall for a few seconds.

Then he looked at you. As if he wanted to ask one last time if you were really sure about this. As if he wanted to tell you it wasn't too late to change your mind.

And, at the very same time, beg you not to.

You rose onto your tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

"Hey..." You cupped his face for a moment. "We'll be fine." A soft smile appeared on your lips. "It's us." You paused. "We're two adults who love each other. We have good jobs. And we're perfectly capable of taking care of someone in our family."

For the first time since leaving the museum, Clark smiled.

A real smile.

"I love you."

"I love you."

Silence settled between you before he spoke again.

"I guess..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We're gonna have to start using the car more."

"Why?" A small frown tugged at your brow.

"'Cause we can't exactly fly everywhere anymore... or even walk everywhere if it's the three of us."

It took you a second to understand what he meant.

A normal couple with a teenager didn't fly across the city. A normal couple with a car... used the car.

You couldn't help smirking.

"Well, look at that."

Clark looked up.

"What?"

"You're already thinking like a..." You dropped your voice dramatically. "Father figure."

His smile faltered, and even in the dim hallway, you caught the faint blush creeping across his cheeks. He opened his mouth to protest.

"I'm not—" He stopped himself as you stepped closer and slipped your fingers into his.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, yes, you are."

Clark let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head, still unable to understand why you believed in him so completely.

You watched him for a few seconds before repeating: "We'll be fine. It's not like we just opened a daycare."

"Yeah... about that..." He grimaced, lowering his voice. You raised an eyebrow. "There's a puppy..."

"You adopted a dog?"

"No." Clark shifted awkwardly. "Well... kinda, but not really." He sighed. "He came with Kara and... I didn't really feel like I was in a position to tell her we couldn't keep him."

You took a slow breath.

"So... we have a Kryptonian dog."

He nodded very, very slowly.

Immediately, your mind filled with memories of all the things he'd accidentally destroyed.

The headboard pierced clean through by his heat vision while he was making love to you. Coffee mugs crushed to dust between his fingers whenever Lex Luthor pushed him too far. The bent balcony railing after one too many fights, when he'd misjudged his own strength.

If a grown Kryptonian still had accidents... What would a Kryptonian puppy do?

Oh, God, what would a Kryptonian teenager do?

"And..." Clark cleared his throat and you looked at him expectantly. "I was thinking..." He hesitated for a second. "Maybe I could bring Four tomorrow. He could... translate until one of us learns the other's language."

A quiet nod was all the answer he needed.

You weren't entirely sold on the idea of living with either a robot or a Kryptonian puppy, but it didn't seem like there was much of an alternative.

You took a deep breath.

It was decided.

You were going to take care of Kara.

Her Kryptonian puppy, too.

And apparently, Clark's robot would also be joining the household.

Because you were two responsible adults.

Because you loved each other more than anything.

Because you wanted to do this right.

You could do it.

Your friends drive you home after spending half an hour very deliberately avoiding the subject of Kara.

The moment you open the apartment door, the first thing you hear is:

"Krypto! No! Drop it!"

You don't even have to look. It's exactly what's happened every single day for the past two weeks.

Still, you step inside and set your purse down on the kitchen island.

Clark is chasing Kara's puppy around the living room.

Krypto has a shoe clamped firmly between his teeth. Not just any shoe—one of Clark's.

"That's not a toy!"

Trying to get away, the puppy launches himself straight toward the ceiling.

He bounces off it, sending a fine cloud of dust drifting onto the rug, before landing right back on the floor and taking off again.

Your boyfriend is right behind him.

Four—somehow now your household's unofficial translator—watches the entire scene unfold.

"The domestic canine has committed theft."

"I noticed," Clark mutters.

"Bruh."

"I still don't know where you keep learning those words, Four." He actually stops chasing the puppy just to complain.

Kara is sitting on the couch with a book in her hands, looking thoroughly embarrassed as she watches her dog race around the apartment.

She's the first one to notice you.

"Hey," you say.

Clark looks up. His entire expression changes instantly.

"Hey!" he finally manages to rescue his shoe, ignoring Krypto's indignant barking and walking over to kiss your cheek. "How was your lunch?"

"Great."

A lie. But Clark smiles anyway.

You aren't sure whether it's because he believes you or because he needs to.

Then he turns toward Kara, asking if she'd like anything in particular for dinner now that you're home.

He carefully strings together a few words in Kryptonian. His pronunciation is still awful, and Four corrects him at the end, but it still makes you smile.

"Anything is fine."

Four translates in Kara's own voice.

The answer is short. A little distant. Not quite rude. And after a few seconds, she glances at Clark, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly in an attempt at a smile.

It doesn't quite work, so she looks back down at the book Four translated for her.

He only hesitates for a second before nodding.

"Okay." Clark smiles—even if it's nothing more than a tired line across his lips—before turning back to you as if that brief exchange hadn't just punched him straight in the heart. "And you?" he asks. "Anything you're in the mood for, sweetheart?"

"Pasta sounds good." Now it's your turn to try smiling. It's probably more convincing than either Kryptonian's.

You just hope it's contagious.

Settling onto the couch, you leave a careful gap between yourself and the girl—not too close, but not too far away either.

"How was your day?"

Four translates the question.

"Fine." Kara doesn't even look up for a moment. After a brief pause—as though reminding herself she should—she finally lifts her eyes to meet yours. "Thank you..."

You nod, just like Clark.

And that's when you look around.

A Kryptonian puppy who's now decided one of your couch cushions is far more interesting than Clark's shoe. A robot wearing a tiny knitted hat. Your boyfriend's alien cousin putting on a pair of noise-canceling headphones. And your boyfriend—Superman himself—trying to wipe dog slobber off a shoe while practicing an alien language.

And somehow, the robot is still your favorite of the three new additions.

You try to remember why you'd been so certain this was going to work.

The panic shopping the very next morning.

Trying to guess Kara's size.

Painting over your own experimental murals.

Cooking everything you knew how to make because you had no idea what Kryptonians ate.

Even Krypto.

Especially Krypto.

Together, you'd poured so much of yourselves into making that place into a home for her... never imagining that only a few weeks later, it would become the very place where all three of you would begin to feel like strangers.

Every time you look at Kara, you keep thinking the same thing.

That you can help her because you understand her. That you desperately want to help her because you can't bear the thought of her spending years trying to save herself all alone. That you have so much of yourself to give her.

You thought that would be enough.

A small smile tugs at your lips. He's truly the best. You two have only been dating for a couple of months, but you've been enjoying every moment of it and there's a real chance this could be the one. But you're not getting too ahead of yourself, trying to do a better job of enjoying the present rather than focusing too much on the bigger picture.

Thirty or so minutes pass by before you hear a knock on your apartment door. You walk over and look through the peephole, smiling when you see a familiar figure standing outside.

"Hey," you say, opening the door for him. "Thank you for bringing them over. How much do I owe you?"

Clark shakes his head as he steps in. "You don't owe me anything. Maybe a kiss, if my delivery service has left you satisfied."

Your eyebrows furrow when you suddenly catch a whiff of garlic parmesan, and when you look down at what he's carrying, your eyebrows furrowing even further.

"Uh...what's that?" you ask as you shut the door, nodding towards the takeout container in his left hand.

Now it's his turn to furrow his eyebrows.

"What do you mean? They're the wings you asked for. I got them from that local place you love so much."

You bring your hand up to your mouth, letting out a muffled chuckle. "Clark, I asked for pads with wings."

"Yeah..." he says, holding up the pharmacy bag, then the takeout container. "I got you pads with wings."

"No, I meant pads with wings. The pads that have wings on them."

His eyes widen, cheeks instantly turning a bright pink.

"Oh my...gosh, I'm so sorry! I-I had no idea there was a difference. I've never seen the box before since you keep them all in that little basket a-and obviously I've never had to unwrap one bef—"

You reach up and pull him in for a kiss, chuckling against his lips.

"It's alright, Clark. I should have been more specific or sent a picture of the box. Totally my fault."

He sets the things down and instantly snakes his arms around your middle, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss.

"Mm mm. Not your fault at all. I should have asked," he hums before pulling back slightly. "Will you still be able to use the ones I bought you? There were so many kinds and all different brands...shoot, I really should have texted you."

You reach over to pull the bag down, looking at the box.

"These are actually the brand I like, so you made a good choice," you smile. "They just don't have wings, which is not a big deal at all. I'll still use them. Honestly, I'm starving, so the garlic parm wings are not an unwelcome bonus."

Clark chuckles. "Glad I got it somewhat right. Y'know what? I'll go grab you pads with wings, I don't want you using ones that you don't like."

"You really don't have to—"

"Yes I do," he says, cutting you off with a kiss. "I'll drop the other ones off at the women's shelter down on Washington Avenue. Do you think they'd take them since they're still in a sealed box?"

You nod. "I'm sure they'll be very grateful. It's a need that a lot of people don't think about when they donate."

He hums, nodding.

"Hm. Good to know," he says, trailing his large hands down to give your hips a squeeze. "You sit and enjoy your wings, I'll be back in a bit with the correct pads, okay?"

"Okay," you say, stealing one more kiss from him before he heads towards your balcony. "I miss you already."

Clark smiles, opening the door before closing it again, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

****

A little while later, on Washington Avenue...

A young woman sits at the front desk of the Metropolis Area Women's Shelter, fidgeting with a stapler, sighing as she looks at the clock. Just a few more minutes until her shift is over and she can finally go home.

She startles when a sudden burst of air ruffles her clothes, and her breath catches when she sees a figure standing before her with his arms covered with bags of something she can't quite make out. His red cape flutters slightly behind him as he steps up, and the woman can't believe her eyes.

"Superman?"

He offers her a smile and a slight nod. "Do you all accept donations of feminine products?"

"O-Of course," the young woman nods immediately. "Are they brand new, still sealed in the box?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Superman walks them up to the desk and sets all but one of the bags down. The woman looks slightly confused as to why he hasn't put all the bags down, but she doesn't say anything, and he smiles softly.

"These are reserved for a very special lady," he says.

She hums softly with a smile, nodding and taking the bags from on top of the desk.

"Well, thank you for the generous donation, Superman. All of our residents will really appreciate these."

He nods. "Have a good night, Miss."

Before she can say anything in response, he's gone, the door slowly swinging shut behind him.

(daily planet divider by saradika-graphics here on tumblr!)

>> clark kent masterlist for all of your clark kent needs! <<

Cannot get my mind off Alpha!Clark in his pre-rut, clueless and unable to explain why he’s suddenly grouchier, less social, tired all the time, and more territorial over everything — especially you, the cute receptionist at the front desk on his floor, and the sweetest-smelling thing he’s ever encountered in his life.

He glowers at anyone that speaks to you, and because you’re the receptionist, that means practically everyone on the floor. He’d even been snippy with Lois for asking you for directions to a conference room, and she had not taken kindly to that at all, lowering her voice so nobody in the neighbouring cubicles could hear:

“Don’t get pissy at me just because you don’t have the courage to tell the receptionist you want her on your knot.”

Clark is sure this isn’t what Lois had in mind when she gave him that advice. He isn’t sure how he ended up alone with you, but once it was just you two on the whole office floor, he barely lasted an hour before he had his slacks pulled just low enough to free his cock and you, bent over his desk.

One of your hands is braced against the flimsy wall of his cubicle, the other is tangled with his. He didn’t want to do it like this, didn’t mean to be so impatient about it, wanted to spend months courting you properly before he so much as laid in your nest. But golly, you smell so good, even better like this, spread open on his cock and dripping down his shaft. He relishes in the noises you’re making, every whimper and moan, every time you call him-

“Alpha!” You mewl out, and he groans in response, tightening his grip on your hip and pulling you closer, even though he’s already deep in you. He can see it, how deep he is, how his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust and gosh it makes him weak in the knees.

“S-so good, sweet girl-“ He mutters. “Takin’ it so good for me, such a sweet little pussy,” He can’t believe you’re letting him fuck you like this, and he swears he’ll make it up to you soon, lay you down in his bed and take his sweet time licking and sucking every inch of your skin until you’re shaking and dripping slick down your thighs. You’ve been such a good omega for him, he’d give you his last name this second if you asked for it.

“Please,” You whimper, after you’ve cum around his cock for the second time, your voice trembling from overstimulation every time he thrusts back into you. “Please, alpha, I need it- I need-“

“I know what you need, sweet girl,” Clark practically growls out. He’s been ready to pop his knot into you since he walked in this morning, never been so ready for anything, he’s just been waiting for you to ask. He halts his thrusts, leaning forward so his chest is over your back, pressing his knot right at your entrance so you can feel just how fuckin’ ready he is. “Gonna give it to you, I promise.”

He’s been surprisingly attentive – you don’t know if that’s normal for modern Alphas, but if your friends’ stories were anything to go off of, it’s not common. On your first day back at work you looked at yourself in the mirror and determined to lock up the emotions that had bubbled to the surface over the weekend, reminding yourself not to expect much more than the usual: polite smiles, coffee, small talk. Sure, he’d massaged your sore thighs and cooked filling meals and never once denied you an orgasm, fitting his broad frame between your legs every time your eyes went hazy with need, but that was just him being decent. Doing a favour for an omega in need. The last thing you want is to let yourself believe that your insane crush on him might be reciprocated.

But there’s nothing usual about Clark’s behaviour towards you after that weekend. He learns your bagel order and makes sure to have it on your desk before you get in, even on the days where he’s hours late, somehow. He gives you a pointed look if you even consider skipping out on your lunch break. He shoots you a mid-day Slack message asking how you’re feeling. He hovers. And his smile isn’t just polite anymore, it’s… warm. Beaming. Genuine, even if it’s in response to one of your dumb jokes. You hang out sometimes. A shared lunch here and there, snacks and crappy television at your place.

You don’t know what to do with all that. You try to maintain the slightest bit of normalcy in your relationship, try to subtly tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to keep going with this protective act, you’ll give him an out and pretend it never happened and your friendship – coworkership, really – can remain the same, but he never takes it.

“Hey!” Clark calls out as you speedwalk away from the Planet Tower, jogging to catch up. “It’s late, you- you were gonna walk home alone?”

It is late. 1am. The gubernatorial election results have just been announced, which means you get to go home, finally. Election nights are not for the weak, and you’re starting to get a bit loopy from the exhaustion. Clark seems to be faring just fine, in contrast. He’s not even panting from his jog, the way you certainly would be.

“I’m not walking, I’m gonna take the red line,” You say, dumbly, because-

“The red line runs express late at night.” He reminds you, and of course he remembers your stop is one of the local ones. He remembers everything. “You’d have to take-”

“The green line.” You let out a deep sigh, the freezing air turning your breath to fog as you exhale. The closest green line stop is a much further walk.

“It’s okay, I’ll walk you-”

“You don’t have to do that.” You remind him, embarrassed to be asking another favour of him, imposing another inconvenience after he’d done so much for you.

