Cookieness Evereat

A groan that scraped from the very bottom of your soul left your chapped lips. Every muscle in your body felt tight and sore as you stretched. Between your thighs was a distinct, sticky, intimate dampness that told you exactly what had happened, and was still happening, hours after the fact.

Memories of your eventful Valentine’s Day came in a hazy, sensual montage. 

Clark’s large, warm, and gentle hands caressing the back of your head as you sucked him impossibly deep. His mouth, worshipful and demanding, left a trail of tingling skin and a constellation of tender marks blooming. His enthusiastic praises, words that made you blush even now, complimented every thrust. The feeling of being utterly, thoroughly loved, stretched to a breathtaking limit that only he could reach.

And the bed. The stupid, beautiful, now-broken bed.

Realization cut through the pleasant fog of afterglow. You shifted, and the mattress sank. Not the usual give of memory foam, but a structural, groaning wrong. A small, distressed sound of wood complaining followed your movements. A metallic tink as a loose bolt gave up its post.

You faintly remembered the headboard splitting sometime around round three. Or was it round four? You weren't sure…time got slippery right when Clark had your ankles almost to your ears and held you still while he filled you. Again.

A slow, simmering irritation began to heat your blood, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. There were no words profound enough to convey how much you loved him, but you were so damn tired of Superman-strength defeating human engineering!

You took a slow, deliberate breath, preparing to turn and deliver the glare of the century to your sleeping husband, but the space beside you was already empty, the sheets cool.

Then you heard it.

From the kitchen.

The sounds of someone moving, given from the soft clink of a mug, the gentle scrape of a pan, topped off with carefree whistling.

Plus the unmistakable smell of bacon, eggs, and something sweet. Pancakes?

Oh, he already knew!

Of course, he knew. He probably heard the wood splinter in real time last night and had spent every second mentally drafting his excuses right after.

Footsteps approached the bedroom door with quite a pep.

The door creaked slowly, and Clark appeared, a vision of domestic bliss.

He was shirtless (damn him), his sleep pants slung low on his hips (damn him again), and he raven hair was a glorious, chaotic mess (no comment). He looked less like an icon and more like your husband, rumpled and warm from sleep. 

You finally pushed yourself up on your elbows, letting the sheet pool to your waist. The cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps. You didn’t bother to cover yourself.

Let him see. Let him witness the consequences (if he cared).

His brilliant blue eyes, so full of a love, flickered over your face first. They lingered on your mouth, where he’d kissed you there, slow and deep, for what felt like hours. His gaze traveled down, tracing the love bites on your neck, over the slope of your bare breasts, then lower, to the space between your covered thighs, and his expression softened with a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.

Then his eyes found the bedframe.

His face changed. The softness evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated amusement. Like he’d taken one look at the split slat and thought, Yeah. That tracks. Like the evidence didn’t horrify him so much as… satisfy him.

His mouth twitched. His shoulders lifted in the barest shrug.

He looked like a man being shown photographic proof of his own crime and deciding the prosecution had a point, but the defendant also had excellent taste.

"Good morning, my love," he greeted (oh, he's laying it thick), pitched a tad higher than his usual morning rumble. eyes bright with that sunshine-dimples softness that always got him in trouble. "I was, uh…making breakfast. For you!"

A beat, like he was testing the waters. "How was your sleep?"

You just looked at him. Let the silence stretch.

He cleared his throat, clapped his hands once like he could reset the morning, and pointed vaguely in your direction as if you were a problem he could solve with enthusiasm.

"So. I—" he started, then stopped, eyes flicking back to the broken slat. The grin tried to come back, smaller now. "I heard a noise last night. Felt it. And I’m sure you did too. I was going to…" He trailed off, then rushed in with the only coping mechanism he trusted: fixing. "Hon, I can fix it. Right now. Two minutes. I’ll get my tools."

He took a step back, already turning, already reaching for problem-solving.

"Clark Joseph Kent."

Your voice stopped him cleanly. You kept it calm. The kind of calm that suggested you were being very generous—so far.

"I am sore," you said evenly. "I am… leaking." A small pause, just long enough to be a warning. "I am not supervising carpentry while you try to redeem yourself."

You gestured vaguely to yourself, to the sheets, to the bedframe that had sacrificed itself in the name of your marriage.

Clark turned back, and the amusement flickered. His eyes went wide with that devastating, boyish sincerity like he’d rather take a kryptonite-laced bullet than have you upset with him.

He crossed the room in three strides with long-legged urgency, and knelt on the floor, bringing his eyes level with yours.

It was such a deliberately humble posture, your heart gave a treacherous squeeze.

No! Be strong, woman!

"I’m sorry," he said, but there was a warmth in it that betrayed him. "I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to—" He exhaled, helpless, honest. "I should’ve been more careful. Especially the last round."

The smugness faded the moment he saw your expression hold. Like a switch flipped. Like your irritation mattered more than his pride ever could.

His hand hovered under the sheet over your knee. "Can I?"

Polite. Devout. Still hints of smugness underneath.

You narrowed your eyes, letting the silence linger a beat too long on purpose, but eventually gave a tiny nod.

His hand settled on your knee, his thumb beginning those slow, circular strokes. His touch was warm, gentle. It was the kind of touch that said I’m sorry in a language he trusted more than words. 

His eyes scanned you, not with his x-ray vision, but with a hyper-focused, husbandly concern that was somehow more intense. He was taking inventory, checking for any reason to blame himself harder than necessary.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the edge of a love bite on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. "Here? Does this hurt?"

"No," you murmured. "It’s just a mark."

His fingers drifted to another on your collarbone. "Here?"

"Clark, I’m not broken." You caught his hand gently, holding it still. "I’m tender. And I’m a little annoyed. And I’m also absurdly in love with you, which is honestly making the annoyance worse."

That flicker of smugness tried to rise again—hopeful, delighted—before guilt drowned it, immediate and sincere.

"I’ll take care of this," he said quickly, like he could undo inconvenience with effort."I’ll buy a commercial-grade one. Like… hotel level. From a supplier. Or I’ll build one." His voice picked up speed as his brain launched into problem-solving golden retriever. "Gary and I can come up with something. Reinforced frame, steel supports, center beam, and I’ll sleep on the couch until it’s done."

Of course, his solution included exile.

"No!" you hissed, sharper than you meant to be.

Clark blinked, and because he was still, deep down, a farm boy with a martyr complex, slapped his forehead dramatically. "Geez. How careless of me." He pointed at the couch like it was a dungeon. "You take the couch, I’ll take the floor."

The idea of him banished anywhere was unbearable. You weren’t punishing him. You weren’t trying to prove a point. You wanted him close. Always.

"Oh my God, Clark! That’s not—" you cut yourself off, half-laughing, half-exasperated, because he was already trying to make himself smaller in the face of your inconvenience.

He paused, trying to look contrite, but his mouth kept threatening a smile.

"I’m making a sacrifice here!" he exclaimed.

"You’re being ridiculous."

He softened instantly, because you were laughing and exasperated and he hated that more than he liked being smug. "I’m trying to make it right."

"You can make it right by staying next to me," you said, half-laughing, half-commandeering. "You’re not sleeping anywhere that isn’t next to me." Then you added: "I’ll be mad for real."

His face crumpled in relief so profound it made something warm twist under your ribs.

"We only have one bed," you explained, edge leaving your voice entirely.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered, bringing his forehead to your knee, and he sounded so wistful it almost made you laugh. You stroked the back of his head.

"So maybe," you continued, drawling it out, "we stop treating it like a… like a launchpad."

You saw the struggle in his face. The way his cheek muscle twitched as he fought another laugh. He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He failed. A small, helpless chuckle broke through. 

"It’s not my fault you make it really hard to control myself," he mumbled, ducking his head.

You couldn’t help it. A snort of laughter escaped you. It broke the remaining tension in the room like a sunbeam through cloud cover. 

"Ohhh, so it’s my fault?"

"Wait, no, that’s not what I—" he was thoroughly horrified by his implication. "No, of course not. It’s the bed’s fault. It’s shoddy craftsmanship. It’s…" He looked at the broken slat again and grimaced. "It’s me. I got carried away, because I always underestimate how much I love my wife." 

He said it so simply, so earnestly, that your breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with the sheer magnitude of your husband’s heart.

You reached out then, your fingers tugging into the soft cotton at his hip. "Oh, come here, you."

He moved carefully, bracing his weight on his arms, knees sinking into the mattress at your side, making the frame groan another soft protest. You slid your hand up, over the warm, solid plane of his stomach, to his chest. You could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm.

"I’m not mad about the mind-blowing, toe-curling sex," you whispered. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he echoed, also agreeing with a pleased shrug.

"I’m kind of—" you rolled your eyes at yourself, because it was ridiculous to admit, but he deserved to hear it, "I’m kind of obsessed with it. That you can’t help but still get carried away with me because you’re you, and God, it drives me crazy sometimes."

"I’m mad at the adulting," you continued, tipping your chin toward the broken frame. "The calls, the measuring, the delivery window, the money. The whole production. That’s what I don’t want to deal with."

"Then I will," he promised, like it was nothing. "All of it. I just want you comfortable."

You sighed, instantly melting. "God, you’re such a good man," you blurted, pouting a little. "It’s actually unfair. Do you know how hard it is to stay annoyed at you when you’re like this?"

His thumb brushed your cheek tenderly, another wide grin already forming. "Okay. Well, I’m not sorry about that."

"Better not be, mister!"

You tilted your face up and kissed him. It was a slow, press of lips that was more reassurance than passion. The I’m-so-in love-and-I’m-just-dramatic kiss. He melted into it, his body easing against yours, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw.

When you pulled back, you shifted slightly, and the movement sent a fresh, warm reminder of last night’s activities sliding through you. A small, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a soft, breathy oh, Clark.

He paused. His eyes, which had been bright with relief, darkened instantly. The blue seemed to deepen, to focus. His gaze dropped to your mouth. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

"Hon," he whispered, a little husky from restraint, "I’m trying to be good."

"I know you are." You brushed your thumb over his lower lip, gentle and taunting, and watched his lashes flutter. "But there are… other ways to be close."

The look he gave you was one of pure, undiluted worship. 

"Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me what you need."

You bit your lip and nudged his shoulder lightly, guiding him enough to lean away. You kept your eyes locked with his as you slowly pushed the rest of the sheet away, baring your body fully to the cool morning air and his heated gaze. The sunlight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every curve, every mark and claim he’d left. You saw his chest expand with a sharp inhale.

"You’re so beautiful," he praised. "Every time. It still… it takes my breath away."

"Careful," you teased, breathy. "Flattery gets you in trouble."

His mouth twitched. "I think I'm already there."

You reached for him, your hand sliding down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, to the waistband of his pants. You hooked your fingers in them. 

"These," you drawled. "Want ‘em off."

He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, just for a moment, and pushed the pants down his legs, kicking them aside. He stood before you, fully revealed, and the sight of him—all that powerful, sculpted muscle, the sheer size and strength of him, hardened by his need for you—made a fresh wave of warmth pool low in your belly. The contrast never failed to thrill you: his immense, capable form, so completely at the service of your pleasure.

"Don’t look at me like that," he scolded lightly.

You smiled, sweet and smug. "Like what, baby?"

"Like you’re… proud of yourself."

"I am," you admitted simply.

He snorted. "Yeah. I figured."

He climbed back onto the bed with exaggerated care, distributing his weight, avoiding the broken spots. He stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand coming to rest on your hip.

"Now, kiss me," you whispered with a smile, turnibg onto your side to face him, closing the small gap between you.

The kiss started tenderly. A soft meeting of lips, a gentle exploration. You sighed into it, your hand coming up to slide into his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, thick strands. He made a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, his arm sliding under your neck to pull you closer.

"Wow," he murmured against your mouth, as if praising you for breathing.

"Stop that," you whispered, laughing quietly between pecks. "You’re making it worse."

"I’m not doing anything," he lied softly, resumed his affections.

The tenderness gradually bled into something more urgent. His lips parted, and your tongue met his in a slow, languid dance. The kiss deepened, grew wetter, hotter. You lost yourself in the feel of him, in the familiar taste and scent that was uniquely your Clark. His hand on your neck slid down to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick length of him against your thigh, a persistent, heated pressure.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Clark…"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, over your breasts. He didn’t suck, didn’t leave new marks. He just pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, his breath hot against you.

"Just kissing. Just touching. Making my wife, my beautiful, perfect wife feel better."

Your chest tightened. Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.

"Such a saint," you purred, breathy with teasing.

He huffed a laugh against your throat. "I’m not a saint."

"No?" you whispered, smug. "Could’ve fooled me."

His hand, which had been resting on your back, began to move. It slid down, over the curve of your ass, then around, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, which you swore was egging you to misbehave.

He stopped short, his fingertips brushing along the outer swollen lip, not entering, just resting there, a teasing, coaxing, maddening presence as he toyed with the slick evidence of his last visit.

"Okay?" he asked, a rough whisper against your ear.

Nodding, whimpering as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk towards his touch.

"Need to hear you," he insisted, his fingers stilling. "After I broke our bed. After I made you so sore you can barely move. Need to hear what you want from me now."

He was offering you control, even as he held you utterly in his thrall. It was a delicious, maddening contradiction. 

"Touch me," you pleaded, the command urgent and clear. "Please, it’s okay. Just… touch me again."

That was all the permission he needed. His touch was exquisite in its gentleness. He knew your body, every fold, every secret place that made you tremble. His fingers moved with a slow, deliberate expertise, circling, stroking, applying just the right amount of pressure along your well-adored clit and still-slicked cunt.

"Oh, hon," he breathed, more to himself than to you. "You’re still so full. I did that to you, huh?"

Your body arched into his touch, gasps of pleasure escaping your lips as your eyes locked with his, sharing the moment's intensity. His other hand slid under your thigh opening you wider.

"That’s it," he whispered, his own breathing growing uneven. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every beat of your pulse. "You feel so good. Look so beautiful lying here for me."

His praise washed over you, amplifying every sensation. You craned your head, seeking his mouth again, and he met you in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans. His fingers continued their work, the rhythm building, coiling a tight, sweet tension low in your core. Your thighs trembled in his hand, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.

"Oh, s-shit... I’m… I’m close," you gasped against his mouth.

"I feel you," he murmured, pulling back just enough to lock his eyes with yours, a blue blaze through his dark lashes. "Eyes on me, yeah? Wanna watch you."

Your eyelids fluttered open, pleasure blurring your vision as you locked eyes with him. The intensity in his blue gaze—love, lust, devotion—felt like a tidal wave pulling you under. You clung to it, to him, your body shaking as his fingers worked their magic. 

"C-Clark!" you gasped, your voice breaking, "I love you, fuck—I love you!" the words spilling out in desperate, breathless chants as the tension coiled tighter. 

You held his stare, refusing to look away, even as your body arched, even as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you and tore a series of moans and cries from your lips. Your eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second before you forced them open again, determined to let him see you, feel you, as you came apart. 

The pleasure crashed through you, hot and endless, and you watched his face soften with awe, his lips parting as he whispered, "I love you too."

As the tremors subsided, you collapsed back onto the ruined mattress, boneless and gasping. He slowly, carefully withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes still held yours with rapt fascination, and cleaned them with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. 

"Taste so good. Taste like us. Like last night."

You let out a shaky laugh, still dazed. "You’re...you're ridiculous!" 

Then you tugged him by his bicep, guiding him completely over you. The bed creaked as he went willingly, bracing his weight on his forearms, his body caging you fully. The hard, hot length of him pressed against your stomach. You wrapped your jello-like legs around his hips, locking your ankles at the small of his back. 

"I want you, I—" you swallowed, at a loss for words. "Need you."

"Yeah?" he whispered against your lips. "Tell me how. I’ll be good. I’ll—" a swallow. "I’ll be gentle."

"Just stay still," you whispered, "Inside."

Clark understood, shifting carefully, a controlled power that made your heart race. He positioned himself, buckling lightly at the press of his cock, and then he was pushing in, so slowly, so incredibly slowly. There was a faint, slick shhh of wetness.

You were still sensitive from your climax, still stretched and tender from last night, and the feeling of him filling you, inch by delicious inch, made a fresh wave of slick form. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed into a deep, full pressure below your navel. You gasped, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulder and biceps.

"Still alight?" he breathed, his forehead damp with sweat, his entire body tense with restraint as you adjusted.

"Y-yes," you managed. "Move, baby."

He sank the rest of the way in, until he was fully sheathed, until you could feel him everywhere. He collapsed onto his forearms, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against your skin. He didn’t move, as you requested. He just held himself there, deep inside you, letting you adjust, letting the feeling of connection settle over you both.

This wasn’t about taking. This was about being. About closeness. About aftercare in its most primal form. You could feel every throb of his pulse within you, a steady, insistent rhythm. You slid your arms around his broad back, holding him as tightly as he was holding you.

"I-I love you," Clark said through gritted teeth, the words muffled but fervent. "I love—If I loved you less I might be able to—"

"—talk about it more," you finished with a helpless grin, turning your head to press a kiss to his temple.

Despite your own rules, you rocked your hips, just a tiny, subtle shift, and felt him shudder against you. "God, Clark. You romantic dork. You’re gonna kill me."

"Think you're gonna kill me first," he groaned, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed closer, if that was possible.

You both floated there, suspended in the quiet morning. The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the occasional, soft groan of the compromised bedframe beneath you. Sunlight warmed your tangled legs. You could still smell the coffee from the kitchen.

After a long, peaceful while, he stirred. He lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?"

"Never better," you managed a weak nod, your body humming, every nerve alight. The annoyance was a distant memory, burned away by the warmth of his body and the depth of his care.

He smiled, that soft, boyish one with twin dimples. He began to move then, not with the driving, bed-breaking force of last night, but with slow, shallow rolls of his hips. It was barely movement at all, just a gentle, rocking connection that sparked fresh tendrils of pleasure, coiling around the deep, satiated ache. You met his rhythm, moving with him in a lazy, effortless sync.

His eyes never left yours. The eye contact was more intimate than before, a silent conversation that flowed between you with each slow thrust. You could see the love there, the devotion, the faintest shadow of guilt, and the blazing heat of his desire. 

You could also see the moment his control began to fray. His breathing hitched, his movements growing slightly less measured.

"I can’t think when you—look at me like that," he confessed, voice strained with brutal honesty. "Sweetheart, I’m losing it."

Your smile turned slow and wicked, even as your breath came faster.

"Thought you wanted to see me," you panted. "S-say it again. Tell me you’re losing it."

His lashes fluttered, jaw tightening. "I’m—" a shaky exhale, "—I’m losing it. Your fault, definitely."

"Oh, I know," you breathed, and the praise was a match to gasoline. "You’re doing so good for me."

"I-I’m close—can’t—You’re making me lose it," he warned, his voice strained. "G-gosh, hon—I—where–where do you—?"

You tightened your legs around him, walls fluttering as you drew him in even deeper. 

"I-Inside, always," you moaned urgently, raking your nails across his back as if coaxing him. "Come for me, baby. Come for your wife again."

It was all the encouragement he needed. His rhythm broke, his hips stuttering against yours. His eyes widened, his pupils swallowing the blue, and you watched, mesmerized, as pleasure overtook him. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat. He was beautiful in his release, his face a mask of vulnerable ecstasy. 

You felt the hot, sudden, familiar rush of him inside you, a profound, flooding warmth that seemed to go on and on, a testament to the unique biology of the man you married. You clenched around him repeatedly, milking every last pulse, holding him through the waves.

Clark was careful, even in his exhaustion, to keep most of his weight off you as he collapsed, utterly spent. He nuzzled into your neck, pressing soft, damp kisses to your skin. He mumbled sweet nothings between uneven breaths, the words slurred with satisfaction and devotion. Your fingers combed through his damp hair with each kiss, soothing, indulgent.

Eventually, he lifted his head. His eyes were lovestruck and lazy, that gooey, boyish look that always made you want to be insufferable about it.

"Y’know," he murmured, "Valentine’s didn’t end at midnight for me."

You made a sound that might’ve been a disbelieving scoff. "Oh?"

"It’s still happening," he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked. "As long as I get to be here next to you."

You snorted, muttered ‘Geez, you big ol’ mush’ under your breath, and caught him in a final slow, sweet kiss. When you parted, you nodded towards the kitchen, then blinked up at him sweetly. 

"So, I believe there was talk of breakfast, Mr. Kent?"

His laugh vibrated through his chest into yours. 

"Right! Stay put, hon. I got you!" 

He withdrew from you slowly, both of you wincing at the loss and the fresh, slick evidence of your joining that followed. He fetched a warm, damp washcloth from the connected bathroom quickly, and tended to you with utmost tenderness, listening carefully to your every sigh and sharp breath.

Only once he was satisfied with the way the sheets covered you, did he tug on his sweats and vanish into the kitchen.

You lay there, alone in the broken bed, surrounded by sunlight and the smell of sex and, still, coffee.

Proof of a marriage that was shamelessly, wonderfully alive.

Clark returned minutes later with a tray meticulously arranged like a peace offering and a love letter.

Fluffy waffles covered with exactly the right amount of syrup, scrambled eggs, a bowl of yogurt with honey, a small pile of strawberries, coffee in your favorite mug, and a tall glass of water.

He even brought a bottle of ibuprofen and your heating pad.

He set the tray aside for a moment, helped you sit up, propping pillows behind you. His hands were checking without hovering—here, there, too much pressure?— making sure you were comfortable. 

You let him fuss, because watching your Clark —your Superman—go soft and domestic with caretaking was its own kind of seduction.

Once you were settled, he placed the tray across your lap and gingerly climbed onto the bed beside you.

The bed creaked once more.

Clark paused mid-motion.

You lifted a brow.

He gave you the smallest, most unapologetic smirk (still worth it) and then immediately sobered, sliding closer with the gentleness of a man who worshipped your comfort more than his pride.

He watched you take the first bite of waffles, his eyes scanning your face.

"Well?" he asked.

"To die for," you complimented was an exaggerated moan, mouth muffled full of food. "As always, Chef Kent. Thank you."

He nodded and picked up a strawberry, holding it to your lips. You took a bite, the sweet juice bursting on your tongue.

"At this point," you said after swallowing, leaning your head against his shoulder, "we should just get a mattress on the floor."

Clark paused, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He peered down at you, a mischievous look spread across his face. 

"That’s actually not a bad idea," he said slowly, all serious. "You’re brilliant!"

You laughed, bright and happy in the sunlit bedroom. "I was joking."

"Well, I’m not." You could see the gears turning in his head, the plans formulating. "Sturdy foundation. Low center of gravity. No frame to break." He nodded once like he’d solved world hunger. "I mean, it’s the perfect solution."

"Ah, so the great Man of Steel admits defeat not by kryptonite, but by a bedframe," you teased, nudging him with your elbow. 

He set his mug down slowly and turned to you, his expression soft and earnest again. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Defeated by the thought of you being uncomfortable," he corrected gently. "Conquered, completely, by you."

He kissed you then, a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted of coffee and strawberries. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. 

"We only had one bed," he whispered.

"Just this one," you agreed. "We'll be slumming it like broke college kids for a while."

"And somehow," he started, pursing his lips, "you still choose it. You still choose me."

"Every day, baby," you promised, smiliing against him.

"Every day," he echoed, words filled with a wonder that never grew old.

The coffee cooled on the tray. The broken bed leaned on, a silent, ridiculous witness. In the warm pool of sunlight, wrapped in the careful, protective embrace of the man you loved—your sweet, prideful, impossible husband—you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

.

Thank you for reading! Any likes + reblogs and comments especially are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

You could feel the way he breathed against you that something was eating away at him.

"Clark?" You tilted your head toward his. "You've gone quiet on me."

You expected the usual from him. Maybe a lazy joke, a hum in your ear, a quick brush-off he gave when he was too full of love to make it into words. Instead, a deep sigh left him, and what followed was nothing you were prepared for tonight.

"Do you think I’d be a good father?"

The question sliced through the air like it had been waiting inside him for quite a long time.

