#lenoreasks

he laughs, but its hollow. his shoulders don’t move either. 

you sling your bag over your shoulder and walk closer, ignoring the way your palms start to sweat. lois’ piece about the mayor get shot down again?”

he huffs. “among other things.”

you study him for a moment. noting the tension in his jaw and the dazed look in his eyes, he looks like he’s somewhere else and everywhere at once, like his mind’s halfway across the city putting out another fire you can’t see.

it hits you with a little stab of worry you believe you don't have a right to feel because of only have been at the daily planet for a few months. you're still "the kid" to half the staff, the one who everyone calls for to fetch coffee and transcribe quotes. but clark... he's different with you. always patient and kind and he doesn't talk down to you. he makes sure to answer your questions, walks you through edits, and waits for you when you're both leaving late so you don't have to walk to the subway alone.

you like him. way more than you should.

"you look like your brain is 12 tabs open and every one of them is buffering," you say lightly.

that actually pulls a real smile from him, faint but real. "that accurate, huh?"

"very," you say. "is there, um." you swallow, pulse jumping. "is there anything i can do to help?"

he shakes his head so fast it makes a stray lock of hair fall over his forehead. "oh, no, no. you've already worked a long day. i don't want to drag you into my mess."

"you're not dragging me anywhere," you protest. "clark, you work insanely hard. half the time i'm in here, you're already typing and when i'm leaving, you're still typing. that's not... normal."

he laughs again, but his eyes flick away, something guilty and secretive still heavy there. "i'm fine. really! just gotta power through."

you frown. "powering through is how people burn out."

the elevator dings and you both turn to look at it, but neither of you moves.

yo chew your lip, then step a little closer, close enough to catch his faint scent. close enough to realize your crush is not helping your ability to think clearly.

"what if," you say slowly, "instead of powering through, you took, like one night to just... not?"

he tips his head. "not?"

"not save the 'world'," you blurt, then cringe. "i mean, not--ugh, you know what i mean. not be everyone's hero, not fix every draft on this floor, just... be a guy who gets to relax for once."

his mouth twists, like the word "hero" caught hit close to home.

"i appreciate the thought," he says. "but i don't really know how to... relax"

"then let me help." the words are out before you can second guess them. your heart hops up into your throat. "come hang out with me."

he blinks behind his glasses. "hang out?"

you nod, feeling your face heat. "yeah. i live, like, 10 minutes away. we can order takeout and watch something dumb. no journalism and no responsibility. just you, getting to relax for a second."

he hesitates and you can see the polite refusal forming- you don't have to do that. i'll be fine. you don't want to spend your evening with me -but then his shoulders sad, and he looks genuinely exhausted.

"you really don't mind?" he asks quietly.

you shake your head. "i'd feel better if you did."

he looks at you for a long moment, searching your face like he's trying to figure out if this is a trap. finally, he nods. "alright. just... for a little while."

on the walk to your apartment, he's quiet. not the comfortable quiet you're used to though, it's a wound tight silence, jaw clenched, eyes darting to every siren you pass as if they're calling out his name. whatever's going on in his head, it's not here with you.

by the time you get him through your door and onto your couch, it's obvious your little "hangout" idea is not going to cut it.

he sits there, shoulders bowed, fingers laced together so tight his knuckles are white. the lamp throws soft light over his face, picking out the faint bruise on his jaw you hadn't noticed in the newsroom and a thin red mark at his collar that looks eerily similar to a burn. your stomach twists.

you pace a path from the coffee table to your kitchen and back, pretending to fuss with online menus, your nerves going back and forth between worry and the low, steady hum of want despite his state.

"this is nice," he says, voice rough. he's watching you. "really. you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"it's literally my couch," you say weakly. "very low effort."

his smile quirks, then quickly disappears. his empty look creeping back in.

you stop pacing.

the words build up in your chest. you've thought about this too many times... him, you in his lap, his big hands on your hips. you've imagined things about that mouth, those hands. you have never, not once, been brave enough to say any of it out loud.

until now.

