It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.

That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?

Right.

So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadn’t already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.

But you didn’t fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, “Yeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.

Clark noticed too. 

Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two weren’t exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.

Like today.

The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyone’s attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clark’s attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.

That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.

But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasn’t a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.

That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected. 

Right below the belt. 

Not that you hadn’t already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clark’s curiosity and Superman’s pride, reacting to a version of him you didn’t know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.

All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.

It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day. 

And every day after that.

It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.

What were you thinking?

It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.

Jesus, you were down bad.

You knew that. Denial wasn’t even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didn’t need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.

Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.

He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.

And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Superman’s laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, “This is you.” You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, “Right. Thanks.”

Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didn’t stop there. 

Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyone’s attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.

But then you heard his voice.

He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasn’t enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadn’t necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.

That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally you’d sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had “so much work” and you were just “too busy.” The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.

With Superman.

You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Superman’s presence as it radiated through your body wasn’t doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give. 

So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, he’d go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.

Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes you’d give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble. 

And perhaps that had been the problem.

It didn’t take much for Clark’s focus to drift away to its new favorite spot—you. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.

Almost.

Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldn’t quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.

The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.

—that’s the part I can’t seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like it’s too much until it isn’t—

Clark’s fingers slowed over his keyboard.

He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours you’d spent working side by side. And no, it wasn’t intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.

This wasn’t any of that.

I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.

Clark went still.

The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldn’t be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that. 

That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.

Then your pen moved again.

S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.

He couldn’t have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.

You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Superman’s body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if he’d fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didn’t think once would be enough.

The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasn’t even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.

He was hard.

Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasn’t. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.

His jaw tightened. 

And you just kept writing.

You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as you’d been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.

That was bad enough.

Then Clark’s brain supplied the rest.

Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh he’d heard before—the one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped free—sent another pulse of heat straight through him.

Behind him, your chair creaked.

The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if you’d said it out loud.

You wrote about riding him. About how you’d feel him everywhere. How you’d have to take him slow at first, because he’d be too much to just drop onto, even if all you’d want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how you’d sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.

That image hit harder.

He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hide—

How tight and warm you’d feel taking him.

That was the one.

Clark’s whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.

His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadn’t just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.

The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.

Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldn’t help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.

Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.

“Hey,” you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you earlier. It’s just the notes for the revision.”

Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldn’t trust himself with that yet.

His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.

“Thanks,” he said.

You gave him a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted today.”

Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.

He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.

“I wish I could focus like you,” you added.

Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt. 

“Yeah,” he said, because it was the safest thing he had.

You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.

Focused.

That was one word for it.

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

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

Rather humbling, actually. 

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

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

One very muscular hand. 

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

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

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

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

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

“They know it’s you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha stepped forward. 

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

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

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

How could you have left? 

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

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

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

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

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

Hesitantly, Clark poked his head in. 

“…Hey.” 

“Is it awkward knocking on your own door?” 

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

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

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

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

Clark shrugged. 

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

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

“You guarded it well.” 

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

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

“How’s the grant going?” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Clark pouted and slumped his shoulders. 

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

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

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

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

“Technically she isn’t wrong.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clark…” 

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

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

“I hope that was okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.” 

“You’ll need them to go to sleep.” 

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

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

“Most importantly, I miss tasting you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely livid.

"Hey."

You can already envision the dopey smile spread across his face, his eyes twinkling in a way that always seems to send your knees wobbling every time he catches your eye.

Even though the sudden appearance of your lovely boyfriend was a comfort you needed right now, the idea of Clark only spread more guilt throughout your body. Your pace only seemed speed up at the sound of his voice, you can only imagine the look on his face right now as you try to control your breathing with shaky inhales.

All this was supposed to be an amicable relationship, a comfort to when you couldn't seem to stay asleep at ungodly hours of the night —unwilling to wake up Clark from his slumber for something so little— and companionship to the hero of Metropolis when the night was slow and lonely. That's all it was supposed to be. Especially, when the sweet, dorky, and absolutely perfect farm boy was already yours.

God, how did this happen.

How could you do this to Clark?

Something pulls your hand away from your mouth, just before you could rip another piece off. Your brain seems to clear as you feel a hand side onto your waist, stopping you from wearing down a path on the roof even more.