“I want to.” He insists, already turning to walk in the direction of the train stop, gently nudging your arm to follow him.

And you do, after a moment of hesitation, crossing the empty street with him, your steps in tandem. “Not sick of having me around quite yet?”

You’d both been at the office since 7am, and yet he shakes his head with a crooked smile. “Never.”

You walk and talk, making comfortable conversation about work, the holidays, annoying tourists, over the sound of an occasional car passing and the chattering of your teeth. You’d stupidly only worn a sweater, a thick one, but you didn’t anticipate the windchill that would pick up in the evening, freezing you even through the tightly-knit fibers of wool.

Clark notices – of course he does – and immediately removes his trench coat to drape it around you.

“Oh, no, it’s okay-” You protest immediately, even though the whiff of him that you get just from him whipping off his coat is intoxicating, just as warm and comforting as you remember it being.

“You’re freezing.” He emphasises as he ignores your objections, guiding your arms through the sleeves.

“You’ll be cold, too.” All he’s wearing is his work suit, but he just shakes his head.

“Don’t worry,” He smiles, like there’s a joke he’s telling that you’re not quite privy to. “I run warm.”

And well, his jacket is warming you up. It’s a nice one, double-breasted and cashmere and lined with some sort of satin, clearly tailored to fit him perfectly, which means you absolutely drown in it. His scent emits from every fiber, comforting you instinctually, that dumb, primal part of your brain remembering this is the first Alpha that helped you through a heat. You reluctantly settle into it, tugging it tighter around your shivering body, once you see that Clark really does seem totally unaffected by the cold.

You’ll blame your exhaustion for the way you lean your head on his shoulder during the train ride, nearly lulled to sleep by the hum of the engine, completely safe in Clark’s presence.

“So, when did Clark start courting you?”

Lois asks so casually you almost miss how outrageous her question is. You do a double take, eyes widening as she remains completely calm, still utterly focused on her desktop.

“He’s not!” You say, a little too defensively, judging by the raise of her eyebrow.

“No? Why’s he leaving you courting gifts, then?” She nods towards the tupperware full of homemade cookies sitting on your desk, dropped there with the excuse that he must’ve overestimated the ingredient adjustments.

“That’s not- that’s just him giving me leftovers.” She gives you a look, like she knows that’s not the only thing he’s given you, but you think, for a moment, that she might just drop the subject.

“Then why does he keep following you around like a lost pup?” She questions further, because if Lois ever drops a topic after one question, hell has frozen ever. “And didn’t he walk you home after election night? You don’t live that close.”

“He does not- Lois! He’s just a frien- just a friendly guy. You know him way better than I do.” You stutter out, unconvincingly, you’re sure, but you don’t want Lois to misconstrue Clark’s friendliness in a way that might make him uncomfortable. You turn back to your computer, trying to look and sound as unaffected as possible. “I don’t know him that well, really, there’s no way- there’s nothing going on. He’s just my coworker.”

Lois turns back to her monitor, muttering out a “whatever you say, girl” under her breath and changing the subject to the latest episode of the show you’ve been watching together, some sci-fi melodrama on a streaming website she lends you her password for.

When you think she’s not looking, you spare a glance across the bullpen towards Clark’s desk, checking to see if he’d somehow heard your lowered voices discussing him, but he’s turned towards his own computer, his shoulders tensed in concentration, utterly unaware of how badly you wish he would court you.

Whatever article Clark was caught up in that day was lengthier than you must’ve realized, because every time you see him after that, he’s locked into his desktop screen, only glancing away to give you a tight-lipped smile before continuing to type.

The way you start to obsessively scan the paper for his byline — and the Planet’s website, for good measure — is because you’re excited, obviously, to read his work, but nothing particularly hard-hitting pops up with his name on it. It’s fluff pieces, mostly; an article on interior decor, a pros and cons listicle of feeding your dog fresh food, an interview with a nutritionist on how potatoes are “actually healthy!” Not even a new interview with Superman. And yet, he stops inviting you to lunch, stops casually running into you at the printer or in the break room, stops coming over or offering to walk you to the train.

And maybe your hunger for his attention work is why, when Perry mentions at the weekly staff meeting that Jimmy was going on a vacation, you volunteer to fill in during his time away. Clark would need a photojournalist to work with, and at this point, you were desperate enough to take double duty if it meant you’d get a chance to speak to him outside of exchanging pleasantries.

But he’s tight-lipped after the meeting, avoiding eye contact with you even as he suggests regular meet ups at a cafe a few blocks away from the Planet to bring you in on his latest article, a piece on the discourse surrounding Superman’s propensity for property destruction. The draft is painfully one-sided, but you’re not the writer on this one, and more importantly, you’re not his friend. Not like Lois is, at least. So you refrain from suggesting he might be a bit too close to Superman to properly criticise him.

Every meet-up between you is similarly cold-shouldered, mostly comprised of you proposing photos you could take to accompany his articles – a shot of the rubble that’s become a permanent sight at Centennial Park from how many extra terrestrial attacks have taken place there, the reconstruction of the elevated orange line where Superman saved hundreds of citizens from a train crashing straight into the street below – and him nodding, adding a “sounds great” and not much else. It’s a maddening routine you develop. You meet, usually finding him already sitting at a table with both your coffee orders in front of him, talk briefly about his progress on the piece, then co-work for a few hours (Lord knows you need the time to work on your other articles) while he avoids the pleading glances you give him over the edge of your laptop screen. This goes on until you’re both tired of staring at the screen, and then part with nothing more than a polite goodbye.

“What’s Superman like up close?” You ask, two weeks in, frustrated at the sound of his indifference, both of you typing away on your laptops for hours like he wasn’t inside you a month ago.

He looks up, eyes wide, flustered. “What?”

“Superman. You know him pretty well, right? Exclusive interviews and all that?”

“Oh, right.” He shakes off the shock. “Great guy. Lois interviewed him too, that one time.”

“Yeah, I forgot about that. Wonder if he’d give me a quote to go along with some of these photos, do you think you could ask him?” You push further, not letting his curtness end the conversation.

“I already got some quotes for the article, so- uh, I don’t know. Wouldn’t want to bother him.” What? Since when?

You try not to let the sting of dismissal show on your face, but ultimately end up finding an excuse to leave not long after, trying not to think too hard about why his sudden distance is bothering you so.

You wait for the warmest day of the week – a blustery 43°, even with the sun high in the sky – to make a trip to Centennial Park for your photos, meandering past families and journalers on their own strolls through the green center of Metropolis to capture the pieces of various buildings and infrastructure that have ended up littering the space, too much debris to not be harmful to the surrounding ecosystem.

If Clark had asked for your two cents (and you’re sure he asks for Jimmy’s when they work together), you’d tell him conservation of the flora and fauna of Metropolis’s limited greenery deserves more than just a paragraph’s mention. You’re sure if he bothered to reach out to local ecologists about the effects of constant conflict in the middle of the city they’d have more to add, but you doubt he made the effort to ask for comment. Honestly, you have no idea why this wasn’t reassigned to Lois; her interrogation of Superman on his interference in international conflicts was the highlight of the Daily Planet’s year, and she has the awards on her desk to prove it.

You try to remain clearheaded as you point your lens at another pile of rubble, nestled between a thicket of trees on the outskirts of the park. It’s getting harder to pretend your every thought isn’t occupied by Clark, that what you hoped would help you get over your very silly crush on your coworker is in fact, making it worse. Shutting one eye and pressing your camera’s viewfinder to the other forces calm into your mind, becoming singularly focused on the composition of your shot.

And you’d bet money the shot would have been perfect, if the ground had not started to shake underneath you just as your camera shuttered. You move quickly, not even thinking to look away from your viewfinder, instead swinging your lens around to find the source of the disturbance: A blue and red blur, smashing something- someone into the pavement, carving a path of rubble through the street. Superman.

You press down on the shutter button wildly, instinctually, but when you look down at the screen display, none of the photos you tried to snap of the fight are remotely usable. The motion blur is too much, you can barely discern one object from another, and it doesn’t help that you nearly fell over in all the commotion.

You’re vaguely aware of the screams filling the air, car alarms going off, people around you running in the opposite direction, away from the fight, to safety. But as Superman switches gears, dragging his opponent upward to avoid hitting anymore buildings or people on the ground, you realise this will likely be your only chance to get a clear photo of him for the article. Maybe even a statement to go with it.

Damn it. Damn it, you’re going after him.

You dash out of the bounds of the park, running straight into the road — thankfully, all traffic on it has halted on account of the massive dent in the pavement — and toward the flying conflict.

Against the backdrop of a clear sky, without all the debris in your view, you can see Superman’s grip on the other person clearly. His enemy doesn’t look alien, clad in the familiar yellow patient uniform from Metropolis General, except- he’s glowing. From his fists, as they collide wildly with Superman’s body, trying to brute force his way out of a steel grip, and his eyes glow the same orange right before they shoot beams of destruction. With his back to you, you can see the LuthorCorp logo blazened across his shirt.

You chase them for what feels like several miles, judging from the burn in your tired legs, but when you check what street you’re on, you’ve only gone a few blocks east, edging closer to the lake that borders Metropolis. It’s here that you get your opportunity for a clear picture of your subject, as Superman pins the villain against the roof of a tall building, trapping him between two immovable objects.

Your muscle memory serves you well even in your panic, your arms moving unconsciously, pointing and shooting, and when you check your camera’s display- an actual squeal comes out of your mouth. It’s better than you could’ve ever hoped for: the cracks in the brick, the unnatural glow of the villain’s eyes, the composition of blue sky against a building stressed under superhuman weight, the slightest blur of motion on Superman’s fist adding just the right amount of tension to the photo without creating an unfocused look. It’s exactly what you needed, a perfect cover image for the article.

Just fuckin’ wait till Clark sees this.

You’re so elated, you don’t see the way the villain’s eyes snap towards you, finding just the right distraction to get Superman off him. You don’t notice the glow in his eyes intensifying, all you see is the radiation beam hitting the spot on the sidewalk where you stood just a second ago; because now you’re airborne, flying up and away, pulled along by two strong, blue spandex-covered arms.

All you can do is clutch your camera to your chest and try not to scream, screwing your eyes shut so you don’t vomit from the sudden movement or the sight of the ground getting further and further away

You keep them shut, even when you’re placed down on solid ground a mile away, taking deep breaths and feeling around your camera to make sure nothing’s broken and the lens didn’t crack. You count to ten Mississippi and wait till you stop swaying on your feet, the momentum of running for your life – well, your photo – and then suddenly flying away finally starting to catch up to you. When your eyes flutter open, Superman steps into your space before you can even get a close look at your camera. It forces you to look up at him, the man- alien- alpha, judging by his scent, who just saved your life, and he looks… angrier than you thought he would be.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks, fuming, brows furrowed as he looks down on you.

“Getting a photo for my article!” You explain, easily, like it’s obvious. “I’m with the Daily Pl-”

“The Planet? Don’t they teach you not to get caught in the crosshairs of a fight for the sake of a dang article over there?!” He raises his voice, as if using his alpha privilege on you is gonna make you any less indignant, especially after the fucking month you’ve had.

“Maybe if you didn’t insist on colluding to stage exclusive interviews for one journalist and literally no one else, I wouldn’t have to chase you down for a damn photo!” You shout, taking him aback, but he presses forward.

“I do not collu- it doesn’t- I-I do that to keep reporters out of danger, instead of risking their lives like you just did!” He’s gesticulating wildly, a bit comically, gesturing to emphasise his point, that he thinks you’re some stupid, underqualified, helpless omega.

“My hero,” You spit out, sarcastically. “Thanks a lot, for that. I was just trying to do my job. Good to know Clark also fabricates how nice you are.”

You turn around and walk off, towards the roof access door so you can get off this damn building and go home, edit the nice photo you got, and try not to think about the fact that you were almost Superman’s first human casualty today. You half-expect him to follow you, continuing your argument – he’s never been one to back down from a fight – but you hear the unmistakable sound of that escaped LuthorCorp experiment coming after him, and he’s forced to fly away, leaving you be.

You spent your entire evening, and the morning after, wondering how you’re going to explain what happened to Clark when you’re still in disbelief that you argued with Superman. Honestly, you think it might be better to leave that part out of the story, considering his apparent fondness for Big Blue (and his unwillingness to let you even ask for a quote).

You brace yourself to walk into the bullpen.

But Clark never shows.

For a few hours, you think he might just be fashionably late, but then Perry calls you into his office and cuts to the chase before you can even settle into your chair: “Kent won’t be in for another week. He took emergency time-off, so you’ll have to finish up the article yourself. You were almost done, right?”

“Oh, yeah- um, is Clark sick?” `

“It’d be a HIPAA violation if I told you.” He replies, in that matter-of-fact way he always does, that leaves no room for argument. “Your name will get added to the byline as a contributor. Congratulations, kid.”

“Thanks.” Your voice comes out flat. You should feel relieved, you’ve been spared another day of Clark’s cagey behaviour, but you’re not. You wanted another chance to speak to him, and- you feel insane for feeling that way, because he’s not your boyfriend, your Alpha, your anything, just a coworker you have a very silly crush on, who did you a favor once.

Perry snaps you out of your brief spiral, pulling a cigar from the wooden desk on his box, his way of signaling that the official part of the meeting was over. “Lane tells me you got a great photo of that fight yesterday, with the LuthorCorp experiment? How’d you manage that?”

You can’t help the grin that takes over your face. If nothing else, “You’re not gonna believe this.”

Perry’s instructions were clear: finish the piece on your own with the notes you and Clark shared.

It felt bad enough, adding to someone else’s article, in a voice that wasn’t your own, but trying to write transparently while maintaining Clark’s overly-favorable tone towards Superman was basically pulling teeth. Honestly, how did Perry approve the previous draft with so few notes? If it weren’t for the deadline drawing dangerously close, you’d beg your editor to let you go after a few additional sources for more perspectives, more context.

But you’re not a reporter, and Clark has an unspoken seniority over you, even though he’s never acted like anything but an equal towards you. To alter his article drastically would be crossing a line, and even though you would honestly take the argument it would spur over the silent treatment you’ve gotten from him lately, you still don’t want to hurt him.

So before you turn it in to Perry, you resolve to go to Clark’s apartment, just to let him look over the final version and avoid any further rifts between you.

You wanted your relationship to go back to the way it was. Before this article, before you were even sure he knew your name or what you did, before you knew what it was like to have his hands on you, caring for you. You wish you could erase the memory of his lips tracing every inch of your skin, the white-hot burn of taking his knot inside you. You fell for him in the comfort of his periphery, knowing he would never reciprocate, and you would never have to face the devastation of being rejected by someone you stupidly decided to develop feelings for.