It wasn't an 'if'.

It was a 'would'.

Freezing, you didn't answer. At least not right away. Not because you didn’t know, of course you knew, but from the sincerity of his worry.

The fact that this man who gave everything, who held the world together with two hands and a heart too big for his broad chest, could still doubt he’d be good at something as natural as love.

He hadn’t moved beneath you as you thought. As if any rustle of the sheets might scare you from answering. Like maybe he regretted saying this sliver of insecurity aloud.

Finally, you shifted until you were propped up on your elbow across his chest. His hand slipped from your waist in the movement, fingers brushing down your thigh to hold you still. The moonlight caught the planes of his face—cheekbones faintly flushed, jaw shadowed in softness, lashes low.

"Baby, what brought that on?" you asked softly.

Your fingers found his cheek, your thumb brushing warm skin and stubble until he turned into it slightly.

He blinked, summer sky blues flicking to yours for a second before sliding away again.

"There was this rescue earlier today. Apartment fire. Young family. The dad didn’t even hesitate to run straight back in for his son."

You nodded, remained silent.

"I got them out. They’re okay," he added quickly, because he knew that would be your first concern. "But later, I kept thinking: I won’t always be there. Not for everyone."

Sighing, you attempted to save him from his thoughts. "Oh, babe—"

"Then I thought: what if that was me. What if I’m out there handling something halfway across the planet, and you’re home alone, raising our child, managing everything. What if I’m chasing after another emergency that can’t wait? That's not fair to you and them."

"Baby—" you cut in softly again, aching for him, but he kept going, needing to let it out.

"I keep wondering if I’m being selfish," he went on, louder now, voice cracking slightly. "Wanting you. Wanting a family, knowing what I am. What I bring. What could follow me home and hurt you. What might happen if I fail to protect."

"Clark Joseph."

He looked at you then, full-on. Eyes a little wet, layered with doubt he never let anyone else see. Not even Lois. Not even the Justice Gang. But he’d let you in. He always had.

"You're an incredible husband, I married you knowing everything that came with the symbol," you started without flourish. "You'd also make an incredible father. Our child will grow up feeling safe with you, not just provided for."

His brow furrowed, just faintly, ready to counter.

"They would," you repeated, firmer now. "You care so deeply. You listen. You see everyone, even the ones that don't deserve it. You treat children like they matter. Like they’re already whole, not waiting to be useful."

You traced the worried wrinkles between his brows. Then his temple. The warm shell of his ear.

"I’ve seen how you hold the neighbors’ babies like they’re made of gold. How you stop to play peekaboo when you think no one’s looking. How you kneel in the street to speak to kids after disasters—always eye-level. Always kind."

You leaned forward slowly and kissed his forehead, then the corner of his mouth, then the spot where his pulse beat beneath his jaw.

"You already give everything you have, Clark. You hold the world together because you care so deeply. And the fact that you’re even thinking about this—worrying about how to protect our child that doesn’t even exist yet—that is exactly why you’d be a damn good father."

You moved your hand to his chest, right over where his heart beat strongest. He kept listening.

"I trust you and know you’d never leave us without making sure we were safe first. You’d never put the people you love second if you could help it. That’s not who you are. That’s never been who you are. You have more love in you than anyone I’ve ever met. You just have to trust that, too."

For a moment, neither of you moved. The quiet stretched between your words like acceptance sinking in, letting the weight of your assurance settle behind his sternum where your hand rested.

Then slowly, his hand rose, fingertips brushing along the nape of your neck, coaxing you higher and closer. 

When he kissed you, it was slow and fully laced with an answer that didn’t need language. One that said he was still afraid, but less so now. Not with you by his side.

Not with your words still echoing in his ears. Not with your faith.

The quiet that followed was a better kind than before.

Your chest felt looser. His grip around you had softened. Moonlight angled lower across the room now, shifting against the floorboards, and one of your feet brushed his calf beneath the blanket, and he didn’t pull away.

"Are you still thinking about it?" you murmured, cheek pressed to the firm stretch of his chest.

A hum rolled through him, vibrating against you. "Just… letting it settle."

"Settle…" you echoed, your fingers across the crease where the sheet had bunched between your torso. You played with the fabric idly. "Good settling or anxious spiraling?"

"Bit of both," he admitted, staying thoughtful, fingers grazing your hip. "Still don’t know if I’d be any good at the discipline part."

That made you lift your head, expression twisted in disbelief.

"Excuse me, what?"

Completely unbothered, he spared a side glance at you. "What? I’m serious."

"So you think I’m going to be the strict parent?"

His mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh again. "You get that voice when I don’t separate the whites!"

"Well, you know better!" You swatted his shoulder. "But which one of us gives stern, disappointed dad lectures to supervillains mid-fight on live-TV? On the daily?"

That made him laugh. Full-bodied, caught off guard. It rocked through his chest beneath your palms, made your stomach flip from the sheer sound of it.

"What? No, I don’t—"

"You do!" you shot back. "You used your Superman voice to stop a toddler tossing gravel at the ducks last week."

"Hon, she was chucking rocks! Those animals were defenseless!"

You shifted higher on his chest, kissed just below his jaw, smug.

"Face it, baby. You have The Voice and righteous authority act down. Even misbehaved toddlers flinch."

He rolled his eyes. "Didn’t know being a decent person and saving ducks from being stoned counted as parenting."

"Oh, it does." You kissed him again, slower this time. "Honestly, it kind of turns me on."

That caught him off-guard.

Clark blinked, slow and confused. "Wait, turns you on?"

Brows lifting, you shrugged with faux-casual ease, biting your lip. "It’s so hot when you talk like that."

Still propped on your elbows, one hand coasted the center of his chest, featherlight, feeling the way his muscles tensed and twitched under your palm. You let your nails scrape lightly on the way back up, and he swallowed hard.

"That voice," you drawled, closing your eyes and moaning a bit almost in pain. "The one you use when giving orders. Clearing buildings. Protecting people. The one that makes everyone shut up and listen."

Clark stayed quiet, his free hand tightening slightly on the sheets. He was more aware now. Watching. Listening. Humor had faded from his expression entirely.

"You know the one," you added, tone light, but your body already reacting to the memory of it. Your eyes flicked to his mouth, then lower, then back to his eyes.

"Every time I hear it, I squeeze my thighs together."

That earned you a sharp breath from him—a low, barely-there groan like he’d tried to swallow it too late.

"It’s not just the tone, " you went on, shameless. "It’s the confidence. The command. It does things to me. Gets under my skin."

You felt heat and slick bloom between your thighs even now, just talking about it. His hand had stopped moving entirely.

Your voice dropped lower, soft and teasing. "It’s not like I want to be turned on when you’re dealing with, like, a four-alarm fire, or telling Gardner to shut up and fall in line. But it’s like clockwork. The second you take command like that…"

Shifting a little to swing one leg over his, you made sure he felt the evidence of your body’s response. You weren’t trying to be coy anymore.

"I get so wet. My nipples get painfully tight. My cunt clenches around nothing, wishing you were already inside me," you rambled it like you were commenting on the weather.

Clark exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaky, and gripped the back of your thigh with one hand. You leaned forward on your elbows again, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. His breath hitched when you bit lightly at his earlobe.

"When the time comes, when we have our first baby? You'll officially earn 'Hot Dad' status," you whispered gleefully against his skin. "Especially when you talk like that."

He frowned slightly, brain fogged. "What—what does that even mean?"

"It means you’d be a DILF, Clark."

"Again, what does that even mean?"

"D-I-L-F," you spelled it slowly, savoring it. "Dad I’d Like to Fuck."

The sound he made was somewhere between a sputter and a loud, exasperated groan. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist like he didn’t know whether to steady you or flip you.

"Jesus, honey—" he mumbled, flush climbing up his neck and spreading fast.

"Oh no, we’re not praying now!"

"That’s not real. People don’t think that's—"

"No, it's true," you tilted your head, smug now, fully sprawled across his body. "You’re already halfway there. Incredibly hot, stern, heroic. Sexy public-facing voice. You do know women out there think about you, right? Superman?"

His mouth opened like he was about to deny it, then closed again when he clearly couldn’t.

"Used to bother me when they'd go gaga over you, but then I started thinking," you tapped his chin, mischief evident in your gaze. "That I’m the one you come home to. I’m the one who gets that voice in my ear, in this bed, in me. "

Bedsheets rustled in the corner of your vision, and you caught the obvious tenting between his thighs. You bit your lip, holding back a delighted coo.

"Ohhh, I’ve thought about it so often," you confessed with more enthusiasm, trailing your nails down his chest again. "What it would be like to hear you talk like that in the bedroom. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just here," you leaned closer, lips brushing his cheekbone.

You kissed just beneath his ear, whispered, "Commanding me."

His cock twitched beneath the sheets.

"You want me to use it in here?" he whispered back, eyes gone half-lidded. "Really?"

Nodding enthusiastically with a grin, you parted your lips and thighs in tandem like you were already waiting for the next order.

He looked into your eyes for a while. Something in his gaze shifted, unspoken. It wasn’t fully playful anymore. Sure, it was still gentle, still him, but sharper. Focused.

It was a married look in the quietest, most ruinous way.

A warm, broad hand slid to the back of your neck. The other gripped your hip harder.

When Clark spoke again, it wasn’t the register he used in everyday conversation. It was the one reserved for when lives were on the line, when something big needed to obey, now.

"Come here."

Hearing it aimed at you made heat bloom fast and sharp through your body, straight to the places that already felt too awake.

Your response was immediate.

Crawling into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the cotton sheets twisted beneath you with every frantic shift of weight. You hovered just above him, close enough to feel the heat of his straining cock between your legs, but not touching yet. You braced your palms against his chest, heart pounding, eyes on his mouth, ready for what came next.

Sitting up a little more, Clark rested his hands lightly on your thighs.

"Take your clothes off."

Oohhh, the way he said it. Your skin prickled.

You stripped fast, fingers slipping under your hem and beneath your waistband. You peeled your clothes and tossed it aside, baring yourself fully in the moonlight. The air in the room hit your nipples before his eyes did, and he reached out, brushing a thumb across the swell of one breast. You gasped at the contact.

"Do you like that?"

You nodded, breath shaky, back curving toward him to give him more purchase.

"Use your words, sweetheart," he coaxed, low and patient. "I want to hear it from your pretty mouth. Your pretty voice."

The pet name fell differently in that register. You squirmed in his lap, cunt tightened hard, already dripping.

"Yes," you whispered. "God, yes. I love it when you talk like that."

His free hand reached out, thumb grazed your lip, coaxing your mouth open, and you kissed it without thinking. That look was still in his eyes, cataloging reactions.

"More, please," you breathed, already trembling.

Clark’s grip on your hips tightened as he pulled you forward. Your knees slid closer, bracketing his ribs, and your thighs burned from holding yourself up, but you didn’t stop. You wanted the ache. You wanted to be good.

"Keep your legs open for me."

You spread wider with a desperate, impatient sigh, hips instinctively tipping forward. Your cunt throbbed, swollen and aching with how close and untouched you still were.

"That's my girl," he praised easily. "Stay just like that."

The words hit harder than anything else. Your head lolled with a whine, torso folding forward as if his attention alone was enough to pull you apart.

Clark leaned up on his elbows, soft lips brushing the swell of your breast before he took one nipple into his wet mouth, tongue dragging slowly over the peak while his hand cupped the other firmly, deliberate, circling the areola until your back arched and you couldn't help but rock once.

"Hey," he warned, pulling back just enough to speak. "Stay still. Let me take my time with you."

So you froze, arms shaking, knees burning, breath coming shallow and broken. Soft sounds spilled from your mouth as you hovered there for him, aching, needy, obedient.

His hand slid between your thighs, palm hot as his fingers spread you open with a few firm strokes.

"Oh—wow," he breathed, openly pleased. "She’s already soaking for me. Just like you said. She's so eager, sweetheart."

Two fingers pressed into your cunt to the last knuckle. You choked on a raspy gasp as the stretch made your walls clamp down hard.

"Easy," he hissed, "she's a little tense. Pretty girl needed this bad, huh?"

You sobbed out something that was meant to be his name and failed.

"Come on now," he hissed, thrusting deeper. "Let me hear you again. I know she’s got something to say."

"C-Clark!" you whimpered his name. Stuttering and soft at first. Then again, louder and bolder as he thrusted faster. "F-fu—hmm–Ah!Yes!"

He fucked you with his fingers with patient, ruthless precision, curling them up into the spongy spot that made your whole body tense and your head fall back.

"Look at that," he said, in awe. "She’s talking, hon. I want to hear her sing for me."

The squelch of your cunt grew louder, wetter, messier, the harder he pressed. You trembled above him, trying not to move, but your hips twitched with every delicious thrust.

"She missed me, huh?" he panted, dragging his mouth along your chest. "She missed this."

"She—she needs you," you gasped, near tears. "God, damn it Clark—she’s so fucking empty—"

"I know," he soothed, kissing your breastbone, curling his fingers harder. "I’ll take care of her soon. Always do."

Your pussy clenched again at the promise, fluttering around him, leaking down onto his wrist. It was shamefully loud and filthy the way your cunt slicked his hand, weeping for more.

"Mmm—fuck—yes—she’s yours, baby—she’s so yours—"

"That’s my good girl," he praised again, firmer.

"I—I'm close!" you choked out, voice high and panicked as your hands pawed his wrist and forearm. "So close—please—fuck!"

He thrust his fingers a little harder, then eased them out without warning, watching your face as your cunt grieved the sudden neglect. You nearly sobbed at your collapsing pleasure.

Clark quickly shifted beneath you, just enough to slide his hands down, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. You sat back slightly, breath caught, watching as he eased them down over his thighs, lifting just enough to slip them off completely.

His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, already wet at the tip from how long he’d been holding back. It rested against his stomach, thick and full and twitching faintly.

You moaned under your breath, hips twitching toward him.

He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, thick fingers closing at the base, stroking once, long, steady, letting you see every inch slide through his grip. Pre-cum smeared across his thumb, shining.

"I want you to look," he commanded, voice still low. "Look at what you do to me."

You did. God, you did. And when you reached for him without thinking, he caught your wrist gently. Not stopping you, but guiding. He pressed your palm to his cock, wrapped your fingers where he wanted them, made you feel how hard he was, how hot.

"Now do this nice and slow," he murmured. "Stroke me, sweetheart. Just like you always do."

You obeyed, using one trembling hand to slid up and down his length, feeling him throb against your palm. You watched the way his pretty eyes fluttered close and his hips flexed just barely as you pumped him again, slower this time, thumb circling the head, smearing the slick there.

"That’s it," he praised, his voice shifting now, more breathless. "That's my girl. J-just like that."

Once he was fully slick with your touch, he pulled your hand away, kissed your knuckles one by one. You were still soaked. Still shaking.

"Feel this first," he breathed, gripping the base of him. "Just close your eyes and feel."

Eyelids fluttering shut, you felt the blunt head of his cock glide through your swollen folds, feeling it drag up and down your sopping cunt, letting it circle your clit, to then tease your entrance.

It was so close, so hot, so hard. You whined, hips tipping forward, desperate to sink down on him.

"Easy," he reminded, hand firm at your waist. "Not yet. Stay right there."

You rocked just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, sparks shooting through your body.

"Oh—G-god—!" Your breath caught in your throat.

"Do that again," he grunted, voice gone thick. "S-stay right there for me."

Your resolve shattered.

Your hips began to move in small frantic rolls, just your clit against his cock, chasing friction, chasing release, teasing your entrance every few strokes.

"Shit," you whimpered, thighs shaking. "I’m close, I’m close, I'm so close—"

"That’s—it," he urged, Superman’s assertiveness through and through. "Let go f’me, hon. Don't hold back. I’ve got you."

"Okay, yeahyeahyeah—Ohhh fuck, baby—I love you—fuck—love you—"

Your orgasm broke like a high fever—violent, helpless, pulled from the weight of his voice, the molten heat of his cock gliding along your soaked folds, the way he made you hold still and listen. You shattered with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave dragged you under, hips jerking forward on instinct, slick pouring down your thighs like a confession you couldn’t hold back.

It was messy, overwhelming, too much and not enough. Pleasure blurred the edges of your vision. He groaned deep in his throat, hands gripping your ass with bruising certainty, anchoring you to him as if afraid you might fall apart completely if he let go.

Even then, he didn’t take you.

Not yet.

You collapsed against him, forehead pressed to his neck, panting, lips chapped against his skin. His hands smoothed over your sweaty back, slow and calming, grounding you through the aftershocks.

When you lifted your head again, hair mussed, eyes glassy, you begged.

"Please," you gasped, strained. "Inside. Want you, need you—"

You weren’t playing anymore. This wasn’t part of the game.

"I’ll be good, I swear," you urged, frantic. "Please—please— fill me–"

Lifting you just enough, he sank you down onto him, slow and steady, letting you take every thick inch until your hips were pressed flush and your whole body was full.

You gasped with every slight push in, mouth falling wide open in a series of broken moans.

"Gosh, sweetheart," he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as his voice faltered a beat. "You feel—so good—So perfect for me."

Panting, your cunt gripped around him, stretching, fluttering, adjusting to his size, greedily pulling him in deeper.

One broad palm settled against your ass. "You wanna ride me?" he asked, a little breathless. "Or you want me to do the work?"

Mouth agape, you just blinked at him, too dazed, brain-fogged to make a decision.

Clark bit the inside of his cheek to tame an amused chuckle threatening to spill. His hips flexed up once. Sharp, deep, enough for the head of his cock to brush against your cervix.

You cried out, head thrown back, hands clawing at his abs, your answer clearly shaking loose, dressed up in your pretty voice.

And Clark grinned, still breathless, already starting to move.

.

Afterward, the room stayed hot.

The summer breeze and mind-blowing-knee-breaking sex worked against your body, struggling to calm down. Your skin still tingled and itched with leftover adrenaline, and your limbs felt like you’d sprinted uphill in a dream you weren’t ready to wake from.

You were boneless, breathless, and babbling, cheek pressed to Clark’s sweaty chest again, your mouth working faster than your lungs could keep up.

"Holy shit, baby. We—you—we have to do that again. Like in an hour! You were fucking incredible."

His chest shook beneath you, his fingers dragged in slow, absentminded circles along the base of your spine. His lips found your temple.

"I didn’t really do much?"

You shifted a little, one hand smoothing over the firm plane of his stomach, the other nudging his bicep.

"Liar! You did plenty! You said a lot. Give yourself more credit!"

Tilting your head up, you smiled smug and sleepy and in love in the way that made everything feel light again. He looked flushed, satisfied, but not nearly as flustered as he should be.

So you went on, intending to rectify that: "When you said, ‘keep your legs open for me’, and 'stay still' in The Voice, I just! Argh! Can't explain it!"

Clark groaned softly, covering his face with one hand. "Hon, you kept moving! I had to say something."

"It was so hot. So serious. I could barely think straight. You called my pussy ‘pretty girl', and I almost came right there!"

Pushing yourself upright, you ran your fingers through his damp curls, kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and kept going:

"I’m just saying, if you talked to me like that during any argument, we’d never finish one. You could say ‘sit down’ and I’d just fold. I’d sit. I'd beg. I'd probably get on my knees. Ohh, I know you'd like to see that."

Clark threw a forearm over his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "You’re unbelievable."

"You’re unbelievable," you shot back, grinning. "Big, bossy, DILF energy. You’re gonna be such a hot dad. Like... aggressively hot, with—"

"Stop—"

"—the stern voice, the control, the discipline—"

"Fine, fine!" he relented, dragging a hand down his face. "I get it! No need to circle back!"

He looked at you like he was praying silently. You softened a little, smiling into the corner of his mouth, then kissed the space behind his ear. Quieter now, but still playful.

"Seriously though, you’re going to be an incredible father, babe. You already carry the world in your hands. You’ll carry our kid the same way. When that happens for us. I can't imagine sharing this kind of life with anyone else."

The way his eyes softened, so delicate and tender, told you he believed it now. Whatever doubt he’d carried into the question had been worn down by your body, your voice, your trust.

There was no fear left in the space between you. Only peace. Only possibility.

Reaching under the blanket, Clark found your hand beneath it, and laced your fingers with his. He brought them both to rest over your stomach.

Nothing existed there yet. No child. No heartbeat. Just breath and skin and the maybe of it all. But his palm stayed, still and warm, as if promising he’d be ready. As if anchoring hope in flesh.

"Then I’ll do my best," he vowed, with more conviction than you thought possible. "Every day."

You leaned in and kissed the hollow just under his jaw, then the soft patch of his chest where you liked to rest your head. A whisper pressed into the skin just right over his heart.

"I know you will. You already are."

The silence that followed was softer. Weightless. Content.

...Until you ruined it.

Entirely too casual, you started, tipping your head up:

"So. Just checking: you've heard of DILF... would you hate it if I, like, maybe tried calling you daddy sometime?"

Clark blinked once. Then lifted his head very slowly to stare down at you, mouth agape. Eventually:

"Absolutely not."

You cackled at his firmness. "'Come on! Just a test run—"

"Nope."

"Okay, fine, I’ll workshop it," you conceded, poking his chest dramatically. "We’ll start with sir, ease into it. I’ll get that knee to bend eventually."

He ran a hand up your back and squeezed you, words muffled against your temple.

"Sweetheart, the only thing bending is you, if you keep talking like that."

"...Can you say that again, but in The Voice?"

.

Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to leave reblog or comment! Any of these are forever appreciated, and keep fics like this alive and writers motivated!

.

You tried to joke. Tried to mumble something about pregnancy and low blood sugar, about standing too long on swollen ankles, about growing a baby on a human body, ha ha, nature’s weird.

You didn’t say half-Kryptonian. You never said that in front of anyone with a white coat and a clipboard. You did, however, mention the kicking. The flips. The way you’d both watched your stomach ripple under the lamp on the nightstand while Clark’s whole face had gone bright with wonder.

Then the third time, you didn’t wake up on the tile at all.

You came back staring at MetroGen's white ceiling with an oxygen mask over your face, and the humiliation hit almost as hard as the symptoms—because this was your territory. Your department. Your coworkers.

Clark stayed glued to your side, his hand wrapped around your wrist like a cuff he refused to unlock, while your charge nurse and the attending traded grim glances and used words like arrhythmia and possible organ strain in voices that didn’t soften just because you knew the layout of every crash cart in the building.

Clark’s worried gaze kept lurching from your face to the curve under the hospital blanket.

After that, nobody laughed.

.

Somewhere between the first scare and the third, you’d let yourself believe in hope.

You’d let yourself pick a paint swatch on your phone at two in the morning, shoulder tucked into Clark’s chest, both of you whispering like the future could hear you. You didn’t choose bright pink or blue. You chose something gentle—warm, quiet, hopeful. A pale buttercream that looked like morning light.

Clark had smiled into your hair and said, "That’s a good color for her."

Her.

The word had landed in you like a spark.

After that, it was tiny things. The smallest onesie you’d ever held, folded into a drawer you and Clark kept opening just to reassure yourself it was real. Soft cotton with little stars. A pair of socks so miniature in Clark's palm. A ridiculous little knit hat with a tiny puffball that made you laugh until you cried.

You told yourselves you two weren’t getting ahead of it.

But you were married and so in love.

And you’d already started building a home in your head.

.

The obstetrician didn’t sugarcoat it.

You’d already collected three sets of grainy ultrasound photos and one perfect series from the fancy 3D machine—the one where the baby’s hand was curled up by their cheek and Clark had stared like he’d been shown the face of a god.

All of those images sat in a neat little folder in your bag while the doctor put the new scans up on a screen and spoke in a calm, even tone that made you want to scream.

"Your body is treating this pregnancy like a trauma, and it's struggling to keep up," she explained. "You have an unremarkable health history, but your heart and lungs are under continuous, extreme stress. I anticipate the strain to increase as the pregnancy progresses. We’re already seeing damage."

Clark’s thumb traced circles over your knuckles, your wedding ring, but his hand shook.

You heard the rest in pieces.

