#c's asks

You’ve been screaming back and forth at each other for over 20 minutes; nothing but barbarous insults hurled at each other that neither of you will be able to forget but will refuse to discuss when your tempers have regulated. Not to mention that he heard that tell-tale grit in your voice from the very first second that you opened your mouth. Hell, it almost weighed heavier on him than the horrible things you were telling him. 

Now, though, you’re both silent. Everything that needed to be said was said. 

Eyes wide and unflinchingly locked together, unwavering connection stemming from the vicious battle you just went through in this bedroom. The one that was never going to produce a victor, because neither of you can take back what you told each other. You’re still red in the face. You’ve still got veins popping out of your neck. Hot, angry tears are silently pouring down your cheeks—no doubt from the high emotions, the unbearable pain. 

Or maybe from the realization you’re arriving at for the millionth time this month: This relationship isn’t working. Hasn’t been working for weeks, and he knows you’ve been in that state of mind for a while. 

Clark, though? Not so much. He’s given you so much of himself, so much of his time, so much of his life and love…how could he ever let you go?

So when you finally break that eye contact, when you look down at the floor separating the two of you, he knows what he has to do. Does he want to do it? No, because Clark is a good man. 

But he’ll do anything to keep you with him.

It starts when you let out one of those wistful little sighs—the exact type of sigh that precedes the line he knows you’ll forget you even said to him in a few minutes: 

“I think we need to take a break.” 

Your voice is much softer now. Broken, in a way. Broken from how hard you were yelling. Broken from how upset you are. Broken from your own suggestion, because Clark knows that, deep down in your heart, you never mean that. You’ve never gone through with it, so how could you possibly mean it? You don’t want that. 

He knows what you want. 

Clark clears his throat. Takes a few slow, long strides across your bedroom until he reaches you. You’re so tired from the fight that you don’t even move away from him. Not like you’d want to, anyway. Clark knew you wouldn’t. He knows this fight—and the way you react to it—better than anything else. 

You might have said you can’t stand him, that you want to take a break, that you’re tired of it all…but your body doesn’t agree. Your body leans into him. Your body presses your hands against his chest and lets your forehead fall on his shoulder. Your body rests on his so that you don’t have to carry the weight of your shared dysfunction on your own anymore.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t say that.” he whispers. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Clark, don’t—” 

That tiny beginner’s protest doesn’t really ring true while you’re sliding your arms around his shoulders and pulling yourself into his chest, so he cuts you off.

“No. No, we don’t need a break. We can work through this. We always work through it, don’t we?” he purrs at you. Tilts your head up with one hand while his other arm stays wrapped around your waist. Glues you to him and doesn’t give you any space to unstick yourself from him. His fingers curl around your jaw and a quick scan of your face in the pale blue moonlight streaming into your room gives him what he was hoping to see. 

You have a certain habit that he uses to his advantage when you fight with him. You gnaw at your bottom lip when you’re trying to keep certain insults in. Sometimes, it’s so harsh of a bite that you cut the skin. Make yourself bleed. 

Give him an opening to change your mind. 

“Goodness, honey. You gotta stop doing this,” he sweetly coos. Runs his thumb over your bottom lip to make it seem like he’s only concerned about the cut. To be fair, he is concerned about how it’s probably hurting you—but that’s not taking precedence right now. 

“Gonna hurt yourself. I know this doesn’t feel good.”

He pushes out a sigh through his nose. He has to look frustrated and sympathetic if he wants to act like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

“You gonna let me clean you up?”  

You whine and lean into his touch; a confirmation without the words to accompany it. He knows you can’t resist him. He puts on his sweetest smile and mumbles, “Good. Gotta take care of my girl,” while he gives you a soft squeeze.

Getting you this close is just step one. 

Step two, though, is where the last remaining dregs of his own guilt start to creep in. He hesitates for a moment when he pulls his thumb off of your lip and brings it up to his own mouth. He could pull away from you and get a wet rag to clean it instead. He could be the good man Ma raised him to be. 

Then you lean into him a little more. Get so close to him that he can smell the shampoo in your hair, the perfume on your skin, the adrenaline pumping through your blood. Your bottom lip is still subtly trembling. A shockwave from your crying that just refuses to leave you, much like how you can’t leave his arms right now.

How could you blame him for what he’s about to do? Your body is begging him to do it. Begging him for some release from this pain. Craving relief that only he can provide you.

Isn’t the whole point of his being here on Earth protecting and caring for its inhabitants, anyway?

So he ditches the guilt. Swallows it down and acts like he’s just trying to clean you up when he licks his thumb to wet it and swipes it over the gently oozing blood on your lip. Drags it back and forth over the still-open cut once, twice, three times. Soft and sweet, like Ma would do when he had a stain on his cheek from playing outside when he was a kid. As though there’s no ulterior motive here. 

And to you, there probably isn’t. To you, he probably seems like he’s just caring for you. Trying to make you feel better. 

Clark knows that’s not the case. 

He keeps his thumb pressed against your lip. Keeps it over that cut. Keeps pressing his saliva into the little wound. Rubbing it back and forth. Licking his thumb again. Repeating the whole process when some more blood wells from your self-inflicted bite. Feeding more and more of himself to you. 

Part of him wishes Kara never told him about this little trick.

“All I know is that it’s like…a fuckin’ love potion, or something. If you kiss a human, they’ll go crazy for you. I think it’s in our spit. I know it sounds crazy, Kal, but trust me. That shit works.” 

He thought she was lying. Didn’t believe her at first, because how outrageous would that be? Sure, his parents wanted him to repopulate Earth, but isn’t aphrodisiac-laced spit a little far fetched? 

Two years later, he knows she wasn’t lying. Especially right now, as he’s watching you fall into the effects of it. He’s watching your pupils dilate with every gentle brush of his thumb over your lip, watching your breathing quicken in your still-heaving chest. 

This trick’s worked on you every time. And every time he does it, he feels bad about it, but he’s sure not stopping any time soon. Not when he gets to see you like this. 

Your eyes keep locking onto his mouth. You keep squirming in his grasp, body warm, skin dampening, and much more pliable than you were only a few seconds earlier. When your fingers dig into his shirt, he finds that they’re trembling. Whether it’s from the rage of your fight or the lack of his attention toward the mess you’re already making between your thighs, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both. 

“Clark,” you whine. Pitchy, breathy, irresistible. He ticks his jaw, annoyed with himself for being so turned on by this. By being able to control you this easily. He’s supposed to be a good man. He’s not supposed to get hard when you’re upset with him. 

“I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.” 

Your lidded eyes trace every single word that leaves his mouth. You moan at the pet name. His fingers, still curled around your jaw while his others grasp at your waist, pick up on the heat radiating from you. 

“Don’t like it when we fight.”

“I don’t like it either, honey.” 

Your knees buckle at the saccharine nickname he knows is your favorite—a slight jolt that makes him tighten his hold on you—and you start panting, start gripping him a little harder. 

Are your hips rolling against his? He pays no mind to it. Forces himself to take his thumb away from your lip, because you’re good and moldable for him already. Three rounds of feeding himself to you through an open wound’ll do it. He doesn’t need to take this any further.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though. 

“I love you,” you whisper to him. The inky blackness of your pupils eats up your irises. You’re soaking through your panties, making such a big mess that he can smell it. He should be excited—and part of him is—but his heart aches instead. When was the last time he had you this wet, this compliant, this soft and needy for him, without using his saliva to get you there? Must have been before everything started going downhill a few months ago. 

Oh well. At least you’re there now, right?

So he smiles at you. Sweet and crooked, the smile you’ve told him you love a thousand times before. Makes you whimper and has you bucking your hips up against his. You’re so hot that your skin is burning. Warm to the touch and a little bit damp. Just how he likes you. His trick worked like a charm.

“There’s my sweet girl. Was starting to think I’d never see you again, baby. I love you so much.” 

When his lower-octave purr hits your ears, you almost collapse. He felt it all. The way your knees gave out, the way you grabbed onto him a little harder, the way your heart started slamming so roughly behind your ribcage that it almost burst out of your chest. 

“Can I have a kiss?” you mercilessly, pathetically beg. Voice so soft and needy and whiney that he couldn’t possibly dream of resisting you. “I know—I know you don’t like to do it, but…I need one. Please?”

“Is a kiss gonna make you feel better?”

You hum and nod so hard that your head looks like it’s about to fall off. He finds himself laughing. Not mean, not teasing, just…laughing. Because he’s in awe. How has this trick worked for this long? How haven’t you built up an immunity by now?

Thank God you haven’t built up an immunity by now. 

“My needy girl always gets what she wants.” 