You miss that comfort more than ever when you’re standing in front of his apartment door, staring down at his infuriatingly cute “There’s No Place Like Home!” doormat. It takes you too long to work up the courage to ring his doorbell, your heartbeat shamefully quickening as you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps approaching.

But it doesn’t come.

You wonder, after a minute of waiting, if his doorbell even works. You didn’t hear a ring inside the apartment when you pressed down on the button — a building this fancy, and the doorbell doesn’t even work? You hope he’s not getting ripped off, living in one of those overpriced new builds with a million Smart appliances and zero functionality.

When you raise your fist, rapping it against the door, that’s when you finally realise the door is open. Your heart drops into your stomach, in fear at first, but then the aroma hits you, fast and sharp in your lungs. An Alpha, in rut.

For one, clearheaded moment, it makes sense that Perry wouldn’t tell you the reason Clark wasn’t at work. He’s always been self-possessed, the definition of a beta, avoiding the topic of secondary genders when he can. When you came back from the time off he granted you for your sudden-onset heat, he gave you a nod of acknowledgement and asked if you were still on target to make your end-of-week deadline; no pretenses, no pretexts, just work.

You should’ve known.

But you didn’t, and now you’re stumbling into Clark’s apartment, towards the source of the scent like a magnet pulling you along. It’s heady and intense, all crisp, burnt edges where there's usually a soft warmth. He’s in pain. Unsatisfied, you can tell, it’s just him in the apartment.

You follow the scent to his bedroom door, pushing it open, then blanking at the sight of him on his bed, no glasses in sight, half-covered by scraps of a ripped Superman suit.

For a moment, your brain doesn’t cooperate with the evidence in front of you, refusing to coalesce Clark Kent and Superman into one being. Clark, your coworker with a devastating case of butterfingers, whose hand-eye coordination levels are in hell, who wears thick-rimmed glasses and comes in at least thirty minutes late, who disappears for hours on his lunch break-

Who never looks out of breath, even after climbing ten flights of stairs when the elevator’s out, who lifted an entire filing cabinet for you after you dropped a photo print under it, who runs warm and bruises your thighs unintentionally and whose scent makes you dizzy- how did you not recognise his scent?

Clark’s eyes, unobstructed by his glasses, find you then, standing in his doorway, eyes wide with your thighs instinctually pressed together. The snarl he lets out comes from somewhere deep in his chest, uncontrollable, even when he’s in a lull between waves. He’s conscious enough to ask you, through gritted teeth, “What are you doing here, omega?”

You feel blood rush to your face, suddenly humiliated, showing up at his door like this, desperate for his approval after he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

You hold up the printed draft of the article up pathetically, trying to look anywhere but at his exposed body.

“I-I was gonna get your final sign-off on, um, the piece- I had to finish it without you- I’m sorry-” You stumble backwards, tears stinging in your eyes as you make to leave him in peace. “I’ll go-”

“No.” He growls out, using that voice on you, the one he knows will force you to root in place and obey.

You have no choice but to stand there as he makes his way towards you, your eyes glued to the ground because if you look up, you know you’ll stare. He’s completely bare, broad shoulders and tapered waist on full display. Despite the weeks you’ve spent trying to deny the ache in your chest and between your legs when you catch sight of him, he’s still what you imagine every night, when it’s just you and the suction vibrator you keep in the bedside drawer.

Having him in front of you like this is hard enough. Your breath sticks like molasses in your chest as you try not to lose yourself to his scent, willing your body not to drip slick into your panties. You exhale shakily when his hand comes up to cup your jaw, chuffing at you, urging. Look at me.

His eyes, usually a clear blue, are blown wide, dark and hungry.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” Your voice is thick with the tears that threaten to escape your eyes. “I really didn’t mean to- I can leave- oh!”

His head dips as he tilts your chin up, interrupting your attempt to apologise with the feeling of his nose on your neck, scenting you. Your hands land instinctually on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you practically bend backwards to accommodate the sheer mass of him leaning over you.

“Alpha,” You breathe out, despite yourself. “I can go- ahhh- let me call someone for you, to h-help you.”

“Don’t want anyone else,” He whines, tongue darting out to taste the scent of arousal that was undoubtedly pouring out of your scent glands. A purr hums in his throat as his hands drift down to your hips, pulling you closer against him, his hardened length brushing up against your belly. You feel the front of your sweater dampen obscenely, precum dribbling onto you, creating a wet spot on your front already. “Need you.”

You whimper at the admission, digging your fingers into his skin. One of your hand drifts up the expanse of his neck and tangles itself into his hair, pulling him closer, his purring intensifying at the tug. “Okay. I’ll stay with you.”

Clark doesn’t waste another second, gripping the backs of your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his middle, leaving his hardness pressed between your legs, his lips glued to the source of your scent.

“Good omega. Stay.” His voice drips with desire, deep and growly, and you know he’s slipping back into a haze. You shift your hips against him, granting you both the friction you’re craving, your shameless moans filling the air as he carries you back to his bed.

Despite his tight grip on you, he sets you down on his sheets slowly, carefully, climbing over you to capture your lips, finally. You’ve spent so much time denying yourself the privilege of craving the taste of him, blocking out the sweet pleasure of his tongue against yours, and now you’re dizzy from the contact high. He surrounds you, his body covering yours completely, his scent drowning out anything else. When his lips leave yours, you lean up, chasing, whimpering softly.

“Why did you run from me?” He asks.

You shrink away, your cheeks heating again at the sight of his frustrated expression.

“I-I thought you didn’t want me, you-” You say, confused. “I didn’t want to force you to be with me just because… of what happened.”

He chuckles, but it’s humourless, disbelieving. “I was trying to court you.”

“I didn’t want your obligation, Clark-”

“I told you I like you, too, omega.” He reminds you, leaning close again, nudging his nose against yours. “Did you forget that part?”

His hand slides up beneath your sweater, leaving a trail of heat on your skin, stopping just beneath your chest. You know now that he can hear your heart skipping a beat whenever he touches you. “Did I distract you too much?”

You arch up into his touch, your head lolling back against the mattress, urging him to keep going. He noses at your jaw, back down your neck, teasing. “Clark, please-”

His teeth nip at you, correcting, drawing a gasp from you. “Alpha!”

Clark groans, pushing your sweater up and over your head, and you cooperate eagerly, desperate to get closer to the heat of him.

“Don’t run from me again, omega.” He says, firm, his hand finding your jaw again so he can be sure you’re looking at him when he says it. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes again, no longer shying away.

“I won’t.” Promising.

The sound of fabric ripping, buttons hitting the floor as they pop off your blouse, is barely audible over his pleased growl. He shuffles down your body, throwing your legs over his shoulders, not even bothering with the rest of your clothes. He pulls the drenched fabric of your panties aside and licks, just to taste, gathering your slick on his tongue and moaning like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever had.

He forces your legs to spread wider, holding you open for him while his lips close around your clit, his tongue moving against you like his life depends on the way your hips roll into his face, your hands gripping his hair. You’re reduced to pleading mewls like this, powerless under him, leaking down his chin. You can feel him smile against you, pleased at how quickly he can make you dumb with it, his hips bunching against the mattress, chasing your pleasure along with his.

He brings you to orgasm easily, effortlessly, twice before you’re squirming futilely against his hold, even though you know now, better than ever, that you couldn’t run away from him if you tried. He lifts his mouth from you only for a second, just to subdue you again. “Be good for me, omega.”

You lose track of time under his tongue, barely conscious of your sticky inner thighs, the damp sheets underneath you, or how you’re surely gripping his hair too tight, tugging at it insistently, uncontrollably.

Your face is wet with tears by the time he grants you any sort of reprieve, your legs limp when he lets go of them, kissing back up your figure till he finds your lips again, relieving you of your clothing as he goes.

You find yourself unable to care that his lips are still covered in your slick when he kisses you, moaning into it, pliant and open-mouthed. His scent is overwhelming, smouldering, like burnt sugar, and you know he’s tipped over the edge, out of his mind with the need to root himself deep inside you. There’s a near-constant growl rumbling in his chest, and you don’t resist when he flips you over, placing a pillow under your hips so they’re tilted up, towards him, presenting.

You brace yourself, expecting to feel him push in quickly, desperately, but Clark stays back, panting with desire. You peak back at him, after a minute, and find him staring, dazed and flushed at the sight of you, open for him. He thumbs gently at your slit, splitting you open, both of you gasping as you feel yourself clench.

“So beautiful,” He mutters, so quiet you think he must not even intend for you to hear it. “All mine.”

He lowers himself over you, covering you, brushing your hair away from your face so he can plant a few quick, sweet kisses on your lips. You feel the blunt tip of him at your entrance, drawing a sigh of relief from you, finally right where you wanted to be.

“Say it,” He whispers. “Tell me you’re-”

“Yours. ‘M yours, Clark, please-” You gasp as he breaches you. “Oh, yes.”

The stretch burns, deliciously familiar, stopping your breath in your throat as you try to adjust. Your hand flies up to grip his bicep, digging your nails in. “Yes, alpha, please, I can take it.”

“Know you can, baby,” He gasps out, grinding into you, just feeling your walls squeezing down around him. It’s you who has to urge him on, beg him to fuck you in earnest, till your skin stings from slapping against his. You didn’t wait this long to not have him grinding against that spot inside you, his tip brushing against your cervix in a vulgar kiss, the insistent press of his inflating knot against entrance driving your eyes to roll back into your head.

It doesn’t take long. Each one of his movements is accompanied by a desperate, wrecked noise falling from his lips, and both of you have been deprived of each other for so long, it’s so easy for Clark to get lost in it. As soon as he feels the familiar spasm of your climax around him, his thrusts go sloppy, uneven, rutting until he feels his knot take root inside you, crying out.

He’s quick to bring his hand to his mouth, digging his incisors into his own palm, just to sate the ache in his jaw,

You go limp at the pulsing hot fill of him inside you, relieved, elated. There’s a dazed smile on your face, a quiet purr emanating from your chest as Clark laps at your neck, mindlessly, grooming you like a pup. His hips are still bucking against you sporadically in the aftershocks of his climax, his cock still spurting inside you — hard to believe that in an hour’s time, he’ll have more to give you.

You shift, playfully tugging against his knot, as if there’d be any way to separate him from you now. He grunts, pinning you down with just his body weight, an airy laugh falling from you. He’s too easy to tease.

“No more running, baby, remember?” His tone is earnest, almost pleading, making your heart ache for him.

You hum in agreement.

“No more.”

It’s a high bar to clear. There was that period of your life where you openly read old school erotica paperbacks at the lunch table, half-naked alphas on the cover and all. There was your Hamilton phase. The countless times you’ve tripped and fallen in public. But this – being huddled into the nearest supply closet in your workplace, on the cusp of heat – somehow takes the cake.

Your heats have always been consistent, on the dot, every three months, which is why you paid it no mind when the symptoms started to appear early. In hindsight, you should’ve known when Lois left her cardigan at your place after a movie night and you refused to return it, instead adding the piece of clothing to the pile of comforting items on your bed and whining when you had to leave that pile every morning, to get ready for work. But you ignored the glaring signs of pre-heat until it started to hit you, full-force, in the middle of your day in the office. Warmth crept up under your collar until you began to sweat, and then the cramping started, and only then did you cancel your meetings for the day and lock yourself in the supply closet.

And really, barricading yourself in wasn’t the brightest idea you’ve ever had. It felt like a great idea in the moment, compared to walking all the way home on the crowded streets of Metropolis, alone, stinking of pre-heat (horrible). Now you’ll just have to wait till all your colleagues head home for the day, and then take an overpriced taxi home, after dark (slightly less horrible).

Then someone knocks on the door.

“Anybody in there?”

This is the worst-case scenario. You’d know that deep, comforting voice anywhere: your coworker, Clark Kent.

Despite your mutual friendship with one Lois Lane, you don’t cross paths often. Clark prefers to collaborate with Jimmy on his articles, and you’ve never taken that to heart. Honestly, you don’t envy how often Jimmy ends up running around town anyway, getting photos of Superman’s latest heroic exploits to go with Clark’s interviews. Clark never joins the Daily Planet happy hours at the bar across the street. The most you’ve heard him speak is at the monthly staff meetings.

None of that has stopped you from developing a crush on him. It’s no wonder, considering how considerate he is, how tall and broad he is, how smart he is, how he still brings you coffee in the morning despite the fact that you barely know each other. Quite frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if half the office was in love with him.

“... Clark?” You called out, even though you know it’s him, he always smells so good.

“Yeah, it’s me,” He replies, his tone gentle, like he’s trying to soothe the distress he knows you’re feeling. “Are you alright?”

And now you know for sure that he’s aware of why you’re locked in this supply closet. Humiliation creeps up your throat and your eyes start to sting with tears and shit, you hate the state that pre-heat puts you in, constantly on the verge of crying.

“Did you… smell me?” You ask, your voice quieter than you’d like it to be, but he manages to hear you even through the door.

He pauses for what seems like forever.

“Yes, I-I did.” You groan in response. You’d picked the closet that’s farthest away from any cubicles, hoping the distance and the concrete walls of the Daily Planet building would work in your favor, but of course it wouldn’t. “It’s okay, I’m the only one who can. I-I mean, I think”

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, putting all your effort into holding back your tears, because of course you would end up scandalizing the only man you’ve had a crush on in years.

“Don’t be,” He’s comforting you, because any decent alpha would. “Would it be okay if you let me in?”

You know your judgement is clouded. It must be, if you thought this whole supply closet business was a good idea, but Clark is always so kind. You can tell he wants to be respectful, that he’s just concerned about his colleague.

So you shuffle towards the door and open it just wide enough for him to slide through, in some last-ditch effort to prevent any more coworkers from scenting you in this state.

He looks you up and down, taking in the sweat starting to bead at your forehead and the flush that seems to spread down your chest, and immediately, instinctively, crouches down to your level, reaching a hand out to caress your cheek. “It’s not safe for you to come to work like this.”

“I didn’t know,” You insist, though his tone isn’t accusatory. “It’s early. Weeks early. I panicked when I realized-”

“-And hid in a supply closet?”

“I can’t walk home alone like this!” You practically whine, and Clark hums in agreement, his thumb brushing your cheek soothingly. You lean into his touch while he contemplates the dilemma you’ve gotten yourself into, and you’re suddenly grateful that he’s here out of everyone in the world, because now that you’re close to him you can make out the specific notes of his scent. It’s fiery and comforting and strong, like a fireplace, and you could just lean right into him to get more of it-

“What if- I could scent you?” He says suddenly, uncertain, because he knows you’re prone to his persuasion in this state. “If I cover you with my scent enough, you should- I can get you home. If it’s okay with you?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” He’s already taking off his jacket, and you’re already nodding, dizzy at the thought of being drenched in him.