"Abnormal pressures for this gestation… fluid building where it shouldn’t… your blood vessels aren’t meant for this degree of volume and output… if it continues, we are not talking about if something catastrophic happens, only when."

The next image on the monitor wasn’t a cluster of shadows anymore.

It was a profile you knew by heart: rounded skull, clear spine, the fluttering cage of ribs. One tiny foot kicked like it always did when Clark talked near your belly—your little overachiever showing off on screen.

"We want this baby," you murmured, because that felt so important to put into the room. "We already… we felt her hiccup last night. We’ve picked out the crib. We want her."

"I know, Mrs. Kent," the doctor replied, and for a moment she wasn’t a specialist but someone who’d stood in too many rooms just like this delivering heartbreaking news. "But right now, carrying this pregnancy is killing you. With the readings we’re seeing and no clear underlying diagnosis… I have to be honest. Continuing increases the risk of sudden cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, stroke. Not in months—in days or weeks."

Your breath hitched.

She went on, gentler. "We can try medication. Hospital bedrest. Machines to support your heart and lungs. Those come with their own dangers, and there’s no evidence they’ll be enough given how… atypical your labs are. The safest option—for your life—is to terminate the pregnancy. I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Kent, truly."

The word dropped between all of you. Terminate.

There were baby clothes hanging to dry in your laundry room. There was painter’s tape on the nursery wall where Clark marked off where the dresser would go. The folder in your bag held a series of photos where Clark’s big thumb dwarfed the ghost of a hand pressed against the inside of your stomach.

She kept talking: steroids, ventilators, procedures that "might buy time" but came with risks she couldn’t quantify. You and Clark kept nodding, both of you pretending this was a normal high-risk pregnancy and not something no human chart was built for.

You couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t explain that your body wasn’t just fighting pregnancy—it was trying to host something like their father, with cells that drank sunlight like a plant and bent steel like paper, that grew stronger every week in ways no textbook could predict.

On the way out, you both could feel it churning under your ribs, that wrongness. The weight of a secret the doctors couldn’t see, what you refused to reveal to protect Clark, and the insistence to set fire to the sweetest plans you’d ever made.

The baby fluttered once, sharp and insistent, as if to remind you they were there.

.

Clark couldn't stay at home once you were settled. He flew to clear his head, and you couldn't blame him.

The air over National City was cold and thin. He landed on Kara’s balcony so hard that the concrete under his shoes cracked. His hands were already in his hair, curls a riot from speed and panic.

Kara slid the glass door open before he even knocked, eyes wide, hair pulled into a messy knot like she’d been halfway through grading papers.

"What the hell, dude? Kal?" she hissed, quirking a brow. "Everything okay? What's going—"

"My wife, she’s alive," he blurted quickly. "For now."

The way his voice broke on the last word made her go still.

They sat at her kitchen table with mismatched mugs between them. He pushed the scans across the surface, the ones he shouldn’t have taken, the ones that meant nothing to human eyes and too much to his.

He added the latest ultrasound, too—the unmistakable outline of your baby, one hand tucked under their chin, mouth just barely open.

"We’re… we’re so far along now," he managed. "We’ve heard the heartbeat a dozen times. I’ve felt her kick. And it’s… it’s killing her, Kara. Her heart keeps stopping. Her lungs—there’s fluid, and the doctors don’t understand any of it, because they can’t know it’s not just human."

Kara’s blue eyes moved over the grayscale smear of your insides, her brow knitting. "You told them it was just… a high-risk pregnancy?" she pressed.

"What else could we do?" His hands shook as he threw his hands up, exasperated. " ‘Hi, my wife’s carrying a fetus that’s half alien, your machines don’t know what it’s doing to her, could you please fix it?’"

She flinched at the rare bitter edge in his voice.

"I've asked the League, but nothing. Is there anything?" he pleaded, brows pinched. "On Krypton—did we have tech? Protocols? Records of hybrid pregnancies? Some kind of incubator that can move the baby, something that lets her survive this—"

"Kal." Her voice was soft, but it cut straight through him.

He stopped.

Kara exhaled, staring at the scan like she could will a solution out of the pixels. "On Krypton… we barely understood our own physiology, let alone mixing it with another species," she admitted. "There were theories. Ethics debates. A few fringe scientists who wanted to try. But we didn’t get far enough to test any of it before the end."

He swallowed hard. "What about off-world tech? Is there anything that could… safely transfer the fetus, hold them until—"

"Even if something existed out there—somewhere—" She shook her head, eyes wet. "We don’t have it here. Not in time. Not safely. Anything we tried now would treat her like an experiment. And with how far along she is, how stressed her system already looks…" She bit her lip. "Kal, she might not survive the attempt."

He looked like she’d punched him.

"So that’s it?" he choked out. "I just… watch her die? Watch them both—"

"No." Kara reached across the table and held his wrist. Her grip was firm, grounding. "You do the thing that keeps her alive. Even if it’s the thing that breaks you both for a while."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "We had a name picked. She says it when she talks to her," he exhaled shakily. "She lies awake at night and reads out loud and they move when they hear her voice. We painted the walls this nice white but she calls it buttercream. I built a crib with my hands, slowly. She held my hand over her stomach and laughed when the baby kicked hard enough to sting even for me." His throat closed. "How am I supposed to go home and tell my wife the only way she lives is if… if our baby doesn't?"

"I know, Kal," Kara murmured, frowning. "I know how much this fucking hurts. But… if you force this, you’re gambling her life on a ‘maybe.’ You of all people know the odds have never been kind to our family."

That landed like a spear through his chest. Krypton. His birth parents. The pod. The way survival always came with a price.

Kara’s voice gentled. "You two are… you’re it. You’re the good I tell myself exists when the world is falling apart. Don’t throw that away on a chance."

She squeezed his wrist once more. "Whatever happens, you won’t be alone. You have Ma and Pa. You have me. You’ll still have all the other metahumans. And you and she… you’re strong enough to survive this. The strongest."

Clark left with the scans shoved back under his arm, Kara’s hug tight and desperate around his shoulders, her voice in his ear: You can’t save everyone. But you can save her. Don’t forget that.

For the first time that day, something that felt like hope burrowed its way into his chest: small, stubborn, centered around you. Not clean, never with this impossible choice. But it was there.

You didn’t talk about it that night. Not at first.

The nursery door was half-open when you came down the hall, your hand braced over the side stitch you got now just from walking the apartment. The faint smell of paint still lingered—warm yellow drying on the walls, the mobile Clark had hung turning lazily in the draft from the window.

You hesitated, then kept going.

Clark carried you to bed easily, even though you kept complaining that you felt heavy, swollen, and out of balance. He tucked you under his side, his warm palm spread over your sternum. His other hand didn’t stray far from your belly, like he couldn’t decide which heartbeat to guard more fiercely.

He kept tracking your rhythm out loud, like he couldn’t stop.

"There you are," he whispered. "Still here. Still here."

The baby rolled, a slow press outward against your skin. You both felt it—one more reminder that there were three of you in the bed, technically.

At some point, you realized Clark was crying.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing away wetness he wasn’t even acknowledging. "Oh, Clark, baby," you soothed. "Look at me."

His eyes were red; not the glowing Kryptonian kind. Just a man about to give voice to something that would break his own heart.

"I can’t fix it," he confessed, voice heavy and scared. "I’ve flown to three different labs. I’ve talked to Bruce, to J’onn, to Kara… everybody that might help. Everything they can do is experimental or dangerous or both. They all say the same thing: your body can’t keep this up. Not with how far along we are. Not with how strong they are."

You felt another faint nudge under his arm and tried not to break with him. Yet.

"So we wait," you tried, even though you knew you were lying to both of you. "Maybe it stabilizes. Maybe they slow down. Maybe—"

"You almost died today," he burst out, louder than he meant to. The lamp rattled on the nightstand.

The baby startled at her father's outburst; you felt the sharp little jerk inside and flinched. He saw your hand curl protectively over your bump from his shout.

He swallowed hard, pulling his own hands back like he’d burned you. "I’m sorry," he rushed out. "Gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare either of you, I just—"

"I know," you murmured. Your voice wobbled. "I know, Clark."

He stared down at the duvet, at the faint stretch of fabric over your belly, at the spot where the tech had pressed down to show you the baby practicing breathing movements.

When Clark spoke again, his voice was as wrecked as you’d ever heard it.

"If we keep going," he whispered, then swallowed the lump in his throat. "I lose you."

You tried to breathe around the painful truth. "If we don’t, we lose her."

Reality sat between you, awful and sharp. You felt the baby roll, a slow, familiar press outward, and your eyes burned.

"I want them," you confessed, the words ripping out of you. "God, Clark, I want this baby so badly. I’ve already—" Your breath hitched. "I’ve already pictured her first day of school, and you crying more than she would, and her flying before walking, and wondered if she'll have your black hair—"

Your voice broke completely on your first sob.

"I know," he choked, collecting you in an embrace. "I know, sweetheart. I've already had a thousand moments with her, too. Your stubborness with my hair, her first word, me crying watching her get on the bus first day of school, her laugh, if she'd roll her eyes at me—"

You scrubbed at your face into his chest.

"I’m scared," you admitted after a few breaths, finally putting it in the room. "I’m so scared. Every time I stand up too fast, every time my chest feels tight—I keep thinking: is this it? Is this the time I don’t come back? And I picture you here, alone, with this crib and my shoes still by the door, trying to pretend you’re okay for everybody else."

He flinched like the image physically slapped him.

"I don’t want that for you," you admitted, pulling back slightly. "I don’t want you doing any of this without me. I don’t want you going to checkups alone, or repainting the nursery alone, or… or scattering my ashes alone because we were too stubborn to admit what was happening."

Your hand found his, fingers threading tight. "I love this baby girl," you said, firm even through the tears. "But I love you, too. I love you so much it makes me crazy. And I don’t want a future where you have to choose between being Superman and being a widower. I want to be here to nag you about your deadlines and steal your flannel and complain when you leave your socks everywhere."

He nodded once, jaw clenched so tight you heard his teeth grind. "We can try again someday if or when you're ready," he insisted, even though hope tasted like glass. "We can adopt. We can foster. We can be the noisiest aunt and uncle to every kid in Metropolis, Smallville even. We can fill this whole apartment with children, or a thousand plants, or just… just our two stubborn selves. I don’t care what it looks like, as long as you’re there."

He lifted his gaze, desperate. "I can’t build any of that if you’re not in it. I never want to tell you what to do but...I don’t want any version of forever where you’re not there to complain about my socks or steal my flannel or laugh at me when I burn the toast with my heat vision."

He finally looked at you, and there was nothing Superman in his eyes. No cape, no symbol. Just the love of your life, your husband, the man who’d knelt on this same bedroom floor to assemble a crib and then sat in it to test its strength until you’d told him it was for the baby, not for him.

"Can I choose you?" he whispered, and you’d only heard him plead like that once before—when he asked you to marry him, hands shaking, terrified you might say no when in your heart you knew the answer after your first kiss. "I married you for your whole life, not just until the worst day went wrong. I need you, more than I need anything else I could lose."

Your hand slid to his cheek, your other resting over the rolling curve of your stomach. You swallowed hard.

"Oh, Clark," you whimpered through your crying. "I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize the price of this was… me. I want to grow old with you. I want to be there when your hair goes gray and when your back finally starts to complain about flying. I want every boring Tuesday with you that we can get."

Tears spilled hot and relentless again. "I love you so much," you hiccuped, and suddenly saying it to your person felt like the most important part.

Your throat closed around the rest of it, but it tumbled out anyway, raw and genuine. "I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not you, not the doctors, not… anyone. I don’t want to make the wrong call, but I'm scared."

Clark’s expression broke, quiet and helpless. He shook his head once, like he refused the idea on principle.

"You never could," he assured softly. "Not me. Not the people who matter. And I want you to hear me—this has to be your choice. A hundred percent yours. No guilt, no performing bravery for anybody, no trying to protect other people from your fear."

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours.

"I’ll be here for whatever you decide," he murmured. "I never want to tell you what to do, and I’m here to hold you while you choose what you want."

It wasn’t that you loved the baby less.

It was that you loved Clark, he loved you, you loved yourself, and somewhere in the middle of that was a hard, terrible mercy was the stubborn, fragile hope that there would still be a future for the two of you to fill, even if it didn’t look the way you’d painted on the nursery wall.

You closed your eyes, feeling the shape of your choice press against your ribs, against the steady thud of your trembling, beating heart.

"Okay," you breathed, barely audible. "Okay, Clark. We choose me. We choose us. Because I want us."

His shoulders sagged like someone had cut the strings holding him hostage, relief and grief slamming into him at the same time.

He pressed his forehead to your belly for a long moment, one hand splayed over the curve in wordless apology, before crawling up to gather you carefully against his chest.

"I’m so sorry, my star," he whispered into the cotton between you and the girl you wouldn’t meet. "Thank you for letting us know you were here. I promise I’ll take care of mama. I swear it."

You curled into him, hand fisted in his shirt, and despite the hollow terror in your chest, you felt something that almost resembled certainty: You were terrified. You wanted this baby. You loved Clark. You loved each other deep enough to survive this grief that had no clean edges.

And you were choosing to live that love as long as you possibly could.

.

You were admitted, where your hospital chart already flagged you as "high-risk" in screaming red letters. Nobody wrote down the real reason. Nobody knew why the numbers on your labs looked like they belonged to somebody else entirely, why your heart monitor had a habit of stuttering in ways the nurses whispered about at the station.

They moved you through a separate hallway, away from the cheery posters of first-trimester bellies and birthing classes. You clutched Clark’s hand and stared at the scuff marks on the floor instead of the doors.

Clark signed forms with hands that could catch falling planes without batting an eye, but couldn’t stop a pen from rattling against the clipboard.

"You don’t have to be in the room, honey," you murmured, when the nurse stepped out for a moment. Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "If it’s too much…"

His head snapped up. "No, I am not letting you do this alone," he countered immediately. "Unless you don't want me there. Whatever makes you feel safest."

You searched his face. "I want you there, but you’ll hear… everything," you warned, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

"I’m not leaving you for this," he replied quietly. "You want me, you got me. I promised ‘in sickness and in health,’ remember? That wasn’t just for the easy days."

You reached for him, and he instantly sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing his forehead to yours. Up close, you could see how tired he was, how many sleepless nights had stacked under his eyes that not even the yellow sun could ebb away.

"If there was any way to save you both…" he started, closing his eyes.

"I know," you breathed, and you did. If there were a choice where you all walked out of this, he would’ve torn the universe apart to find it.

You took his hand and guided it to your belly one more time. The curve rose under his palm, skin stretched over days and nights of whispered futures. He drew a slow breath, then leaned down—forehead resting lightly against your abdomen.

His voice was barely sound. "Hi, my Little Star."

The baby nudged faintly, a last, lazy roll. You closed your eyes, tears collecting fast.

"Thank you for choosing us," he murmured, wet and broken. "Even for a little while."

When he lifted his head, his expression was heartbroken cloaked in calm and strength.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, tears trickling down. "I’m so, so sorry."

He shook his head immediately. "Don't apologize," he urged, holding your knuckles to his lips to press firm kisses. "Don't be sorry for surviving."

You swallowed. "Will you hate me? Later?" you ventured, barely audible.

His breath hitched like you’d hit him.

"Never," he vowed, fierce and absolute. "You hear me? Never. This is something we’re doing together. If there’s blame, it sits on my shoulders, on my DNA, on whatever cosmic joke thought it was a good idea to mix Kryptonian and human without instructions. Not on you. You carried them as far as you could. You’re my life. You’re my miracle. Baby or no baby, that doesn’t change."

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "Always the hero."

"No, you are the hero. I'm just your husband," he corrected softly, so full of love and empathy. "Just the man who chose you, who will keep choosing you, for as long as I’m breathing. Kids or not. Powers or not. Just you and me, okay? That’s the part that’s forever."

When they wheeled you toward the procedure room, he walked beside the gurney, fingers laced with yours, lips moving in a steady stream of murmured love—memories of the first time he’d seen you in scrubs, the way you’d danced in the kitchen, the way you’d looked the day you told him he was going to be a father, the way he planned to make you laugh again someday even if it took a thousand bad jokes.

You held onto that as the lights blurred.

.

Afterward, you woke up to the soft beep of monitors and the steady warmth of a hand around yours.

The weight in your abdomen had changed—emptier, lighter, sore.

Clark was sitting in the world’s worst plastic chair, shoulders hunched, his thumb stroking absent circles over your palm. His lashes were wet.

"You’re okay," he murmured hoarsely as soon as your eyes fluttered. His other hand pressed, instinctively, over your heart. "You’re here. Your rhythm’s steady. The doctors say your vitals already look better."

You felt…hollow. Like someone had scooped out the inside of your life and left the shape of it behind without apology.

But the crushing weight on your chest was gone. You could draw in a full breath without your vision tunneling. Your heart felt steadier, less like a bird slamming itself against a cage.

Tears blurred the ceiling.

"I’m sorry, Clark," you whispered again, because grief didn’t care how logical the choice was, how medically necessary, how unanimously every specialist had urged it.

His chair scraped as he was on his feet in an instant, leaning over you, framing your face in his big, gentle hands. His lips brushed your hairline, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth—like he could kiss the apology away, like he could write I chose you and I love you into your skin over and over until it stuck.

"Hey," he said, voice rough, "No more sorry. You hear me? I’ve got you. I’m right here."

One thumb swept away a tear as fast as it fell. He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes like he was praying.

"I love you," he pledged, the words low and steady, like a vow he was re-making from the ground up. "Thank you for staying. For letting me have you longer. For giving us a chance at later. We’ll find our way there, I swear on it. However it looks, whatever it takes, we'll be better, we'll be ready—and I’m not going anywhere."

Your throat ached. You swallowed around it, fingers cradling his hands.

"I love you too, Clark," you answered back, the words more resolute despite the wave of tears. "I’m… I’m still here. With you. We loved her, and we're not done yet."

His face crumpled with relief, pain, and longing all at once. He pressed a kiss to your mouth, thumb skimming your jaw. "She was our first love, and we’ll love whoever comes after."

You turned your face into his palm, sobbing quietly as you muttered your appreciation, and he held you tight, stroking your hair, your back, your arms.

Later, when you were stronger, you would go home and stand in the doorway of the nursery together. You would decide, hand in hand, what to keep and what to change. Maybe the walls would stay buttercream. Maybe the crib would hold stuffed animals for a while. Someday, it would hold something else.

For now, Superman stayed in a plastic chair in a dim recovery room, his forehead resting against yours, whispering small, certain promises about all the mornings you’d still share.

About coffee in seasonal mugs. About walks in the park. About planting something in the window box come spring.

Clark listened, not for distant disasters, but for the most important sound he’d ever known:

The love of his life's steady and stubborn heartbeat, his favorite proof that love, somehow, had survived this too.

.

This story includes themes of serious illness, medical trauma, and conversations about terminating a pregnancy. It also explores grief, fear, and impossible choices between partners.

A note if this hits close to home:

If you’re going through something similar, you’re not alone and you are not a burden for feeling tired, scared, or conflicted. Stories like this are fiction; your real life and your safety matter more than any narrative. If this stirs up heavy feelings, please consider reaching out to someone you trust—a friend, family member, or a mental health professional—and, if you’re in crisis, a local helpline or emergency service. You deserve support, care, and gentleness in real life, too. 💛

.

Your back stuck faintly to the cool porcelain. Your skin prickled despite the cooler temperature, flushed and oversensitive. Your nipples were stiff, darker than usual, puckered tight. And your thighs, God, your thighs hadn’t stopped pressing together, knees drawn up, trying to trap some kind of friction between them, even if it hurt. Even if it made it worse.

The candles didn’t help. Neither did the low, elegant hum of the classical station drifting in from the living room. Everything felt like it was vibrating.

You reached blindly for another strawberry. Ripe. Cold. It burst between your teeth, and juice dribbled to your chin. You sucked it off with a small, breathless sound, heart hammering, eyes fluttering closed as heat pooled lower.

You hadn’t touched yourself. Hadn’t fantasized or flipped through old photos on your phone or even let your hand wander below the waterline. All you’d done was rest one palm over your stomach, slide it down slowly, tentatively, and whisper his name into the crook of your elbow, cheeks burning imagining his face, his hands, his abs. Sweet, steady, devastating handsome Clark. Your Clark.

And that was enough to light you up.

Okay, so you weren't just horny. Not just restless.

You were needy. Desperate. Aching and wet and floating on the edge of something that didn’t make any sense.

A quiet whimper left your lips, breath catching in your throat. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the tile-lined space. Curling forward, you rested your cheek against the rim of the tub, arms folded, your index finger drawing absent circles over the condensation on the tile. Your other hand trailed down to a piece of chocolate resting on a folded napkin beside the tub. The square was soft now, warm from the heat of the bath. You pressed it to your lips

Again, what the hell did Kara give you?!

Let's review: Dinner had been… normal. Sweet. Ordinary, if not for the way it had ended. The two of you tucked into takeout containers on the couch, hips brushing, laughing at the story Clark told about Jimmy leaving a single red rose on the new intern’s desk. It was 'anonymous', but obviously him.

Kara’s gift had been sitting in the fridge all week.

She’d stopped by the weekend before, dropped the box on your kitchen island with a shit-eating grin:

"Got these for you guys," she beamed. "Very rare. Total mood boosters. Or so I’ve heard!"

You hadn’t thought anything of it. The packaging was heart-shaped, the box glossy and red with little floral foil detailing. Just festive enough to be cute, just foreign enough to be intriguing. You figured they’d be perfect for dessert.

So you’d peeled the lid off, popped one of the rich chocolates into your mouth, followed it with one of the bright red strawberries.

And moaned. Loud. Instinctive.

"Dear God, this is almost better than sex," you’d declared, half-laughing, eyes fluttering closed, licking juice from your fingers with puckered lips. You tilted the box toward the light to read it.

It read: "Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries — Assortment!" A heart-shaped sticker was slapped on the center, and just below in Kara’s blocky handwriting: "Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!"

Clark quirked a brow, arms crossed over his chest in mock protest, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Here—" you grinned, already crawling into his lap, "—you need to try."

You’d fed him the same pair—one chocolate, one berry—your fingers still sticky, your grin too wide. He’d caught your wrist when you pulled back, kissed your fingertips slowly, then kissed you, just as slow. The taste of him mixing with the sugar still hadn’t left your tongue, even after he was called away.

A collapsed bridge. Gas leak. People trapped in traffic under debris. An emergency. 

He’d kissed your temple, forehead, and mouth again, tapping your ass as he motioned for you to shift off his lap. He whispered, "I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise."

That had been… what? Thirty minutes ago?

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

Your thighs squeezed together again, and this time the pressure made your back arch. You felt slick even under the water, hypersensitive everywhere, your skin flushed and buzzing. You weren’t imagining this. This wasn’t nerves. Wasn’t routine desire.

Clark wasn’t even here. You rubbed your burning cheek against the cool tub’s edge and moaned loudly from frustration and ache, thighs twitching, nipples brushing against the cool porcelain.

You needed Clark.

.

The balcony door slid open with a dull, echoing thud ten minutes later.

"Sweetheart?"

A familiar voice carried down the hall. Fractured, pitched too high, like they had been running purely on adrenaline. "Where are you?"

Your throat was bone dry when you answered, voice coming out harsher than you meant it to, breathless and needy even to your own ears.

"In here," you called. "In the bath."

There was a pause. Then his quick footsteps thundered toward you.

He appeared in the doorway a heartbeat later and the sight of him stole the air from your lungs.

Soot streaked his jaw and collarbone. His suit was already peeled down to his waist, the top half hanging loose like he’d barely bothered with it, cape dragging behind him in a dark red spill. His curls were wild, pushed back from his forehead by frantic hands, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell like he’d just flown through hell and back and hadn’t bothered to slow down once he’d crossed the city line.

And the second he saw you bare, lips caught between your teeth, knees drawn, and an expectant, longing look etched on your face.