He licks his lips—getting them wet so he can keep you pliant—and leans down to press them against yours. His tongue gently glides against your bottom lip, making sure to take a little extra time on that cut there and causing you to suck in a brief wince. He pushes his way into your mouth without even a hint of resistance from you. Does its work. Keeps you easy. 

20 minutes ago, you’d have had his head on a pike if he kissed you when you were that mad. If he had so much as suggested a kiss 20 minutes ago, you would have walked out of that door and never came back. 

You break away not even 10 seconds later. Clearly woozy from the kiss, like he knew you’d be. Everything is so heightened for you that he’s surprised you even lasted that long. You press your forehead against his jaw. 

“Better?” Clark asks. Your answer is some sort of jumbled little confirmation. 

Your sticky, warm skin clings to his when you catch your breath, pull back, and try to reconnect the kiss. He lets you. You’re the one parting his lips to press your tongue against his, you’re the one licking into his mouth so you can get as close to him as possible, you’re the one tangling your hands in his hair and yanking on it so you can part for air after a pathetic 10 more seconds. And yet, after you gulp in a few deep breaths, you kiss him again. Surprise engulfs him when, this time, you suck on his tongue. 

Couldn’t hold the moan that burst from his chest back if he tried. 

It’s the first time in a couple weeks that you’ve paid any sort of positive attention to him at all, and he loves it. He loves you. If his girl wants a kiss—or two, or three—she’ll get one. Matter of fact, he’d let you do anything if it meant he got to keep you forever. He just might be able to do that if you keep sticking your tongue down his throat and sucking on his like you just did. 

He pulls away when he senses that you’re losing yourself in him. That realization comes through your landing a particularly rough bite on his bottom lip before you start kissing his chin, his jaw, and his neck, leaving a trail of tiny wet patches in your wake. 

Clark cradles your face in his hands to stop you from diving in for another kiss. Gives you a chance to breathe and gives him a moment to drink you in when you’re not mad at him. Your precious, soft, absolutely lovedrunk face. His poor baby. So far gone—eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and glistening from your messy litany of kisses, skin hot to the touch and chest heaving as you claw at his shirt and stumble over your own two feet while you drag him backwards toward your bed. 

You’re more than pliable enough, now. 

Clark swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, thumb dampening from the filthy kisses you’ve shared with him, a mix of your saliva and his. You chase after the contact and tilt your head into his palm when he slips his thumb down toward your jaw. 

He puts on his best soft, deep voice and asks, “Gonna let me take care of you, now, baby? Let me apologize?” before you can yank him down onto your bed.

He gets a soft hum from you. A nod. Of course he does. You’d never say no to him when you’ve got this much of his “love potion”—as Kara would call it— coursing its way through your veins. So he takes your confirmation that he knew he’d get, lifts you up, and lets you indulge in your forced desires.  

Clark’s form of an apology isn’t an actual apology. He doesn’t say sorry to you anymore. When has it ever soothed your anger, anyway? 

Instead, he apologizes by burying his face between your legs. He never has to give you much after you’ve kissed. A gentle circling of his tongue around your clit for a handful of seconds is enough to get you to come undone for the first time. The next is a little harder to work for, but if being between your legs and humping the mattress to get his own relief could be a full time job, he’d apply for it immediately. 

“Clark!” you groan while arching off the bed. While you’re being thrown off the proverbial cliff, falling into your third climax in an obscenely short time frame.  

Your body is a gorgeous symphony to him when you’re like this. Everything you do is music to his ears when you’re in this bed. The roughness of your breathing, the sheets rubbing against your heated, sticky skin, the lewd squelch of your wetness as he drives two fingers in and out of you, the moans you sing out when he curls those fingers up to hit the soft, spongy spot that he loves to abuse until you’re boneless beneath him. 

“Coming! Fuck, I’m coming! Don’t—ah! Don’t stop!” you babble. There’s a string of curse words attached to the end of that jumbled declaration. Clark just hums and continues eating. Slips his fingers out of you to replace them with his tongue. The rough push of his nose against your clit forces a full-body jolt out of you. 

You keep screaming for him to continue, to go deeper, to not stop, and he gives it all to you until you’re falling apart. It’s not like it was his intention to stop. Wouldn’t dream of stopping now. Wouldn’t deprive himself of the pleasure of being glued to your pretty pussy like this. 

He’s not sure when he became so selfish. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you to manipulate you. Well, it’s not manipulation. Not if you were the one who asked for a kiss. That’s what he tells himself, at least. 

“Shit!” you hiss while you collapse back down on the bed with a heavy thump. Your body’s starting to give out. Mind’s been gone for a while, now; there’s no way you remember what that fight earlier was about. Perfect. Just where he wants you. Should be enough to buy him at least a couple days of peace. A couple days of not having to worry about you wanting to break up with him and him losing all his motivation to live. 

Clark smiles. Pulls back just enough to speak to you. When he pushes his thumbs against each of your folds and spreads you open, your whimpered response is telling him you’ve got tears in your eyes. You cant your hips up, bucking and squirming for him to give you more. 

How are you still begging for more when you’ve had so much already? Maybe he’s not the only selfish one here. 

“Look at the mess you made. Love it when she’s cryin’ for me like this, baby. Can’t believe I get to call this perfect little pussy all mine. How’d I get so lucky?” 

He pushes his filthy words into your thighs between kisses as though he’s praying to you. He is, in a way. Praying that you won’t leave him. Praying that he’ll get to keep you if he’s good enough at worshipping the altar of your body.

Those kisses slowly trail up your hips, your waist, your stomach. Each time he makes contact with you, he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Feels the way you shiver, the way you’re still weak for him even though he hasn’t kissed you in what feels like an eternity. 

He wants to kiss you. Wants to push you a little further. Wants you to go completely dumb so that you don’t have to think about how mad you are at him. So that, if he’s lucky, you’ll forget about everything altogether and just love him the way he loves you. Without hesitation. Without regret. 

For now, he refrains. Kisses up to your chest and sucks one peaked, sensitive nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other. A gentle back and forth swipe, one that he drew on your bottom lip just a little while earlier. 

He stops his kisses when he reaches your jaw. Tilts his head away from you when you try to kiss him. Nearly dies from the tiny, sad noise you push out when he doesn’t give you what you want. Clears his throat and gently spreads your legs with one knee. Somewhere along the way, he slipped his hand down to your overstimulated clit, and he earns a cute little moan from you when he starts tracing soft circles on it. 

“Gonna let me use her one more time, honey?”

“Last time,” you confirm while spreading your legs wider for him. You nod. “One last time.” 

Clark stills. Lifts his head so he can actually meet your eyes for the first time since this has all started. It’s a miracle that they’re still open. What’s not a miracle, though, is how your irises have started to return.

His blood chills. Threatens to freeze in his veins and render him useless. How long has it been since that aphrodisiac wore off? 

“Last time? You don’t mean that,” he mutters. The way his voice went up an octave is embarrassing. How could five words make him panic so quickly? 

“I told you I wanted to take a break,” you counter. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck. Clark’s face starts to burn. Whether it’s from embarrassment, panic, or anger, he doesn’t exactly know. 

“You didn’t mean it when you said that, either.” 

He sighs. He knows what he has to do. He didn’t think it’d ever get this far, but if it means keeping you, it’s getting done. 

He steels himself and sends you a fake smile. You probably clocked it. He’s never been good at faking them with you. He brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and lowers his face towards yours. His voice is a whisper when he finds it again. 

“We’ll talk about it later.” 

You huff at him. Press your lips into a thin line but turn toward his palm when it slides down your cheek. Soon enough, his thumb is gliding over your lip again. He always seems to find it. This time, though, he’s got a reason. 

He swipes it back and forth. Gentle. Unassuming. Considers it a win when you tilt your chin up for him to continue the tiny, comforting movement. He regains some confidence in his voice now that he’s accepted his fate and knows what he has to do here. 

“Be a good girl and open up for me, baby,” he commands while he drags his thumb down your chin. For someone who wants a break so badly, you comply immediately. The smile he sends you is genuine, this time. 

“That’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.” 

As soon as you’ve got your mouth open, chin tilted up, he does it. He stares into your eyes as he lets a single, heavy dribble of his saliva fall onto your tongue. Just enough of it to bump up the concentration of the aphrodisiac without knocking you out completely. 

“Swallow,” he coos when he closes your mouth for you. Smiles when you do as he says without skipping a beat. 

“Atta girl.”

When he finally tears his focus away from your mouth to look at your entire face, he sees everything he wants:

Blown out pupils and utter devotion. 