The haze of anger, confusion, and guilt that seemed to surround you almost completely disappears as you feel a warm, stable beat of the heart you've devoted so much time learning and memorizing the song of under the pads of your fingers. Your heart begins to match its rhythm as Clark wraps around you, shielding the rest of the world.

The low timbre of his voice fills the space as he hums a small tune, if only to center your brain on him and not whatever is on your mind.

"What's going on in that beautiful brain of yours?" Clark softly asks as a smile grows across his face with a tilt of his head, "I know it's not nothing."

Anger flares up again, fanning the flames at a particular man of steel as warm, gentle hands move to cradle your head. Blue eyes seem to soften the burn as they crinkle with concern.

"C'mon, you know you can tell me ."

Nevermind, guilt is also back on the table.

"It's genuinely nothing," you muffle as you tuck yourself deeper into his chest. Hands creating wrinkles as you take fistfuls of his crisp shirt, just to avoid those same eyes.

Your jaw starts to clench as more thoughts seems to zoom across your mind. Of fucking course, it's fucking Superman. His name is literally fucking Super. Man. How cliche of you. Is bread the best thing you've ever tasted? Oh, you're attracted to a man with big muscles, a kind smile, and the symbol of all that is good in the world? Call the press because you've got a groundbreaking story right here.

And the cherry on top of all of that, your boyfriend seems to be the only reporter in the city that has a rapport with him, someone that he trusts.

"You really think I believe that?"

"Can you just believe it for now?"

"Nope."

You pull away with a drawn out groan, his laugh lingering in the background as you restart your route around the area.

Ok, it's not like you have to see him everyday, well in person that is. This is what you were training for, you can just avoid Kal. All this will go away if you just stay in your bedroom and not venture out when you can't sleep, simple, succinct. You'll never need to address the familiar feelings that usually only sprout with Clark that are now starting to grow when you're with him as well. Nor will you need to address the confusing feeling that started to grow into another thing when he decided to absentmindedly and softly kiss you when he had to leave last night. Which obviously made you like this now, so now you never need to address it! Great! Then you can just live your wonderful life with your wonderful boyfriend who you love and adore and the two of you'll go off and-

"Honey, I can hear your thoughts from over here," Clark chuckled, now settled next to the bags you carelessly tossed to the floor in a haste to try and stop your racing heart, "I promise you it can't be that-"

You fold under absolutely no pressure.

"I have a stupid crush on Superman, ok?!"

You huff, pretty much throwing yourself to the ground next to Clark, "It's ruining my life."

The silence from the man next to you sends nausea rolling throughout your stomach as you breath through your hands, trying not to freak out.

A silence that lasted way too long for someone like Clark.

You peak through your hands, only to see Clark looking away with puffed cheeks, very obviously trying not to laugh. It's only till he turns back to look at you does a snort escape from him.

"Clark," you whine, "I'm being serious."

"I am too!"

You start to get back on your feet, "That's it, I'm walking off the roof."

"No, come back here," he very easily pulls you back down with a laugh, only for you tuck yourself into his arm, trying to hide your embarrassment.

You can practically hear the smug look on his face, "Now. Superman, you say."

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Ok. So, let's talk this through, what about him do you like so much," Clark smiles down at you, "From personal experience, I know your head isn't turned so easily."

Your face could burn a hole into Clark's shirt with how hot you feel as Clark just keeps on pestering you about your life changing discovery.

"I'm not telling my boyfriend about a crush I have on another man," you grumble.

"Humor me."

You peak back up to Clark. No anger, disgust, or even jealousy is evident in his face, only the same face you fell in love with greets you, eyes still bright as it was before. Sure, an annoying smirk is splashed across his face —you have no idea why that's there—, but the same old Clark is staring back at you.

"You like his muscles, don't you?"

"I'm actually going to jump off this building," you pull away from him with fake annoyance, sitting up straight yet still pressed into his side.

Clark snickers besides you, "Oh, so that Superman can hold you in his big, muscular arms."

"No," you snort.

Metropolis starts to fade as you zero into Clark, only Clark. What does Superman have over the kind, bumbling dork you call yours. Powers? A Cape? Nothing can truly compare to what you have right now.

You soften, "Not when you're right here next to me."