"Oh," he breathed, bracing one hand on the doorframe. His jaw dropped just a hair, but his pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. "Oh, baby. There you are. Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."

His voice cracked on the last word.

Crossing the room in two steps, he dropped to his knees beside the tub. His large, warm hands slid into your hair, thumbs pressing gently at your sweat-damp temples, fingers massaging behind your ears the way he always did when he was grounding you.

You leaned into him without thinking, forehead tipping toward his touch, breath shuddering.

"Your heartbeat," he whispered, voice husky. "I heard it. Out there. I felt it the whole time. It kept getting faster and I—" He swallowed hard, gaze flicking helplessly over your face, your throat, your chest, the way your breasts strained with every shallow breath. "Gosh, you’re burning up."

"Yeah," you murmured. "I feel… weird. Hot. And empty. Like something’s missing and it hurts." Your fingers curled weakly around his wrist. "Clark, do you feel weird? Because I think—"

You swallowed hard as another wave of pleasure rolled between your legs.

"B-because I think there was something in those treats Kara gave us."

Lifting a hand, you pointed clumsily at the open box perched on the side of the tub, unmistakably lighter than it had been earlier. 

Clark’s eyes followed the motion. His brow creased.

"How many did you eat?" he asked, frowning.

You blinked, trying to think past the fog. "I—I don’t know. The strawberries would’ve gone bad. And those chocolates are… Clark, they’re the richest damn chocolates ever." A breathy, almost-hysterical laugh slipped out. "I think I’m losing it. Oh, fuck."

He stared at you for a long moment, your pulse pounding loud and erratic in his ears, your sweet, warm, unmistakably you scent, just… amplified. Sharpened.

Then quietly: "I feel like I’m losing my mind, too."

He cupped your cheek, palm broad and steady, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. He leaned in close, nuzzling the side of your face like he couldn’t stand even the inch of space between you.

"You smell like sugar and skin and—" His breath hitched. "Hon, you smell so, so sweet. I could just eat you up."

"Well why don't you eat me out first? See how really sweet I am. My pussy misses you."

Before he could answer, shocked by your brazen vocabulary, your mouth was on his.

The kiss was desperate. Messy. All tongue and teeth and need, like you were trying to breathe him in. His lips dragged away from yours, trailing down your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again and again, chasing the taste of you like it might feed his ache, too.

You whined into the kiss, wet hands scrambling for him, gripping the remains of his suit at his hips, and pawing his growing arousal. You could see him, feel him, hard already, thick and heavy and right in front of you, and proximity made your whole body clench tighter.

"T-take your suit off!" you begged, patience running thin.

Brows furrowed, Clark's worry flashed through the haze. "You sure? If you’re not feeling well, we should—"

"No," you panted sharply, shaking your head, already rocking forward without realizing it. "No, I’m sure. I need you. My pussy needs you. Please, Clark."

Your eyes dropped to his chest, so broad, solid, and familiar, and still somehow devastating every time you saw it. To his large, farm-and-battle hardened hands. To the size of his beautiful cock, even still hidden, even restrained.

"I need you to touch me. Need you to kiss it better." Your pleaded softly. Filthy. Unfiltered. "Fuck me all better, Clark."

For half a second, he stilled.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.

His hands tightened at the lip of the tub, his gaze sharpened, listening, measuring, feeling the way your pulse fluttered too fast to his touch. The way your scent clung heavier in the steam. The way your body kept tipping toward him like he was a black hole.

"You’re definitely more affected," he murmured, low and strained.

You nodded helplessly, breath catching.

"Yes, yes, I ate more," you admitted. "I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how good your tongue feels. How big you feel inside me, especially when you've made me cum and you still fuck me. About how empty I was without you. It kept getting worse."

His eyes flashed dark and devoted and tender all at once.

"Okay," he said quietly, decision settling into his bones. "Then I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone in this."

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, tender. Possessive.

"But if I get in that tub," he warned, voice rough. "I’m going to take care of you first. All the way. I need you to tell me if it’s too much, yeah?"

Your thighs trembled as you nodded, whispering, "It won’t be. It's all I want right now."

Clark exhaled, slow and shaking, started peeling off the rest of his suit. 

You watched his hands first. Big, steady, trembling slightly as he dragged the rest of the suit down his hips, his thighs. The cape fell behind him in a heap of crimson, forgotten. Every motion exposed more of him. Each shift of muscle made your mouth water. His abs flexed and rolled as he knelt, skin streaked with soot and heat, chest still rising like he’d been crossing galaxies to get to you.

Then his cock. Hard already. Thick. Leaking. Dark at the tip and heavy with want.

You whimpered, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it. Licked your lips before you even realized. Your thighs rubbed together beneath the water, desperate for friction, slick with want, and suddenly so loney and empty.

His eyes locked on yours, ravenous.

"Gosh, hon," he rasped, dropping back to his knees, stroking his shaft in front of you. "You want this?"

Unable to look away, you nodded frantically. Your mouth parted on instinct, rolling a little onto your knees ready to beg.

"I want you everywhere. I want your mouth—want to ride your tongue, baby—make me cry on your cock, please—"

Cutting off another string of obscene words, he kissed you slow, open-mouthed, heat and tongue and something desperate all over again. Then he pulled back, hands smoothing down your arms, over your hips, into the water.

"I’ve got you," he murmured. "I’ve got you, sweetheart. I'm here. Just let me…"

Clark climbed in. The water shifted around him, flowing up the sides of the tub, rushing over your hips as his weight displaced everything else. Too much man for the narrow porcelain space. Too much of your Clark.

His knees pressed to the porcelain. His chest hovered over yours. And still, he sank lower, fitting between your thighs.

His hands found the back of your knees and liften them up gently, water cascading down his forearms. He peered up at you beneath his lidded gaze, licking his lips.

"My poor girl," he whispered. "You’ve been like this—so needy—for how long? Remind me?"

You almost sobbed.

"A while," you whined, throwing a forarm across your eyes. "Since you left. I’m sorry, Clark—I couldn’t stop I—I tried, but—"

"Shh, honey." He soothed. "It's okay. I'm here now."

You let your head fall back against the tile. Exposed. Thighs wide, trembling. Your fingers wove into his curls without thinking, tugging him closer.

And Clark, sweet, steady, starving Clark, moved his grip from your knees to curve the shape of your ass, lifting you up, mouth hovering over your pubic bone just above the surface of the bathwater.

He sank.

The water shifted again, and then it was silent.

Soundless, thick pressure wrapped around you as his head disappeared beneath the surface. The air left your lungs in a rush. All you could hear was the frantic thud of your own heartbeat, the faint ripple of water against porcelain.

His tongue met your clit.

You gasped, loud, broken, shocked. The sound rang out against the tile, echoed once, twice, then faded into something small and sharp as your hips jolted clean out of the water.

Clark groaned, bubbles rising between your thighs, and held you down.

You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling tight, your body floating, weightless and trembling, as his mouth dragged through your folds again repeatedly.

There was no mercy. No pause.

Just your Clark anchoring you down with strong hands, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs open, his mouth sucking you clit like he’d been starved for this. He licked slow and deep, savoring, then flatter, broader, faster until his nose was nudging your clit and your mouth was falling open with a scream you couldn’t stop.

The sound of your own voice ricocheted off the walls.

"Oohhh fuuuck, right there! It—Ah! Feels—so good!"

He couldn’t answer. Could only hum, moan enough to vibrate through your cunt, lick deeper, faster all beneath the water.

"Clark—fuuuck—baby, please—"

It obscene in how good it felt. Every muscle in your body jerked. The bath splashed over the edge, water trailing down your spine as you thrashed, hips bucking against his face.

You came so hard you nearly sobbed, heat tearing through your stomach and bursting between your legs as your thighs squeezed around his head.

Mouth sealed to your cunt like you were the only thing he’d ever needed to eat again, he kept going. His fingers squeezed your ass, held you while his tongue kept working you through your high.

The next orgasm hit before the first had fully ebbed.

You cried, shaking, floating in the water, your grip in his hair and the tub tight and frantic, head tipped back against the tile as your body seized and sang. It was too much and not enough. You wanted more. You needed him deeper. Harder. Inside.

Finally, he resurfaced.

His face glistened. His lips were swollen and wet. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and his breath was ragged as if resurfacing the Mariana Trench, and his pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.

"You taste like heaven," he rasped, water dripping from his nose, his chin, splashing onto your chest. "So soft, so darn sweet. Like the perfect, juicy strawberry."

You were still heaving. Still floating. Your thighs trembled as you barely nodded.

Surging up, he kissed you deep, open-mouthed, tongue dragging against yours until you moaned and rutted against him, clinging to his shoulders like you were about to fall through the tub and through all the apartments below.

"I have to be inside you, sweet girl," he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. "I need to be. I’ll lose my damn mind if I’m not—please, sweetheart—let me have you. Make love to you."

"Y-yeah, make love," you whimpered, pawing at his chest, nodding frantically. "Please, Clark, just—I can't wait any more—"

He cut you off by kissing you hard again, restraint barely there, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pressing deep. Then he leaned back, breath shaking, shifting until his spine met the other end of the tub.

His cock stood hard and heavy between his thighs, the fat head dark and swollen beneath the rippling water, twitching like it already knew what was about to happen.

Your breath hitched.

God, he was big.

You always praised him, worshiped this delightful perk being his wife, but like this, bare and waiting, framed by white porcelain and aromatic candies and steam, it felt insane. Like your body had never felt this hungry wanting all of him before.

He lifted his arms, beckoned you, an invitation.

You crawled into his lap, knees sliding into the water on either side of his waist, skin brushing skin, heat everywhere. Your hands found his shoulders, solid and familiar, your mouth slack with want as you reached between your bodies, guiding him home.

When you sank down on him in one motion, the stretch punched the breath right out of you.

A broken sound tore from your throat as he filled you thick and unyielding and perfect. Your walls clenched around him like your body couldn’t believe he was finally there, like it was terrified he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough.

Clark’s head hit the back of the tub with a sharp thud, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

"O-oh, sweetheart—"

Your moan echoed off the tile, loud and unashamed, your whole body trembling with relief as you sank fully down, hips flush to his thighs.

"Yeah," you panted, dazed. "Yeah, baby—feel—feel good?"

You were soaked, frantic, tight around him, clenching like your body couldn’t bear to be empty another second.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Aching in the best way. The drag of him inside you made your spine arch, your nails scrape helplessly across his chest. He filled every inch, pressed deep enough to make your vision blur, like he was holding you open from the inside.

He was saying something. Trying to murmur soft reassurances, gentle pet names, something about taking it slow? But the aphrodisiac heat was roaring now, flooding your veins, making you reckless.

"No, fuck slow," you gasped, riding him hard. "I need you. Fuck, I love—absolutely fucking love your cock—"

Clark groaned, deep. "Honey—baby—slow down—"

"I can’t!" You moaned again, loud, breathless. "I feel like I’m gonna die if you’re not fucking me—harder—"

You slammed down again, the water rippling up your spine as you bounced on him, the edge of the tub creaking beneath you.

You sobbed. 

He touched them again, cupping you, and you rode him harder, whimpering, "That’s it, baby. That’s so good, god—touch me there again—yes—yes—"

His hands trembled as he obeyed, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, watching your face break open in pleasure as your pussy clenched down around him.

"You’re incredible," you babbled, barely coherent now. "So deep—so full—I love how you feel inside me—fuck, Clark—you were made to fuck me—ohh, I wanna make love to you—"

His mouth fell open, breath coming in ragged pulls as he let you take him faster, wetter, louder. His hips bucked helplessly beneath you, cock throbbing inside your tight heat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shook.

Your head lolled to your side, lids heavy and unfocused when you saw it. The box of strawberries and chocolates still perched on the edge of the tub. Something sharp and greedy sparked behind your eyes.

You reached for it with shaking hands, water sloshing dangerously as you leaned forward, the movement grinding you down on his cock in a slow, filthy roll.

Clark tried to say your name, tried to ask what you were doing, but you were already plucking another piece of chocolate and popping it into your mouth.

You moaned, loudly.

"Oh fuck," you breathed, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You leaned down and kissed him, chocolate dissolving between your mouths, your tongue sliding against his as you ground down again in one slow filthy circle.

"It tastes even better like this," you whispered. "Like sex and candy."

Clark whimpered—actually whimpered.

You picked up a strawberry next and fed it to him, your voice gone syrupy and twice as needy.

"Eat f’me, baby. You’ve been so good. Such a damn good husband, letting me use you like this—filling me up with your cock—working so hard—taking good fucking care of me—"

He bit into it helplessly, juice ran down his chin, glistening pink against the stubble of his jaw. Your tongue lapped it up, following to suck on his bottom lip.

"Fuuuuck—Claaaark—"

You barely remembered grabbing a piece of soft chocolate. You only knew it was melting between your fingers, sticky and hot from your skin. You were high on the way he filled you, on the way his cock curved inside you like it had been molded for your body, and without thinking, rubbed the piece across your breasts.

Chocolate smeared across your skin, across the curves and peaks of your pebbled nipples.

"God," he groaned, dragging his mouth across one chocolate-streaked breast, licking a path through the mess with obscene hunger. "You taste—hon, you taste incredible."

He closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked hard.

Your entire body snapped, spine arching, hands gripping his shoulders as your hips kept rolling, frantic and needy and utterly soaked.

"Yes—ooohh yes— Right there, right there!"

He groaned around your tit, licking and sucking until your nipple was red and aching, until the chocolate was gone and all that remained was spit and love bites.

Greed overpowered him, and he moved to the other breast with the same passion.

"Can’t—can’t stop," he panted, dragging his tongue across your skin, open-mouthed kisses pressed between your breasts. "You’re driving me insane—"

His hips bucked violently, cock slamming deep throughout, and you sobbed, dizzy with sensation and still craving more.

"I’m gonna —come again," you panted. "Gonna come on your big, beautiful, cock, baby, and you’re gonna give it to me, right? Gonna fill me up like I need, Clark—fill me—right, baby?"

"Yeah, I'll f–fill you up," he choked. "Sweetheart—if you keep saying things like that I won't last— you'll leak for days—"

"I want it," you begged, trembling all over. "Want you to fuck me full and keep it there—god, I want it so bad, want everyone to know—fuck a baby into me, Clark—I love you, Iloveyou, love you!"

Your nails raked down his chest, your rhythm faltering as you started to come again. Your whole body locked up, heat exploding through your stomach, your mouth falling open to chant his name that echoed through the whole damn apartment.

Clark was almost gone.

He surged up into you, loud, broken grunts spilling from his mouth as he chased his own release, and one–two–three—he pulsed deep inside, cum thick and hot, flooding you full and still not enough.

Your hips kept grinding through the aftershocks, both of you too far gone to stop, both of you moaning, panting, clinging.

He stayed buried inside, arms locked around your waist, mouth pressed to your shoulder, chanting sweet nothings and I love you's.

.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm without either of you noticing.

Chocolate smeared softly along the rim of the tub, half-melted and forgotten. One of the candles guttered low, wax spilling down its side, the flame trembling like it was tired of watching. The air was thick with steam and sweat and the lingering sweetness of strawberries crushed between fingers and mouths.

Clark’s arms cradled you close, one hand firm at your lower back, the other cupping your hip, keeping you settled. You were pruning, and you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move. You wanted to stay right here, boneless and full and buzzing, his body still anchoring you to the world.

You were still full of him.

Still warm and stretched and sensitive.

Still trembling in those aftershocks that never quite faded all the way out.

Your fingers traced lazy, distracted patterns over his chest, following the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scrape of stubble at his jaw when he dipped to press a kiss into your hair. The burn lingered in your blood like an ember that refused to cool.

Not satisfied. Just… softened enough to breathe and think again.

He shifted slightly, careful, one thigh braced, making sure you didn’t slip. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your hairline. "You okay?"

You nodded, dazed and blissed out, cheek tucked into the crook of his neck. Your body gave a small, involuntary squeeze around him, and you felt him suck in a breath.

"Never better," you murmured. And it was mostly true. Because some part of you that still wanted more. Still throbbed and buzzed and reached.

Clark glanced toward the counter. The box sat there, damp at the edges, its lid askew. He reached for it absently, brows knitting as he tugged at the heart-shaped sticker plastered across the center.

It peeled away with a soft rip.

He squinted. Read. Once. Twice. One more time.

Then out loud, incredulous, voice climbing with each word:

"Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries…" He paused. Blinked. "Aphrodisiac Assortment?!"

Your head snapped up.

"Oh—oh no." You groaned and buried your face against his collarbone, mortification flooding hot through your chest. "There’s—there’s more—" You lifted your head just long enough to recite it with him. "‘Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!’"

There was a beat of silence.

Then laughter. Wild, breathless, uncontained.

Clark laughed first, a disbelieving bark that shook his chest. You followed, shaking and helpless, pressing your face into his neck again as the absurdity of it all hit at once.

Kara. Of course, it was Kara. Your interstellar menace.

"Kara, what the fuck?" you wheezed, dragging your hands down your face, cheeks burning for a whole new reason. "We should—uh—probably not finish the rest, right?" You squinted up at him. "Take another bath. A proper one."

Still staring at your mouth, still swollen, still glossy; at your breasts, heavy, flushed, nipples dark and sensitive; at your thighs, splayed and distorted beneath the water, still trembling, still open around him, Clark's eyes narrowed, head tilted.

Then his gaze lifted back to your eyes.

"Nope," he said simply, a little pop on the 'p'. "We’re definitely finishing the rest."

You laughed, half-dazed, half-thrilled, and then yelped as he scooped you up without warning, water streaming off both of you. He held you with one arm under your ass, the other firm between your shoulder blades, his body still deep inside you, careful not to pull away.

"Clark—" you giggled, clinging to his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist.

"I’ve got you," he murmured, already kissing you, already moving. "And I’m taking you to bed."

He stepped out of the tub, slow and deliberate, keeping you tipped just enough so nothing spilled where it shouldn’t. You squirmed against him, still too sensitive, still buzzing, still aching in that delicious, half-satisfied way.

As he walked out, you reached back with arms outstretched towards the damp box of sweets still at the lid of the tub with a pout.

"Oh Gosh," He chuckled, shaking his head. He turned back and crouched until your fingers snatched the box with a triumphant little "Ah-ha!".

"You’re ridiculous."

You grinned at him, delirious and shameless, securely tucking the treats flushed to your chest. "You’re the ridiculous one for letting these go to waste!"

He carried you toward the bedroom, still inside you, still holding you close.

"Hon, you're absolutely right. We’re not wasting a thing," he said, chuckling.

You tugged him into a deep kiss and sighed, already burning again.

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

.

You were propped up on one elbow, straw tucked into the corner of your mouth like a chewstick, one leg folded beneath you in your chair, as always.  You were listening—or pretending to—but your expression had slipped into that quiet rebellion Clark had come to recognize. Your default setting in meetings that went on too long. The calm before the storm of absurdism.

Your face. Gosh, your face, a hilarious, expressive, incredible collection. A silent film reel of emotion.

It started small. A little eyebrow twitch. A slow blink of deliberate agony. Then you grimaced, drawing your brows together so fiercely you looked like you were mourning the end of Hamlet in real time. Your cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, and when Martin uttered the word "interagency," you gave Clark a full-body eye roll so sharp it looked like it might dislocate something.

He bit down a laugh so hard his molars ached, and turned away to rub his jaw under the guise of stifling a cough. Well-Meaning Martin didn’t deserve to be ignored, but Clark wasn’t just distracted. He was doomed.

You’d been deskmates for three years, and in that time, Clark had become fluent in a language spoken by only one person: you. Or more precisely: your face.

Your poker face was terrible. Your emotions were a slideshow on full display, written across your features in glorious, expressive high definition. And Clark—meticulous, quiet, observant Clark— learned to read them like scripture. He catalogued every shift of your mouth, every crease between your brows, every twitch of your nose like they were classified intel. The anatomy of a visage, your visage, was his secret specialty.

He knew your focused face when you and Lois combined your brain power to meet an impossible deadline. 

He knew your disgusted face when Steve Lombard dropped another locker room joke like it was clever and not a decade past expiration.

He knew your delighted face, but not the practiced newsroom smile, the real one that sparkled. The one that came out when you cracked a pun headline so good Perry barked a laugh and clapped your shoulder like you’d saved the paper.

He knew your gutted face. The way your eyes burned and softened at once. The way your lips wobbled when he returned from another "errand" with healing split knuckles and a bruised jaw, trying to pretend nothing happened. 

And then there were the ones he didn’t have names for.

The one where your lips parted just slightly and your eyes went a little unfocused when he rolled his sleeves up. 

The way your lashes dipped and your brows flicked inward, just for a second, the first time he accidentally called you darlin’ entirely on accident.

The way you smiled, mouth full of donut, sugar clinging to your bottom lip, as if he was sweeter than whatever you were eating.

The way your face went carefully blank when a new intern clutched his bicep for too long and laughed too hard at something he said. Blank, but not unreadable. Not to him

And just yesterday, when his hand brushed yours reaching for the breakroom coffee pot. You’d looked up at him like the air between you had turned to fire.

He didn’t know what it meant. Not for certain. But he hoped—God, he hoped—that you saw him the way he saw you. A story he’d never had the nerve to write, but one he ached to live in.

So he kept filing away your expressions like tabs in the margins of his heart. All of it—the faces, the silences, the almosts. It was a quiet kind of ache, the way he longed for you. An unspoken thing that lived in the space between desks. Between glances, cataloging it all and smiling like a fool behind his monitor.

"Mr. Kent," Martin barked on the line. "Still with me?"

Clark blinked. "Yep!" he squeaked, too fast, too high. He cleared his throat. "Still here. You got me."

His ears were hot. His pulse was louder than Martin. His eyes drifted to you again, and you pantomimed blowing your brains out with your neon yellow highlighter, collapsing into a dramatic sprawl across your keyboard like a death scene in a soap opera. 

He smiled into his fist. Bit back a laugh.

Martin, mercifully, started winding down. Something about following up tomorrow. Circling back.

You perked up at that, raising your fists in a silent cheer, grinning wide enough to make his stomach drop. Clark would’ve circled the sun if it meant seeing you smile like that again.

When the line disconnected, he slumped back in his chair with a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then something bounced off his shoulder. 

He turned and saw a wadded-up sticky note on the floor. He glanced your way, and you were biting your knuckle to keep from laughing, eyes dancing with mischief as you stared hard at your phone, hair falling in your face.

He picked it up. Smoothed out the note: My will to live: gone. Murder me with your tie.

Clark looked at you, chuckling softly. You glanced up, just a little glance, and smiled wider before flicking back down, and something broke open in him. He rose, folding the note and tucked it into his back pocket, and stepped around his desk to where you sat 

"Hey," he greeted, palm flat on your desk as he leaned down.

You looked up mid-sentence, mid-scroll, and your whole face shifted like a curtain had been pulled open—brows jumping, mouth parting just slightly, surprise giving way to something amused.

"Oh hiya! Wait—" you squinted dramatically, pointing to the sticky note that rested in his back pocket. "The note’s a joke, Clark. Don’t actually kill me, please."

He snorted, crouching a little beside your chair. "No promises."

You laughed, and he felt it bloom in his chest. You tilted your head, mouth quirking like you were already preparing your rebuttal.

Then he beat you to it.

"No, listen," he said, hands braced on his knees now, suddenly shy. "Are you—um. Are you doing anything tonight?"

Your expression shifted instantly. Clark watched it happen in real time—your brow pinching slightly in mock-thought, nose scrunching, lips pursing like you were considering pulling another one-liner from your arsenal.

But something about his tone must’ve registered.

Your teasing stalled. You blinked. Then softened. "No plans," you blinked slowly. "Why?"

He reached up, rubbed the back of his neck. "Would you want to get dinner with me?"

Your mouth dropped open just a little. Not theatrically, not with a joke locked and loaded. But quiet. Real stunned. Like your brain had short-circuited.

You looked at him like you didn’t want to mishear the question.

Then slowly, a new smile spread across your face. Not the mischievous one he knew from budget meetings or Friday night drinks shoulder-to-shoulder with Lois and Cat or the way you tried to hide your amusement during press briefings. Not the one you wore when praising him about Superman's latest victory.