But, again, Ryland Grace doesn't plan anything. He just sort of stumbles into everything. So when he stumbled into you after you moved into the classroom right next to his, he didn't plan on falling in love. It's not that he was closed off to it; he just never had any luck with relationships, and you were too pretty to end up liking him. Too good to be true.

When you were the one who ended up asking him out, then, he was completely taken aback. Because, just like everything else in his life—he didn't plan on it.

Regardless, he was over the moon excited about it. Jumped in head first. Really fell for you hard, although a lot of it wasn't planned. He didn't plan on what your relationship would be like after three months. He's never made it that far with any relationship after college.

Didn't plan on moving in with you after a year. That absolutely wasn't in the cards considering what happened the last time he moved in with someone, but he kicked himself in the seat of the pants for doubting you on that front. Moving in with you was the best thing that ever happened to him.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to him.

He did plan to go with you to your friends' house after they had their baby, though. That much is true. He's pretty good at day-to-day planning. And lesson planning. It's the major life planning that he's not so great at.

That's another internal conversation for another day.

He wanted to go with you to your friends' house. He knew them well enough. They were your friends first, but he liked them after you introduced him to them. He was ecstatic to learn that they had their baby. To see them and help them in any way that he could.

Plus, them having a baby meant another kid for him to teach and love as his own in 13 years, give or take.

But, at the end of the day, it was a chance for him to see your happiness. To see the way you jumped up and down with excitement at the prospect of meeting the baby. To see the compassion you'd display when you'd inevitably end up cleaning up around the house to spare your friends the pain of doing it with a newborn.

So, yeah. He planned on going with you. Any chance he gets to see how gorgeous you are when you're excited or how big your heart is, he'll take.

That's why he's right here, standing next to you on their doorstep, gift bag that you put together for the baby in his right hand and left arm wrapped around your waist. You're practically vibrating from the elation weaving its way through your nerves and muscles.

He can't stop staring at you. Hopefully you don't think he's weird for it.

"God," you whisper while frantically rapping your knuckles against the front door. "I'm so excited."

He doesn't say anything at first. Too stunned by your sweetness. Too hypnotized. All he can do is look down at you, give your waist a squeeze, and kiss your temple. When you lean into it, he feels his heart flutter in his chest.

It flutters harder when you peek up at him and steal a featherlight kiss on his lips. Borderline heart palpitations after that one. God, he loves you so much it hurts.

"They'd be dumb to not make you the godmother," is the response he blurts out when you pull back and stare up at him instead. Stupid thing to say. Makes his cheeks flush with a simmering, slightly embarrassed heat. You short-circuited his brain. His doctorate-holding brain.

But his stupidity paid off. Made you laugh and glance up at him. Any time your eyes are on him, he feels like the universe's favorite child.

"I'd only accept that title if they make you the godfather," you joke.

The upward quirk of your lips, a gentle little indication of a smirk, only makes him blush harder. You have such a hold on him. He loves you more than words can describe. He's actually certain that there are no words to describe how deeply he loves you. None at all.

"Is this your way of asking me to marry you?" he jokes back. You gasp. You bless him with a soft, sweet kiss on the cheek. He isn't fully convinced that he's not dead and in a paradise of an afterlife right now.

"How'd you know?" you mumble into his skin before you pull back just enough to look at him. Not the first time you've spoken something into his skin. Definitely not the first time you've done it in public.

Ryland laughs. Then he shrugs. Diverts his eyes away from you and focuses on the intricate patterns inlaid on the door's window to prevent himself from getting too flustered.

"Just had a hunch."

You huff and knock again, quicker than the last time. Your impatience is just another thing he loves about you. It ensures that the job gets done when he's got his head lost in the clouds.

"Funny. I always thought you were the one who was supposed to do the proposing."

That's on the way, is what he wants to say. It's one of the only things he actually did plan. That ring's been burning a hole in the back of his bedside table drawer for the last few weeks.

But he can't let you know that.

So, "I'm full of surprises, hon," is what he actually says.

"Don't I know it." You plant one more kiss on his cheek. Then a lingering one on the corner of his lips. That one has him huffing and gently tilting his head away from you despite very desperately wanting to stay there. He clears his throat, a little awkward and a lot flustered, then reaches up to knock on the door himself.

"Where the hell are they?"

"Probably dealing with their adorable brand-new baby. Patience, Dr. Grace," you purr into his ear.

Jesus.

Takes all of his strength to not pass out and ruin your night before it even starts. It's like you're trying to kill him, and you're really good at it. You've studied his weaknesses and you know exactly how to exploit them. He knocks a little quicker. A little harder, too, to cover up the sound of his stilted, breathy laugh.

His salvation arrives a few seconds later. Just before you could plant the open-mouthed kiss on his jawline that would have fully killed him, the door whips open. You yank yourself out of his hold and dart into the house while squealing about wanting to see the baby, leaving Ryland and your friend's husband all alone.

"They're in the kitchen!" Charlie shouts, an attempt at speaking over your own shouting. You had taken a left turn toward their bedroom. Within seconds, he and Ryland see you shoot past the hallway again, bee-lining to the right toward the kitchen.

"I guess she's excited," he mutters while he turns back to look at Ryland, who nods. He can't help but laugh at just how high pitched your voice got. How it's still high pitched all the way across the house already. He isn't sure he's ever heard it get that high. He also doesn't remember the last time he'd seen you run so quickly.

"She's been talking about this all day," he gushes through a grin. A little embarrassing, probably, but he can't help it. He's pretty certain that he was put on this godforsaken earth just to gush and fawn over you at any given moment.

Oh, and to teach his kids. But it's summer vacation, so…just gives him more time to fawn over you.

"For the record," Ryland says while handing the gift bag to Charlie, "I'm also excited for you guys. Congrats, Dad."

Charlie expresses his gratitude with a bashful little nod of his head. The hug he pulls Ryland into was a little shocking, but appreciated. That's probably the only time he's ever gotten a hug from this guy.

Not bad. Pretty firm. Relatively comforting. Granted, not as comforting as your hugs, but…it was a nice gesture, you know?

"How's everything been going here?"

Charlie sucks in a breath. Lets it out as a stressed little sigh as he's in the process of walking deeper into his house.

Ryland would be lying if he said he didn't notice the bags under the poor guy's eyes when he opened the door. It's odd, though, because he still looks really happy.

"It's hard. Definitely way harder than I knew it'd be, but…"

Charlie pauses, then hums. One of his hands waves his complaint away. Pushes it off so that it can't plague him anymore. Ryland's still slowly following behind while they head toward the kitchen.

"It doesn't matter. She's perfect. We love her so much. Everything is just…right. She was the missing piece we needed."

He's got a big, beaming smile on his face. Ryland returns that grin with one of his own softer smiles. No teeth. He's hoping that smile reads as heartwarming, or something along those lines. Because, yes, it's really sweet that Charlie feels that way, but now he's in his own head.

Kids.

Just another thing that Ryland Grace has never planned for. Never thought about it for more than a second because, for God knows how long, he hadn't been in a relationship. Plus, he has kids—they're not biologically his, but that doesn't mean he loves them any less than if they were.

Does he want kids? Who knows. Do you? Who knows. He's never asked you. You've never asked him. This could potentially be a ticking time bomb. What if you want them and he doesn't? What if it's the other way around? What'll happen then?

Panic. Panic will happen. Hell, panic is already happening. His heart's slamming in his rib cage at an alarmingly quick degree. He can hear his own pulse in the blood rushing through his ears. It's so loud that he's worried everyone in this house can hear it. That it might wake the baby.

He didn't plan for the bad things, either. Like you leaving him over something like this.

The heat in his face is almost unbearable. He feels bad because he can see Charlie's lips moving, but he can't hear the words he's saying. He can also feel his own lips moving and his legs still carrying him to the kitchen. How on Earth is he talking and walking through this? That's a talent he didn't know he had. He thought that crossing over the threshold to the kitchen would kill him.

Okay. Maybe that's a little dramatic. In reality, he thought that he wouldn't be able to do it, so he paused right before the kitchen door. Charlie walked into it without any issues. Ryland? Not so much.

The catch of his feet at the kitchen threshold is almost as rough as the catch of his breath in his own throat. Nice to feel you again, air. Forgot you existed for a moment.

It's only when he hears your voice float out of the kitchen that he gets a sort of second wind. It breaks through the rush of blood in his ears and gently falls into it, a single, soft question that makes his heartbeat slow to a somewhat acceptable speed.

"Where'd Ryland go?"

Three words. Incredibly generic. Still makes him melt, though, because you're the one who said it; he swallows his fear and his panic to the best of his ability. Steels himself a little bit to will away the typhoon of blood still rushing through his ears, then takes a step forward and enters the kitchen.