His jacket is massive on you, but it’s soft, lined with silk on the inside, and it smells like him, and you want more. When you look back at him, his pupils are already blown wide at the sight of you draped in his clothing, his scent already starting to cover yours.

He leans closer, trailing the hand on your cheek down to your neck, his thumb coming up to stroke your skin, right where your scent gland is.

“Are you sure this is okay?” He asks again, his voice gravelly, restrained.

You nod eagerly, shuffling closer, knee-to-knee on the ground with him. Finally, his head ducks down, and you feel his nose gently nudge your scent gland, and your hand flies to grip his shoulder, already overwhelmed by having him so close to you.

He’s incredibly careful with you, frustratingly so, because your base instincts want him to hold you as tight as possible, if he asked nicely you honestly think you’d let him take you right there on the floor, but you beat back those instincts, trying to remember that he is your coworker and is just doing you a favour. Just being nice, like he always is.

So you try not to get too dizzy when Clark rubs his cheek on your scent gland, try to quell your whimpers when you feel his tongue on your neck, his scent beginning to completely dominate yours, marking you as his for just a few hours.

He brings one of your hands up to his neck, guiding you to rub your wrist against his gland, making sure every inch of you is covered in him. Leaving no room for leering alphas to mistake you for being unclaimed.

He takes a few deep breaths once his work is done, double-checking that your scent is undetectable under his, before helping you stand on your shaky legs and adjusting his jacket on you.

He cups your face in his hands again, forcing your dazed gaze back onto him. “Deep breaths, honey. Are you alright?”

You nod, but he shakes his head.

“Gonna need you to say it for me.”

“Yes,” You breathe out. “‘M okay, w-we can go.”

Clark guides you all the way home, never more than a few inches away, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. You keep stealing glances up at him, but his eyes are always elsewhere, observing everyone around you, daring them to look your way. It’s the most intimidating you’ve ever seen him look, and honestly, you know if you look too long, you’ll start leaking slick long before you make it home, so you determine it’s best to keep your eyes low. But you stick close, his warmth shielding you from the blistering windchill in the air.

He walks you into your building, all the way to your door, and really, there’s no reason for him to come inside, but you invite him up to your apartment anyway, offering hot cocoa to warm him up. Really, you just want to bask in his warmth a bit longer, hoping the smell of him rubs off on one of your pillows or something, so you can shove your face into it as soon as he leaves.

He takes his shoes off at the door before you even ask him to, careful not to spread dirt on the floor. He looks hesitant to even sit on your couch, not wanting to disturb your carefully curated apartment. It’s sweet, the way he looks around your living room, taking in all your decorations, the way your scent covers every inch of the space.

You disappear into the kitchen, finding yourself suddenly fretful over the process of making a Swiss Miss hot chocolate, pouring the nervous energy from having the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your living room while on the cusp of your heat into measuring out the packet of cocoa sugar. You pray to whatever deity might be up there that he’s not picky over recipes, because you know he won’t complain – hell, you’ve seen him apologise to other people for ramming into him with the mail cart – but you want to make it perfect for him. You balance two mugs of hot chocolate carefully on a wooden tray, laden with random snacks you keep around for whenever a craving might hit you.

You find Clark still perched on your couch, facing the kitchen doorway like all he’d done while you were gone was wait for you to come back, and he smiles fondly when he sees the little set-up you prepared.

He stands, taking the tray from you and setting it down gently on your coffee table.

“Sit with me for a second, sweetheart,” He says, patting the spot next to him on the couch, where you happily perch for him, sitting on your calves.

“Thank you for making sure I got home safe,” You tell him, smiling shyly.

“‘S no problem, honey, I wasn’t gonna leave you like that.” He keeps that tone with you, deep and soothing, and it only makes you want him more. Just him calling you honey has you dripping into your panties again, and you hear him grunt as the scent hits his nose. “D-do you have somebody you want me to call? To help you?”

You shake your head, a bit embarrassed at the admission of your non-existent love life.

“Do you have-” For once, he’s the one blushing. “Do you have… supplies? To get you through your heat?”

Your head tilts, confused. “I have, um, water, and groceries, and plenty of blankets, if that’s what you mean.”

“You don’t have… toys?”

Your mouth parts with a silent “oh”, realising what he means — there are plenty of them out there, special-made dildos with knots at the bottom to help an omega through their heat. You’ve always thought that if you were going to get one, you’d want one of the fancier models, the ones that have a button to inflate the knot on command, or the ones with a thrusting function, or maybe one where you can customize the size. Every time you searched online, you ended up overwhelmed by the options, not to mention the prices, and ended up closing out the tabs before you could make a decision, half-heartedly thinking that you’ll save up enough to buy it one day.

“No, I- I usually just deal with it, um, on my own.” You curl your fingers around the hem of your skirt, tugging on it nervously, feeling yourself dampen further with just the thought of touching yourself.

He glances down at the motion, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, dizzy as he takes in your flushed cheeks and heady scent.

“You’re close,” He mutters, almost to himself. ”Sweetheart, if you want… I can- I can stay. I can help you, but if you don’t want me to, I’ll leave now, bring you anything you need, promise, it doesn’t have to b-“

You shake your head vehemently, cutting off his rambling, scooting closer to him.

“Want it to be you, I-” You feel blood rush to your cheeks, your mind becoming a bit hazy at how close his face is getting to yours. “I like you.”

Your confession makes him smile.

“Yeah?” He nudges his nose against yours, playfully affectionate. “I like you, too, baby.”

Then his lips are on yours, deep and wanting, a groan escaping him as soon as he gets a taste of you. He lets you climb into his lap while you slip your tongue past his lips, desperate for him, his hands falling to your hips to encourage you to grind into him for a bit of relief from the burning, feverish desire you feel.

You used to dream about this. On quiet nights after a long day, you’d slip your hand under your pajamas and allow yourself to believee that Clark stole glances at you like you did to him, that some day you’d be stuck together for an assignment, or the last two left after a happy hour with the rest of the Planet crew – you switched up the scenario to keep it interesting, but the result is always the same – he’d reveal his overwhelming attraction to you, take you back to his cozy apartment, and fuck you ‘till your legs felt like jelly and his spend was dripping down your legs, all the while whispering in your ear about how you were the sweetest omega he’d ever touched.

The supply closet was not your idea of a fantasy, but this, being lifted by your thighs when Clark stands and carries to your bedroom, felt eerily similar to what you’d pictured on all those nights, down to his lips never leaving yours, the mass of muscle under your hands as you held onto his biceps, the heated edge to his scent as his arousal became evident.

He lays you on your bed, and even through the haze of desire, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state of your bedroom, the collection of soft objects carefully arranged in subconscious preparation for your heat, your cloying scent coating every inch of the room. If Clark minds, he doesn’t show it, exceedingly careful not to disturb your nest when he sets you down. He finally pulls away from spit-slicked lips to press open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, while he moves to lift your shirt off.

“If at any point, you need me to stop-” He looks back up at you, pressing a kiss just below your navel. “Just tell me, baby, and I’ll stop.”

“‘M not gonna want you to stop,”

He takes his time removing your blouse and simple bra, his eyes fixated on the flush of your skin that goes all the way down your bare chest, long enough to make you squirm under his gaze before he gets his mouth on your nipples, kissing, sucking, kneading your sensitive flesh till you feel slick soak down your thighs. He relieves the discomfort of wet fabric on your skin before you can even voice it, removing your skirt and panties in one tug, soothing your slick, burning skin with his touch.

Then your legs are over his shoulders, kisses trailed up your thighs as he sets his hungry gaze on your sex, a low, rumbling purr forming in his chest at the sight of you bare for him.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna let me taste this sweet cunt,” He mumbles against your skin, not bothering to hide the deep breaths he’s taking, drinking in the smell of you. “You’re gonna send me into a rut, sweetheart, just the taste of you-”

“No, please, alpha,” You beg, tangling your fingers through his curls and trying to tug him up from between your legs. “I need you-”

“Need me inside, baby, hm? I know,” He coos. “Know it hurts, but I have to get you ready for my knot first, need to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

He answers your distressed whines by opening his mouth over your pussy, lapping at you languidly like he’s doing it for himself, not to hear your desperate mewls, just the taste of you making him groan.

You’re sensitive, and completely at his mercy, letting out pleasured whimpers every time he touches you. He has no trouble bringing you to multiple climaxes, closing his lips around your clit and sucking until you’re rocking your hips against his face, knuckles cramping from the strength of your hold on his curls. His strong hands holding you in place are the only thing that stops you from squirming away when it all gets too much, his tongue unrelenting against your clit, his thick fingers slipping inside you easily after two orgasms, stretching you and curling inside you till you’re incapable of forming sentences, only able to cry out his name over and over again. Still, the burning in the pit of your stomach won’t subside, only getting more intense with each high, you can feel yourself getting delirious with your need for him.

And just when you think Clark is done prepping you, torturing you by bringing you to orgasm after orgasm without him deep inside you, he finally lets you see him. You can’t stop yourself from staring once he finally removes his briefs, his fully hard cock so heavy it can’t even stay upright, thick and flushed red and so pretty. Your eyes swim with tears of joy when he settles over you, his shaft resting so perfectly between your folds, parting them, as he smears his still-wet lips against yours and begins to rut against you. His cock slips between your lips, covering it in your slick, the tip nudging against your clit deliciously but never catching against your entrance, never giving you what you need.

You’re practically sobbing for it. “A-alpha, please, please-“

“Be good f’r me, omega,” Clark slurs, drunk on the feeling of your soft skin against his, the smell of your slick in the air, the taste of it on his lips. He can feel it, the creeping fever on the back of his neck, the need to fill you overtaking every instinct he has. He just wants to draw it out a bit longer, make sure you’re really ready to take his size without hurting, just wants to make you feel good over and over again before he stuffs you with his load.

Your orgasm comes suddenly and leaves you breathless, twitching, digging your nails into his back when you finally feel the head of his cock at your entrance. Your legs wrap around his waist, trying to get him to push in just a little bit, but it’s no use — his strength far outweighs yours. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing your eyes open and on him.

His gaze is intense, and forcing you into clarity for a moment, focusing on meeting his eyes as he presses into you, inch by inch, pausing when your breath catches. He waits, every time your brow pinches with the force of the stretch, pausing until you nod for him to keep going.

When he bottoms out, his pelvis flush against yours, he stays there, pressing sweet kisses to your lips despite you rocking your hips up into him. The hand on your jaw moves down in favour of gripping your thigh, hoisting it further up on his waist, forcing you open for him and halting your movements.

“Gotta give me a second, omega, or ‘m gonna- fuck- gonna pop my knot before I’ve even felt you cum around me.” He warns, his jaw clenched tight.

You watch him as you wait, his eyes screwed shut, his glasses slightly fogged, cheeks bright red. You can’t believe you get to see him like this. Fully rooted in you, not an inch of space between you. All pent up, just from getting his mouth on you, giving you exactly what you need, what you’ve wanted for so long, and then-

He’s rocking his hips into you shallowly, just letting you feel his cock drag against your walls, grinding up into that spot that makes you see white while he whispers praise, trying desperately to contain his strength so he doesn’t bruise your thighs. You cum just from that, from feeling so full and raw and satisfied, finally, that your lungs constrict and you feel the gush of slick between you, soaking both of you, but he doesn’t stop for a minute, just mumbles how good you are for him, “Yeah, yeah, that’s it, baby, cum for me, just like that-“

He starts to fuck you in earnest, the hard thrust of his hips knocking moans from both of you, sloppy and slick and unrestrained.

All you can do is cling to him, clenching and whining sweetly for him, the hot clutch of your cunt drawing him in over and over again till you can feel the swell of his knot nudging at your entrance, and then you start to beg again. Pleading for him to fill you, to make you his, telling him yesyesyes when he laps at the curve of your neck, smothering you in his rich scent again.

You can feel him thickening inside you, beginning to lose himself to the feel of you as his hips lose their controlled swing, reduced to groans tight in his throat like he can’t bear to form words anymore. Then his teeth, the sharp ridge of his incisors, scraping at your scent gland, the hint of a claim tips you over the edge again, making a mess of the sheets under you and reducing your limbs and mind to mush. It’s here, in this state, that he can finally push his pulsing, massive knot into you, locking you with him as he spills his seed.

And he cums so much. Filling every inch of you, till you have nothing to want for, finally sated for the time being. Your head is fuzzy with his scent, the hot swell of his knot inside you, the feeling of his lips on yours again, soothing and grounding.

“Omega,” He mumbles, pulling away, a string of spit between your lips and his still connecting you. “How do you feel?”

A pleased chirp leaves your mouth, and you wiggle your hips under him just to feel the tug of his knot inside you, making him grunt in surprise, a fond smile forming on his face.

“‘M so happy,” You tell him, pressing a kiss to his jawline. “So full, alpha, thank you.”

You stay like that for a while, letting him fawn over you, peppering praising kisses anywhere he can reach, asking if you’re hungry or thirsty repeatedly, despite your insistence that all you want is him.

When his knot deflates just enough to slip out, he grabs you water anyways, coaxing you into downing at least two glasses and half a granola bar with several pecks in between sips and bites. Only then does he settle back into bed with you, purring comfortingly as he wraps an arm around you from behind.

For a few minutes, you lay with him, soothed despite the fact that when your heat clears, you’ll go back to being coworkers, this fulfillment of your desires only lasting so long before this favor is done and you return to coffees in the morning and a few words exchanged during meetings.

Then your mind clouds again and you’re reaching for him, moaning sweetly when he lifts your thigh and fills you from behind, promising to spear you on his knot as many times as you need.

You get worse before you get better. Clark takes you more times then you can even make sense of in your delirium, even makes you cum on his knot a few times, grinding into you and swirling his thumb over your clit just to tire you out and soothe your feverish pleas.

And he kisses you. All over, but especially your lips, can’t seem to go long without the taste of your mouth on his, and when he’s not kissing you, he’s telling you how good you are for him, how good you feel, how much he loves filling you. Spends every lucid moment you get making sure you’re both energised, even sweet-talking you into getting a few hours of sleep when he can.

You give yourself over to him. For those few days, you let yourself forget that it’s a fantasy at all.

Clark can only stare at the flimsy drywall, taking a heavy gulp in an attempt not to just…look. "They're…passionate?" He points out, questioning, only to be met with a withered glare.

"No woman would ever make those noises for a man unless they're being paid to." You refute.

"I…see." Clark clears his throat, holding a loose finger up to point at the offending noise. "Do you think it's a…"

"Hooker? Yes. Great one by the sounds of it."

"Right. I didn't realise there was a baseline." His statement hangs in the air, heavy with his genuine and innocent observation.

"In what sense?" You pry, the noises from across turning far less interesting now.

"Uh. I don't know. The louder a lady is when…you know. The better the intercourse is?" Clark looks up to the ceiling thoughtfully. Shaking his needless curiosity away.