This smile was shyer. Earnest.

"I—oh. Oh my gosh, sure," you bit your lip between a laugh, a little breathless. "Yes, Clark. I’d really like that."

A beat passed. And then, gentler still: "Love that, actually."

His ears rang.

He’d spent three years watching you do everything—type furiously, bite back arguments, mouth along to songs, pick the cheese off sandwiches, overshare during lunch breaks, fall asleep during stakeouts, laugh until your eyes crinkled—and somehow this was the one expression that gutted him most.

The glowing, giddy kind of yes you couldn't hide.

Clark swallowed. Hard.

"Great," he managed, nodding. "Hoped you would."

.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, at least not tonight. 

You sat shoulder to shoulder in a narrow booth at Camille’s Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a florist that always smelled faintly of wet stems. It was an easy, safe place where you could share fries and stories about the Planet and extracurricular near-misses without worrying about anyone overhearing, where the ketchup came in maroon‑tinted squeeze bottles, and the check was always handwritten, numbers slanted and looping from a server who smelled like cigarettes and a classic perfume.

Nervous laughter, maybe. A stumble through awkward conversation, perhaps. He’d braced himself for pauses that needed filling, for jokes that landed too hard or not at all, for the careful politeness of two people afraid to stomp on something built the past three years.

But instead, it was this. 

A warm pocket of familiarity. The easy hum of something well‑worn and trusted. And beneath it, threaded through every glance and brush of fabric, a quiet, electric sense that this moment had been waiting for them both to stop pretending it wasn’t inevitable.

Though it all, you were radiant. Not in a way that demanded attention, not in a way that tried. Just… open. Unfiltered. You licked salt from your thumb without thinking, laughed so hard at your own terrible joke that you snorted and immediately tried to cover it with a cough, eyes bright with embarrassment and delight all at once.

You teased him about how many phone chargers he’d "mysteriously" destroyed over the years, narrowing your eyes at him like a detective who already knew the culprit.

"You’re a menace to modern technology," you accused, mouth still full, clearly delighted.

He grinned, heat creeping into his cheeks. "Hey! I personally think I’ve come a long way since then."

"Oh, sure, sure sure," you nodded, waving a fry. "Just like how you’re media‑savvy, Mr. Man‑of‑Steel?"

He laughed, ducking his head. "Like I said. I’ve learned."

He told you about his Ma’s blueberry crumble—how the crust never looked like much, but always tasted like home, how the kitchen smelled like sugar and butter even days after, how he still couldn’t get it right on his own no matter how many voicemails Ma left him walking through each step.

He told you about the toaster incident, too. How he’d nearly shorted the whole house trying to make Pop-Tarts, how his Pa threatened to make it a lifelong ban, how he cried harder over the loss of cinnamon brown sugar than the sparks.

You laughed like you’d heard part of it before but still wanted to hear it again. Like you remembered him telling it in passing years ago, somewhere between print deadlines and vending machine snafus, but this version was softer, slower, closer. Your chin tilted toward him, fingers curled loosely around a napkin, and you leaned in like every single detail mattered.

He noticed, and he noticed he could no longer take his eyes off you. Not after tonight.

You were so close that your thigh pressed warmly against his beneath the booth, your shoulder brushing his with every laugh. Partway through a shared milkshake, your head settled gently onto his shoulder, like it had always known the shape of him. Clark went still, breath catching, every instinct screaming to kiss the top of your head, to close his eyes and pretend this was already something permanent.

His willpower won. Barely.

As always, your face gave away everything.

You sure liked his voice. (He could tell by the way you leaned in when it dropped a little lower, teeth catching on your bottom lip when he spoke quietly.)

You sure liked his hands. (He caught the way your gaze followed them when he took off his glasses to rub at his temple after an exasperating joke.)

You must like him. (He felt it in your smile, in the bloom of color in your cheeks, in the breathless laugh you let out when your fingers curled thoughtlessly into his bicep as you rested your head on his shoulder.)

Later, when the plates were pushed to the side and the night had mellowed to less jokes and more quiet, your voice slipped in like a sigh between topics.

"Hey," you murmured, tracing lazy circles over the fabric of his sleeve. "What’s your favorite quote again?"

Clark didn't even have to think. "‘The land is the real teacher. All we need as students is mindfulness.’"

You smiled, leaned deeper into his side.

"It's Robin Wall Kimmerer." He explained. "Reminds me of home."

"Of Smallville?"

His smile grew warmer, reminiscing. "Of the way wheat sounds when it’s dry. Of thunderstorms over the fields. Of my Ma’s hands in the dirt."

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut like you could hear it. Smell it. Feel it.

Then you whispered, teasing and fond: "Sounds like poetry."

He would’ve told you you were the poem. The cadence, the rhythm, the thing he kept rereading in his head. But his brain short‑circuited faster than any toaster he’d ever broken.

The waiter dropped the check while Clark was still looking at you, like every blink might be a missed stanza, and you reached instinctively for your purse. Clark beat you to it, already taking out his wallet.

"Oh, let me—" you started.

But the waiter, a woman older than both of you, just smiled knowingly and patted your hand with a wink.

"Oh, hun. Let your boyfriend spoil you once in a while."

You blinked, startled, but didn't flinch. He just chuckled nervously, cheeks tinged rose, and handed over his card without hesitation.

Boyfriend.

He braced for a correction, but it never came. Instead, you smiled down at your water glass, warmth blooming up your neck, your bashful and delighted face clear as day as you eyed him over the rim.

When the waiter returned with the receipt, Clark tipped too generously, too giddy, and stood, helping you with your coat.

When you left the restaurant, the sky had gone heavy and dark, rain threatening but holding back, wind curling at the edges of your jacket. You walked close together beneath a flickering streetlamp, shoulders brushing, steps falling into an unconscious rhythm.

At your building’s stoop, you slowed, fingers lingering at your sides like you weren’t quite ready to let the night end. You looked up at him then, expression softer than it had been all evening, something shy and uncertain threading through your smile.

"This was nice," you smiled, small, bashful, entirely sincere. "Thank you."

He nodded, pulse hammering. "No, thank you. I thought it was nice, too."

A pause stretched between you. Your eyes dropped to his lips.

And Clark—God help him—leaned in the same time you did.

"Is this okay?" he whispered, lips hovering just close enough that he could feel your breath.

Your breath hitched, just a little. And then you met him halfway. 

The kiss was soft. Tentative. Like you were testing something long suspected, long hoped for, long-caged finally speak. 

Clark deepened it slowly, hands coming up to cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if committing the feeling to memory. Your fingers curled into the front of his coat, knuckles pressing in with a little moan.

When you pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for half a second too long, then opened, watching him.

You tilted your head slightly, staring right into blue. "Clark?"

"Y–yeah?"

"I’ve always wondered," you murmured. "How long have you been watching me?"

He stilled. You weren’t teasing or accusing. More curious. Tender.

"I mean…" You let out a breathy laugh. "I see you, too, you know? When you think I’m not looking. I’m not blind."

His heart dropped straight to his shoes. He stepped back just slightly, enough to look at you fully. His hand slipped from your cheek to your shoulder.

"Three years," he confessed, voice quiet. "Since the day you became my deskmate, my friend."

Your lips parted. Your eyes searched his face like you were trying to read him the way he’d been reading you all along.

"I started noticing first," he went on, words spilling now that they’d been let loose. "The way you look when you’re focused. Or frustrated. Or trying not to laugh during staff meetings. I don’t think you know how expressive you are."

Clark exhaled, the truth easing out of his chest like a long‑held breath.

"I’ve cataloged so many of your faces," he said, voice rough. "The one you make when Steve says something off‑color and you fight the urge to throw a pen at him. The one when you land a perfect headline and Perry praises you in front of everyone."

You just stared, silent.

"The one when I’ve come back hurt," he added quietly. "That’s my least favorite. I don’t care for being the reason you look like that. Ever." He swallowed. "And the one when a new intern flirts with me, and you pretend not to care, but your eyes give you away."

"Hey!" you protested weakly. "Those girls were not professional—"

"But yesterday," he cut you off, "you made this particular one when I asked if you wanted the last donut with your coffee. You just smiled. But I swear—" His exhaled. "I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more."

Your lips wobbled, eyes glassy. He stepped into your space again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"I wanted to see one more," he murmured. "The face you’d make if I asked you on a date."

You didn’t speak. You just looked at him, backlit by the glow of the lobby lights, open and luminous and entirely unguarded.

"Can I—" he cleared his throat, eyes flicking down to your lips again. 

You just nodded, with that same radiant, giddy, yes-filled face.

So he did. Kissed you again. And again. And again.

.

You barely made it through your apartment door with dignity.

The lock clicked shut behind you, coats and work bags sliding from your shoulders and collapsing uselessly onto the floor, because Clark’s mouth was already everywhere, warm, intent, and aching, his hands framing your waist with eagerness that betrayed how long he’d been waiting to touch you like this.

Years, if he was honest.

Your fingers fisted in the front of his dress shirt, tugging him closer, closer still, until there was no space left to close, until impatience took over and you dragged him down by threading your hands into his hair.

Clark’s lips traced your jaw, lingered beneath your ear, moved slowly down the column of your throat. His hands slid under your blouse, thumbs brushing skin already pebbled with goosebumps, and when you shivered, he moaned softly, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.

He had dreamed about this. About you. About this exact moment of what it would feel like to finally stop watching, stop cataloging from afar, and start touching.

But the reality of your warmth, the way you arched into him without thinking, the way your breath went shallow and unsteady when he kissed the hollow at the base of your throat, surpassed anything his imagination had ever been brave enough to conjure.

You tugged his dress shirt loose and flung it somewhere behind you, fabric whispering against the wall as it fell. He undid his belt with clumsy urgency, hands shaking just slightly, while you shimmed out of your dress pants, bare skin revealed inch by inch. He unbuttoned your blouse, fingertips brushing where buttons had been, and when he unclasped your bra, your lips parted in a breathy sound he hadn’t known he was waiting to hear.

He paused, just for a moment, breath mingling with yours, eyes searching your face.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, voice husky, rough, thick with restraint.

You didn’t even have to speak. Your expression gave you away instantly: eyes dark, lips swollen and soft, body leaning into his without hesitation.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hunger threaded through tenderness. His hands slid under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. Clark felt the trust in that movement, the want, the unspoken yes of it, and it nearly undid him.

He kissed down your neck, between your exposed breasts, murmuring something too quiet to catch.

Every new inch of skin was a discovery. A revelation. A memory-in-the-making.

And every time he paused, chest heaving and hands slowed, he asked again, desiring your consent.

"Still okay?"

Yes. God, yes. Your face answered before your mouth did. Your body begged.

"Bedroom," you barely managed, already breathless, already soaked, already trembling against him.

Clark laughed, a little soft and stunned, because he still couldn’t believe this was real.

"You’re gonna have to remind me where it is, darlin’," he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth like it wasn’t the first time he’d teased you, but was the first time he’d gotten to follow it through. "You know I’ve only walked your place a hundred times."

.

By the time he laid you against your bed, he was certain his heart was going to give out from the sight alone

You looked wrecked already, with hair loose and wild against your sheets, lips swollen and dark from his mouth, skin glowing with heat and want. Your body bore the imprint of his attention, the evidence of how thoroughly he’d touched you.

You were so beautiful like this, Clark thought. Open. Unguarded. His.

"Oh," you breathed suddenly, the word slipping out before you could stop it, hands lifting to cover your face as the weight of his gaze settled over you.

"That’s… that’s how you’ve always watched me." A quiet, trembling laugh. "Last three years."

Clark’s breath caught, tugging your wrists gently, lowering your hands with little resistance, pressing kisses to the backs of your palms before lacing your fingers with his. His voice softened instinctively.

"Hey. Hey," he soothed, brushing his thumb over your cheek, studying your bashful expression. "Don’t do that."

"I watch because you don’t hide anything," he reminded gently. "You feel everything right here." He tapped lightly between your brows. "And here." His mouth brushed yours, barely there. "And here."

His hand dipped then, index finger curling gently over your sternum, over your heart, lingering as if he could feel it racing beneath his touch.

"I can tell how good you’re feeling just by looking at you," he confessed. "So don’t hide, okay?"

You swallowed, eyes shining. "Okay."

Clark kissed his way down your body slowly, as if every inch deserved its own moment, its own attention. His mouth lingered, teased, mapped you until he reached between your damp thighs. He parted your folds gently, brushed his nose against your sensitive clit just hard enough to pull a sharp gasp from your throat.

Then flattened his tongue against you. Long. Slow. Precise.

"Jesus, Clark," you cried out, one hand white-knuckling the sheets, the other tangling desperately in his hair. 

Your moan sent a shiver down his spine. 

His cock throbbed painfully against his thigh as he groaned into you, holding your hips steady while his mouth learned you, tasted you, drank you in like he’d discovered something he hadn’t known he’d been starving for. He slipped two fingers inside you, stretching out your slick cunt, your face fell open in a brand new way.

"Still okay, darlin’?" he murmured as he pulled suddenly, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Yes, baby—makin’ me—feel so good—go—go back—"

‘Baby.’ Hm. That was new. Good new. And that was all he needed.

His fingers worked in time with his mouth, pushing in and out slowly, thoroughly, and your legs shook hard enough he had to brace you with his forearm to keep you from sliding down the bed. He watched you through his lashes, undone by the way your expressions shifted with every new sensation: the crease between your brows, the slack drop of your jaw, the flush spreading down your breasts

Clark praised you without thinking, the words spilling out raw and honest.

"Love watchin’ your face," he breathed. "Knowing you feel so good. It’s all over. You’re so beautiful when you let go like this."

Your back arched, cunt clenching around his fingers tighter and tighter until you came with a broken cry. He didn’t rush you through your high. He followed, mouth lapping around your clit slowly until you sagged back into the mattress, trembling and spent. 

Then he kissed back up your body slowly, lips sticky with you until he hovered over your face. You looked dazed. Glowing. Ruined, in the most beautiful way.

"Hey," he whispered, bashful and earnest.

"Hiya," you laughed weakly, a little delirious, then tugged him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning softly when he sucked on your bottom lip. 

He pulled back just long enough to slide his boxers down, hands shaking now, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and awe. He still couldn’t believe this was really happening, and he might even fall apart before he even got inside you.

Your eyes dropped lower, reaching down, fingers brushing against him, face tender and curious and full of desire. "Hey, let me—"

Clark caught your hand gently, guiding it away. "Hey, no—you—you don’t have to."

"I know," you insisted, smiling as you squeezed his hand. "I want to."

His eyes fluttered closed for a second, jaw tight like he was warring with himself.

"I just—need to be inside you right now," he confessed. "Need to feel you around me. Been thinking about it for too long."

Your heart flipped. You let your head fall back against the pillow, exhaling through a grin you couldn’t quite suppress. "Okay, I hear you," you said, teasing now, the affection unmistakable in your voice. "Next time, then."

"N-next time?"

"Clark Kent. You can’t possibly think this would be a one-night-stand?" you narrowed your eyes as if challenging, and he shook his head.

"Good! I have plans. I mean, the way you just almost sent me to another dimension with your tongue? I’m never letting you go!"

His head dropped to your shoulder with a helpless, lovestruck laugh, his whole body shaking from how badly he needed you.

Then—

"Are—are you sure?" he asked one last time, voice hoarse, eyes finding yours in the dark like they were tethered there. "About this, too. Everything?"

"Yes, I’ve never been more sure," you whispered immediately, cupping his face, smoothing worry lines. "I'm on the pill, but I—I haven’t been with anyone in a long time," you admitted like a secret. "I think… I think I was waiting for you."

Clark’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. He bent forward and kissed you slow, hearing every word you hadn’t said, too.

"Me too," he said, voice breaking. "I didn’t want it if it wasn’t you."

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, carefully, giving you time, watching your face. You gasped, eyes squeezing shut for a second before opening again, glassy and full of wonder.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

You nodded, breath shaky. "Hm.. m-more than okay."

He bottomed out with a quiet groan, holding himself still while you gradually adjusted around him, warm and still tight. He almost came right there. 

When you finally nodded and he moved, he watched as you made new expressions.

Every flicker of your lashes. Every soft sound. The way your brows pulled when he hit just right. The way your jaw dropped when his thumb brushed your clit. The way your expression softened when he leaned down to kiss you, whispering praise against your lips.

"You f-feel incredible," he gasped. "You look—Gosh—you look so open. I can—t-tell how good this feels—for you. Don’t hide anything. I love— it—"

"You’re so, so incredible, Clark," you whispered frantically, cupping his face.

Your nails dragged down his back, and his thrusts faltered, hips snapping forward harder as your body clenched around every downstroke, desperate and needy. Your faces stayed close, eyes locked, and Clark saw it all there—pleasure, disbelief, joy, and something deeper that made his chest ache, but too afraid to name.

Regardless, he drank it in. Memorized it. Cherished it.

"I-I’ve wanted— this for so—so long," you choked out, tears slipping free as the pressure coiled tight in your belly, unbearable now, near breaking.

"Me— too, darlin’," he murmured, kissing you hard as you clenched tighter. "You have —no idea how long—Gosh—you're—c-close?"

You nodded frantically, panting, jaw slack, little whimpers escaping between each broken breath.

"It's okay—let go—," he said between pants. "Don’t— hold back. I —got you."

You moaned, loud and shameless, as you came with his name breaking from your throat, walls fluttering tight around him, and he buried himself deep and came with a groan, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he held you though each pleasurable wave.

.

Afterward, the world fell quiet in a way that made Clark understand why poets consumed themselves over stillness.

Because loosening his hold on you, even an inch, even just to shift the blankets or ease the throb of overstimulation… it felt like risking everything. Like something as soft and sacred as this might dissolve if he gave it the chance to.

You were still wrapped around him. Heavy-limbed and pliant, skin tacky with sweat, your breath warm and even where your face pressed to the crook of his neck. Your fingers moved in slow, absent-minded loops against his chest, tracing the shape of his collarbone, the slope of his pecs, the place over his heart where his pulse still galloped wild and undone. He felt you smile against his skin, a ghost of a grin at the corner of your mouth that he learned was for him and no one else. 

Clark didn’t want you to stop. Ever.

His arms cradled you close, one hand stroking idly at your hip, fingertips brushing in slow arcs like he couldn’t stop drawing love letters on your skin. The other traced your jaw, the soft hollow beneath your ear, the round of your cheek. Every place he’d kissed. Every place he’d hope to touch again before the night was through.

Your bodies were slick and warm with what had just happened, what had changed, what had always been there and finally cracked open into something neither of you could unsee.

Your breath hitched only once when he shifted, but you didn’t stir much. Just nuzzled closer. Sighed, long and slow. Relaxed into him like there was nowhere else in the world you could possibly be.

Clark could’ve wept for it. Could’ve stayed in that second forever.

"Doing alright?" he asked.

A sleepy nod, your hair brushing his collarbone. "Mhm."

He tilted just enough to look at you.

And there you were.

Eyes glassy and half-lidded, cheeks still pink, lashes clumped from dried tears, lips swollen and parted from where he’d kissed you too long, too deep. Your hair a wild mess against his skin. Your expression soft. Loose. Glowing.

You blinked up at him, and smiled. Not with amusement or mischief or the sharp-edged wit he’d spent three years trying to keep up with. But something raw. Something he’d never seen before, not like this.

You mumbled a joke then. Something about being broken. Maybe you. Maybe him.

He managed a laugh. Kissed your forehead in reply.

You melted further against him, and that was that. You tucked yourself beneath his chin, arm curled across his chest, eyelids fluttering to sleep.

And Clark stayed awake. Quiet. Contemplative.

He’d known so many of your expressions.

The snarl when your formatting crashed. The warm, genuine grin when the vending machine actually worked. The way your eyes lit when you spotted him scratch-free from an "errand." The little frown of concentration when you red-penned his drafts like they hadn’t already been reworked five times.

The way your face scrunched in confusion when he flirted too subtly. The way it broke open when he flirted not-so-subtly.

He’d catalogued it all. Stored it deep and safe.

But this wasn’t one he’d even dared to imagine.

His pulse stuttered. His breath caught in his throat.

Love?

He didn’t....Couldn't. Not yet. Wouldn’t dare say it. Not without you.

But God, did he hope.

.

By the next morning, everything at the Planet looked the same.

The city blinked through the high-rise windows, phones rang off their hooks, and Clark was back at his desk, half-listening to Martin from Coast City complain about oversight on a project that didn’t, frankly, didn't matter anymore.

He was nodding when needed, murmuring polite filler, but his focus had shifted. Again.

Because across from him, you were propped on one elbow, trying and failing not to smile every time

The look on your face told him everything—told him you’d been waiting, hoping, loving him quietly from the very beginning.

And just like that, he started earning it.

you looked at him. You wore that same expression as last night, and this morning before parting ways. The same softness. The same impossibly open, undeniably fond look that made Clark forget what words were supposed to mean when they weren’t yours.

You watched him like you already knew something he hadn’t had the courage to say, and you were waiting.

And that was more challenging than Martin’s voice droning in his ear, because Clark had no idea how to keep pretending.

The sticky note came flying before he saw your hand move.

It bounced off his shoulder, then his desk. He caught it without thinking. Unfolded it clumsily with one hand.

Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world,receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart. -Kimmerer

His breath hitched, his mouth went dry, he didn't even recall accidentally ending the call with Martin because he stood—too fast, too obvious—and crossed to your desk and planted a hand next to yours before he could stop himself.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just tipped your head a little, looked up at him with that same face.

"Hiya!"

"Hey.

"Clark, I forgot to ask you something before you left this morning," you started softly. then tapped a finger lightly to your cheek. "You know this expression?"

Clark froze, blinking slow, as the moment expanded between you, the noise of the bullpen fading to static.

So many of your faces lived in his head. The snort-laugh when he brought you bad coffee. The eye roll when he said something earnest and you pretended it didn’t get to you. The gaze that lingered on his mouth just a second too long, that you always tried to pretend was about something else.

His gaze searched yours, suddenly hesitant. "No. I'm not sure I do," he was almost scared to hear the truth. "Tell me, please?"

You reached for his hand atop your desk, fingertips gliding along his knuckles, soft as a feather, touching him like he might break.

"This one," you started with a small grin, barely above a breath, "is love. No longer hiding."

You paused, just long enough to let him feel it settle. Then with a half-shrug like it was already obvious: "It wouldn’t have been a secret much longer anyway."

Clark’s breath caught.

Love.

This one is love.

Something seismic cracked open in his chest. The thing he’d been afraid to name. The thing that had followed him for years through paper deadlines, city rescues, and the smell of your shampoo drifting across his desk. The thing that had started in friendship and bloomed somewhere in the quiet places you never looked.

He swallowed hard, chest aching so hard it felt unbearable yet welcomed.

"I—" He paused. Breathed. Tried again. "I think… I’ve been wearing that face for years, too," he admitted quietly, brushing his thumb atop yours like it might help you believe him. "I just didn’t know how to say it."

You blinked at him, lips trembling a little.

He smiled, the kind that was unbearably honest and dimpled his cheeks.

"So if it was gonna come out anyway…" he leaned down, low and quiet, lips near your temple, words just for you. "…you should know I plan on spending the rest of my life earning that look again."

The look on your face told him everything. 

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

His apartment was too warm around you, the little box fan in the window doing nothing but dragging in the humid city air, taxi horns and distant sirens smearing together somewhere below. The sheets had twisted loose from the corners, damp beneath your shins, damp under his back, damp everywhere your bodies had rubbed friction into cheap 300-thread cotton.

Your thighs were shaking badly enough that you could feel it in your bones. Sweat gathered at the base of your neck, between your breasts, at the crease at the back of your thighs and elbows. Your throat ached from keeping quiet for the sake of his neighbors, your thighs trembled with the strain of holding yourself up, and the place where your bodies met was slick and swollen and so sensitive that even the smallest shift made your stomach pull tight.