And it hits him, then. While you're standing there with that brand new baby girl, cradling her like she's your own, it slams into him like a freight train.

Sure, he didn't plan on wanting to have kids. On wanting to start a family. He never had to think about it because it had never been right in front of him. Here he's been for the last almost-40 years, unknowingly barreling toward something he hadn't planned for:

He wants kids.

Like usual, he stumbled into it. Literally. Because he almost tripped on the threshold when he saw just how natural you looked with that baby in your arms.

Once he regained his stability, he managed to take a couple steps in your direction, but you're the one who closed the gap. The way you floated over to him was ethereal, to say the least. Gentle, slow, easy. Like what you were doing, and the little bundle of joy you were holding, came so naturally to you.

"Hey," you excitedly coo at him, grin so big it's almost like your face is splitting in two. You turn your body just enough to let him see the baby, but he can't look at her for too long. He's too busy focusing on you.

"Look at her. Isn't she precious?" you whisper. While you're gently rocking her in your arms, Ryland's fighting back tears. Why is he even tearing up? Is this a panic cry or a sentimental, heartwarming cry? What the hell is going on?

Your voice breaks through his internal monologue. Soft and sweet, laced with just a bit of concern. Through a tiny laugh, you ask, "You alright?"

It makes him blink a few times. He clears his throat and tries to act like he wasn't just on the verge of tears.

"All good," he murmurs. He leans down to kiss your temple. It had been too long since he had done it and he was starting to get withdrawals. He looks down at the baby in your hands, smiles, then looks back up at you for a moment.

Within that split second that he's looking at you before he turns his head to meet the gazes of your friends, he's certain that he's got a plan for the rest of his life.

And for yours, if you'll have him.

The gruff noise that pushes its way out of Ryland's chest when you tackle him on the couch is embarrassing only for a moment. The embarrassment doesn't get its chance to bloom as a pink, humiliated blush on his face. He's too busy getting lost in the kiss you've ignited upon falling into his lap.

It's slow and steady, albeit a little desperate—and that's on both ends. Sure, you were the one who pushed him down onto the couch, but he was the one who got handsy the second you walked through the front door.

When a day is long, or a little overwhelming, or just plain confusing, he finds comfort in you. Although, if he was being honest, the day could be perfectly normal and he'll still find comfort in you.

He just loves you. Sue him.

One of his hands splays out over your lower back. His grip is probably tighter than it should be as he pulls you closer to him to deepen the kiss. He'll feel bad about it later. The way you whine and roll your hips against his is much more important to him right now.

"Ry," you whimper into his mouth, all breathy and needy and utterly intoxicating. He can't help it when he breaks that kiss and his head falls back onto the couch. He also couldn't help punching out a pathetic little groan while he did it. Gives you the opportunity to bury your face in the crook of his neck.

He shuts his eyes and tilts his head to the right a little bit. Just enough to give you more access to his skin. To give you space to press those soft, open-mouthed kisses on his neck, the ones that he loves so much because they make him shiver and force goosebumps to pop up all over his arms. Remind him of what it's like to be alive, to be in love, to want someone and to be wanted by someone.

He could do this for the rest of his life. That's the one thing he's planned: A life with you. Whatever it has to offer. He's hoping for happiness, marriage, and kids—the biological kind—but he'll take anything he can get.

Speaking of…he never really got an idea of where you land on that. Please, God, let it be in the same camp as me. It'd be a lot better than having to break up with her.

So, when you're in the process of sucking a hickey onto that sensitive spot just below his jawline, he blurts out, "Do you see yourself getting married? Having kids?"

You stop. Like, immediately stop. He's pretty sure he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He definitely felt your back and shoulders tense. You're so wound up that he's almost concerned about what your answer will be.

You press your hands against his chest. With one soft push, you're sitting up on his lap instead of burying your face into his neck, the intensity of your gaze making him squirm.

"What?"

"Nothing," Ryland caves immediately. "Don't worry about it. Wasn't important."

He lets out an awkward chuckle. Gravelly and stilted and utterly embarrassed. He leans up to kiss the corner of your lips, then your jaw, then dives into your neck the same way you did to him only a few seconds earlier. If he can distract you well enough, you might forget what he said.

"Ryland Grace," you softly but sternly scold him. Now he's the one stopping in his tracks. Sorta like a deer in headlights. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays to whatever higher power is out there that you'll drop it.

"First and last name seems a little unwarranted," he mumbles into your neck before he continues pressing kisses on it.

"Stop it," you giggle and squirm on his lap as he kisses down to your collarbones. A classic indication that he probably should shave, but…once again, that's for another time. There are bigger fish to fry right now.

He listens. He stops kissing you, but he leaves his face buried in your neck. It's better that way. You won't see how bright red his face is even though his skin is probably burning yours right now.

"Look at me," you demand. Earns you a sigh. As he wraps his arms around your waist, he contemplates pretending like he didn't say anything at all. A good boyfriend does that, right? Gaslights his girlfriend?

Ryland lets out another sigh and lifts his head up, instead. Should probably listen to you if he wants to enact those life plans he wants. The softness of your eyes is enough to calm his shot nerves just a little bit. Enough to get him to stop feeling like he needs to jump off the nearest bridge right now.

"What'd you ask me?"

"I…" he begins, but he cuts himself off with a grumbled little noise and shakes his head. In his defense, it's not easy for him to think when you've wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled yourself closer to him.

"It's nothing. Really. I was just thinking. I guess."

One of your eyebrows quirks up. Then you smirk at him. He tries not to think about the way your fingers are twirling a few strands of his hair at the back of his head.

"You were super casually thinking about marriage and babies?" you joke.

"Why were you gonna make me say it again if you knew what I asked?!" he tosses back at you.

That one earns a big laugh from you. He's noticed you always laugh when he gets louder. Something about how his voice gets…high-pitched? He tries not to think about it. Why overthink it if it makes you laugh?

"I just wanted to be sure that's what I heard!"

"Yes! You heard me correctly!"

You shake your head. Your smile's still bright. Pretty enough to make him forget about whatever the hell is going on right now. He finds his arms slipping around your waist almost instinctively.

"You're so dramatic." You sigh. He chases your finger after you tap the tip of his nose with one of your index fingers. When you pulled that hand out of his hair, he isn't sure; he was too busy staring at you to notice.

"I can't believe you asked me that."

"I'm just trying to make a plan for—"

The press of your palm on his lips shuts him right up. What a blessing it is to be shut up in such a gentle way. Have his eyes turned into hearts yet? You'll manage to get it done.

"Let me ask you a question," you softly tell him while you slide your hand off of his mouth. Ryland straightens. Why is he as stiff as a board right now? It's like he's in his dissertation defense all over again.

All you do is smile. That stiffness in his spine starts to melt away.

"Do you think I'd get married to anyone except you? Have kids with anyone except you?" you ask.

It's like a million wedding bells all started crashing the second those words left your lips. Goodness gracious. All of that tension in his body dissipates, and he's nothing but grateful for it.

Your hands slide up so you can cup his cheeks. Something he often does to you, something he's not really on the receiving end of most of the time. Something he's could get used to when he feels the gentle back and forth swipe of your thumbs over his cheeks.

"Technically," he mumbles into your palm after pressing a soft kiss on it, "that was two questions."

You roll your eyes. He laughs when you flick his forehead. Swats your hands away from his face with nothing but adoration in his touch. Ends up grabbing your wrists and cradling them against his chest.

"But, to answer both of them," he murmurs just before leaning up to steal a kiss from you.

"I sure hope not."

While you’re fumbling with your keys and trying to get the right one in your lock, he nips at that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, his tongue finding its way to the bite to soothe the sting. You gasp loudly and end up dropping your keys, and the way that Clark smirks against your skin when he hears them clatter to the ground only serves to frustrate you even more. 

“Clark!” you hiss, although your sharp edge you tried to put forward is softened by the smile on your face. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just couldn’t help myself.”

You start laughing whenever he pulls away and grabs your keys off the floor. For a moment, you consider asking him about just how quickly he did it; it’s almost like he was a fucking blur. Add another weird quirk to the giant list of them that your boyfriend has. 

But before the question can leave your mouth, Clark’s pressing his lips against yours and slipping your key into your front door’s lock. He does it so smoothly and quickly that you hardly register you’re in your apartment until you’re being pulled into his lap when he drops down onto your couch. 

How did he turn you around in his arms at the door? How did he pick you up without even the tiniest hint of effort? How did he get you into your living room and on this couch in the blink of a fucking eye?

It doesn’t matter. You don’t feel the need to focus on it when you’ve got his heat and weight all over you. 