"You're thinking about something."

The broad-shouldered man jolts, turning to face you in the wake of your blunt statement. "I…I'm not sure what you mean."

"You've got that look on your face," you say simply. Then, playfully whip your sleep mask at him — it lands against his chest with a thud, a mocking noise as his heart rate picks up. "Spill."

"I — gee," Clark relents with a sigh, slowly standing up, albeit unsteadily, before plopping onto the bed next to you. The motion sends the mattress dipping low under his heavy weight, forcing you to slide closer to him.

"It's not so much a thought…but an observation."

When he turns to you, your gaze is already on him. All wide and curious. His head snaps away from your innocent stare, "when you and I…are intimate."

He continues after a beat, "you're sort of…loud," then, his hand comes up to loosely point to himself, "so... that means you feel good. With me."

The words land as a brief shock to you. Not at the implication, but that Clark had actually formed that specific thought just from an off-handed comment.

Your answer came in the form of a gentle swat to his hand, paired with a shy, honest look, "…don't do that. Makes you look dorky."

Clark's lips break out into an easy smile, his head bowed to chase your eyeline. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm thinking about now?"

"Not interested." Your rejection comes swiftly, punctuated with a dramatic slump onto the comforter. Though the quirk at the corner of your lips gives your actual thoughts away.

"Oh, come on," Clark's voice drops to that familiar, negotiating lilt. The bed dips further, with his elbows secured over the pillow you hid your face in. His warmth behind you inched closer. "Ask me."

You look over your shoulder suspiciously, "hurry up before I change my mind."

His lips curl into a wide, dimpled smile.

.

.

.

'Let's see how honest you can be without making a single sound.'

It was a stupid, impulsive challenge thrown out there. One that was potentially dangerous to their cover. Possibly — no, completely unnecessary for two people who were only in a motel room to stake out an elusive contact.

The logic was hard to fight. It was a bet to be quiet. So the pact was formed in the wake of the soft rustle of sheets, the gentle hold of Clark's palm at the base of your lower back. You bit down on your lip hard at a tug that forced you flush against Clark's chest, with your thighs draped over his thicker ones. Instinctively, you arch into him.

His gaze tracked your movements, intently raking over your twitching thighs. Clark's head lowers, his lips searching for a spot — a spot he knew would incite a shiver from you. The kiss beneath your ears did just that, squirming helplessly to the mercy of his teasing touches.

A whimpered sound choked on the way out of your lips as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your bottoms, a whisper of the fibres gracing the heavy, hot air in the room. His warm, bigger palms still at the outside of your thighs, urging your hips upward.

"You're doing a really good job," he comments, reverence felt in the manner his nose still chased the curve of your jaw.

The springs of the motel bed squeaked at the shift, adding your sweats to the pile that was Clark's makeshift bed on the carpeted floors. He doesn't make it easy for you in the slightest. His mouth finds purchase on the column or your throat, and toward your pulse.

"Mm'tryin' to keep — ugh — quiet!" Your voice is barely above a rasp, trying to nudge his face away in a weak attempt, "don't…"

Your soft whine was the very first crack in your resolve, in your promise to keep quiet. It only seemed to spur Clark on even more, his mouth clumsily finding yours, catching the corner of your lips before they slot just right.

The quiet room filled itself with the urgent, wet smacks of your combined desperation, whimpers that spilt into each other's throats. Clark's free hand slid up your ribs, his thumbs skirting beneath the curve of your breasts. Deliberately, his thumbnail rake over where your nipples slowly hardened.

"Ah!"

The sound spills from your lips before you can stop it, and you turn to bury your face in the pillow. "Nnh. Not bein'…fair." You mutter, petulantly, with your face squirmed into softness.

He laughs suddenly, warm against your pulse.

"Who said anything about being fair?" Clark's nips at your earlobes, placing open-mouthed kisses unabashedly despite your squirming.

You writhe beneath him, frustrated. With a determined tug, you pull him down more. In a soft tone, barely there, you whisper his name into the shell of his ears. It'd run louder than any whine or moan you'd given in an ode to your pleasure.

The reaction was instantaneous. His rigid body, which was once intent on teasing grinds, melted into you. The hard lines of his erection stiffened in a demanding manner, urging you to spill all your little whimpers into his ears.

"Just…like that." He pleads, eyes fluttering shut when your tongue drags past the shell, probing into the soft curve.

"Clark…Clark. Clark."

Each whispered whine of his name threatened to unravel him entirely. Clark's deftly shucking his trousers off just enough to free his aching cock, resting the hefty weight of it on your bare cunt, soaking with arousal that he pulled from you painstakingly.

"You…You have to be actually quiet. Okay?"

You nod sharply, steadying your hold onto his biceps.

Clark's careful.

At first.

Easing his thick, hard cock into your eager walls was the easy part. Especially with how easily you opened up for him, sucking him in — begging for more.

But then he snaps his hips into you. His length disappears deep into your belly, making you feel so fucking full and overwhelmed at the same time that you squeal.

Clark's palm spans over the lower half of your mouth. Muffling the ends of your whine. "Oh, sweetheart —" he coos, his voice cracked in remorse. You blink up at him, hazily and uncoordinated, looking at him like he'd given you blue balls.

"You can't — …" Clark shakes his head slowly. His hold is unrelenting over your soft lips. "Breathe through your nose. Okay? Trust me."

Your stifled whimpers are efficiently muted by the warm press of his palm, subjecting you to the controlled thrust of his hips. Each one met with the creaky protests of the mattress. Clark's breath comes out gradually ragged against your neck, the sweat from his skin mingling with your own.

It seemed to be doing something to him on a chemical level. Feeling the warm vibration of your needy grunts into his nerve endings, paired with the rhythmic pulse of your cunt that was the only other indicator of how turned on you were.

Clark's eyes are scewed shut, as though every one of his senses were attuned to the noises. To the sounds of your arousal, to the ones of the sticky, hot connection below. Your cunt clenched around his length, harder with each stroke of his thick thip in your twitching walls.

His head pulls back in time to meet your fucked out gaze as he's met with the telltale signs of your oncoming release, "shit. I'm — please." He manages, pulling his palm away from your reddened lips, where a slight string of your drool clings to him.

He brings his dampened palm down to your clit, rubbing you in idle circles.

"Ngh! Clark!" You squeak, digging your nails into the taut muscles of his arms. That gave you the tip you needed before your body arches off the bed, into him, in a quivering intensity, coming hard around his cock.

Clark follows suit, his own body seizing, shuddering gutturally as he takes on the wave of pulses from your walls, filling your belly with his hot, potent cum.

You lift your head up, only barely, lips chasing the warmth of his pulse, blissed out in an undeniable wash of addicting pleasure that the man above you pulled from you successfully.

It's short-lived, though. Especially when an insistent, loud bang resounds from the walls above both of you.

The neon sign above Mabel’s Diner flickered softly against the dark stretch of highway, casting a warm pinkish glow over the cracked asphalt parking lot. It was just past 9 PM on a quiet Thursday, the kind of night where the big rigs hummed in the distance like distant thunder and the only real sounds inside were the clink of silverware and the low murmur of the jukebox playing old country tunes.

Clark Kent had been coming here for months now. He wasn’t the kind of man who blended into small-town scenery. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like the trucks he drove, Clark had that weathered, working-man look—salt-and-pepper stubble on a strong jaw, calloused hands that could bend steel, and deep lines around his eyes from years squinting into sunsets on long hauls. He carried the quiet confidence of a man who’d seen too many lonely roads. But those same eyes softened sweetly whenever they landed on you.

You were the night-shift waitress, pouring coffee in your classic Mabel’s uniform: a soft blue dress with a crisp white apron tied tight around your waist, the hem skimming just above your knees. It hugged your curves in all the right places, especially when you moved. Clark always took the same booth in the back corner, the one that gave him a perfect view of the whole diner—and of you. Tonight was no different.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” Clark rumbled as you approached with a menu he didn’t need. His voice was gravelly, low, the kind that vibrated through your chest. He wore his usual faded flannel over a worn black t-shirt that stretched across his powerful chest, sleeves rolled up to show thick forearms corded with muscle.

“Clark,” you said with a playful smile, setting down a glass of sweet tea without asking. “You’re gonna wear out that booth if you keep sittin’ here every night till close.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rough. “Can’t help it. Best coffee in three states. And the company ain’t bad either.”

You felt his gaze follow you as you moved through the diner, bussing tables, wiping counters, refilling mugs for the few lingering truckers and locals. Every time you bent over to clear a booth, you made sure to arch your back just a little more than necessary, letting the short skirt of your dress ride up the backs of your thighs. You knew he was watching. You wanted him to watch.

When you straightened and glanced back, Clark’s eyes were dark, fixed on the curve of your ass. He didn’t look away. Instead, a slow, appreciative smile tugged at his lips. That mix of gentleman and wolf always made heat pool low in your belly.

The hours ticked by. The diner emptied out. By 10:45, it was just the two of you and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. You locked the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and started the final cleanup. Clark stayed right where he was, nursing the last of his coffee, his big frame relaxed but alert.

“You don’t have to wait every night, you know,” you called over your shoulder as you wiped down the counter. You bent low to reach the far side, giving him another deliberate view. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he replied, voice quieter now. “But there’s plenty of creeps out there after dark. I sleep better knowin’ I walked you to your car. Besides…” He paused, eyes tracing the way your dress clung to your hips. “I like watchin’ you work. You move like you own the place. It’s somethin’ else.”

Your heart fluttered at the sweetness beneath the rough tone. Clark Kent might look like a man who could throw someone through a wall, but he’d never once made you feel anything but safe, protected, and wanted. You finished mopping the floor and turned off the main lights, leaving only the warm glow above the counter and booths. The diner felt intimate now, like it belonged only to the two of you.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Clark said, pushing his mug aside. You walked over slowly, hips swaying in that little blue dress. When you reached his booth, he slid out and stood, towering over you. One large, rough hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip with gentleness.

“You’ve been teasin’ me all night,” he murmured, leaning down so his breath ghosted your ear. “Bending over like that in this little dress. You tryin’ to drive an old man crazy?”

“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “Is it working?”

Clark’s answer was a low growl. He pulled you against him, kissing you deeply. His mouth was firm, insistent, tasting of coffee and the mint he always chewed after dinner. Those big hands slid down your back, palming your ass through the thin fabric and squeezing possessively. You moaned into his mouth, fingers curling into his flannel.

He lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the nearest table, the one he’d been sitting at all night. The wood creaked under your weight as he stepped between your thighs, pushing the dress up to your hips.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he admitted, voice husky. His hands were rough but careful as he unbuttoned the front of your dress, exposing your bra and the soft swell of your breasts. He kissed down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point while his fingers worked the clasp of your bra. “You’re too good for a man like me, but damn if I can stay away.”

“You’re exactly what I want,” you breathed, tugging his flannel open. His chest was solid, dusted with dark hair, warm under your palms. You traced the lines of old scars and the hard ridges of muscle earned from years of loading freight and long drives.

Clark groaned at your touch. He shoved your dress higher, dragging your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your slick folds, making you shiver. He dropped to his knees right there on the diner floor, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wider. “Look at you,” he murmured reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “So wet already. All for me?”

“Yes— Clark, please…”

He didn’t make you beg long. His mouth descended on you, tongue licking a slow, broad stripe up your center before circling your clit. The stubble on his jaw scraped deliciously against your sensitive skin as he ate you out with focused hunger, long, deep strokes of his tongue, two thick fingers sliding into your pussy and curling just right. You cried out, fingers threading through his hair, hips rocking against his face.

He growled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. “That’s it, darlin’. Let me hear you.” You came hard on his tongue, thighs trembling around his head. Clark kept licking you through it, gentling his touch until you were panting and boneless.

He rose, towering over you again, and kissed you so you could taste yourself on his lips. You reached for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. Clark helped you, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, heavy, the flushed head already glistening. He was big—older, experienced, and clearly aching for you. “Need you,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around him and stroking.

Clark hissed, hips jerking. “Gonna fuck you right here on this table, sweetheart. Been dreamin’ about it.”

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, stretching you open inch by thick inch. You gasped at the fullness, nails digging into his shoulders. He was careful at first, letting you adjust, murmuring sweet praises against your neck—“So tight… so perfect… takin’ me so well.”

Then the rough trucker side took over. He gripped your hips with those strong hands and started thrusting harder, deeper, the table creaking loudly beneath you with every powerful snap of his hips. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked you, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the empty diner. His flannel hung open, brushing against your bare breasts with every movement.

“Clark- oh god, harder,” you moaned. He gave it to you, everything you wanted and needed from him. Rough, relentless strokes that hit that perfect spot inside you over and over. One hand slid between you, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. His other hand braced on the table, muscles flexing as he drove into you.

“Come on, baby. Come on me,” he growled, voice strained with pleasure. You shattered again, clenching hard around him. Clark followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering through his release.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. Clark stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, kissing you softly between breaths. Then he carefully pulled out, tucked himself away, and lifted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

He sat back in the booth with you in his lap, your dress still bunched around your waist, legs straddling him. His big arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand stroking down your back while the other slipped between your thighs again.

“Still so wet,” he murmured tenderly, thick fingers gliding through the mess of your combined release. He gently rubbed your sensitive pussy, spreading his cum over your folds and clit in slow, soothing circles. “My sweet girl. You did so good for me.”

You sighed contentedly, nuzzling into his neck, feeling safe and thoroughly claimed in the circle of his strong arms. Clark kissed the top of your head, his rough exterior melting completely into the gentle giant you’d come to love.

“Next time,” he whispered against your hair, still lazily petting your slick, puffy pussy, “I’m takin’ you in my rig. But for now… I ain’t lettin’ you go just yet.”

Outside, the highway stretched on into the night, but inside Mabel’s Diner, the trucker and the waitress had all the time in the world.

Of all the ways to run into your ex after a year long breakup, this was probably the worst. It was supposed to happen like some 80s teen movie — skin glowing in the sunlight as you walked down a shopping district without a care in the world. Or maybe at a bar; inebriated and sultry whilst swaying your hips to music. Something incidental.  

Instead, you were in the same clothes from two days ago, and no amount of your carry-on perfume could hide the scent of burnt rubber and baby food on your clothes.  

Rather humbling, actually. 

“Sorry about the sound,” Clark slowly began as he cleared his throat. His eyes were focused on the road ahead but he was noticeably squinting. You knew it certainly wasn’t due to poor eyesight. “One of the next tasks on my To Do List is check to get the engine checked.” 

“You don’t say…” you mumbled into the window. God, you sure had a problem — mouthing off to your current knight in shining armour who'd just saved you from a seedy motel and another two days of overpriced terminal food. With a heavy exhale, you rolled your shoulders, turning sideways to mull over the man in the drivers seat. So cool, so calm…completely at home on the open road as he drove effortlessly with one hand.