A breeze starts to pick up as you lean up and press a small kiss into the corner of his smile. A secret kind of quietness fills the space as the two of you look over the city. Pressed into each others side, you're happy that you chose the man beside you.

"Speaking of Superman…"

You groan, "I thought we dropped it."

"I know, I know, it's just," Clark inhales, "I've been thinking about this for a while, now that you bring him up that is."

"What, you have a crush on the man of steel too? I mean, you might spend more time with him the most besides me, interviews and all."

"Honey, are you having an affair with Superman?"

Oh fuck, "NO, NO, I am NOT. Sometimes I just can't fall asleep and he gets lonely and we just end up talking. Oh my god, Clark, Ipromisenothingisgoingon-"

Clark interrupts, "I know, Honey. Don't worry, I would know if you were having an affair with Superman."

"I mean, yeah, he doesn't seem like someone who would do something like that, I mean I saw him save a squirrel before. You talk to him and there's no way that he would hit on a colleague's partner especia- NOT THAT I WOULD CHEAT ON YOU."

"I know you wouldn't," his voice stopping you from spiraling even further.

"Im just telling that I would know," Clark smiles and with a final exhale, "because I'm Superman."

Pulling off his glasses, the rug is pulled under you as you just blink at him. The haze seemed to be lifted as your brain starts to fill in the blanks and finally connects the final pieces needed for you to catch up.

You fell for Clark. Superman.

Twice.

What the fuck.

Silence seemed to build and you can feel the nervous energy rolling off of Clark. Suddenly springing up from your seat, you return to the route burned into the top of the Daily planet and Clark springs up right behind you almost immediately.

"If you need more evidence, I am more than willing to-"

"You have got to be kidding me."

Clark starts to shrink into himself, "I know you're mad I kept this from you, but you've got to understand, I have a lot of people who want to hurt me and I couldn't drag you int-"

"So you're telling…I fell in love with the poster boy for attractiveness? Not once but twice???"

Clark stops, "What."

"Oh my god, is vanilla my favorite flavor of ice cream? Is Avatar my favorite movie? I fell in love with the symbol for all that is good in the world, twice. Oh my god, call Perry because this is a news worthy story-"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or…"

"The definition of easy on the eyes. I'm over here falling in love with Mr. six-foot-four, chiseled-abs, biceps the size of my head-"

"Good to know that I was right about the muscles thing."

"Has everyone in the world drooling over him, twice. God, I can't believe I fell for the fucking trap, multiple times-"

You pause.

Slowly you turn, marching right up to Clark's stupid, dumb, unbelievably charming face.

"This is un-fucking-believable. You hear me, Smallville? You can't just go and kiss someone when they're sleep deprived and don't know that their boyfriend is Superman."

Flashes of realizations rush across his face that soon settle into understanding. A red flush covers his face as he pulls a hand to rub the back of his neck, "Oh, right that."

"You…"

A small shift in his step makes his nervousness more evident to you, "Are you still mad at me?"

A large sigh escapes you, your hands already reaching up to cup his face. With the sun fully set, only the lights of the buildings around you illuminate the roof. Almost automatically, Clark leans lower, chasing your hold as the two of you perfectly fit against each other, his hands already resting on your waist.

Your eyes flicker over his features, now fully revealed to you. Your hand starts trace through the small differences, the ones that set apart the two lives he was living. His nose a bit sharper, his eyes a little brighter. While your brain was catching up, trying to piece together the two pieces to fit, of course your heart recognized him, how could it not.

Superman may forever belong to the world, but Clark Kent, your Clark, belonged to you.

Your hands settle at the nape of his neck, "No, I'm not. Not really."

A soft hum comes out of his lips as he leans down to rest his forehead on yours. You can't help but laugh as he makes it a point to lock his eyes onto yours.

"You know, I didn't know you had a type."

You can't help but groan.

"Am I really that irresistible to you?" God, you're never going to hear the end of this, "what was it about having biceps the size of your head?"

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Heat started to run across your body as he continued, "Poster boy for attractiveness, was it you said? Or, or was it the definition of easy on the eyes…"

His voice started to fade as he leaned closer, just to close the gap between the two of you. Right as the gap was about to close, your hand pushes against his chest, just enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Wait a second, I told Superman about your birthday present."