Your arms slip around his neck and your fingers toy with his thick curls at the nape of it. While your knees dig into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs, you commit the feeling of his lips burning kisses onto your skin into your brain. You tell yourself you’d rather die than ever lose how good his arms feel locked around your waist, how good his hands feel trailing over your back, how good he is at focusing on you and only you. 

He’s a homing missile right now, and you’re the target he’s programmed to hit.

You slide one hand down, slipping it beneath his blazer and pressing it against his chest. It’s a thick, firm wall of muscle. An impressive one at that considering he’s never given any indication of being a work-out guy. As you slip it down toward his abdomen, you notice the same, there, too. There’s an added bonus in the way that his stomach is a little soft on top of that built physique.

Shit. Is this a dream? Are you salivating? You haven’t even seen his bare skin. How humiliating.

“Where have you been hiding all this, Kent?” 

You tug on his hair, just enough to get him to pull his head out of your neck. He lets out a groan. You could have sworn you felt his hips raise and push against yours for just a moment. You make a mental note: Clark Kent really likes having his hair pulled. 

“I grew up on a farm,” he murmurs before he closes the distance between your faces. You can feel the heat beneath his skin when he does it. He’s been turning pink from your compliments since your first day of work.

His hands work on smoothly unbuttoning your blouse, his tongue drags against your bottom lip to beg for purchase in your mouth, and his cologne sneaks its way from his skin and clothing onto yours. Your brain is working overtime trying to not short circuit right now. Being utterly engulfed in Clark Kent is a level of heaven you’ve never reached. This is the first time he’s had his hands on you like this in the month that you’ve been together, and you’re really regretting waiting this long. 

How could you have done yourself such a disservice?

Before you know it, your blouse is undone, haphazardly hanging off of your shoulders while Clark kisses you. This deep, slow, needy kiss is making your head spin. Your lips slot together like puzzle pieces; like you’re perfectly carved out from the same piece of wood, like you’re made for each other. And, the way he tilts his head to somehow deepen the kiss—a way to make it more intimate as he wraps his arms around your waist to pull you closer to him—just confirms that. 

You’re sitting in a lap you were made to sit in. You’re being kissed by lips you were made to kiss. Your body is being touched, caressed, adored, by hands that your body was made to be touched by. 

You’ve never been kissed like this in your entire life. You certainly never thought Clark could kiss like this; he’s so awkward and clumsy and sweet at work, and yet he’s been nothing but smooth and suave and confident ever since you invited him upstairs. You’re not sure who replaced your Clark, but you definitely wouldn’t mind seeing him more often. 

A sliver of the man you remember before this one swept you off your feet is found when Clark breaks the kiss so he can push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sends you a bashful, crooked smile. His cheeks are pink and his lips are a little swollen. Sweetness has laced itself through his face even though he’s looking at you like he could tear through you right here and right now. 

You’re panting as you clutch his blazer and stare into his beautiful big blue eyes. How is he not panting, too? He’s breathing so slowly, chest rising and falling with a practiced ease, that you’d never guess that you were just kissing for nearly two straight minutes. 

“What’d you do that for?” 

“Sorry,” he sheepishly mutters. “I…um—I couldn’t concentrate ‘cause they were sliding down.” 

Then he takes your mind off of all those weird thoughts you’re having about him when he connects your lips again. 

This time, you get a little farther. Within seconds, your blouse is completely off. Clark’s blazer has been flung onto your floor somewhere, and he’s already testing how quick he can unhook your bra. Your shaky fingers are unfastening each button on his white top at a somewhat steady pace. It’s so hard to do this when he’s clouding your senses, making you all light-headed from stealing the oxygen straight out of your lungs while he kisses you like he’ll never get to do it again.

You were just about to finish unbuttoning his shirt when he breaks away from the second kiss, and, once again, fixes his glasses. Every time you see his fingers giving his glasses attention, you get jealous. How come those frames get to take his hands off of your body? That’s not very fair.

You groan so loudly that you’re worried you’ll get a noise complaint. 

“Clark, just take them off.” 

Your right hand travels up to his face, fingers brushing against his black glasses frames for a second. Clark’s hand wraps around your wrist. Panic flashes in his eyes and he shakes his head.

“Can’t. Won’t be able to see you if I don’t have ‘em on.” 

The frantic worry in his voice would have had you concerned had he not leaned forward and started kissing you again. You didn’t even have a second to think about how suspicious that was. While his lips mould against yours and his fingers play at the waistband of your pants, unbuttoning them and sliding your zipper down, your mind is unfortunately clouded with curiosity and making it hard for you to focus. Not even his hands groping and squeezing your ass can break through that curiosity. 

You’re the one who breaks the kiss this time. Clark raises a brow. 

“Am I going too fast? I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hands lifting off of you and hanging in the air as if he’s about to get arrested. You dismiss his unnecessary apology. This is the first time he’s had his tongue in your mouth, and you’ve been dating for a month. He couldn’t have gone any slower.

“Why don’t you ever take your glasses off?” 

His hands fall to your hips. His body tenses beneath yours. His eyes dart around; you can tell he’s trying to come up with an answer on the spot, here, and it’s got you pressing your lips into a thin, unimpressed line.

“I’m practically blind without these things. It’s not—not practical. To take them off, I mean. What if something bad happens? How will I see it coming?” 

“Well,” you counter, huffing at his silly response, “you’re not in any grave danger here. It’s just my apartment.”

“I won’t be able to see you!” he stresses, voice much higher than you’re used to. Nothing ever would have told you that he can get this squeaky. 

“I’m so close to you! There’s no way you can’t see me when I’m on top of you!” 

Your hands fly up to his face and you grab onto the frames. Clark tries to yank his head away from your prying hands, but it’s too late. You were quick enough, somehow, and you managed to pluck them off of his face. You put them on top of your head, perched on it like a makeshift headband. He’ll have to take them off of you himself if he wants them. 

Clark throws one of his big hands over his face and looks down, letting out an awkward, terrified laugh as he says, “C’mon, hun. Stop playing around. Give them back, please. I can’t, uh—can’t see how pretty you are without them.” 

You aren’t sure why he said that when you’re the one who can’t see his pretty face at all. His palm is shielding his eyes, taking the form of a makeshift visor. His head is tilted down. But the sliver of skin you do see, right around his jaw and a bit of his chin and lips, looks…different.

You shift on his lap, just enough to lean back and get a better look at him. You still can’t see most of his face, but you’re sure you’re seeing things when his face almost shifts in real time. Has his jaw always been this defined and sharp? Have his lips always been so full? Has his skin been this golden?

“Clark?”

Your voice is soft. Your chest is heaving as your fingers find their way around his wrist. When you try and tug his hand away, he doesn’t budge. You frown.

“You’re being weird. Why won’t you let me see your face?” 

Your disarming voice makes him sigh. It’s deep. Heavy. Holding a lot of worry and, for some reason you can’t figure out, a hint of guilt. His other hand, the one not covering his face, hasn’t left your hip. It tightened around it, in fact, the second that you took his glasses off. 

“Just…can you promise me you won’t freak out?” 

“You’re acting like you’re a totally different person beneath those glasses.” You laugh and dip your head down again, trying to see his face, but ultimately failing whenever he shifts his head down, too. 

“I’ll still think you’re cute without them.”

Your attempt to comfort him falls flat. You grab onto his wrist and coo, “Can I see? I won’t make fun of you. I won’t freak out. Promise.” 

Another heavy sigh is all you get as a response from your adoring boyfriend. When his hand finally falls away from his face, you realize exactly what he was freaking out about. You haven’t just been sitting on and making out with Clark Kent for the last 15 minutes. 

You’ve been sitting on and making out with Superman. 

His face is so recognizable that you can’t even mistake this as a doppelgänger situation. This isn’t Clark just looking like Superman; this is Clark being Superman. You’re not sure how his glasses did it, how they morphed his face, but they did it. They blurred his face, making all of his features much softer than the angular reality of what he actually looks like. It’s odd, really. You could always feel how sharp his jaw was or his cheekbones were when you’d playfully grab onto his face, but you thought nothing of it. It makes so much sense, now.

Your eyes are so wide that they might fall out of your head. The way your chest tightens and your breath hitches should probably be of concern. Did the blood drain out of your face?

“Clark,” you whisper. “What the fuck?” 

“I know,” he softly replies, “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you, really, but…I didn’t know how to go about it.”

You don’t reply. All you do is stare. Your hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks and fingers sliding beneath his jaw. You trace over his kiss-swollen lips before your hands slide down to his chest. It’s all making sense now. How big he is. How strong he is. How he always fucking disappears! God, how could you have not seen it? How the actual fuck could you not know that your boyfriend, your loving, sweet, dorky boyfriend, is Superman?