One very muscular hand. 

Perhaps more defined than they’d been a year ago.  

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you sighed, breaking the ice. You gnawed on your bottom lip. “I know you’re with your family and all...” 

“It’s not a problem,” he replied quickly, this time lending you a glance. “They understood as soon as I told them.” 

How was he so casual about this? This was the first time you’d seen each-other — spoken— in a year, and now you were on your way to play house at his home, right under the roof belonging to two of your (previous) biggest supporters. Clark Kent didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body; so it wasn’t as if you’d be walking into any scrutiny from his parents, but you were the slightest curious as to what he’d told them. 

“…Do they know that it’s me, or am I an unnamed friend?” 

“They know it’s you.” 

Plainly put. No agendas to his words, just the facts. But there was an undeniable weight to them, even if it was possibly and most likely self inflicted. The Kent’s were just good people who hadn’t a negative thing to say about anybody, but they seemed to have an intuitive way of knowing things. 

They’d probably be able to sniff out the apprehension in your bones upon your arrival. As where Clark stood in all this? You weren’t sure. He was just being his usual, good natured self, but that was often the tricky thing about good people — sometimes, they’re never really honest about what they’re thinking. 

“Right…” you whispered, wanting the cushions to swallow you up entirely. “Good to know.” 

Clark looked over at you again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His gaze was seconds longer than before, gentle blue eyes roaming over you, racing with a particular emotion that you couldn’t quite place.

“You took a pretty big swing checking to see if I was here…” he chuckled half-heartedly. On the surface the question seemed rhetorical, but judging by the way he was side eyeing you, he genuinely wanted to know how. You wanted to laugh it off as you being psychic, or just an act of fate — but your answer turned out to be somewhere in between…surprisingly telling.

“Well, it was,” you began with a shrug, “but I remembered that you always go home at the start of tornado season to make sure everything’s okay with the house and stuff…You’re not really one to break tradition.” 

He blinked in response, pink bottom lip pouting as he nodded silently in acknowledgment. The car was slowing down now; and sure enough you were coming into view of the painfully familiar red slated roof and bricked exterior, a calf floundering about its day in the field as the truck pulled up alongside it, screeching to a halt once it reached the end of the driveway.  

Clark didn’t seem to mind as you lingered in the passenger seat for a moment, quick to hop out his side of the vehicle and grab your suitcase from the back. With the house only a couple of steps away, you trailed behind him, admiring the freshly cut bushes out front, and the tiny calf that seemed intent on chewing at a wildflower. If Clark wasn’t so intent on carrying your bags, you were certain he would’ve intervene. He was knowledgeable like that. He cared like that.

Once you were greeted with the familiar mesh screening on the front door, it was like stepping into a time machine. Ma and Pa were by the doorway, huddled together as they laid eyes on you. 

“Hi Mr and Mrs Kent,” you mumbled sheepishly, wrapping your arms around yourself, though it was far from cold. “I’m sorry to barge in like this…” 

“Not to worry, sweetheart,” Jon said, the corners of his ageing eyes crinkling in familiarity. “Clark said the been at a bus stop for hours. We're just glad you’re alright.”

Martha stepped forward. 

“— I can heat you some leftovers? I made chilli.” 

“Chilli sounds great, Mrs Kent,” you smiled weakly, suddenly overwhelmed by the aggressive, but completely genuine hospitality. “I’d really love to take a shower first…” 

Everything was coming back to you; the intermittent creak of the floorboards whenever six foot something Clark tried to shuffle around like he were a mouse, the hum of the fridge that definitely hadn’t been changed since he was a teenager, the lingering scent of cinnamon and cloves in seemingly every inch of the house from Ma’s inherent goodness...all back to welcome you as if you’d never left. Like a warm hug, but also a stab in the back.  

How could you have left? 

The question plagued your mind, unrelenting as water droplets rained down on your face, steam unclogging the dry air and plane fumes from your nose, your pores, your hair – every inch it festered. You’d only been without a shower for a few days – people had survived much worse – then why did it feel as if you were trying to scrub away the past year of your life? It hadn’t been miserable. It had been pleasant. A year in a different city across the country, trying new foods and meeting new people and spending months agonising over your thesis; hypothesising, interviewing, researching – book after book after book just to compress it all into a tiny PDF and press ‘upload’.

A year of knowledge and expansion, yet a year without Clark.  

The Kents had given you the privilege of eating in front of the television, legs crossed as you squeezed onto the end of the couch, hunched over a hot bowl of chilli whilst reruns of The Price is Right flickered before you. Clark had seemingly disappeared; rather impossible for such a large man in a tiny house, at least until you retired to his bedroom for the evening and noticed that the sheets had been freshly ironed, neatly tucked into the corners of the mattress. 

You’d been in here before, yet it felt new – and suddenly you were noticing things you hadn’t before. His uneven bangs in a family photo. A small scratch mark on the side of his dresser. The snow globe you'd bought him from Canada before finding out he could travel anywhere he wanted. Still there, just like everything else. 

There was a knock on the door. Swiping a hand over your mouth you were quick to compose yourself before answering.

Hesitantly, Clark poked his head in. 

“…Hey.” 

“Is it awkward knocking on your own door?” 

“A little,” he acquiesced. “I brought cocoa.” 

Your nod was an invitation for him to enter, shoulders hunched in a failed attempt to make himself smaller.

Top button undone, he was wearing a navy blue Henley that was at least a size too small, whilst looser chequered pants sat around his waist. Paired with his tousled hair, it made you nostalgic for a time  you hadn’t even been with him for; though you were very much thrust back into the present as he sat upon the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. Humorously, the scent of baby powder wafted above the chocolate. 

“Thanks,” you smiled weakly, “I’m sorry you’ve got the couch.” 

Clark shrugged. 

“It’s not the worst place to sleep. You haven’t slept in days, I imagine.” 

“I got forty minutes of shut eye on the Greyhound before it broke down. Even then I was paranoid somebody would steal my bag.” 

“You guarded it well.” 

“I’m a fighter,” you beamed, curling your fingers around the mug before you nodded in the direction of the headboard. “…Did you plump my pillows?” 

He didn’t reply, but his cheeks turned pink as he delved into his cup.

“How’s the grant going?” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Clark pouted and slumped his shoulders. 

“Fine. I did, but only because nobody likes a lumpy pillow,” he replied, matter of factly. He shifted on the bed, moving only the slightest inch closer to you and cocked his head. “I’m serious. I want to know all about it.” 

And so you told him all about your time in Star City; the late nights, the café with the astroturf that was extremely pooch-positive, the apartment accommodation that would’ve been perfect if not for the eyesore of a Luthorcorp startup. 

You told him about your friend Dinah; who loved trash TV but was actually only in the city because of a situationship with some guy, about a curious professor you’d met in the library who carried around a hard drive the size of the Ark of the Covenant – the finite details on everything, except for your research. The very thing you’d broken up with him for. 

“I wish Lois could hear this,” he chuckled, placing his empty cup on the nightstand. “She says there’s nothing in Star City except tech bros and dry air.” 

“Technically she isn’t wrong.” 

“She’s biased. She hates anything to do with California.” 

“Except San Fransisco, right?” you retorted, a small smile coming to your cheeks at the memory. Clark had brought you to the staff Christmas party, initial awkward greetings shifting into a lengthy, wistful discussion on bucket lists and hopes for the year ahead. Lois wanted to travel, Jimmy wanted to finally be able to catch a foul ball at a Meteor’s game without some asshole pushing him, and, when the spotlight had landed on Clark, he’d glanced down at you, only able to say, ‘I’m pretty happy right now.’ 

That was why it’d been so difficult to tell him that you needed to focus on your studies. Opportunities like those didn’t come often. 

“And how’s the research?” Clark said, pulling you from your thoughts. “How many words have you written? Jimmy and I added up how many we write in a year, it’s got to be more than that, right?” 

Pausing, you gnawed on your lip for a few moments.

“It’s going great. Too great. I submitted my final paper early, actually…” 

Clark blinked, and if there were any feelings of betrayal in his mind they didn’t show. Instead, he smiled, one that reached his eyes and cheeks and made the tips of his ears turn red. 

“That’s amazing! When does it get published?” 

“I don’t know, in a month or two? I have so much free time now," you sighed, playing with your fingers. “It’s weird. I’m waiting until the end of the agreement on the apartment is done. I was only flying back to surprise my parents, and then…” you trailed off, gesturing to the room around you, to which Clark raised his brows.

You probably would never tell him you chose to fly back on a random day in May because you'd hated to have accidentally run into him in the streets of the city.  

“…I’ll be back in Metropolis someday, I suppose.” 

The words struck the air like ammunition. Even if Clark was bulletproof, he felt their weight, their bluntness all the same. Puffing his cheeks, he hung his head  and swiped a tongue over his lips. He was toying with a dark blue throw, fiddling; something he only did when he was five minutes out on a deadline and couldn’t find the right synonym. Urgency. A now or never situation.  

 “Would you —“ he began, clearing his throat, “could we…do this all over again?” 

Slowly, you set your cup down. The drink had long gone cold. 

Dating. Relationships. The immovable elephant in the room. The conversation you’d been dreading ever since your hands had reluctantly typed out your plea for him to save you. 

It was all too tempting, the hours or so you’d been in the Kent home reminding you of what you’d missed; his hospitality, his scent, his beautiful blue eyes, always soft and never piercing – but it was also so soon. In truth, you’d never really thought about what would've happened after you’d completed your paper, one expecting that you'd become a professor, perhaps dedicate your life to some great mission, but that option didn’t feel right. Not like you. Naively, you supposed you thought you’d return to Metropolis and somehow never cross paths with Clark again – but that was a fallacy, because in truth you never really moved on from him. 

The café in Star City with the astroturf? You’d always imagined being there with him and Krypto, giggling as you’d watch him try his best to keep the dog from levitating. 

The professor with the hard drive? Well, outside of age it always reminded you of Clark and his satchel, that was somehow always half open, closure flapping in the air as he’d rushed out to work, never forgetting to give you a kiss. 

That was the beauty of Clark, and in tandem, the beauty of life. There was whimsy even in the menial. 

“Clark…” 

“I-I just have to ask. We never really decided before, and I couldn’t stop thinking about if I’d ever see you again…” he spoke sincerely, voice wavering as he pushed a loose curl back from his forehead. “I understand if you don’t—“ 

You cut him off with a kiss; light, tender and fleeting, but enough to raise the hairs on every inch of your skin. Enough to remind you of what you’d left behind.  

“I hope that was okay.” 

“Golly…” he stammered. “It’s more than okay, honey.” 

You barely had a moment to share a smile before you kissed him once more. Clark slid his large hand down your back and placed it firmly around your waist, followed by the feeling of being pressed down; slowly, resisting the urge to use all of his weight on you as you were lowered onto the mattress. As you sank into the pillows he momentarily pulled away, adrenaline coursing through your bodies as you admired the sight of eachother. 

“We can stop if you think I’m moving too fast,” he said earnestly. “I know it’s only been a few hours —“ 

“Clark,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to stop.” 

He chuckled, exhaling softly from his nose.  Lips colliding, he deepened the kiss with tongue, your grip around his curls tighter, forceful; clinging onto him as if he were your lifeline. Clark peppered kisses along your cheek, your ear, right down the nape of your neck in his journey towards your chest, the button of your shirt threatening to pop open.  

“I’ve missed kissing you…” he murmured breathily as his teeth grazed your skin. Greedily, he didn’t allow you to respond, swallowing your voice with his own mouth, hips slowly bucking against your thigh. Instinctively, you spread them, allowing for his erection to press against your sensitive mound. His hands found the waistband of your pyjama shorts and slid them down with ease. Comically, Clark placed them to the side rather neatly. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“You’ll need them to go to sleep.” 

Playfully, rolled your eyes, skin tingling as his soft palms caressed your ankles. They moved up towards your calf and thighs, rubbing soothing circles, all for your blood to rush straight to your thighs and towards your core; hot, wanting. With a gentle hand on your knees he parted your thighs and began to trace the outline of your folds. You let out a sudden moan, the sound prompting Clark, who’s voice was muffled from below. 

“I’ve missed touching you…” he crooned, hooking his fingers around either end of your panties before sliding them down, discarding them at the bottom of the bed. His fingers found your folds once more, teasing as his thumb pressed on your sensitive hood.  

“Most importantly, I miss tasting you.” 

He delved between your thighs, his licks deliberately drawn out as his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you. The stretch, though not the one of his girth, was encompassing all the same, familiar – taking you back to tangled sheets and the feeling of ascent, literally.  

Clark hadn’t forgotten the map of your body. He knew to keep a steady hand on your thigh because of how much they would tremble. He knew the deepest crevices that made you squirm; how you liked it when he placed kisses to your hood and flicked his tongue against your clit. It was second nature to him, even when your back arched with pleasure, he knew to press against your lower stomach, holding you down – not out of force, but in the chase relieve you.  

“Fuck, Clark—“ you whined, eyes squeezed shut as his nose nudged against your hood. You could only grip your fingers tighter around his hair, wanton as you began to buck your hips against his face.  

“You want me to keep going, honey?” he questioned, momentarily breaking for air. His face was flushed and lips glistened with your arousal. He knew you were close. He just wanted to hear it. 

“P-Please…” you crooned, legs beginning to buckle around his shoulders. Your heels were digging into his back, thighs trembling as you clenched them around his head. He was devouring you completely, your distinct taste a familiar sensation on his lips as you came around his mouth. For a man as gentle and unassuming as Clark, the sounds he made were obscene, thirsty; but wholly satisfying.  

You cupped his cheeks as he slowly rose from his position, smearing your thumb along his clammy skin.  

Smallville is the exact same as it was when you were in high school. Busy one-lane streets, overgrown back roads, delicious Mom and Pop diners downtown. Everybody still knows everybody, and everyone is friendly and hospitable. You're not upset that you never left. No — this is a beautiful place, a nice place.

Your days are busy and full, which is exactly how you like it. You go to work and do a damn good job before going back home to your cozy, empty house. Sure, there's something inherently lonely about it all, but you don't mind. It's fine. Work is enough for you, enough to keep you preoccupied.

Your Friday nights are often spent at a local bar, where you have a drink or two and a mediocre meal before heading home to relax for the weekend.

It's a common occurrence to run into folks you know in a town like this. You can't even remember how many times you've come across people from high school or college. Admittedly, you're the kind of person who pretends not to recognize people unless they explicitly come up to you and strike up a conversation. You're not proud of it, but c'mon, if you talked to every single person you once knew, you'd never get anything done.

That's why you're so…put-off when you get the urge to approach the tall man in glasses sitting alone at a table tonight.