That had been the most overwhelming part, worse somehow than the stretch of him inside you, worse than the careful roll of his hips or the way his hands could not decide whether to hold you steady or let you move however you wanted.

He watched like he couldn't afford to blink. Like the first time with you was something he had already convinced himself he would never get to have, and now that he had it, now that you were above him, flushed and shaking and breaking apart on him, he did not trust memory to do the moment justice later.

Peter had been painfully careful from the start. His palms trembled at your breasts, your waist, the back of your neck. His voice kept cracking around soft check-ins, asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if you wanted more, if he could touch you there, if he could help, if he could move, if you were sure. You teased him for talking too much, to which he answered with one amused chuckle. Then you sank down on him again and watched the laugh die in his throat.

Now, there was nothing.

No nervous check-in, or shy smile. Not even an attempt to joke his way out of wanting too much.

His fingers tightened at your hips with a strength that thrilled you before it worried you, the pads of them pressing into skin made slippery by sweat, and his mouth agape. His chestnut eyes were fixed on a point beyond your shoulder, while the flush across his cheeks sank lower toward his chest. The curls at his forehead were damp, sticking in messy pieces to his skin. Beneath your clammy palms, his heartbeat kicked fast and hard once, then seemed to hold itself still with the rest of him.

You blinked down at him, still pulsing around him, still too sensitive to consider what changed.

“Hm? Baby?” you frowned, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Are you okay?”

Peter swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your lips.

"Wh—what did you say?" he cleared his throat. "Just now."

You stared at him through the dark. Your hips shifted, a tiny, involuntary grind as your body tried to ride out the aftershock and ease the ache settling into your knees, and his cock twitched inside you so suddenly you whimpered.

"I—I said your name?" The answer came out unsure, the end of it pitching higher than the rest.

His eyes snapped back to yours fully.

For one awful moment, you convinced yourself you had done something wrong, offensive, or forbidden, crossing some undisclosed boundary. He didn't press a reassuring kiss along the crease between your furrowed brows. He didn't slip into a clever little quip. His whole body remained as unflinching as his stare, causing unease to settle low in your belly like bricks tied to your feet.

"Can you say it again?"

You licked your swollen lips, cocked your head, and swallowed. "Peter."

He groaned, a low, filthy rumble felt beneath your fingertips, sounding nothing like the sweet, careful young man who kissed and hugged you like he was afraid of wanting too much. His hips jerked up, and you gasped, fingers curling against the firm plane of his chest as the movement sent a sharp, tingling pulse through your overstimulated body.

"Again, baby," he rasped. "Please. Say it again."

The plea made you clench around him.

You leaned forward until your palms pressed flatter against him, close enough to feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath your hands and the uneven rise of his ribs as he tried to breathe through it. Under your fingers, you could feel old scars, faint ridges and shallow lines scattered across his skin, each one a small history he had tried to laugh off whenever you noticed too long.

"Peter," you murmured, slower this time, letting every letter land. "You feel so good."

His head tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, Adam's apple bobbing while stifling a moan. His hands slid to the meat of your ass, dragging you down against him. Wetness smeared between your bodies with every small, shaking movement, your thighs slick against his hips, the room full of soft skin sounds and the broken mess of both your breathing.

"Peter," you tried again, quieter this time, curious to see what it would do to him. "You’re so good to me. You’ve been so sweet with me."

He shut his eyes.

"Baby," he warned, but it came out as if asking for mercy.

"Peter," you mimicked his tone, rolling your hips down in a slow circle, and felt his hands flex against you. "I know you. I know how you try to say sorry before you even ask for something. I know how you look at the door like you’re already planning how to leave before anyone can make you. I know how your hands shake when you’re trying to be gentle."

His eyes opened when you touched his cheek, thumb dragging over the damp heat beneath his eye.

"And now I know you like hearing me say your name in bed."

You barely had time to blink before his arms locked around you, and the room turned.

One second you were above him, trembling and dizzy, and the next your back hit the damp sheets with a little gasp knocked from your chest. Peter's body covered yours, one hand braced beside your head. His curls fell forward and tickled your cheek. His mouth hovered over yours, open and panting, so close you could feel every exhale skin across your lips.

You stared up at him wide-eyed and far more awake.

"Too much?" he got out, stunned by himself. His hips were still pressed tight to yours, buried deep, his whole body held taut. Even like this, even frantic, Peter was careful with you. Careful enough not to hurt you. Not careful enough to hide that something in him had gone ravenous and needy all at once. "Tell me if it’s too much."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down until his mouth hovered over yours, fingers massaging nape. "Don’t stop, Peter."

His forehead dropped to yours, then thrust into you so deeply your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Fuck!" you gasped, back arching and head falling back against the pillow.

Peter kissed the corner of your open mouth impatiently, missed, kissed your cheek instead, then your jaw, then the side of your neck like he could not decide where he needed to be. His nose dragged against your pulse. "Say it again."

"Peter."

He groaned, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing you.

"My Peter," you added before you could think better of it.

"Shit," he choked. "Don’t call me that unless you want me to lose it."

You held his face between your hands and looked right at him beneath your lashes. "Lose it, Tiger."

Your body dragged tight around him, too sensitive and too wet, every stroke making your stomach jump and your toes curl into the ruined sheet beneath you. Sweat gathered where your chest met his, skin sliding against skin until there was no clean place to hold. Your hands ran down his back and found the hard shift of muscle beneath slick skin, the flex of him as he held himself above you, the raised edge of an old scar near his ribs that made your chest ache even as your body pulled tighter around him.

Your fingers pushed into his hair, catching in the stubborn curls at his crown, and when you tugged, his pace broke.

"D'you like—that?" you managed, shaking against his lips.

“Yes.” He confessed immediately, shoving his face into the side of your neck again as if he could hide from how badly he meant it. “Liked that. God, Don't—hmm— don’t—stop saying it, too. Please. I need—”

His sentence faltered when you clenched around him.

"Need what?" you pushed, and maybe it was cruel, maybe you should've stayed soft with him, but the way he shook above you made your head swim. "Tell me."

Peter laughed, embarrassed, and completely gone.

"I need to hear it again," he mumbled, hips slowing enough to make your breath catch. "Nobody—baby, nobody says it— like you. Nobody says it like they know me."

Your heart twisted, and your eyes burned.

It was then you understood.

There were only a few things Peter Parker let himself have anymore. He let himself have the raggedy apartment with the rusted window lock and the radiator that rattled all winter. He let himself have the suit, hidden in places no one would think to look. He let himself have coffee gone cold on the fire escape, cheap takeout eaten standing over the sink, bruises he pretended were not as bad as they looked, and jokes that never quite burrowed the loneliness underneath.

But his name was different.

His name was not something the world gave him anymore. Not knowingly or graciously. Not with your hands in his soft curly hair and your body warm beneath his, not with your voice trembling around each vowel and consonant like it belonged to you too. It had been so long since anyone had known him enough to say his name with familiarity, with love, with want, with worry, with need.

And he was still moving, dragging the words out of you with every deep roll of his hips, still looking at you like he was two seconds away from begging on his knees if that was what it took. His mouth hovered near your throat, his nose brushing your pulse each time he sank into you, like even your heartbeat saying he was there was something he needed to listen to.

So you gave it to him.

"Peter," you cried, louder this time. "My Peter."

He lost the rhythm but found it again, rough enough to make the bed knock once against the wall, then again. His hand dropped to your thigh and hitched it higher against his side, opening you up until you cried out. Your skin tingled everywhere he touched you. Your stomach pulled tight. The place between your legs was slick and swollen and loud, every thrust pushing wetness between your bodies until you could hear it, until the sound made your face burn and his hips stutter.

Peter's focus dropped where you were connected for one hot second, and the look that crossed his face almost finished you by itself.

"Geez," he breathed, then looked back at you like he needed to watch your face or he would completely lose his mind. "You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?"

You nodded frantically. "You’re so deep. You’re so good. You’re making me feel so good."

His mouth dropped open against your temple.

"Again."

"You’re good," you stressed, softer but no less wrecked. "I love you, Peter, so much. Wish—wish you could see yourself. You look— so damn good—when you let me have you like this."

He kissed you so hard it almost hurt.

It was messy, all tongue and teeth and panting into each other’s mouths. He swallowed your moans like he needed them. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same frantic lack of patience, and your back arched so hard at the first firm circle your chest dragged against his. The pressure was too sharp after already coming once. Your legs started shaking around him again, heels digging uselessly into the backs of his thighs as your second orgasm started to build fast and unbearable.

"Baby, I’m-I'm close"

"Me too,” You clung to him, frantic from the steady pressure of his fingers and the drag of him inside you. "I can feel it."

"Say my name— when you come," he urged, the words nearly falling over each other. "Please—Please, I need to hear it. Need to know—it’s me making you feel like this."

Your chest tightened, but there was no room to make it gentle. Not with him moving like that. Not with his fingers rubbing you in tight, desperate circles while his hips drove into you, not with the wet slap of skin against yours.

Your second orgasm hit harder and longer than the first. You gripped him, mouth open, breath catching uselessly before sound finally broke out.

"Peter!" you sobbed, dragging both hands down his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath his slick skin, and pulled him as close as he could get. "Peter, it’s—you. It’s you! Only you!"

He came with a groan against your neck, hips shoved deep, arms wound right around you. He kept moving in shallow, helpless little rolls that made you whimper with each wave of his release.

Your body was too sensitive, still pulsing around him, thighs straining, but that didn't stop you from talking because you could feel what it did to him.

"I’ve got you," you soothed, stroking his hair while his weight settled heavier over you. His curls brushed your cheek every time he tried to breathe. "I’ve got you. You’re here with me. I know you."

A sound left him at that, quiet and exhausted, vulnerable just for your ears.

For a while, you were both content to be tangled in each other's arms.

The air was hot around you. The sheets needed to be changed. Your legs felt weak where they had fallen loose around his hips, and your fingers tingled from how tightly you had been holding onto him. Peter stayed tucked against you, breathing hard into the space above your collarbone, his body still trembling in little aftershocks he could not seem to control. Every so often, his thumb moved against your side in a small, absent stroke, careful now in the aftermath, almost shy with the same hands that had just held you down.

You kissed his temple. "Baby?"

His arms tightened around you immediately, swallowed hard, then lifted himself just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes still dark, his mouth swollen from yours. He looked embarrassed now, a little scared by how much you had seen, but still yearning to show you more.

"I'm here," he answered from somewhere far away, like he still couldn't believe someone called for him and meant him. "Yeah. I’m here. I love you."

"Peter Parker," you cradled his jaw, one thumb sweeping the apple of his cheek gently. "You're here, and I love you, too."

His eyes fluttered at the touch, the tenderness, and then a smile broke across his face before he could hide it, wide, warm, and unbearably young. It tucked into one cheek first and brought out the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

For a second, he looked younger than the bruises, younger than the suit, younger than all the years he had spent without anyone to call him home.

If only he and the world had been kinder to him, you achingly thought.

You barely had time to spiral in that thought before he leaned down and let himself have a couple more things: a kiss against your lips and his name between you.

.

these work best if you’re logged into the X app. all but 1 of these are afab!reader

lemme know ur faves😚

DC

Bruce Wayne

cowl stays on. reader has a penis here.

just playboy!bruce vibes. esp the first part of the vid with you in his lap.

bruce slipping into bed after being out all night always wakes you up.. and of course you have to reward him for working so hard to keep gotham safe.

bruce wayne.. that’s it my brain can’t think of anything else.

playing with bruce’s balls may be the way to his heart…

bruce wayne and wife!reader

Clark Kent

his kryptonian genes keep him hard & overtake his brain with thoughts of knocking you up.

he really wanted to be sweet and give you a massage after a long week, but he just couldn’t help himself!

when clark eats you out he always hyper focuses on your clit.

clark can’t help that he’s huge, but he always makes it worth it.

clark’s giant cock, pt 2

clark loves your pussy on his tongue.

so clark kent coded.

Poly!SuperBat

bruce always knows what’s waiting for him after a long night on patrol.

they’ll never forget the first night that you took them both.

videos bruce has saved on his phone pt 1.

Dick Grayson

Dick loves being in the splash zone.

dick can’t decide which part he likes more..

he can’t ever resist playing with your pussy… “fuck, need me that bad, baby?”

Jason Todd

jason would be so whiny when you get him like this

uncut jason todd 😵‍💫

sitting on jason’s face.

Roy Harper

sure, roy loves anal, but he never neglects your pussy.

roy harper loves your asshole pt 2

i have no words for this one

Poly!JayRoy

fitting both their cocks in your mouth.

roy pushes you to your limits, while jason is all breathless and all “roy are- are you sure she can- oh my god..”

you, roy, and jason can never avoid the giggles.

they’re obsessed with the way you taste.

Marvel

Steve Rogers

steve genuinely cannot handle when you make such a big mess, it has him twitching and cumming again in no time.

steve’s cum is always so thick and sticky.

swallowing steve’s cum.

bearded!steve

Bucky Barnes

this is the type of shit that turns bucky’s brain off.

bucky didn’t even know this was an option..

munch!bucky

Poly!Stucky

they love having you between them.

steve is obsessed with seeing his cum all over you and bucky.

steve feels so left out when you and bucky get touchy in the backseat.

Misc

Harvey Specter

you love the way harvey’s cock looks in his calvin’s.

harvey’s such a tease.

videos harvey makes you take and send him for when he’s away.

how harvey fucks you and fills you up when he’s feeling sweet.

It wasn’t his fault. He just loved to be face to face, pressed against your neck or sat back on his knees to watch your face bliss out (and maybe stare at your boobs). It was good! It was always good, but variety is the spice of life, after all. It was hard not to want a little more.

“Uh… I dunno. You,” you reply, looking up at him as he brushed some hair from your face before he sat next to you on your couch. “Us.”

He frowned a little, pulling you into his side. “Us? Do I need to be worried?”

“No, no, not like that.”

He just stares for a moment, waiting in dull silence.

“…gee, that paints a beautiful picture, honey.”

You raise a brow. “You’re sassy today.”

He just smiles a little. Then, leans in. His lips press to yours softly, stealing a gently, open mouthed kiss. It was ridiculously hot and made you want him to bend you over. But the obstacle was trying to bring it up without hurting his feelings.

“Mm… what is it then, that you’re thinking about?” He kisses down your neck.

Your hands reach up to card through his messy curls, leaning into his touch.

“Just… maybe we could try something new?”

“New?”

“Mhm,” you hum softly with a nod. God, his lips felt good. “Like… in bed.”

He pulled back reluctantly. “Oh?”

“Like… maybe a new position?”

“But I like to see that pretty face,” he murmured with a lopsided smile, thumb brushing against your lip.

“I know you do. But…”

“But?”

You swallow. “Sometimes I just want you to push my face into the mattress, ya know?”

His cheeks went pink. “Y-you… you do?”

“Not to say I don’t love how gentle you are with me. But maybe we could just… try it?”

“Uh… y-yeah. Okay, sure baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d do anything you asked.”

Now it was your turn to smile. “Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh.” He nodded along, hands finding purchase on your hips as you crawled into his lap. “Gosh. Anything.”

“I thought you might be a little offended.”

“Why?” he breathed out, hands ghosting over your sides.

You shrugged. “I dunno. I know how much you like being on top of me like you always do. We’ve never really done anything else yet.”

“I’m more than happy to switch it up for you. You know that.”

“Mm…” You kiss him once. “Yeah. Guess I was just nervous.”

“Don’t be.”

You let him whisk you to the bedroom. Two hours, a lot of sweat, and plenty of time on your hands and knees later, you were smushed to his chest. He was still breathing a little heavy from his release, eyes closed.

“So…?”

He smiled, eyes still shut. “You’re a genius.”

“A genius, huh?”

“I want you on top next time.” He slapped your ass gently before letting his hand rest on your skin, warm.

You laughed. “Oh, come on. Your fault for having your panties on the outside of the suit.”

“They aren’t panties.”

“They totally are, baby,” you argue back, walking back into the bathroom.

“They’re briefs,” he asserted.

“Bloomers, maybe.”

He frowned, walking in after you. He opened his mouth to argue, but it fell flat the second he saw you standing there nude, testing the temperature of the shower.

“Gosh,” he huffed under his breath.

You glanced at him, a smirk playing on your lips. “Thought you said you were getting dinner started?”

“I can think of something else I want to eat.”

You snorted once. “Go on, kitchen. I’m hungry.”

He pouted. “But—”

“You can have me for dessert.”

Clark’s eyes went wide, then he nodded frantically. “O-okay. Yeah.”

Clark tried. He really, really tried to focus on dinner. Pasta. Easy. It came out a little overdone, though. Garlic bread. Easy. He still burnt the edges a bit.

He couldn’t get his mind out of the gutter, and couldn’t stop thinking about taking you in every way possible. He was wound up, to say the least. It had only been three or four days since you’d last had sex due to an influx of work, inside and out of the office. But it felt to Clark like it was ages. He was desperate for his girl. Seeing you naked sealed his fate: he needed you bad.

You walked into the kitchen, breathing in deep at the smell of the food. You were in one of his sweaters, a pair of his boxers, and your hair was tied up. He swore he could cum untouched right there.

“You okay, honey?” you asked with a raised brow when he just stared, cheeks pink.

“Y-you’re gorgeous.”

You smiled a little, still a tad concerned. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m horny.”

“Oh.”

He sighs, almost embarrassed. “I just missed you. A lot.”

You murmur a few soft words to him, promising you’ll make it all better between kisses. He didn’t expect you to do it immediately. He gasped as you tugged down his pants, stroking his aching cock. His hands gripped the kitchen counter behind him, eyes fluttering shut.

“B-baby, dinner—”

“We’ll eat after this. Let me take care of you.”

“Oh, gosh,” he moaned, peeking his eyes open just in time to see you take his soft head into your mouth. Warm and wet and perfect as always. “You’re so pretty. So good to me, my baby. My baby. I—”

You glanced up through your lashes, sucking harder as you took more of him in, inch by inch. Your tongue swirled around the tip of his dick, tracing the two prominent veins underneath it. He tried really hard not to buck into your mouth, but he couldn’t help it.

“Mm…” you hummed, pulling off for a second, stroking him fast. He whimpered, you grinned. “You can take control. Fuck my face.”

“H-huh?” He blinked fast, looking absolutely fucked out. “No. No, I don’t wanna hurt’ya, sweetheart. S’too big.”

“I’ll hit your leg if it’s too much. Just… please? It’s so hot, Clark. Don’t say no.”

He whined, the idea alone causing his length to jump in your grip. “You sure? Positive?”

You just nodded, drawing one of his hands off the counter and to your head. He swallowed, moaning deeply as you sucked his head again, then let your mouth go a little more lax to prepare for him. He tried a few experimental thrusts first, slow and deep.

Soon, you were drooling. Both ends.

His hands were in your hair, guiding your head as he fucked into your mouth. Your eyes rolled back, his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over. It’d probably hurt a little in the morning, but you didn’t mind. If you got to hear his voice and see him like this, anything was worth it.

He whined, praises spilling from his lips. “You’re so… s’good. So good, baby. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

You hummed softly around him, the vibration making him whine again. He committed this to memory. Your face covered in tears, but not unhappy ones. The smell of your shampoo, his body wash on your skin, and your arousal swirling around him in waves. The way you gurgled around his thick length stuffing your mouth full.

“Golly,” he whispered, cumming hard with a loud grunt of your name after only a few minutes.

You swallowed up everything he had to give.

It was officially official. You’d tried rationalizing that it was too soon. But he’d already slipped up once and nearly told you.

You were in love.

He looked down at you, stars in your eyes looking back at him. He gave a shaky smirk, still breathing heavy as he pulled out of your mouth. He wiped a drop of his cum off of your lip, pressing his thumb back into your mouth for you to suck.

“I adore you,” he said softly, too gentle for having just finished down your throat. “We should… ya know, probably eat dinner now. I still want—uh, dessert.”

You sat very impatiently on your couch, watching him on the news take down some freaky alien beast in midtown. It always had your heart racing.

One, because you really cared about him and wanted him safe.

Two, because you knew the second you saw him again you’d be all over him like cat hair on a black tshirt.

You perked up the second he appeared at your apartment, tapping gently on the glass before letting himself in.

“Hi, honey,” he greeted with a soft smile.

You grinned a little, but your mind was elsewhere.

Holy hell.

He was in the suit still: already sexy. But he was covered head to toe in ash and dust and dirt and… fuck. Nobody should look that good being so dirty. His hair was a little messy, but that one perfect curl was still in place against his forehead. His face was dirty, but even all that dirt couldn’t hide his dazzling smile and cutie pie dimples.

“God, you’re hot,” you stated plainly, looking him up and down from your place on the couch.

He blushed. “Quit it.”

“Come here.” You reached out for him, and he took a few steps closer. “Come on. On the couch, we’re gonna make out.”

“Honey, I’m filthy,” he stated, hands on his hips, looking all Superman-ly.

You smirked. “Oh yeah? Are you my dirty boy?”

He frowned, muttering your name as if scolding you. You merely smiled again, dropping off the couch and onto your knees.

“Baby. Come on,” he sighed, knowing what the inevitable always was: complete and utter submission to your will. “At least let me take a shower first.”

“But you’re so pretty like this. My hero,” you practically purred, crawling towards him, hands skimming up his thighs.

He let out a short, shaking breath. “You’re mean.”

“Mhm.” You nuzzled the growing bulge in his little red briefs, cheek against his dick. “I missed you.”

He reached down, palm against the top of your head. He chewed on his lip, just watching you for a moment. He would say he hated how you could make him give in like this, but he liked the result far too much to be too worried about the process in getting there.

“You’re so handsome.”

Clark let out a sharp breath, reaching down to haul you up to your feet. “Come here.”

You giggled, letting him kiss you hard, tongue instantly flicking over your lip. You opened for him, letting him take charge a little. It made him feel special. He picked you up, walking you to the kitchen table and plopping you down right on the surface. He tilted your head up to his as he kissed you, breaking away to move down your neck.

“You’re no fair,” he muttered into your skin, hands tracing over your body.

“Okay, big guy. Let it out.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’re sexy.”

He groaned, nipping your skin. You let out a sharp gasp, devolving into a pleased little laugh. His hands slipped up your thighs, tugging at the band of your sweatpants until he wrestled them down and off your legs.

“You’re gross. I’m covered in dust and soot.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Baby.” He frowned at the language.

“Fine. I don’t give a shit,” you corrected.

He shook his head, dropping to his knees. “Guess that’s a little better.”

You watched with bated breath as he pulled your legs over his shoulders, the bright blue material of his suit slightly rough under your thighs. He ripped your panties clean in two, tossing the scrapped fabric over his shoulder before pressing his lips directly to your aching cunt.

“O-oh fuck. That’s it,” you moaned with a smile on your face. He looked so cute.

He groaned against you, tongue flicking out to trace between your folds, circling around your puffy, eager clit. He breathed in deep, the scent of you so close and so ready for him feeding his need. He closed his lips around your clit, sucking hard. You whined, his name a mumbled mess on your lips, your hand gripping his hair after tossing a small piece of rubble out of the strands. He grinned against you, pleased to get such a reaction.

“Yeah?” He glanced up at you, licking through your folds again.

“Shut up.”

“You don’t want that.”

You groaned, his tongue diving into your soaking hole, thrusting in and out a few times.

“N-no. Never stop ta—talking t’me,” you breathed out, back arching off the table. “Love your voice.”

He just smiled, flicking his tongue against your clit quickly. He pulled back for a moment, much to your dismay. You watched as he spit on two of his fingers, wiping them somewhat-clean on the edge of your shirt.

“Don’t wanna hurt ya, baby,” he drawled, kissing your thigh once before plunging one fingers directly into you. “Mm… there you go. Nice and clean for my girl. How’s that feel?”

You whined, Clark’s finger moving quick. “You’re a dick.”

“I know, honey,” he replied casually, adding his second finger.