“You’re scaring me. Say something?” Clark begs. His big arms wrap around your waist and he leans forward to press a trail of kisses down one side of your jaw. He plants a chaste, quick kiss to your lips, one that you subconsciously reciprocate, one that brings you back down to earth after you’d been lost in your thoughts for so long. 

You blink a few times. You look Superman in the eyes, and you laugh. A soft thing, one of disbelief more than anything. He might have a totally different face, now, but those kind eyes stayed the same. A gentle, refreshing tide even in the weirdest, craziest situations. 

Still your Clark. Just a new face. At least the new one is just as beautiful as the old one. 

“You saved me, like, three or four months ago. When the train I always take derailed while I was on the way to work. Do you remember that?” 

“Of course I do.” His answer is steadfast. Oddly comforting. He slides his hands up from your waist to your back. 

“Couldn’t let anything happen to the new cute reporter I sat by before I asked her out.” 

He’s got a goofy, proud grin on his face. Although that might have been the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, and it’s got your heart racing in your chest, you choose to fall silent and stare at him. It lasts just a second too long. Gets a little awkward, makes Clark squirm. That’s when you smirk at him and decide to push it a little further.

“You only saved me because you wanted to fuck me? You played the long game. Clever.”

“Oh, gosh,” he panics, shaking his head so quickly that it might just fall off of his shoulders. He blushes, bright red and hot, and you start laughing so hard at him that your entire frame shakes.

“No! Not at all!” 

You kiss his cheek, then the tip of his nose, then the corner of his lips. You’re definitely surprised at this revelation, but you don’t hate it. How could you? Your boyfriend is Superman. You’ll worry about the logistics of it later on.

“Can I ask you something?” 

He nods. Probably expecting something about the suit, or the way the glasses work, or how he manages to maintain this double life. Those questions will come later. Probably tonight, after he takes you to bed. You clear your throat. Send him a devilish little grin. 

“Does this mean I’m the newest member of your secret harem?”

You always get a specific glint in your eye when you see him in his suit. Of love, of lust, of adoration and awe. He never knows which one is causing the glint; he just knows he loves it more than words can ever hope to explain. To be wanted, needed, and loved by the world's prettiest woman?

That's what he's here for.

"I love your suit," you whisper. Soft. Sweet. Slow. A little drowsy. And yet, despite that, despite the yawn you're pushing out and the way you're rubbing your eyes, he knows what you want.

He could smell it on you as soon as your gaze landed on and registered him walking through that balcony door. He could hear the hitch in your breath and your heart hammering in your chest.

You want him. Already. That glint in your eyes pops up when you flash them his way and confirms it further.

"Yeah, honey," Clark softly replies. Punctuates it with a soft laugh as he slowly walks over to your bed and sinks down on the edge of it.

"I know you do. You're looking at me like I'm a piece of meat."

"You are a piece of meat, though. My favorite cut."

That's got him laughing again. He bends down to take his boots off while you're steadily rustling around in the sheets. Pushing yourself up, weight shifting and dipping the bed behind him.

"I think you're still half asleep," he mutters when you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind. He sits back up to keep you from slipping off of him.

"Put me back to sleep, then," you whisper into his ear. Your breath fans out over his ear and, even though he never gets cold, he shudders.

"Haven't seen you all day. Missed you. Missed these bright colors and how good they look on you."

His jaw tightens as your lips brush over his skin. When he leans into you, the kisses you press on the shell of his ear and down the side of his neck get slower. They linger more. Your tongue and teeth make brief appearances, reminding him of just how much he missed you, too.

He had been so lost in your touch that he didn't realize your fingers began playing with the zipper at his side. The hidden one that releases him from the suit he knows you'd rather him leave on.

If you love it so much, why would you want him out of it?

With one lightning quick movement, he engulfs your hand in his. The frown you pressed against his jawbone riddles him with guilt, but he laughs it off and turns to look at you instead. When your eyes finally meet, and the moonlight bounces off of your face, he has to stop himself from swooning. Even like this - hair a mess, eyes heavy from recent sleep, adorned in one of his old beat up t-shirts from high school - you're drop dead gorgeous.

He swallows down that swoon and instead clears his throat. Shoots you his best sweet grin, the one he knows always gets you going. The one that pops his dimples out for you and steals the breath right out of your chest. The one that makes that glint in your eye resurface.

"I've got a better idea."

"You're doing so well for me, aren't you, sweet thing?" Clark coos. He's got the biggest grin on his face. Whether it's from pride or love for you, he doesn't know. But he can't wipe it off. How could he?

You've been humping his left boot for the last 10 minutes, hips pathetically rutting against him like you're some sort of heat-ridden, desperate little dog. The embarrassingly loud schlick sound that follows each shift of your body tells him everything he needs to know. Not only do you like this, but you've probably been wanting it.

He's never been happier than he is right now. Never been prouder.

He beams down at you. Drops his voice down just a hint deeper - deep enough that he knows your pussy's clenching around nothing - and purrs, "My good girl."

"Feels s'fucking good," you slur while your fingers claw at his thighs and you speed up your hips. If he didn't have anything on, you'd probably cut through his skin from how harsh your grip is. You hum out a breathy moan. The gentle bump of your forehead against his knee pulls a disappointed click of his tongue from him.

"Hey," he firmly calls out, reaching down so he can force your head up. He raises a brow. Gives your cheeks a squeeze when his fingers curl around your chin then winks at you.

"Eyes on me. You know better. Wanna see my pretty baby's face when she's going dumb from humping my boot."

That one almost gets you. The moan you belt out when he feeds you that insulting - or, rather, insulting to him - comment tells him that. He felt your hips stutter, and the way that your body tightened up, and the way that your thighs started to quiver.

"M'sorry, sir," you mumble. It was hard to hear it from how he's got your face squished, so he loosens his grip.

"Don't say you're sorry. Just don't do it again," he warns. He swipes his thumb over your bottom lip for a moment. When you take it upon yourself to open your mouth and suck his thumb into it, he's the one struggling to keep it together. He was already hard. Achingly so.

But when he sees his beautiful girl sucking on his thumb, when he feels her tongue circling around the digit and hears the soft moan she rumbles out against it? He thinks he might die. Might skip right over the orgasm and just die right here and right now.

"Goodness," he huffs, "you're gonna kill me, baby."

You giggle. Somehow, you always have the upper hand.

One of those hands sneakily travels up to the front of his trunks. You get a measly two seconds of palming his hardened cock and one rough jolt from Clark before he uses his free hand to pull you off of him.

"I don't think so," he hisses. He starts bouncing his leg that you're perched on up and down. When you drop your mouth open, moan, and your eyes roll back into your head, he finds that grin from earlier and displays it on his face once more.

"I think you should stay down there a little longer. Get a good look at this suit you love so much."

So you’re a little surprised when that door slams; is he angry? What the hell happened? It’s not like him to get mad at Lois. It’s not like him to get mad at…well, anyone. He’s got the kindest temperament out of anyone you’ve ever met. He’d feel bad if he got angry at someone, even if they 100% deserved it.

Your body runs cold with a sudden wave of anxious fear. Has someone broken in? And why would someone break in now, when you don’t have your invincible boyfriend here to take care of it? What the fuck kind of luck is that?

You push yourself up, elbows digging into your shared mattress as you whisper, “Clark? Is that you?” 

His hearing is so sensitive that you know you don’t need to up your volume. He’ll hear you. He’ll give you a response. Apologize because he accidentally slammed the door. Hell, maybe he just slipped. He’s not usually clumsy when he comes home; he ditches the klutz act as soon as he crosses the threshold here. But there’s a first time for everything, right?

You don’t get a response. You get footsteps. 

Heavy footsteps leisurely walking toward your bedroom as if they don’t have a care in the fucking world. Fortunately, you recognize them. You’ve been hearing those footsteps for two years now. Your body self-soothes at the sound, but the anxiety is replaced with confusion and a dash of concern. 

Then Clark casually opens your shared bedroom door. It was pretty loud; he threw it open without a care in the world. Much less a care for your potentially sleeping form. 

“Clark, what the hell?”

You laugh when you see him, an expression of your shock and confusion. This is so unlike him. Your Clark is always careful with his gigantic form. He never slams doors, he always moves as quietly as possible late at night, and he definitely never ignores you when you ask him a question. You’re still not over his silence from his return home. 

“What?” he incredulously asks. As if your own questions were a slight annoyance. It’s like your body is on autopilot when you furrow your brow and scoff at him. You couldn’t help it.

“That’s a crazy tone to take with me when you just got here.” 