When he'd first walked in, you almost thought you were seeing a ghost. There was absolutely no way that Clark fucking Kent had just stepped into your hometown bar. He's bigger, that's for sure, and clad in a flannel with rolled up sleeves and a white t-shirt beneath it. It's tight across his chest, as if he didn't really have anything else to wear and that was all that he had on-hand. His jeans fit nicely, and his work boots are just as big as you remember them being.

Geez, how long has it been since his work boots sat beside your back door? How long has it been since he pulled them back on and walked out for the last time? How long has it been since Clark's been here at all?

That's when you realize: you really don't know. The Kent farm is way out on the other side of Smallville, a good twenty minute drive from your place, and when he left to move to the big city eight years ago, you didn't really have a reason to drive that way anymore. So, who knows? Maybe he visits Ma and Pa Kent monthly. Bi-monthly. A handful of times a year. How long has he been doing that? you wonder as you watch him sit down by himself and look over the menu. How many times have you almost crossed paths? How many times has he been here in Smallville and you had no idea?

You stare, because even though your body knows it's him, something feels off about him. You realize, after a few minutes, that it's the glasses. Somehow they make his nose look bigger and his eyes slightly further apart. Strange. He didn't used to wear glasses at all, so maybe his prescription has just gotten bad. Not that it matters. They suit him.

When you get to your feet and slip over to his table, it's almost as if your body is moving without asking you first. Your stomach is in knots, your palms are sweaty. You slide into the chair across from Clark, a small smile on your face as he glances up.

When he sees you, it's almost as if he can't quite believe that it's you. You look at him bashfully as a grin spreads across his face. He's still got those pretty dimples. Goddammit.

"Oh my gosh! Hi!" he exclaims, setting his menu down. He says your name, then, and your heart flutters. His voice is deeper than it was in high school, but his intonation is the exact same. Expressive, kind.

"Long time no see," you say. Clark laughs as he gets to his feet, and you stand up, too. He pulls you into a hug, and you get a whiff of hair product and cologne. It's different than what he wore all those years ago, but it's still so him. The musky undertone is the exact same as it used to be. His hold is firm, and you try to ignore the way heat blooms between your thighs at the feeling of his built form against you.

He pulls away too soon for your liking, and you both sit back down.

"It's so good to see you," Clark says. "What've you been up to?"

A loaded question, you think to yourself.

"Well," you chuckle, "I'm teaching. Finally."

Clark's smile widens.

"You went through with it?" he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You nod, cheeks hot. "Oh, that's good. I'm so glad, I bet you're amazing. I mean, I know you are, you were so passionate about education in high school…"

You nod.

"It's all I've ever wanted to do," you tell him. Clark hums.

"I know," he says. It makes you feel sort of strange, the way he says it. I know. As if he remembers all these things about you. As if he still thinks about you now and then despite the fact that he's a big shot journalist in Metropolis now.

You nod.

"What about you, mister Daily Planet?" you ask. Clark chuckles. You nudge him. "What's it like in the city?"

"Loud," Clark says, nodding. You laugh.

"Loud?"

"Very loud. And busy. But I love it."

"Good," you say. You nod, despite the fact that your smile is fading ever so slightly. Do you love it more than you loved me? you want to ask.

You still remember how you reacted when he told you he was applying to Metropolis University. You were so angry, so hurt. How could he be doing this to you? How could he present it as if you had a choice to make, as if there were a possibility that you could afford to go with him?

Perhaps you still hold that against him, in a way.

You try not to worry about it, try not to put such negative energy out into the universe, but the truth is that there has never been another man like Clark Kent. None of them even come close — none are anywhere near as kind or caring or intelligent. You think about all the one-night-stands you've had, and how pathetic you always felt whenever you'd have to close your eyes and picture Clark just to get even remotely close to an orgasm.

It's not just the sex that you miss. No, you miss his wit. His sass. His multitudes. He'd get all A's in school, then go skinny dipping in the lake behind your house alongside you. He'd bring the football team to victory, then go home to work on his points for debate club. He'd hold doors for you, but bend you over the bed if you asked nicely.

Clark sighs.

"It's really good to see you," he says. He means it. You hate that you can tell. "I think about you all the time."

"Well, now you're just buttering me up," you chuckle. Clark shakes his head.

"No, no, I mean it," Clark says. Is he doing this on purpose? Can he tell that you're feeling some type of way about all of this? "You cross my mind all the time. I'm really glad you're doing well."

You smile weakly. God, your heart aches. Why couldn't he have stayed here instead of going to Metropolis? What would things look like if he'd never gone? Would the two of you be together still? Married with a cute little house and a family?

"I'm glad you are, too," you say.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Clark asks, handing his menu over to you. You hesitate. You know exactly what this could lead to, but you don't really care. Would it be so bad to share a drink with him? To catch up over a basket of fries? To maybe take him back to your place after this?

"I'd like that," you say, nodding after a moment. "Thank you."

You decide on a cocktail, and Clark nods. He gets to his feet, then crosses the bar to get drinks for the two of you. You watch him, looking him over as the bartender gets to work on your cocktail. He really does look good — better than he did back when you knew him. He's broader, bulkier. His biceps are practically bulging out of his flannel. You look away to keep yourself from drooling.

Clark sits back down in front of you and hands you your cocktail. You blink at him.

"You don't drink?" you ask, noting his…root beer? Who the fuck orders root beer at a bar? Clark shrugs.

"Not really."

"You didn't even want a mocktail?"

Clark chuckles and sips his pop.

"I don't mind people knowing that I don't drink. It's not something to hide."

"I suppose not," you chuckle. "I just don't think I've ever seen anyone order root beer in a place like this."

Clark laughs too, then, and you savor the sound. God, he's handsome. So handsome that it's almost fucking painful.

"So. You got a girl back in Metropolis?" you ask, because you just have to know. There's no point in holding back with him, no point in being shy. You want him. He should know it, you decide, and the first step in letting him know is to get on the topic.

Clark shakes his head.

"No, no. Nothing like that."

"No? Not even a fling?"

"Not even a fling," Clark says, chuckling. Fantastic. He's single. You have a chance.

"I'm shocked," you say sincerely. "You look good."

Clark smiles that boyish smile once again, and your stomach flips.

"You do, too," he says.

Okay. Interesting turn of events…you weren't expecting him to dish out compliments in return. You shift in your seat, then sip your drink. It's then that you seem to notice the look in Clark's pretty blue eyes: he's totally enamored with you. He's staring at you shamelessly, looking you over and letting his eyes linger.

"I don't have anyone. Just, y'know. For the record," you say. "I'm usually too busy for stuff like that."

"Are you saying I should consider myself lucky?" Clark asks. You shrug.

"Maybe," you say. "I'm picky. That's really what it is."

"Got it. I'm definitely lucky."

You smile, but it's only half-there. The music and talking inside the bar seems to fade away, leaving you and Clark as the only things that matter. You hate him for leaving all those years. You love him for happening to step into the bar tonight. You want him for looking this fucking good on a random Friday night.

You take another long sip of your drink. It's strong. You already feeling yourself loosening. You lean back in your seat with a quiet sigh.

"You're the only man in the world," you say finally. Clark looks puzzled.

"Why do you say that?" he asks. You shrug.

"'Cause it's true. You set my standards so fucking high—" He says your name, but you keep going, "— and every man I've been with over the last, what, seven? Eight years? Has been so small in comparison to you."

Clark's cheeks are red. He's not smirking anymore. No, because you knows you mean this. You can see it on his face; he doesn't want to believe you but he does, and that feels scarily real. Frighteningly serious.

He sits with your words for a moment. Mulls them over. You sigh.

"Thanks for the drink. Sorry I made things weird," you say, going to stand. Clark reaches across the table quickly and touches your hand. He stops you. You look at him.

"Don't go. You didn't make anything weird."

"I feel like I did."

"You didn't," Clark says. "Finish your drink. It's okay. I promise."

You sigh, but sit back down anyway. You're too flustered to look at him, but you feel his eyes on you. He's looking you over, taking in your posture, your hands on your drink, your body language. He's always been so observant, your Clark.

Your Clark.

He's not your Clark anymore. He hasn't been for a long time.

"I haven't really dated anyone, either," Clark says finally. You pause, looking up at him. Once again, he means it. He's deeply serious and intentional. Your heart is in your throat, thudding and thumping up a storm, and Clark offers you a shy smile.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," you say, even though you know that's not in his nature. Clark shakes his head.

"I'm not."

Well, fuck. What the hell is this, now? Where is it going to take you? What is going to happen tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that? Clark's just told you that even after all this time, it's still you. He thinks about you all the time, and he hasn't dated anyone. Isn't that definitive confirmation that he still wants you, that he's always wanted you?

Oh, god, you should've found a way to go with him eight years ago. You never should've given him up. It doesn't make sense to think like this, you know it doesn't, but goddammit, you've missed him.

You sigh and take the final sip of your cocktail before meeting Clark's eyes.

"I live alone," you say finally. "Are you staying with your parents?"

Clark nods.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm visiting for the weekend."

You nod.

"…On a scale of one to ten, how concerned would they be if you came back to my place with me?"

Clark smile softly.

"They know I'm clearing my head," he says. "They don't have to know how it is I'm doing that."

Excitement rages within you. This is going to happen. You can hardly believe it.

You nod.

"Did you drive here?" you ask. Clark nods.

"Yeah. I can take you home, if you like. I'm sure your car will be fine overnight, I can—"

You shake your head.

"I can drive. I'm just down the road, anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Clark nods, and the two of you rise to your feet. You grab your keys from your purse, and Clark follows you outside. Your hips sway as you walk just because you know he's watching.

"Follow me, okay?" you say, glancing back at you unlock your car and open the driver side door. Clark nods as he pulls his own keys from his pocket.

"I will," he says. You get into the car, close the door, and buckle your seatbelt. You exhale softly as you pull out of your parking space. Clark does the same. The two of you start down the road towards your place.

It's only a five minute drive tops, but it feels like forever to you. Your body is hot when you pull into your driveway. You're so needy and blinded by lust that you don't have room to feel embarrassed by your slightly messy home. Clark pulls into the driveway and parks his car before turning it off and getting out. You smile at him as he pockets his keys and steps towards you. Your heart is thudding in your chest. Clark's hands smooth over your hips, and you let out a soft breath as you turn away to unlock the front door. It swings open. The two of you step inside, you turn on the lights, and Clark leans down to take off his boots. You let out a shkay breath as you close the door and re-lock it.

When you turn back around, Clark is staring at you.

"You're even prettier when I can see you properly," he says, referring to how dimly-lit the bar was. His words make you want to weep. He always was so romantic, so kind. You lean against the door, then tug him forward by the collar of his flannel. Clark lets himself be pulled forward. His hands find your hips again, and this time they stay there.

You unbutton his flannel slowly as you look up at him.

"You sure you're not just trying to get into my pants?" you tease as Clark leans down to kiss your throat softly. The feeling of it makes your eyes flutter, and you tilt your head to the side to give him plenty of room to do what he pleases.

"Mm mm," he hums, then pulls back and nudges his nose against yours. "I would never do such a thing."

You touch his cheek. How many times have you dreamed of this? How many times have you touched yourself to the thought of him? How many men have you pretended were Clark over the years?

You lean up, then, and press your lips firmly against his. Clark sighs, melting against you instantly. You push his flannel off, then run your hands up under his t-shirt as Clark squeezes your hips. He smooths his hands down over your thighs, then squeezes those, too.

You moan against his mouth, and when he presses his body further against yours, you feel his erection through his jeans. Fuck. The feeling of it makes your pussy throb with want, and you pull his t-shirt up over his head and throw it aside.

"Where's your bedroom?" Clark asks when you part for breath. You tug your shirt off, then reach around to unclip your bra.

"Down the hall, second door on the left," you say as you set your bra aside. Clark is on you again seconds later, squeezing your breasts and lowering his head to suck your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, brows furrowing and lips parting at the feeling.

"Oh, fuck," you sigh. Clark mumbles something, but it's totally muffled by your breast in his mouth, and you don't have the wherewith all to ask him what the hell he said. You run your fingers through his curls, which are lightly gelled and less unkempt than you remember.

"Clark," you moan as he moves over to suck at your other nipple. He looks up at you, then, and your stomach flips. God, he's pretty like this. So fucking gorgeous. "F-Fuck me…"

He moves up to kiss you properly once more, leaving your nipples puffy and sensitive when he pulls away from them. He squeezes your breasts in his big hands, and you moan as you cling to his biceps. He's certainly gained some confidence in the time that the two of you have been apart…

As the two of you kiss, you undo your jeans and underwear and push them down, struggling briefly with your shoes. You stumble against Clark while you wrestle with them, but you get them off moments later along with your pants. Clark supports you when you nearly topple over, and the feeling of his big hands against you has your core pulsing with want.

Clark goes to pull away to get to your bedroom, but you decide suddenly that you can't wait another fucking minute to have him inside of you. You've waited eight years too long. You grab him by the hair and give it a tug.

"Right here," you say. "Against the door."

Clark lets out a soft breath at your request, then nods. You kiss him as he unbuckles his belt, throws it aside, and undoes his jeans. When you feel his bare erection against you, you moan into his mouth and pull back so that you can look down at it. Sure enough, he's hard and leaking at the tip, and the sight makes your mouth water. You curse under your breath.

"I don't have a condom," you tell him, "but I don't mind."

Clark shakes his head.

"Neither do I," he tells you. You hook a leg up around his hip, revealing your core to his hungry eyes, and Clark takes hold of his cock to guide it to your entrance. You hold onto his shoulders tightly, and he presses his tip inside of you slowly. You gasp at the stretch, but the sting quickly turns into pleasure as he presses in further. He pauses when he's halfway in.

"You okay?" he asks softly, holding onto you.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Keep going, fuck…"

Clark presses in further, and your pussy clenches tightly around him. He inhales sharply at the feeling, clearly holding back. You hook your other leg around his hip, and Clark hurries to support your weight by holding you up against the door. You moan as he slips in further.

"Oh, fuck yes," you sigh. "C'mon, Clark…give it to me…"

His hips begin to rock, and you gasp at the feeling. Your head tilts, your eyes roll back.

"Fuuuck yes," you sigh. "T-There we go…so good, Clark…"

"F-Feels nice?" he asks, grinning at you dopily. You smile, kissing him again. This is all you've yearned for for the past eight years. Clark feels so much between than you remember. He's long and thick and hot and leaky, and oh jesus christ he's moving so fast…

You moan shamelessly.

"Yes, oh my god," you breathe. "Please, please…"

You're going dumb on his cock, head falling forward as you keep yourself wrapped around him while he presses you against the door. Clark kisses you.

"Stay with me, baby," he breathes. Baby. It clearly slipped out, it's not like he meant it, but it does things to you just the same. "K-Keep talkin' to me."

"I m-missed this," you admit. "Missed you."