You whined again, his name spilling from your lips as he closed around your sensitive clit again. He sucked you hard, licking every now and then to soothe the pressure. His hand didn’t slow down, hitting that spongy, delicate spot inside of you again and again like it was nothing. Clark nipped at the nerve bundle, drawing a sharp breath from you, your body jolting hard. He chuckled into your skin, kissing your cunt gently.

“There’s my girl. You’re close, huh? I can feel you squeezing me like you’re about to finish.”

You nodded, hardly able to keep your eyes open. “Y-yeah.”

He sucked again, eyes trained on you as he watched you writhed under his touch until you were finally hitting that peak. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He just stared as you cried out his name, his cock jumping beneath the suit at seeing his girl come apart on his fingers. He kissed your sensitive skin a few more times, each touch making your body jump like you’d been electrocuted.

“All better?” He pulled his fingers from you, kissing your thigh until he reached your knee. “Hm?”

You swallowed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. You want more?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, standing up. “Can I take the suit off?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” you replied with a short laugh.

“You don’t want me to be inside you?”

You paused for a moment, lifting yourself up into a half-seated position. “Okay… In that case…”

He laughed, starting to pull it all off. You tugged off your tshirt, his old Mighty Crabjoys band tee that didn’t quite fit him anymore. His eyes were glued to you as he tried to quickly, and very uncoordinatedly, shed himself of the dirty suit, kicking it away the second it was down his legs. He shoved off his boxers, pulling you closer in an instant.

“I missed you today. By the way,” he mumbled, giving you a short, sweet kiss.

You grinned. “Missed you too-oh, holy shit.”

He plunged into you, leaning his body over yours with your legs around his waist. He started a pace that had your eyes rolling back and body going limp on the table underneath him. His kissed down your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw, smelling a little bit burnt.

“Clark,” you breathed out with a soft moan.

He pushed your hip down with one hand, picking up his pace. “Oh, thank you. You take it so well every time, baby.”

“Baby…”

“I know. I know.”

Your hands travelled over his still-damp skin. He smelled extra like himself like this. So very Clark. You finally understood his obsession with scent for once. Definitely appealing. You moaned, your face buried in his neck, breathing in.

“What’re ya doing, honey?” he grunted out, holding you closer.

“You smell good.”

He smirked. “Thought you said it was— ah— weird when I did that.”

“Mm… maybe. A little. But you… fuck. You’re all sweaty and… and you.”

He hummed, a little bit self satisfied. “Told ya.”

“Shush.”

He laughed, leaning further into you, his free hand gripping the edge of the table above your head. Your hands were everywhere: his back, chest, stomach, arms. Luckily, you had a strong grip on his back.

You heard something creak, and suddenly you were moving fast.

“Ah, sh-shoot,” he moaned, still inside of you as he caught you.

He broke your table.

“Clark!”

“Shh. Shh, it’s fine. I’ll get you a new one, or—or fix it, I don’t know. Don’t worry,” he huffed, readjusting you on the ground, pushing into you even harder. “Shit, don’t worry about it.”

“Bad boy,” you chuckled breathlessly.

“Quiet.”

You stopped, his tone a little more gruff than you were used to. God, that was sexy. You let him fuck you on the ground, his movements quickly getting jerky and erratic.

“Need’ya to cum.”

You whined. “I’m close. Close, baby.”

“Not enough,” he mumbled against your neck. He quickly flipped you around, your cheek on the cold ground as he re-entered you from behind. His hand snaked around your hips, rubbing fast at your clit. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

You moaned again. “Fuck, baby. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

You gasped, hands flat against the hard floor as you pushed back into him with each thrust until he groaned loudly, filling you. You whimpered, his cock throbbing against your walls, triggering your own release. You squeezed around him tight, your pussy fluttering on his cock, causing him to whine with your name on his lips.

“You’re too good to me,” he breathed out, palm against your lower back as he slowly stopped all movement.

He pulled out after a moment, groaning at the sight of him spilling out of your hole. He reached down, two fingers scooping up his cum to press it back into you.

“Where it belongs,” he muttered under his breath.

“And to think you were against hitting it raw at first.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Hitting it raw?”

He sighed. “I had sex with my beautiful girlfriend.”

“Yeah, and nutted in her.”

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

You snorted a laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Romance is shoving your cum back in me?”

“Well…” His cheeks went pink. “Yeah. Kinda.”

You grinned, sitting back on your knees, much to his dismay. “How about we take that shower now?”

“Yeah?” He smiled a little.

“Uh huh. Then we can maybe make a snack, have some wine, cuddle?”

“You’re perfect. I lo—l-like you. A lot.”

You blinked a few times. Uh oh. He just smiled, a little embarrassed at the slip up.

“I like you, too,” you answered after a moment, brushing a thumb against his cheek.

Clark leaned into it for a second, and kissed you softly. He took your hand, helping you up when he felt safe that you weren’t going to flip out.

Love.

Yeah.

Clark, however, was feeling even more impatient than you. Every time he was close, he could smell you. He’d become accustomed to what you smelled like in different moods, and it seemed you really liked it any time he let his eyes linger on you. Or when he kissed you. Or held your hand, or hugged you, or… like, most of the time he was near you in general.

It was making him crazy.

He smiled at you across the table in another meeting at the Daily Planet, noting how you shifted a little bit after catching his eye. He felt his heart flutter every time he saw you react to him in any way. As much as he wanted to be inside of you, he wasn’t some pervert. He actually liked you. A lot. He just also felt hot under the collar any time he thought of you.

It was worse when you got a new perfume. Not that he didn’t like what you wore before, but now? The scent with the natural smell of your skin mixed together was intoxicating. It was also embarrassing. Nearly every time he could smell the trail of scent you’d leave behind you, he was fighting tooth and nail not to get hard; and often failed.

At the end of your third date, he’d kissed you a little harder than he normally would. It made you weak in the knees, and even more needy than you usually were with him. His big hands dipping a little lower on your waist than usual, and the most gentle brush of his tongue against yours. You wanted more, but true to Clark fashion, he just had to be so coy and sweet.

You almost groaned in frustration when he pulled away, his cheeks a little pink as he flashed you a smile.

“Goodnight,” Clark murmured softly. “I… I really like this. Being with you.”

Fuck. You knew it’d be a long night the second you were alone. You swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah. I do too.”

He grinned again, kissing your cheek. “Okay. See you at work?”

“Yeah. See you then.”

He watched you walk inside, letting his eyes trail down your body when he was sure you wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t handle it. Being around you all night, watching you laugh at all his stupid jokes, smelling that gorgeous smell that was all you and the sweet perfume you wore… he needed relief. Badly.

Clark found himself at home within seconds, stumbling into his room in a love-drunk stupor. He ripped at the buttons of his shirt, breathing shaky and excited. He pushed the shirt off, tugging off his undershirt as well. He shoved his pants down in one go, dropping down onto his bed with a hand wrapping around his leaky cock. He let himself picture you.

“Please,” he whispered to nobody but himself, hips starting to jut up to meet his hand.

He couldn’t help but think of how it’d feel if it was your hand touching him like this. How big he’d look beneath your fingers. If you’d use your mouth, your pretty lips struggling to fit him in comfortably. If you’d swallow around him as you tried not to gag, his cock touching the back of your throat. He stroked himself faster, throbbing and pulsing with the need to cum. He wondered if he’d be able to smell you soaking yourself as he came down your throat, and how long it would take for him to make you come on his tongue as a thanks. How you’d move against him, if you’d stay still and let him work or if you’d be so desperate that you wouldn’t be able to help but to grind against his face. He’d be overjoyed with either option.

He reached his other hand down, wrapping both firmly around himself, thrusting up into his fists, pretending it could be you. But he knew it wasn’t the same. He knew you’d be so soft and warm. Tight and cozy and wet around his length as he bounced you on his lap until you were cockdrunk and a little bit dumb. He liked the idea of being the only person who could make it so that you’d turn off your overactive brain for a little while.

He pushed himself into his hands, imagining every possible scenario, certain he could smell you even now. He breathed heavy, murmuring little pleas and whines of your name before he was tensing, hips still jerking as he spilled over his knuckles. It was a full minute of cumming to the thought of his pretty girl. His girlfriend? Maybe he should properly ask, he thought. He wanted you as his.

He glanced down, his own release drenching his hands and thighs. He took a deep breath. Time for a shower.

You saw him at work the next day, his face a little blushy every time he glanced at you. It was sweet, but a little… unusual?

He was generally shy and it wasn’t unheard of for him to get a little red-faced every now and then. But all day? Geez.

“Hey,” you said softly, walking up to him at his desk that afternoon. He looked up with wide eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m finished for the day. You want to go get dinner or something?”

“Oh! I, uh… after work is no good. But maybe later? Dessert? I can bring it to your place?” He offered, glossing over the fact that he was going to be busy with the Justice Gang. He hadn’t exactly let the Superman secret slip yet. “If that’s okay.”

“You want to come over?”

He blinked. “Oh… I, uh—”

“I’d like that,” you offer, smiling at his flustered expression. “I’ll text you my address.”

“Oh. Okay,” he breathed out, his smile bright. “Great. Maybe like… eight? Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect.”

“Great.”

You smiled at him again, then left. You went home, body buzzing in anticipation. It’s not like you planned on attacking him or anything. Just… suggesting more. Also, you figured you should probably let him know that you’d one hundred percent seen him use his super-speed out of the corner of your eye a couple weeks ago. So much for that ‘secret’ of his.

You made yourself a light dinner, then took a long, hot shower. You dressed down, a thin tank top and soft pair of cotton shorts. Nothing overtly sexy, but not covering much. You figured that the hint of a nipple through fabric would probably do the job for someone as polite as Clark. It turned out to be true, judging by the way he tried to not let you notice he was staring at your chest the second you opened your front door for him.

“Hey,” you greeted with a grin.

“H-hiya. Hi.” He swallowed, trying to make sure he kept his eyes on your face. Nowhere else. But gosh, a tank top and shorts never looked so provocative before. He lifted up the small cheesecake in his hand. “Brought dessert. I remember you liked the strawberry cheesecake from the office Christmas party last year.”

You smiled softly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. Come on in.”

He ducked his head, clearly happy that he’d done good. He stepped inside of your apartment, looking around curiously. He toed off his shoes as you took the cake and brought it to the kitchen. He trailed after you, eyes darting between your home and your ass. He was feeling a little hot.

“You have a, uh… a nice place. I like it. Smells good in here.”

“Thanks. I try to keep it clean.”

He hummed once, leaning against the counter as you popped the lid off the cake.

“Not just that,” he said softly, watching your hands as you started cutting into it. “It just smells like— you. Your perfume I guess. Your skin.”

“You know what my skin smells like?” You laugh.

He flushed. “Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so creepy. You just… you just smell good. You smell like you. It’s nice.”

“It’s not creepy. It’s sweet.”

“Oh.”

“I like you, Clark. Quit worrying so much,” you mention, glancing at him as you lick a bit of the strawberry syrup off your thumb.

His eyes followed the movement, his tongue running over his lip once. “I like you too. A lot.”

You just grin softly. You plate up the cheesecake, handing him both slices.

“Go sit in the living room. I’m gonna grab some wine.”

He faltered for a second. “I don’t really drink much.”

“I know. It’s only one glass, I know you do that sometimes. I don’t intend on taking advantage of you, you know?”

“R-right. Okay.”

You watched as he walked away. God, he has a cute butt.

Two slices of cheesecake and three glasses of wine later, two for you and one for him, you were definitely getting a little cozier. He pretended not to notice how you leaned into his side; you pretended not to notice his hand on your knee.

“Cat totally thought you and Big Blue were hooking up, by the way.”

Clark blinked, looking away from the movie you’d put on. “Pardon?”

“Since you’re always up his ass. She asked me after me and you started dating if you were getting some super-dick on the side,” you mention with a short laugh.

“Super-d—? That’s inappropriate.”

“And hilarious.”

“Oh, please.”

You chuckle, smiling up at him. Despite his verbal protest, his cute little dimples were still poking into his cheeks. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and sparkling.

“I really do, ya know… like you.”

“You said that,” you reply softly.

“I know. I mean it.”

You just look at him, heart fluttering and body thrumming as he leaned in, his lips on yours. It started off soft. Just a few soft, lingering kisses. You snuck a hand into his dark hair, not tugging but definitely gripping. Judging by the shaky breath that left him, you assumed he liked that. Your assumption was proven correct as he deepened the kiss, one strong arm snaking around your waist to pull you into his chest. You took that as your cue, swinging a leg over his hips, settling on his lap and right over the bulge in his pants.

He gasped your name against your lips. “Geez.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, hands running over your hips and waist. “Yeah.”

Clark felt like he could explode, metaphorically and physically, when you started kissing him again. You were aroused. He knew it well. It invaded his senses and made him dizzy, pulling your hips over his before he could think twice about it. He groaned in the back of his throat when he felt the friction against the extremely obvious erection straining to get out. He nearly passed out when you made an equally needy sound.

“I like you,” he breathed out, voice wrecked already.

“I know, Clark.”

“A lot.”

You smiled, rolling your hips again with his instruction. “I know. I can feel how much you like me, you know?”

He whimpered. Full-on, whiny little whimper. He was smart, he knew he was. And strong. He could pull a building off its foundation. But now? With you on top of him, rubbing yourself on him like this? He felt weak and brainless. Every single blood cell that should be in his brain went straight to his cock. The only reason he didn’t feel embarrassed is the fact that he knew you felt the same way, your pretty face glossed over with want. He mumbled your name once, looking up at you with big, wet eyes.

“You done playing gentleman?” you asked teasingly, brow raised.

He pouted. “I am a gentleman.”

“I know, baby. But I am a woman who wants my boyfriend to touch me for once.”

He groaned. Boyfriend. Yay! “Golly.”

You laughed, for a moment. But it was cut awfully short when his hands snaked under your top, cupping your bare breasts. You let out a soft noise, letting him grope you as he kissed down your neck.

“Clark.”

“Mm…”

Clark was in heaven. Clothing strewn all over the floor and furniture, leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way to your bed. He laid between your legs in only his underwear, staring at you bare and spread out for him as he kissed up your legs.

“Y’so pretty,” he mumbled against your thigh, looking up at you with stars in his eyes through his frames. “Smell so good.”

“Clark, please.”

He smiled, licking his lip as he dragged a finger through your folds, watching the slick gather on his fingertip. He spread you open with two fingers, taking in a deep breath. He leaned in, kissing just over your clit, tongue flicking out to taste you.

“Taste even better.”

“Fuck,” you whined, watching him with hooded eyes.

“Mhm. Thank you,” he muttered, diving in again.

Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight as his mouth moved over you. He smiled against you, giddy to finally be tasting you. He’d thought about it so many times, if you’d taste as sweet as you smelled. His hips ground against the bed on their own volition, wanting to find any kind of relief from how he was throbbing in response to finally being able to touch you. He’d been so good, so patient, so slow… and it was finally paying off in a big way. He moaned into your pussy, tongue delving into you, practically fucking you on his mouth. His hands wrapped around your legs, keeping you wide open for him.

Your hips moved against him as much as they could, trying hard to get that extra friction. He ate you out like he was starving for it. You wondered if he’d thought about it as long as you did.

He looked utterly ruined, his cheeks flushed and hair a mess. His glasses were fogged. You reached for them, trying to pull them off, but he quickly grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he shook his head, lips brushing against you.

“Why? Wanna see you.”

“I— I need them.”

“You said you were nearsighted.”

He looked up, trying to see you through the fogged lenses. “W-well, yeah, I just…”

“Please?”

“I really can’t.”

You huffed, horny and needy and wanting to see him.

“Clark.”

“Baby, please. You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand about glasses?”

“They…” He paused. How could he say it without saying it? He needed them because he was secretly a space alien who wore his underwear on the outside to fight crime and rescue puppies? Not exactly a sentence that rolls off the tongue. “It’s… they’re a part of me.”

“They’re not surgically attached.”

“No, but they’re, uh…” he glanced down, your pussy still wet and needy in front of his face. He had half a mind to tell you he was Superman just so he could get back to business.

“Quit it.” You pulled the glasses off before he could notice.

He jolted, shocked and nervous and feeling suddenly like he was in deep. Shoot. He stuttered out your name, his heart pounding out of his chest. You’d seen him. His cover was blown. You’d probably freak out and not want to see him again and not let him make you cum and he’d go home with blue balls and a broken heart.

“I’m… I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you, I know. I just didn’t know how to say it, and we hadn’t talked about if we were like actually a thing until you called me your boyfriend today, and… and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Clark.”

“W-what?”

“I knew you were Superman. Now in the nicest way I can say it, shut the fuck up and get your face back down there before I finish myself off instead.”

He blinked in shock, almost ready to protest before you pushed his head back between your legs. He couldn’t argue with that. He moved faster, wanting even more badly to make you feel good. You knew. You knew who he was and it didn’t matter. He could cum right then and there if he wanted to.

You gasped, back arching high as he gained a new fervor he hadn’t had before. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t feel like he had to hold back all the way now. Whatever it was, you didn’t really care. What you cared about was the way he humped the bed and whined against your skin as you came on his tongue.

You were in a haze, the orgasm knocking your feet out from under you. Clark watched you as you came down, chest heaving. Pretty tits and a pretty face and the cutest pussy, his pretty girl. He sighed dreamily, eyes flitting all over you as he pushed his underwear down his thighs.

You blinked your eyes open, mouth watering at the sight of a fully naked Clark Kent and his monster cock. Cat totally owed you twenty dollars, you knew he’d be massive.

“C’mere,” you mumbled, reaching for his hips, trying to draw yourself up to him.

“What?”

“Want it in my mouth. Please.”

“Baby…”

You leaned closer, hand wrapped around him. “Just for a little. Just let me.”

He let out a soft, shaking breath as you touched him. He memorized the way his cock looked in your hand. He knew he was big, but he looked almost scary in your grip. It was insanely hot. His mouth watered as you licked your lips, trying to prepare yourself to take him. He gasped, hand touching your hair softly as you leaned up to brush his tip against your lips. He shifted a little closer on his knees, trying to make it so that you were a little more comfortable.

“So sweet,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “Sweet girl.”

You smiled up at him, no more of those adorably dorky glasses covering his gorgeous eyes. His lips stayed parted, clearly paying attention to every tiny move you made as you played with him. You let your tongue loll out of your mouth, dragging it against the blunt head of his dick. He moaned outright, hand resting in your hair now, hips jerking as you took him into your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered as you took more of him in, your mouth opening wider to try and accommodate his size. He felt hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his precum nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. You bobbed your head slowly, taking as much of him as you could. He whined and moaned and made sounds you never expected to hear from him. If only the world knew that Superman was so desperate when he got his cock played with.

He suddenly pulled you off, chest heaving.

“Wait. W-wait. Sorry, honey, I just… I don’t want to cum in your mouth the first time.”

“Hm?”

“Wanna be in you.”

You swallowed, eyes still trained on his length as it jumped in excitement. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Do you have, uh… I didn’t bring any…”

“You want to wear a condom?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You should always practice safe sex.”

“That the slogan on one of your educational billboards?”

He frowned. You laughed.

“Just want to be responsible.”

You nodded. “Okay. But, for the record, I’m on a contraceptive.”

You almost laughed at the way he clearly struggled with that though. He knew wearing a condom was still the safe option. He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to finish inside of you.

You giggled as he made his decision, pushing you back on the bed and kissing you deeply. He pushed your thighs to your chest and settled on his knees, brushing his thick tip against your pussy, still puffy and needy from the way he’d made you cum with his mouth. He let out a slow breath, rubbing your clit with it a few times before he pressed at your entrance.

“I know it’s… it’s big. Just tell me if it hurts, okay?”

You nodded, watching as his face tightened in pleasure and anticipation. You forced yourself to relax, letting him press into you slowly. You moaned pathetically as he pushed harder, the first few inches hurting as much as they changed your life.

“Y’okay, baby?” He grunted out, slowly starting to rock his hips in that shallow depth.

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

“Good. You’re taking it so good, baby. Look at you.”

You whined, not expecting the praise. You fluttered around his length involuntarily, drawing another sound from him. He pushed in further and further with each slow, careful thrust.

“That’s my girl. So good for me. So pretty.”

He dropped down on top of you, wrapping your legs around his hips with strong hands, pulling you up onto his lap. You gasped, the new angle letting him fill you to the brim. He thrust into you quicker now, arms pushing you off and on as he moved his hips.

“Pretty baby. Perfect for me, fitting all of me in you. Y’feel this?” He grabbed your hand, pressing it to your lower belly to feel the bump of him hitting you deep with every rock of his hips. “Take me so well. Gorgeous girl. You’re doing such a good job.”

“Baby… baby, please. Clark.”

He smiled. Cocky son of a bitch. “I know, honey. You like it, huh?”

You nodded quickly, brain and body turned to jelly as he rammed into you like you were his personal fuck toy. He breathed heavy, a million little sounds leaving him between all of his praises. His face was buried in your neck, moving faster now. You held onto him as tightly as you could, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand tangled in his hair.

He groaned, trying hard not to cum with every move of your body against his. He’d never felt such a perfect fit, it was like you were two puzzle pieces finally clicking. He shuddered against your skin, kissing down your neck and chest until he found one warm, stiff nipple to pull into his mouth. He sucked, alternating between a steady suction and his tongue swirling and flicking over it.

“M’gonna cum,” you gasped out, feeling deliciously overwhelmed.

“Good. Attagirl. You can finish, baby. You can cum,” his voice rumbled against your skin, switching to the other nipple. “Cum for me. You can do it.”

You whined and whimpered, letting him pump into you a few more times before you cried out his name, legs shaking hard. He moaned in time with you, trying like hell to keep moving in order to let you ride it out.

If he thought you smelled good before, the scent of you like this could rouse him from a coma. He could only move for a few more seconds before he was buried himself deep, grinding more than thrusting as he gasped your name, mouth still open against your tit. You felt him fill you, cock twitching and throbbing inside of you.

“Shoot,” he whispered, kissing up your chest until he settled his face against your neck. “Baby. Thank you. Thank you.”

“God damn.”

“Never felt anything like you.”

You smiled drowsily. “Says you.”

He laughed, rubbing your back slowly, fingers tracing the skin. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I get half hard any time I smell you.”

“What’s up with you and smells?” you asked softly, leaning back to look at him with sleepy eyes.

“Super senses.”

“Ah.”

“Super smell. I pick up a lot of stuff, and you… you smell extra good when you’re— when you’re wet?”

“That is so gross.”

“Can’t help it. You’re delicious,” he said with his lips against your neck again, voice rumbling in his chest. “Can’t believe you knew this whole time.”

“Not hard to guess, Clark. At least not when I both date you and work with you.”

“Mm… shoulda told me you knew.” He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then cheek, and finally lips. He smiled against your lips. “Dropping that and then pushing me between your legs wasn’t fair.”

You smiled back. “Yeah, well. Also wasn’t fair to hide it. We’re both at fault.”

“Maybe.”

You kissed him again, just once. “So… Superman. Super cock. Super eater. You got super stamina, too?”

You walked up to the coffee pot, mug in hand. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even noon yet. An article deadline was creeping up on you, and there were still edits to be made on a few others. You went to grab the pot when Jimmy suddenly appeared, taking it first.

“So… He talk to you yet?” Jimmy asked with a smile, pouring his mug full. He noticed your frown, chuckling once before he filled yours as well.

“Thanks. Who?” You asked, taking a sip.

Jimmy raised a brow. “Uh…”

“James.”

“Don’t full name me.”

“Don’t hide things.”

He sighed, regretting for a moment that he’d ever befriended you. “Clark.”

You snorted a laugh. “Talk to me about what? He can barely look at me without shuffling away.”

“Well, he just—”

The man himself appeared, staring at Jimmy with a tensed jaw. Clark had heard your conversation from across the room, though he couldn’t exactly let it slip that he had superhearing. He had to play it cool. As cool as was feasible for him, at least.

“What are you up to?” Clark asked, grabbing himself a disposable cup to fill. He didn’t often drink coffee this late in the workday.