“Jesus, just calm down,” he dismissively mutters. You watch his darkened form reach up and take his glasses off, toss them on the top of the dresser, and then start unfastening his tie. He turns to the right whenever you flick your bedside lamp on. You haven’t seen his face at all. Seems like he’s avoiding your eyes. If you were him, you would be, too. You’re not very happy with him. You know he can feel the glare you’re shooting him right now. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re always excused, baby.” 

Clark’s head tilts to the right just a hint, allowing you to see a touch of his side profile. His face is flushed, skin a soft red color that you’ve only seen when you compliment him too much. The right corner of his lips are curling upward into what you hope is a smile, but what you know is the beginning of a cocky smirk.

You raise your voice a little. There’s something wrong with him, and you don’t know what it is, and you hate this fucking attitude he’s throwing your way when you’ve done nothing to deserve it. 

“Am I going crazy right now? Who are you?” 

Clark just hums and shrugs. “You sound like you’re going crazy. Why are you so angry? Didn’t I tell you to calm down?” 

You’re stunned into silence. A completely silent, steadily simmering rage, one that you hold on to as you sit pin straight up in your bed and just scowl at him. 

The only noise in this suddenly tiny, tense room is his slow undressing. The gentle sound of fabric rustling against skin. The clinking of his belt buckle when he tugs it out of his pants and drops it to the floor. The soft zip his zipper makes when he pulls it down. Normally, you’d be the one peeling all of those clothes off of him so you could fall into bed together. Your fingers are twitching in your lap, yearning to do it even though he’s being so fucking weird to you. 

When he shrugs his dress shirt off then ditches his tank top right after it, the thin sheen of sweat on his skin makes him glisten in the warm lamp light of your room. You frown. What the fuck was he exposed to at LuthorCorp’s lab? You didn’t even know he could sweat. 

“Clark,” you finally break your silence. He doesn’t look at you, but you know he’s listening. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this? Did I do something to upset you?” 

“Other than being a little shrill right now,” he tosses at you over his shoulder, “no. You didn’t do anything. I’m not upset.” 

“What the fuck?” you whisper to yourself, face flooding with heat. Trying to corral your anger is proving to be incredibly difficult. You push your comforter off of your legs and toss them over the side of your bed. He’s never even raised his voice at you. Calling you shrill? To your face? He must be joking.

You should probably walk out of the bedroom and sleep on the couch. Distance yourself from him so that you can just talk about this tomorrow. Let him cool off from whatever the fuck this is. 

And yet your feet carry you toward him. Get you closer to him so that you can finally look him in the eyes and force him to say whatever the hell is on his mind to your face. Close the gap between you because, even though you’re so mad at him right now, you missed him. You haven’t seen him all day. 

You place one hand on his shoulder. His skin is so hot that you nearly flinch. 

“Clark, what is—” 

He turns to finally look at you, and you cut yourself off with a gasp as you rip your hand off of him. His eyes—the calming, steady, sweet blue eyes you’ve taken solace in so many times over the last two years—are red. There are hints of blue within them; small streaks and slivers of blue breaking through the red and reminding you he’s there.

“What is this? What’d they do to you at the lab?” you whisper. There was nothing but fear in your voice. He doesn’t care, though. Your concern bounces right off of him. It didn’t really have a chance to stick.

“They didn’t do anything to me,” he purrs. You’re noticing now that his voice is deeper, more gravelly. A pitch that you usually only hear early in the morning when the sound of your alarm makes him stir and tell you he loves you. 

“You’re burning up, and your eyes, they’re—” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never felt better,” he cuts you off. 

Now that he’s facing you, you’re finding it hard to keep your eyes off of him. Your need to look away from his brand new eye color has led to you attaching them to his body—a body you adore, a body beautiful enough to worship, a body seemingly carved from marble. 

The thin layer of sweat coating his skin makes it even more beautiful. His chest is rising and falling at a much quicker pace than usual. The way he keeps clenching his fists forces his forearms to flex and almost makes you drool. His jaw is tight, and his shoulders are pulled straight, and he’s looking at you like he could fucking devour you if you gave him the chance.

You’re pretty angry with him for the way he was talking to you, but…you might give him the chance. 

“Why didn’t you go to the Fortress?” 

You tried your best to be assertive. You pushed your question out as more of a swoon while you picked at your fingernails and tried to ignore the steadily growing heartbeat between your legs. 

“I didn’t need to go to the Fortress because I’m not sick. Just wanted to come home and see my girl. You’re real cute when you’re angry. Maybe I should slam doors more often.”

He starts stalking toward you. It’s slow. Deliberate. Your eyes drift down to the floor because you aren’t sure if you can handle his intensity right now. It could burn you alive. That’s a risk you’re willing to take, though.

“What did you find there tonight?” you ask. Clark makes contact with you, this time, when he grabs onto your chin with one giant hand and forces you to look up at him. You whine, reaching out and planting your hands onto his solid, steady chest so you don’t lose your footing. His eyes send a shiver down your spine. 

This is still your Clark. He smells like he always does, like ozone and printer ink and his aftershave and a hint of sweat from how he always runs hot. He’s warm to the touch like he always is, and he has those same dimples you’re used to seeing in much more comfortable situations than this one. He’s holding onto you a little rougher, but he knows your body’s limit. He’d never go farther than he knows you can handle. 

But there’s something different about him tonight. Something that’ll push those limits. Something you’ll let him do if he says the right words. 

“Stop asking me all these damn questions,” he mumbles. His thumb traces over your bottom lip and he wraps his other arm around your waist. You whine, your legs wobbling a little as you dig your nails into the solid wall of muscle over his chest. You’ve never heard him curse outside of the times he’s parroted them from others.

You have to fight your eyes from rolling back into your head when he dips down and starts pressing kisses on your jaw. You let yourself lean into him and gently claw at his chest. His teeth—straight and sharp and a little scary—threaten your pulse point with a teasing little nip. Clark would normally soothe that bite with his tongue. Tonight, he doesn’t. He just keeps moving, leaving a trail of light pink hickies down your neck and toward where it meets your shoulder. He’s got you ruining your panties already and you were just about to storm out on him.

On the other hand, your throat is dry. Voice low and pathetically weak as you fall into him despite trying your best to stand your ground. 

“What’s—What’s gotten into you, Clark?” you mewl while you slowly stumble backward toward your bed. He had been pushing you back, taking one step every few seconds while his teeth distracted you at your neck. 

“What’d I just say, baby? Enough with the questions.” 

He lifts you up and drops you onto your mattress within seconds. You squeal so loudly that it echoes against your bedroom walls. Your protest about his command dies almost immediately because he’s already on top of you and closing the distance between your faces. His lips meet yours in a rough, blistering kiss. It’s deep. He’s threatening to steal your breath right out of your lungs while his tongue slides into your mouth, his teeth clashing against yours and his head tilting to the side just so he can go deeper. 

All the while, his hands slip beneath your shirt—his shirt that you were sleeping in—so he can push it up and over your chest. He breaks away from your mouth, leaving you panting and confused and dizzy with need. His left hand plants itself into your mattress right next to your head, allowing him to lift up and look at you. His eyes are still red. You watch as they trail down your body and you squirm beneath their heat. While you struggle with figuring out what to do with your hands, Clark’s already got a job for his. 

His right hand palms at your breast, calloused fingers ghosting over your peaked nipple before he gently pinches and rolls it between the pad of his thumb and his index finger. He smiles down at you, a cocky, confident smile, when your back arches up and off your bed. That smile gets bigger whenever he pinches a little harder and tugs a stuttered moan out of you. Each minuscule pressure change is making you more and more frustrated by the second. 

“Clark,” you keen, still squirming your hips, hands embarrassingly searching for purchase in his hair and failing because he pulls back from you. They drop down to your mattress and you claw at the sheets, head tilting back so that he doesn’t see your brow furrowing in frustration. He just laughs at you. That’s the second time that he laughs at you tonight, and yet this one feels so much meaner. Like he’s teasing you. 

You huff in frustration and gently smack his forearm, the one planted next to your head.

“Stop laughing at me!” you yell. It’s not like it’s your fault. Clark doesn’t often tease, and when he does, he gives in as soon as he hears your first tortured little cry. You can already tell he’ll draw it out tonight, and this was your attempt at nipping that in the bud. 

Clark raises an eyebrow. A rush of cold shoots down your spine, but that pulse between your legs starts to hammer harder at the same time. God, what the fuck is going on with him—and with you, for liking it—tonight?

“You wanna apologize for that outburst?” he threatens.

You stand your ground with a shake of your head and throw him another one, instead. Two can play at this game. 

“You’re being a dick tonight!” 

Clark hums. Oh no. 