Clark reaches up to squeeze your breast as he moves his hips faster. His cock is so deep inside of you that you don't know where you end and he begins, but isn't that the dream? Isn't that the way you want it?

"I missed you, too," Clark says. "So much…thought— oh, gosh, thought about you e-everytime…"

You moan at his words.

"Don't leave me again," you breathe. "Please…p-please, I don't wanna give this up…"

You're talking crazy, you know it. Long distance would never work…would it? Would he even want to? All the two of you have done is talk and have some mind-blowing sex…is that enough to get Clark to wanna stay in-touch with you? You don't know. You hope so.

"Neither do I," he says, then, and you could weep with relief. He wants you, too. All this time, all these years…what was stopping you from reaching out? Your anger? Your stubbornness? The fact that you'd dumped him out of teenage fury the night that he told you he got into Metropolis University? God, why did you do that?

"I'm sorry," you breathe. "I-I'm sorry for everything."

Clark touches your cheek as he pauses.

"Hey," he says. "Lookit me."

You do. His brows are furrowed. He's worried about you. You don't deserve his worry, you're sure of it.

"I don't blame you. I never did."

Your pussy clenches around his cock, silently asking for him to move faster again. He does, starting his thrusts back up. You nod.

"I know," you say. You push his curls off his forehead. "I do, though."

"Well, s-stop that," Clark breathes, and you chuckle. "I mean it…there's no use in worrying, now…we found each other a-again, right?"

You nod as you look at him.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Y-Yes…"

Clark nods, then caresses your cheek gently before leaning in to kiss you firmly.

"It's alright," he says softly. "I promise."

"Fuck, I don't deserve you," you breathe. "You feel s-so good…"

Clark kisses you again.

"Stop talkin' like that," he says. "You deserve me. You got me."

You gasp when he reaches down to rub your clit, just like how you taught him when the two of you first started fooling around years ago.

"Faster!" you breathe, head falling back against the door as sweat beads at your hairline. You groan as he pounds into you and rubs your clit at the same time. He's amazing. He's otherworldly. He's super.

"Oh, god, yeah! Yes! Just like that!" you moan.

"Do you want me to pull out?" Clark asks softly, eyes fluttering as he moves faster still.

"You better fuckin' not," you warn, and he chuckles.

"Yes, ma'am."

His orgasm comes first. It washes over him like a wave, engulfs him like water. He's still just as pretty when he comes as he was before. Seeing him experiencing so much pleasure and knowing that you're the one who brought it to him…it sends you hurdling over the edge. You gasp, inhaling sharply as your pussy spasms and clenches around his cock.

"Oh, fuck!" you moan, tears of pleasure wetting your lashes as Clark continues to rub your clit even as his thrusts slow. You feel so full of him, so full of love. You rub your fingers through his curls and tug him down so that you can kiss him firmly.

"That was really good," you whisper when he stops. You feel his seed oozing out of you around his cock, and you clench around him just to see his reaction. You smirk when he winces and kisses you again.

"Here, careful," Clark breathes as he pulls out and sets you down. He kisses your forehead when your feet are back on the ground. You smile and wrap your arms around him. He doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you.

"Clark…" you breathe, a million words on the tip of your tongue. You have so much to tell him, so much to say, but he calms you with three simple words:

"I've got you."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Since he’s supposed to be a good, well-raised, kind boy, Clark views most of his own desire as a dirty secret. He respects women, they’re for more than sex, and thinking of anyone like that makes him worry he’s no better than a man who can’t keep his dick in his pants. But that doesn’t stop the hunger. He craves it, craves you, so much that he has to just lock himself in the bathroom some days, to breathe through his nose and ride the hunger out. He wants to do things to you that are not progressive or nice. For such a good man, it sure does make his cock rock hard to think of manhandling you around and spitting in your mouth. Always the quiet ones, they say. And Clark sure does keep himself quiet, when he’s jerking off to the idea of marking you up and fucking you until the bed breaks.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Clark doesn’t really sleep around. It’s not his style. If he wants someone, he wants them entirely, and casual isn’t exactly viable when he has to worry about his powers. A hookup will notice the… not so small anatomical differences between him and a human. They’ll notice how they scratch his back and nothing happens, and the cum, and the other stuff. As such, Clark doesn’t have that high a body count, but he’s devoted. When he’s with you, he’ll memorize everything that makes you tic, and “experience” won’t be something you’re thinking about at all.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There’s an animalistic part of Clark he controls almost everywhere. He’s not going to rut like a dog against your leg, he’s not going to bite near your neck or back you against the wall just to smell your neck. He’s controlled, in the daylight. But only in the daylight. When he’s got you in bed, there’s nothing he loves more than rolling you on top of him, pinning you down on his cock, and fucking up into you like a feral animal. It’s safer to go a little harder when you’re over him, and there’s nothing like watching your tits bounce in his face, feeling your thighs tremble around his waist, and knowing that between his hands and gravity, he’s deep enough inside of you that you can’t even form a sentence.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

The first few times, when he’s worried about breaking you, Clark is deeply serious. The idea of hurting you terrifies him, worse than a nightmare, and he holds you like you’re glass, brow knitted and jaw clenched as he tries not to let a single ounce of control slip. But then you get used to each other, and Clark gets less afraid, and it’s all jokes and smiles and kisses all over your face before he sheathes himself deep into your cunt. He might get more serious when you’re approaching orgasm, but the small smile never drops from his face. He’s not good at being serious when he’s comfortable, and he’s never more comfortable than when he’s with you.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Clark keeps everything about himself well groomed. It’s not something he actively even thinks about, just a way to feel a little more clean and human and collected. He’s got a decent bush and snail trail and scattered of hair on his arms and chest and legs. It’s warm and easy to curl into. You try to talk him into a beard to match the rest of it. He laughs and always says no, but you’ll get him one day. In the far, far future, you’ll get him.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There might not be a more romantic man in the world. It’s not even something he puts a lot of effort into, that’s just the way he is. He kisses every inch of you he can reach, praises you with low, soft words that he means right now to the bottom of his heart, and chants that he loves you like a prayer until you fall over the edge together. He sees loving you as a proper form of worship, and there’s not really a better place to tend to the alter than when you’re this close. If he could, he’d keep you like that forever. Warm and loved and his.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does it more than he ever wants to admit. He almost can’t help it sometimes, his cock aching with need, you not in arms reach, sweat beading on his brow and his hand mindlessly palming against his bulge. He learned how to take care of himself, when he was just pining after you from a distance. Sometimes he calls you, when you’re on a work trip, just to hear your voice and fuel himself for later in the shower. After you get together he does try to limit it, but he’s got a higher sex drive than a human and he doesn’t want to wear you out. Sometimes, when you’re spent on he’s still hard, you tell him to just jerk off over you and cum on your tits. He thinks you’re far too good to be real.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Clark doesn’t like admitting to most of his kinks, so you find out about them through observation. After months of being together, it occurs to you that he’s always rutting his cum into your cunt after, pressing you into the mattress with a hand splayed on your stomach and a focused knit in his brow. It’s after he fingerfucks his release back inside that you ask him if he’s got a breeding kink, and he blushes like a teenager caught with a porno magazine. He mumbles that it’s just an instinct he can’t help, and you kiss his pouting lips and tell him you like it. After that, he becomes insatiable about it, filling you up until your eyes are rolling back, until you’re worried that your birth control is going to be useless.

After the breeding, you notice that he grinds against you in his sleep, that you often wake up with his hand under your shirt and his cock pressed into your ass. You guide him up to your breasts, and murmur that if he just needs to take what he wants, you trust him. After that, you find yourself being woken up by soft kisses over your clit or his cock pressed into your pulsing cunt as he rolls slow, soft thrusts. You come apart as you wake up, smiling at him all dazed and sleepy, and he somehow never feels bigger.

Clark doesn’t even know he likes overstimulation until you ask him to do it. At first he thinks it would be cruel, but then you say you’d like it, and he always wants to do something you’d like. It’s fast after that, when he realizes that there’s nothing better than making you nonverbal and trembling, looking at him like a savoir even when he’s the one who tortured you in the first place. You keep pleading for him, even when you can’t raise a hand. Watching your whole body seize up and hearing your screams of his name when makes you cum again and again, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

For all of his dirty talk and filthy fucking, Clark really just wants to fuck in a nice, soft bed. To him, it offsets the borderline whore-ish way he’s treating you, and makes everything softer and more intimate. He spits in your mouth and tugs your hair, but you’re wrapped in his blankets and being fucked into a soft mattress that absorbs the force of every thrust. It makes it easier to clean you up after, when the bathroom is right down the hall and he can wrap you in a warm shirt after he turns you into a boneless, drooling mess.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

There’s a level of Clark that’s turned on by almost everything you do. Soft hands brushing on his arm and kisses to his cheek make his cock twitch. Watching you mouth off and boss him around makes his gut heat, and just a teasing smile makes his skin heat. But the thing that gets him going more than anything else is when you just stare at him. When he’s already got sweaty palms from proximity and you lean just an inch forward, tracing your fingers up his inner thigh, the engine already revving in your hungry gaze. He licks his lips, asking if you’re sure, even when he’s barely holding himself back. You nod, and all bets are off.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Clark will give it to you rough, but never too rough. He demands safe words, even when you’re barely doing anything, always worried that he’s going to snap you in half. You can talk him in to trying almost anything new, but he’s always going to be overly cautious. Most of his turn offs involve complete degradation, because while dirty talk and toying with you can be mixed with praise, treating you like trash just makes him feel too mean. It’s alright, though. He’s got a dirty enough mouth to fully make up for it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

You on your knees for him is a dream he’s never been able to get out of his head. Your hands braced on his thighs, your eyes watering with the size of him being forced down your throat, it’s the one selfish thing he indulges. You love it too much for him to feel bad about it, grinding down onto his foot or a pillow between your thighs, maybe just the air as you beg and moan for friction. He cums down your throat and all over your face, and you never look prettier. He’ll grab you by the hair and pin you to the bed after, losing himself in the flood between your thighs, making you clench and gush and scream. You’re already on the edge from sucking his cock, and that just makes it all the better for both of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Clark loves both, depending on what you beg for. Fast until the bed breaks and you’re choking on his name, or slow when he’s trying to worship your body and keep himself under control. Ironically, it’s when he has the most control that he fucks you like an animal, splitting you open on his cock, tossing you around, and making you suck on his fingers while he turns you into a gushing puddle. When he’s more unsure or on edge, he takes the time to use you to regain that semblance of control, kissing over your breasts and dragging his cock through your wet folds until you’re begging.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Clark doesn’t love quickies. He’s wants to give you his full attention when he touches you, and anything less than that feels disrespectful. However, if you give him full, begging doe-eyes, he’s doesn’t really have the power to deny you. He’ll use his fingers or mouth to get you off when you’re really desperate, taking you apart quickly and kissing your parted lips with a promise of more later. The real danger is when you don’t let that be enough, and the quckie is suddenly taking an hour.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

The only person that can talk Clark into experimenting is you, and it takes a lot of effort. Promises that you’ll be okay, that you know you’ll like it, that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, but you think he’d like it to. He’s rarely the one receiving rather than giving, so his worry more comes from that fear that he’ll overexert you or cross a line. He wants to try choking or bondage or whatever, but he needs to really be sure that you want it to.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

All night. Every night. Another, secret benefit of the yellow sun. His stamina and durability go just as far in his sex life as they do everywhere else. He can go as long as you let him, fucking you for hours straight and never tapping out. If he’s trying to hold back, it’s mostly for the sake of not drowning you in his cum. He could reach his peak and still be harder than anyone else you’ve ever been with. It’s a perfect torture that you never want to lose.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

If Clark has toys, they’re only for you. He likes the remote vibrator more than he’ll ever admit, giving him a way to satisfy your needy pussy when he doesn’t have the time to take care of it himself. He can smell it from across the room, and feel that desperate, hopeful look raking over his body. He gives you a small smile and squeezes your thigh, and you whine. You’ll get the real thing the moment you’re alone, but this is almost better for him than it is for you, so he’s going to stretch it out.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Clark doesn’t know how to tease. He wants you, and he makes it obvious when he’s allowed. He goes to touch you because he needs to, and he never wants you to think he doesn’t just want to mold into you forever. If anything, all the teasing he does is completely by accident. Kissing you a little too deeply, squeezing your knee with only the intention of showing some affection, rolling up his sleeves in that damn white shirt, showing off the arms you want wrapped around your neck. Sometimes he just walks around the apartment naked, and acts like you’re the crazy one for getting worked up about it. He doesn’t see himself as the living wet dream that he is, sometimes forgetting that he’s 200 pounds of Kansas beef you want to shove your face into. HE gets sheepish when you remind him, and it’s adorable, right up until he fucks you like the dog he tries not to be.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a whimperer when he’s in control, and shouter when he’s not. He worries that even too loud a sound will scare you, like you’re some woodland creature. You clench around him and roll your hips to pull out those deep, guttural moans. He sighs against your skin and groans with every thrust, and you think that just listening to him would be enough to get you off, all on it’s own.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

It takes a while to make him admit, but Clark’s a sucker for mutual masturbation. It’s a roll over from when he only allowed himself to beat his cock to the idea of you, trapping himself in the shower and moaning your name to the water. He likes studying how you pleasure yourself, watching you get wet from the sight of him touching himself, cumming all over you and then placing his face an itch from your dripping cunt, coaxing you into letting go with only praising words and encouragement. Sometimes he lays you down below him, just to watch you touch yourself for him. Thinking about you doing this alone, just for him, it’s enough to send him over the edge all on it’s own.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Alien dicks are real, and Clark is packing one. It’s so big you sometimes look at his pants and wonder how he even fits it in there. Veiny and curved, somehow still a grower despite being bigger than anyone else while soft. It’s a good thing Clark enjoys prepping you, because otherwise you’d never be able to take more than the tip. Sometimes he can’t even get halfway in before tears are stinging at your eyes, and he goes back to giving your clit more attention than you can take. At this point, you might be the number one customer of lube in the country, and that’s with Clark making you wet enough that you could take a fist.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If you let him, he’d fuck you through a whole night, then another day, then a week. He’d never get anything done, if he indulged that side of him. He’d forget about being Superman, about saving the world, about doing anything but burying himself in your sweet little pussy and holding you close. At one point, he makes a rule for himself. Never more than nine times in a week, or he’ll forget why he ever even leaves your side in the first place.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Clark doesn’t need the same amount of sleep as a human, but he’ll lie in bed with you for as long as he can after. Petting your hair and kissing your brow, letting his eyes flutter shut until he’s called away, then right back once it’s taken care of. When he does sleep normally, it’s usually after you’ve worked him over and when the city is strangely quiet. When he’s truly exhausted—rare, but it happens—he sometimes goes over just to fuck you and give himself a good reason to sleep in your arms.