“Jimmy says you’re supposed to talk to me,” you state, looking up at him and his gorgeous jawline. You let your eyes linger as he glared at Jimmy. “Won’t tell me what about, though.”

“Oh. Uh… well, I…”

“I’m gonna…” Jimmy trailed off, throwing a thumb over his shoulder before he quickly retreated. He didn’t want to be there if a train wreck occurred.

“You…?” You prompted, looking up at him.

“I was just, uh, wondering. If you’d, you know, maybe want to go out some time? Like let me take you out? On… on a date.”

“Oh?”

He blinked at you, cheeks a little pink. You just smiled. May as well cut the poor guy a break.

“Yeah. Sure, I’d love to.”

He let out a breath, his own smile coming out. “Oh. Gosh. Thank goodness. Uh, well, how about tonight? Are you busy?”

“No, I’m free,” you responded, biting back a wider smile. He was adorable. “Where do you want to take me?”

He swallowed. That was a complex question, considering he’d like to take you anywhere. Against a wall, in his bed, kitchen, living room, file room, your car. None of those would be appropriate answers, though, he thought.

“How about Italian food?”

“Love it.”

“Okay! Great,” he replied with a cheesy grin. “Great. I know an amazing place a few blocks down from here, actually, that I’d love to take you to. Uh… d-does seven work for you? Enough time to head home and stuff first?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Clark was floating on air the rest of the day. He had enough time to do a few rounds as Superman after work before he had to actually freshen up and get ready for the date. He’d picked you up at your place, which really means that he flew over and then took you on a walk to the restaurant. It wasn’t far, and it gave him more time to get to talk to you.

The date went phenomenally, and you were equally as charmed as he was. He was sweet at work, but in this context? He was incredible. Chivalrous, shockingly flirty, and you could swear his eyes were literally twinkling. By the time dessert came you were three glasses of wine deep and feeling a little… warm.

“I’m glad we did this,” you say softly, reaching forward to brush his knuckles with your fingers.

He glanced down, heart fluttering as he watched you touch his hand.

“Y-yeah. I am too. I’ve… honestly, I’ve had a crush on you for a while. I’m really happy you said yes.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You smiled, chewing your lip. He turned his hand over, taking yours. He let his thumb brush over the back of your hand. You sighed dreamily. God, he was big. And gorgeous. Your thighs pressed together under the table, trying to suppress that tingling feeling you always got when he got close. Though, this time it was cranked up to ten.

He tried asking you a question about your family, though he could hardly pay any attention to the answer as a familiar smell hit his nose. He took in a breath, glancing down at your hand again, his jaw ticking once. He tried to ignore it, he really did. But knowing with certainty that you were here, holding his hand, and getting wet just talking to him? It was driving him insane.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Hm?”

“You look a little spacey.”

“Oh.” He gulped, looking at you again. “Yeah. Yes, I’m okay. Sorry, just… a little distracted, I guess.”

You tilted your head in question. “Distracted? By what?”

“You,” he admitted quietly with a soft smile. “You’re just… very distracting.”

You grinned, chin resting in your palm. “Oh yeah? How so?”

He sighed once. “Well… y-you’re pretty. Beautiful. Sweet. Funny. Just really… really great. Distracting, like I said.”

Distracting indeed. You could hardly focus on anything but him. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“We should do this again sometime,” you comment quietly as he walked you to your front door.

He nodded. “Yes. Yeah, I would really love that.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

He just smiled at you for a moment. You looked back up at him, squeezing his hand once again, trying to commit the feeling of his skin to memory. Maybe if you did it well enough, you could pretend it was his hand between your legs later that night. You figured he wasn’t the kiss-on-a-first-date kind of guy.

You figured wrong.

Clark plucked up all the courage he could, willing himself not to get hard as he leaned in. A tall order, considering he was halfway there from your scent alone. Having super-senses was certainly helpful when it came to gauging your interest.

You looked up with wide eyes, closing them only when his lips were finally against yours. His lips were soft but firm, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to yours, his hand bracing against your cheek.

This was a feeling you were sure to log in your mind for later.

He knew he’d be thinking of it for the next week every time he had an ounce of alone time.

He pulled away after a moment, sighing softly against your lips.

“This was nice.”

“The kiss or the date?”

He smiled. “Both.”

——————————

Clark just shook his head. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are.”

“And you’re oblivious.” Jimmy glanced up as Cat came by, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Hey, Cat. You’ve got a knack for gossip and office romance. Back me up, here.”

“About what?” She raised a brow, suddenly interested.

“Clark and his little admirer,” Jimmy stated, wiggling his brows as he nodded to the girl currently talking with Perry across the room. “She totally has a crush on him.”

Cat smiled deviously. “Crush is putting it in very tame terms. Clark, given the chance, she’d be crawling all over you.”

Clark stammered, cheeks going pink as he dismissed the idea. There was no way. She was pretty and put together and… there was no way.

He got through the day with his thoughts swirling. They grew even more insistent every time she talked to him or looked at him or was in his general vicinity. Her perfume lingered in his nose, drawing him in like a siren song. He was pathetic and he knew it.

To make matters worse, she’d called him over for help in a cramped file room.

“Sorry, I tried myself but it’s way too high up,” she said softly, looking at him. She was trying to grab an old file from an article about an ice cream shop that had been around for ages, and was now on the brink of closing. “I really need it for my piece. I’m hoping if we draw some attention, they’ll get the sales boost they need to stay afloat. Unfortunately, I am not a 6’5 giant like you.”

“6’4, actually,” he murmured quietly. “It’s nice though. That you want to help them. You’re always so kind.”

“Gee, way to butter a girl up,” she replied with a chuckle. His cheeks flushed again. She pointed up at a box on the top shelf, reaching up on her tiptoes. “This one right here.”

“Got it.” He nodded diligently.

He reached up, expecting her to move out of the way, but she just stood there. Squished between his body and the shelf. He mumbled out an apology as he grabbed the box, pulling it off the shelf. He tried like hell not to let her notice how flustered he was at the contact, her back against his chest. It felt perfect. Too perfect. He ignored the way his cock jumped to life, trying to will it to go back down before it created an embarrassing bulge in the front of his slacks.

“Here it is. W-want it on your desk?”

“Huh?” Her eyes went wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked a little flustered. “Oh. Oh, the box. Yeah, yes. On my desk is fine. Thank you, Clark.”

He just smiled a little, taking in a deep breath. Gosh, she smelled good. He breathed in again as she moved to get around him, but this time he caught a whiff of something else under her perfume. Like her skin, but more… more. Something that guaranteed he’d have to be taking a trip to the restroom very soon if he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Thank goodness for the box he could hold in front of his hips.

Was she… aroused?

He let his eyes scan over her, taking it all in as he walked with her to his desk. Her heart beat a little faster, she definitely looked a little bit nervous, her eyes went a little darker, and that smell… Oh boy.

Clark set the box down at her desk, promptly excusing himself from the situation and her pretty eyes looking up at him.

It was a good ten minutes later before he was sinking into his chair again, staring at his computer.

“Long bathroom break, Clark,” Jimmy commented with a short laugh.

Clark nodded curtly. “Yeah. Yeah… I, uh… I’m gonna ask her out.”

Jimmy just stared, taken aback by the sudden change in his tune.

“Any reason why you changed your mind so fast?”

“Just… sensed a change.”

——————————

His parents did what they did because… Well, he’s not sure. But you’re on that stimulant to keep you going. You have almost no choice. If the side effects mimic illegal substances, he surely can’t blame you. The muscles in his jaw clench, teeth grinding. 

“What the hell even is this place?” He kicks a small rock out of his way. It scatters to the side, hitting the stone wall.

Luis gestures around himself. “Underground. It’s sacred to the cult. This is where they discovered las plagas, trapped in ancient deposits of amber.”

You scoff. “Of course they did. Didn’t know Jurassic Park got us in this damn mess.”

Ahead, there’s a door. It’s small, only maybe ending a few inches above his head. When he steps through it, his heart drops out of him. This must be what Luis was talking about.

“You’re not seriously suggesting we ride this thing?”

In front of you all is a mine cart. It looks ancient, at least decades old, the wood splintering and metal rusted. Old timber disappears into the darkness ahead, sections warped and sagging with age. Rusted rails cling stubbornly to rotten ties that look one hard jolt away from collapsing. Holy shit, this is how he’s going to die. Not by getting shot or bitten by some monster. No, he's about to die rocketing off the side of a mountain in a rotting mine cart because some cult apparently skipped every safety inspection since the nineteenth century. 

An amused huff drops from Luis. “Do you see any other way out? Relax, Sancho. They only derail sometimes.”

You step past them both, hopping down onto the tracks. Kneeling, your knuckle taps one of the rusted wheels. Leon sees your fingers twitching anxiously in the process of it all.

“This could be kind of fun, actually.”

He has to remind himself that you’re essentially on a mixture of painkillers and super meth, and that nothing you say should be taken to heart. You’re not actually crazy, just driven a little insane by chemicals. It’s not much better than being actually crazy, he thinks. 

“That’s the spirit!” Luis pats your back. “Get on in. Leon, give us a push.”

The Spaniard helps you into the cart, climbing in behind you. Leon hates the way the tracks creak and moan as he lowers his weight onto them. They sound like they’re about to give out beneath his feet. Still, he steps up to the cart, pushing it along the tracks until its momentum lets it move on its own. Then, he climbs in beside you.

With the three of you, the cart is cramped. He can’t shift more than a few inches before he brushes against you or Luis, and quite honestly, he’d rather be against you than the man he barely trusts. You smell like rain and sweet rot, and it makes his nose crinkle. The fever is still making your body hot, but it’s almost a comfort. The air around him is cold and wet. It’s a shock, especially with the hot air of Spain only a few hours ago. 

“You okay?” His voice is low, and he realizes how loud the cart is as it starts to pick up speed. Metal grinds against metal, wind rushing past his ears. 

You don’t seem to hear him. Instead, your head is angled up, feeling the wind on your face. It must be soothing with how bad your fever has gotten. There’s still beads of sweat rolling down your face, the pressure of the wind making them evaporate and disappear. You’re smiling, even now, he notices. But it doesn’t look happy. It’s almost manic. For a second, you seem to come to your senses, your eyes widening and your hand coming up to your throat, pressing against your pulse point. He doesn’t need to feel it to know how fast it must be beating. 

The lucidity drops just as fast as it came. Your hand falls away from your neck, your gaze drifting back toward the tunnel ahead. He has to shake away the disappointment and worry. It still isn’t the time. It will never be the time. 

The cart keeps picking up speed. The frame of it is rattling and shaking as it rockets forth. It feels like he’s in a roller coaster, one that should have been condemned decades ago.

“I hope you like thrill rides!” Luis’ accented voice rings out around him, bouncing around the narrow stone walls. Ahead, the area widens to accommodate more mine tracks. Leon can vaguely hear the squeal of more mine carts rushing in his direction.

He groans, already moving to reload his handgun. The jostling of the cart makes it difficult, and he almost drops a few bullets. “I think we have company.”

To his left, your head whips around, body close to his. Without saying a word, you’re stealing Luis’ gun from his belt, ignoring his protests. You check the load of it, once, twice, making sure that you’ve counted correctly even as your fingers tremble and your hands shake. Are you even going to be able to hit something? Even without rocketing through a cave, at least 40 miles an hour? This could be bad, Leon thinks. One wrong movement and you'd either miss completely... or shoot one of them. The cart is cramped enough that it would be easy to accidentally graze him or Luis. 

The squeal of steel grows louder. Another cart bursts from around the bend, sparks spraying where its wheels bite into the rails. Two cultists stand inside it, robes whipping violently in the wind. One raises a crossbow while another grips a stick of dynamite, already drawing his arm back. Leon doesn't think.

"Down!" His shoulder slams into yours just as the bolt whistles overhead, splintering against the rock wall. The mine cart lurches violently, throwing all three of you sideways.

"¡Carajo!" Luis catches himself against the rim of the cart, pushing you back upright as Leon steadies himself. The dynamite leaves the cultist's hand. It spins once. Twice. Leon fires. The bullet catches it midair.

The explosion blooms between the carts in a wash of orange fire and shattered timber. Heat rushes over him, your own cart rattling as fragments of wood and twisted metal rain down onto the tracks. Before Leon can celebrate, another cart appears behind the first. Another man, holding another crossbow.

"...You've got to be kidding me!"

Beside him, you're already moving. The pistol comes up with shaking hands. For one terrifying second the muzzle wavers wildly, drifting over Leon before jerking back toward the approaching cart. His stomach drops.

"Rabies-!"

His hand closes around your wrist before he can think, forcing the barrel away from him. Beneath his fingers, your muscles vibrate uncontrollably, every tendon locked tight from the stimulant. Your breathing is too fast. "Easy." His voice is lower this time. "Look at him."

You blink, let out a breath, and fire twice.

One bullet hits perfectly, the cultist pitching backwards and falling out of the cart. The other hits the wood of the cart, exploding into splinters under the force. The cart shakes, now empty, and teeters off the track, crashing to the side in a hail of wood and debris.

For one beautiful second, he almost thinks that maybe he’ll get a break. As always, he’s not that lucky.

From beside him, you laugh. It’s short and breathless, almost disbelieving. Your head tips back, eyes squeezed shut as another turn throws the cart violently to the side. “This is pretty damn fun!”

Leon stares at you. “What?”

You open your eyes again, grin still spread across your face. “It’s like an amusement park.”

Luis looks between the two of you, brows raised. “I am beginning to think the medicine may have worked a little too well.”

“A little?” Leon snaps.

The cart hits a dip in the track. It’s sudden enough to send all three of you off balance. Leon slams back down hard enough to bite his tongue. Luis curses in Spanish. You, somehow, come up laughing. Then, your smile disappears. Your eyes snap toward the darkness ahead. It’s so dark that all he can see is vague shadows.

“Left.”

Leon barely has time to process the word. “What?”

“Left!” You grab the front edge of the cart and point. A fork in the tracks is coming up. One rail curves sharply to the left. The other continues straight, disappearing into a section of tunnel that looks significantly darker than the rest. Leon squints.

“How the hell can you-?”

“There!” You point again. There’s a lever beside the track, a dull rusted yellow. Luis is standing, peering over the edge and squinting. 

“She’s right, Sancho! Hit that lever!”

He doesn’t hesitate again. His pistol raises, finger pressing down on the trigger. The bullet hits the yellow dead on, but the thing doesn’t move. His eyes widen. “Fuck!”

You’re already climbing over him.

“Rabies!” Fuck. This is horrible. The cart is rocketing towards the lever at a breakneck speed.

You’re leaning so far out of the cart that his body is the only thing keeping you in it. “I've got it!”

Your bad arm hangs uselessly against your side, but your good hand catches the lever. It hits with a dull smack that makes him cringe, and your entire body strains against it. For a split second, it feels like the world is in slow motion. But, after a moment, the lever gives like some kind of miracle. The track shifts with a violent metallic shriek, cart screaming around the corner. Leon’s shoulder slams into yours. The bad one. You don’t even react to what must be a truly insane amount of pain. 

For one terrifying second, Leon is certain the whole thing is going to tip. The wheels scrape violently against the rails, sparks erupting beneath you as the cart leans so far to one side that his stomach drops. Luis grabs the rim with both hands, cursing loudly in Spanish. Instead of the cart, Leon grabs you. It’s a split second decision, one that he barely even thinks about. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping you from being thrown over the side.

“Hold on!”

In his grip, he can feel your entire body shaking. The impact must have hurt like hell, plus with all the drugs, the world must feel unreal around you. Your hair is whipping around your head wildly, and in this moment, even with the chaos around him, all he can focus on is you.

“Y/N?”

You shake your head, like you’re physically trying to clear the pained fog. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Your voice comes out too fast. Too bright. Too certain. He thinks back to hours ago, finding you in that church. You had been level headed and cautious. Now, however? The meds have made you think you’re invincible, seemingly. The difference is jarring.

The cart straightens. Leon doesn't let go of you immediately. He can feel your heartbeat through your clothes. It's hammering fast enough that it scares him. You glance down at his arm around your waist, then back up at him.

“You can let go.” Your good hand goes up to his chest, giving a light push. 

He does so, albeit a little reluctantly. Having you against him almost makes him feel better. It’s easier to keep tabs on you when you’re pressed against his side. He doesn’t have to worry about your drug-addled mind wandering off somewhere to die.

The tunnel opens up ahead. It turns into a wide, sprawling cavern, the entire area smelling like mildew and stagnant water. To the left of you all, there’s a waterfall, glimmering water spilling down like shattered glass. It’s almost pretty. 

“Look! That’s where they dug up the bugs!” Luis gestures the best he can to the right, still hanging onto the cart for dear life. 

Leon looks. He immediately wishes he hadn't. The rock formation is enormous. Black stone surrounds the cavern like the walls of some ancient cathedral, except instead of stained glass, there are dozens of holes punched into it. Some are small enough to fit a person through. Others are massive, yawning openings that disappear into darkness. And between them, amber. Great chunks of it jut from the stone like frozen sunlight. Some are small. Others are enormous, translucent slabs buried deep within the rock. Something dark seems to twist inside one of them. 

“The bugs-?!” You start, but Luis interrupts you, gasping.

The man points across the cavern, to another end of the minecart. His eyes have gone wide, face pale. “Ahead!”

Oh, shit.

Ahead, the track comes to a stop. The tracks are broken, ending jaggedly over an abyss. Leon barely has time to register the track disappearing beneath them before the cart goes over the edge.

“OH, FUCK!”

The three of you scream. The cart plunges downward. His stomach flies into his throat. Wind tears at his clothes as the cart rockets down the steep track. Luis is shouting something in Spanish that Leon can't understand. You're laughing again, one hand gripping the side of the cart, the other clutching Luis' pistol against your chest. Leon grabs the edge with both hands.

“Jump!”

Back when you first met it was a game: seeing him and having to lie that you didn't recognize those eyes, or his voice that carried a sarcastic tone. Pretending to be someone else on the job because, you were strangers at that moment, just two heroes doing your job.

It wasn't uncommon for you two to come across one another as your superhero personas. Sometimes, as you were crossing gazes with Robert you'd flash him a mischievous smile, one that you knew he would comment on when you layed together in bed late at night. Probably something along the lines of "I wouldn't be mad if we got caught" or just complain it was a pain in the ass to even pretend on the first place.

But things shifted once your hero career really set off and —after the incident with shroud— Robert got that offer for a job by a popular blonde hero. After everything that had happened to him, you became very overprotective towards the man that meant the world to you. Changing both of your lives drastically: not seeing him during patrol anymore, silence instead of his sarcastic remarks, and laying in a cold bed during his coma. It had been the death of you.

That's what got you here, despite him telling you not to come, not to pop into his new job and to stop disappearing from yours just to see if he is okay (maybe more for your own sake than his). You had flown into SDN, as an A-tier (B-tier?, you don't keep up) this turned some heads. Walking with your head high, confident strides, some people moved aside so as to make way for you. As soon as you spotted Roberts by the top of his messy hair you bee-lined to his cubicle. The brunet man was sitting on his office chair talking to his new team on the computer in font of them, wishing them a good break as he took his headphones off.The dispatcher rubbed the tension off his nose bridge in a weak attempt to get rid of the headache caused by the z-team. Just before the man you were looking for could stand from his spot and finally noticed the slight commotion around him, you were already standing next to him with a Tupperware secured by your side.

"Hello?" he said in a less than amused tone, as he swung around in his chair to face you. Fuck. Okay you hadn't thought this through. To anyone watching in he just looked like a poor dispatcher confused on why a hero from another SDN branch came to harass him, but to you it was your gentle boyfriend (who might be just a bit mad). You looked around, silently calling out on anyone still looking, making a few people that were not so subtly listening in 'go back to work'.

The reason this impromptu visit annoyed the man was also the real reason behind you really wanting to see him on his branch of SDN. Having already heard of the infamous Z-team, Robert telling you how they treated him, combined with how worried you get over him this days keeping in mind he doesn't have his suit anymore, yeah it wasn't a great mix for his anxious girlfriend. So, he didn't want you seeing his team UNTIL he earned their respect, didn't want you intimidating them and having them hate him more. You were going to respect that but as you stared at the man in-front of you still sitting in his chair, you could at least bring him decent food (that also wasn't Twinkies) to help him through the day.

"HELLO” You spoke suddenly as you realize how long you two had been staring at each other in silence.With a cough you followed up “I am one of SDN downtown superheroes, we—" "I know what SDN heroes do" The brunette interrupted. FUCK. Yea no shit he would know, he had been working here for a while, albeit a shorter time than you but still, it was habit to let people know who you were and what you were there for.

You cleared your throat, in an attempt to not make your embarrassment less noticeable "Yes of course, I'm sorry" you said more softly than your previous statement while looking slightly down "I'm a dispatcher, you know in case that you haven't noticed" He said as a matter of fact while he pointed at his desk, almost trying to remind you. As the dispatchers software was closing up he continued with a slightly annoyed tone "and if you don't mind, I'm on break and–" "Yes, I'm well aware that you're aware" You interrupted with a tightened tone before he could even try to get you to leave.

"We've received a call by a civilian, she has requested to have your lunch delivered to you since you have forgotten it, again" As you made this last remark with a drop in tone, you handed him the Tupperware that you had been carrying.

His face softened from the slight frown he wore to a gentle knowing look. "Worried that i would starve?.. the caller of course" he asked, looking up from the food towards the tall hero towering over him.

"Of course, this is not the first time and you can't keep eating Twinkies from the the vending machine" as the freckled man watched you ramble on about keeping good eating habits he couldn't help but chuckle, he always had a soft spot for you no matter how overbearing you got.

Robert reached his hands to yours, holding it tenderly while he lowered the food to rest un-top his desk with his right hand that quickly came back to yours "well.. you can tell my wife" Suddenly the dispatcher got up from his chair to stand in front of the woman whose heart had skipped a beat, as he looked up to the hero while holding her hands "That I'm going to be alright. She doesn't have to worry so much about me"

You looked around to see if anyone in the office was watching the both of you. Although no one seemed to be watching, you had already garnered enough attention coming in. In hopes of talking for a bit longer you made the decision of pushing both of you down, hiding yourself inside the walls of the dispatcher cubicle, sitting Robert back to the chair and kneeling in-front of him.

"Aah how heroic and not suspicious, ducking and holding me hostage in my desk. I want to take that break, you know?" He whispered teasingly, you softly put your head on his lap hiding your now fully red face "I thought the downtown branch did more important stuff, like i don't know fight crime instead of unhealthy eating habits and hiding in cubicles." he started joking as he begun to stroke your hair, as you lifted your gaze he asked in a whispery manner "you okay?"

"Wife?" was the only thing you asked (the only thing on your mind really), you had been high school sweethearts but remained only as his girlfriend to this day. He smirked "that's what your focusing on?.. well, might as well call you that with how much you worry about me, or you'd rather I called you mom?" You started chuckling trying to keep it down, you covered your mouth to accomplish this but Robert laughed unapologetically.

The sweet moment was interrupted by an old man who, during the whole conversation, was scooting over and over with his chair to see what the hell was happening with his friend and this random hero. Finally he had made it, still sitting, fully outside of his cubicle and basically into Roberts, with Beef in his lap desperately trying to say hi to the familiar scent In front of him but kept on the Albert Einstein looking mans arms "Don't tell me you have a thing for getting head in public"

You quickly lifted your head up from your boyfriends lap to stare, before you could respond the dispatcher responded "that would imply you have a voyeurism kink" He turned almost proudly to you to see your reaction. With an annoyed expression you stood up, still blushing.

Robert laughing tried to grab your hand again,standing up in the process, in an attempt to keep you there but it slipped as stepped towards the older dispatcher. As chase laughed his ass off, you petted beef and said "I'm glad I was able to reach you in time. make sure to call your wife" As you crossed the dispatchers cubicle you brushed hands with the tired man, an intimate yet quiet goodbye.

Wearing a smile as you made your way out and back to your territory, you still hadn't noticed a blacked hair woman near the printers that had witnessed the whole interaction with a frown.