His eyes are so intense as he stares into yours that, when mixed with the overall torture of the teasing, you think you might cry. He takes his hand away from your chest and slides it down your stomach. It lands near your hips. You think you’re fucking dying when he starts to slowly run his thumb back and forth over the waistband of your panties. Your hips cant up, but he pushes them down, pinning you against the bed and huffing when you force out an annoyed groan.

“And you’re having a major attitude problem tonight,” he coos. He raises one brow when you roll your eyes at him. 

“How are we gonna fix that annoying ass mouth you’ve got on you, pretty girl?” 

He leans down just enough to press his forehead against yours. His lips ghost over yours and you lean up to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get there because he lifts his head away. When you open your mouth to complain, he takes advantage of it. Before you can even get a noise out, Clark pushes two of his fingers into your mouth and winks at your widened eyes. 

“Much better.”

“Clark!” 

Each of your whimpers is punctuated with a soft tug on his nearly blue-black curls. He’s been between your legs for what feels like eternity. Your skin is coated in a thin layer of sweat, your hair is a mess, every part of your body is sore, and you haven’t caught your breath in an unacceptable amount of time. Every slow drag of Clark’s tongue through your folds, every flat press and swirl of it against your clit, every thrust of it into your dripping cunt while his nose repeatedly nudges against your clit…

It’s all too much. And yet it’s not enough, and Clark knows it’s not enough. He knows you need just a little bit more, but he’s decided on being withholding each time you’re near heaven tonight. That red in his eyes is still prominent. You’re not getting what you want easily as long as it’s there. 

“Oh, Christ!” you shout, throat raw and voice ragged, back arching off your bed and your nails scraping against his scalp. 

“God—fuck! I’m gonna come!” 

“Not unless you ask nicely,” Clark teases when he pulls back for just a second, his ring and middle fingers pushing into your pussy and curling up at just the right angle to make you see stars. You gasp loudly, squeeze your eyes shut, and your body goes rigid. 

“Please! Please, please, just—just let me come!” 

“Good. Give it to me.” 

He sucks your clit into his mouth again and speeds up his fingers, and you’re fucking done for. You cry out, both from pleasure and from exhaustion, your face twisting into a satisfied and yet pained grimace. It feels so good, but you’re so fucking sore that you can barely handle the pleasure. Each ebb and flow of your climax has you screaming his name until you collapse back onto the bed, squirming in his hold while he continues working you through your peak. 

“That’s it,” he purrs against your inner thigh. Your cheeks burn deeply with embarrassment when you feel his smile against your thigh and the amount of wetness all over his lips, nose, and chin. His big, strong hands run up and over your stomach, toward your chest so his fingers could toy with your sensitive nipples. Your broken whines and whimpers from his expert touch are becoming the soundtrack of tonight.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Clark asks while you’re in the middle of an attempt to pull away from his touch. His big hands engulf your hips and yank you back down toward him. You’d laugh at him if you weren’t so worn out. 

“I can’t do another one,” your weak response slurs out of your mouth while he kisses your hips and thighs, “s’too much, Clark.” 

He hums. The soft vibrations of the noise against your skin makes you twitch, hips bucking up despite your verbal protests. He lifts his head up and meets your eyes for a moment. You can’t handle the intensity of his gaze, so you throw your arm over your eyes and groan. 

You’ve been here—writhing beneath him while he gets his fill of you—for so long that you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve came. Not the first time that this has happened, but definitely the first time that he’s done this without giving you a break. He tosses your legs over his shoulders and interlocks his fingers, pressing his palms against your stomach to keep you still beneath him.

“You might not be able to take it, sweetheart,” he begins, but he trails off so that he can nip and suck on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It has you whimpering and tugging on his hair again, your overstimulated and overworked cunt fluttering and pulsing around nothing, still needy despite all the attention you’ve been getting tonight. 

That must have been exactly what he wanted, because his smirk burns against your thigh as he rumbles, “But she can.”

Clark’s touch is much more gentle and caring when he helps you into a near-scalding bath that he drew for your taut muscles. You commit it all to memory. The squeeze of his hand against yours when you intertwine your fingers. The brush of his palm on the small of your back. The grip he keeps on your waist while you start to sink down into the water. 

The water is so hot that you’re about to start sweating all over again. What else is going to soothe the ache in your thighs, though? Clark had your legs thrown over his shoulders, your knees practically pinned to your chest while he made you see God. You don’t remember how many times you came, but you know he did. Three times. 

“Why didn’t you get in here with me?” you ask, head lolling to the side so you can look your boyfriend in the eyes. You’re not able to get there because he’s too busy looking at the water you’re sitting in, but you can see them despite that. The red that made its home in his irises earlier tonight is long gone, replaced with the usual deep, soft blue and a hint of guilt. His brow is furrowed. A frown has cemented itself onto his face. 

Your question goes unanswered. He’s too deep in his head.

“Clark,” you mumble, gently tapping his forehead. A few drops of water are left on his skin in your wake. They slide down his temple and the side of his face. Your eyes follow them until he ultimately wipes them away and sends you a weak smile.

“Didn’t wanna take up all the space.” 

His voice is almost as weak as his smile was. It’s dropped off of his face and that frown from earlier has returned. 

“As if I’d ever complain about sitting in your lap.” 

Your joke isn’t exactly a hit. You got a puff of air from him, something he pushed out of his nose as a response to your attempt at lightening the mood, something that lets you know he’s at least listening to you now. You press your lips into a thin line and sit up, ignoring the pain shooting through your entire body so that you can rest your forearms on the side of the tub and set your chin on top of them. It gets you closer to him. Physically, at least.

“Talk to me,” you whisper. He’s dealing with a different kind of pain than you are right now. One that’s preventing him from even looking at you. He shakes his head.

“I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.” 

With a sigh and an upward push, he’s on his knees, slowly moving to the back of the tub and grasping your shoulder. His thumb gently glides back and forth over your skin. His voice, low and a bit gravelly, burrows into ears when he asks, “Can you lean back for me, honey?”

You do. He thanks you with a squeeze to your shoulder. His fingers trail through your tangled hair, messy from sex and damp with sweat. It’s silent in the bathroom as he starts to wash it for you. Silent despite all of the things that you both want to say. 

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” you mutter while he’s rinsing your shampoo out of your hair. He’s got one hand on your forehead. He’s shielding your eyes from any stray suds that might slip into them. 

“I could have hurt you.” 

“But you didn’t, Clark.”

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps on pouring water over your hair and shielding your eyes. 

“You’d never hurt me. You know that,” you continue. You laugh at the ridiculous situation you’re in right now. Here he is, treating you like a delicate little flower, washing your hair, keeping your shampoo out of your fucking eyes, and yet he’s worried about hurting you. Things fall silent again, at least until he’s done with your hair and has returned to the side of the tub where he can actually look at you.

“I’m sorry for…well, everything I did tonight,” he confesses. You shake your head.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I was a jerk, and—and I pushed you well beyond our usual…limits.” 

You realize your sweet, soft Clark is fully returned to you when he blushes and stumbles over the mention of sex. He’s so confident in bed but as soon as he has to actually talk about it outside of your sheets, he’s like a nun. When you laugh at him, he blushes even harder. 

“I liked how rough you were!” you say through your giggles. He gently swats your hand away whenever you reach over to pinch his cheek.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m not! I really did like it. I mean, you were a huge asshole whenever you got home, so I’ll accept an apology for that, but,” you pause, lean over to press a kiss on his pouting lips, and beam up at him whenever he laughs. It’s not full bodied. A little bit forced, too. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. 

“Other than that, no apologies allowed.” 

He sighs through his nose, although he can’t wipe the little upward tick of his mouth off of his face. He looks into your eyes. They’re still big and blue and a little weepy, but that’s something you can work with. At least they’re the normal, beautiful color you’re used to seeing. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For dealing with me, I mean.”

You wave off his comment. 

“What the hell did they do to you at that lab?”

“Technically, they didn’t do anything. They didn’t know it would happen.” 

You throw your eyebrows up. 

“So it has something to do with your big secret, then?”

“Yeah. That new substance they had, the lead that Lois got?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, trying to push him to tell you more. He sends you a sheepish little grimace. 

“It was red kryptonite. I guess it made me more abrasive. At least it didn’t kill me.” 

“Abrasive would be the correct term. Better than ‘asshole.’”

You both laugh. His is more genuine, more lighthearted than the one from earlier. You push a few of his curls off of his forehead and gnaw on your bottom lip. He squints his eyes a little, suspicious of you because he has every right to be.

“How hard would it be for you to get your hands on it again?” 

He grins before he cackles at you. His face is bright red. Almost as red as his eyes were when he came home to you earlier tonight. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”