"What's that? Oh no! I can hear a cat stuck in a tree, I guess that's my cue!"

"No, Clark get back here-"

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Clark has just opened his Tupperware of a homemade lunch, made by yours truly, when his phone began to buzz on the table. He was in the canteen, Jimmy Olsen at another table, thumbs tapping away at his own phone.

He didn’t even need to look at the Caller ID. You guys ran on a phone call schedule.

“Hi, honey.” Clark stabbed the rather sad lettuce with his fork, “How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need your advice on something really quick.”

Clark piled enough food into his mouth and hummed “OK. Shoot.”

“So, you remember how I started Pilates a couple of weeks ago? The one that Cat referred me to? Well, anyway, they had this new class called Nudelates. Not a lot of people signed up for it, and I felt bad for the instructor, so I signed up and paid the eighty dollars—”

“Eighty?” Clark choked on a leaf, “Honey.”

“No, no. That’s not the worst part.” You continued, “So, anyway, I sign up to the class and then I’ve just turned up and bumped into the instructor in the parking lot before it starts. Clark, the class is meant to be done fully naked. As in, absolutely no clothes. Nude Pilates. Nudelates.”

“Okay. And, this wasn’t in the pamphlet for it?” Clark furrowed his brows as he tried to find a solution.

You shook your head as if he could see you, “No. It was just word of mouth. But, the instructor said it’s non-refundable. And, you know how tight I am with my money…I can’t waste it.”

“Uh, right. Do you want comfort, or a solution?”

“Well, I don’t want to take the class nude. But, I spent eighty dollars on this thing.” You sounded a little stressed, like you were seriously considering walking into the building and exposing yourself for this class.

Clark frowned, “Then don’t do it, honey. I’ll give you the eighty dollars if it’s that serious. Are there other women doing it?”

“Nope.” The letter ‘P’ popped as you spoke, “Just me and the instructor.”

Unbeknownst to Clark, you were throwing a line in the hopes he would take the bait. Sat in your car, in front of your apartment building with an iced coffee that the ice had melted in the cup holder somewhere between the coffee shop and the parking lot, you bit at your nails with a grin on your face.

Some days off the clock were more boring than others. You made up enough screen time for both you and Clark, and that came with the consequences on Clark’s end of the stick.

Trends were entertaining to watch. Even more entertaining to perform on your husband with a severe lack of social media presence.

You could hear him mull it over. A part you loved so deeply, and felt so guilty for momentarily taking advantage of, was that any fork in the road problems you brought to Clark; he’d always weigh out both possibilities with the upmost optimism.

Even if he didn’t agree with either outcome. He just wanted you to thrive in your decisions.

“It could be fun?” Clark didn’t sound so sure this time, “Liberating, even.”

Jimmy Olsen looked up from his phone to listen in to the conversation. Clark shrugged when Jimmy mouthed to ask what was happening.

“See, this is exactly what he said.”

The record in Clark’s head scratched.

“He?” Clark straightened his posture, “Who—Who do you mean by he?”

“…My instructor? It’s a guy.”

The chair beneath Clark screeched as he stood, “No.” Jimmy watched his friend storm to the door and throw it open, the wall behind it cracking with the force. “Absolutely not. Where is this place? I’m coming right now.”

“What?”

“The location. I need to speak with your instructor.” Clark was already up three flights of stairs, heading to the roof to fly. It’d be quicker that way.

This part was not included in the joke that, according to your husband, had gone too far.

You panicked, “Clark, no. It’s fine, I’ll just not go. I’m going home now—”

“No, this man is taking advantage of women. And you, honey. I’m glad you’re going home, but I would still like to speak to him. What he is doing is illegal.” Clark began to remove his glasses when he reached the rooftop of the Daily Planet building.

“Are you outside?”

“I’m about to fly. Yes.”

“Whoa. OK. Time out.” You laughed nervously, “Take a breather. I’m joking. I’m joking, it was a joke, Clark. It was just a stupid trend I saw on TikTok.”

Clark paused on the roof edge, “Are you lying to me?”

“No. I’m serious, there’s no naked Pilates. Or, a creepy instructor. Just, just a joke, Clark. I promise.”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes wrinkled from scrunching them shut. Nostrils flared, he counted to five before putting his glasses back on and turning on his heel to return to the bullpen.