"clark?" you say quietly.

he hums.

"if..." you swallow, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. "if you really wanted to... take out some stress."

his brow furrows. "i don't want to dump on you. i'm sorry, i know i must be terrible company right now."

"that's not what i mean," you blurt.

he pauses. "what do you mean?"

your cheeks burn. you squeeze your fingers together, nails biting into your palms, and force yourself to look him in the eye.

"i mean, id you wanted to take it out on me," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "your stress. the...the pressure. i wouldn't mind."

his eyes widen behind his glasses, confusion flickering to something else.

"i- i'm not following," he says gently. "take it out on you how?"

you inhale, the air catching in your lungs. no backing out now.

"sex," you say, the word tumbling out clumsy and hot. "i'm saying you could... have sex with me. if you wanted...to let off steam. i know that sounds insane, but i just- i hate seeing you like this, and i-"

the rest of the sentence dissolves as your courage evaporates. you look away, ears ringing.

"hey." his voice is soft and you drag your gaze back up to him.

clark's watching you with this stunned, careful look. the stress is there, carved into his brow, but underneath it is something else like warmth and hunger.

"i don't think that sounds insane," he says quietly.

your breath catches. "you...don't?"

he shakes his head once and his fingers flex where they're laced together, like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

"i think it sounds... very kind," he says. "and very tempting." his mouth twists. "but i don't really... i'm not good at casual." he lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. "i don't really do it."

you swallow. "you don't have to."

his brows pull together. "what do you mean?"

"i mean," you say, heart hammering, "i'm not, like, asking you to pretend you don't care, or to treat me like i'm... nothing. i like you, clark. this isn't pity or boredom or whatever." you fumble for the words. "if we do this, we can... figure out what it is later. it doesn't have to be nothing."

he goes quiet for a beat.

"you like me?" he asks, in a bit of disbelief.

you let out a breathy laugh. "i invited you to my apartment, offered you stress relief sex, and you're just now catching onto that part?"

color rises up his neck, blooming over his cheeks. "i just don't want to... take advantage," he says. "you're younger, not to mention you're new-"

"clark," you interrupt, stepping in between his knees before you can lose your nerve. "you're not taking advantage. i know what you're asking for." your fingers curl in the fabric of his tie, tugging lightly. "and i want it with you. not anyone else."

his breath stutters.

for a second he just stares at you, like he's memorizing your face. then, very slowly, he lifts his hands and settles them at your hips.

"if at any point you want to stop, you tell me," he murmurs. "you say no or wait, i stop. okay?"

"okay," you echo, chest tight. "same for you."

he smiles, small and surprised. "deal."

you tug his tie again. "come to bed with me?"

he hesitates just long enough to make your stomach start to sink, and then he nods.

it takes a bit of coaxing to get him off the couch. he keeps murmuring things like "you really don't have to do this" and "i'll be fine, i promise," even as he lets you lead him down the short hallway to your bedroom, fingers laced with yours.

"you keep saying that," you tease, shutting the bedroom door behind you, "and yet you're still following me."

"i'm only human," he says quietly.

you huff a laugh. "debatable."

he huffs too, then looks around your room like he's never been inside one before. his gaze catches on the unmade bed, then flicks back to you, shy again.

"i really don't do this," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't go home with coworkers. this is... new."

"me neither," you say honestly. "so we're both freaking out. we can freak out together."

that, somehow, makes his shoulders loosen a fraction.

"come here," you say softly.

you step into his space and your hands find his chest, smooth the lines of his shirt. he's warm through the fabric, so solid in a way that makes your head spin. he looks down at you, eyes soft behind his glasses, and you feel suddenly, stupidly brave.

you reach up and start on his tie. his hands hover at your waist for a second, like he's not sure where to put them, then finally settle and pull you closer, fingertips sinking into the curve of your hips.

you work his knot loose and let the tie hang, your fingers moving to his buttons. the first comes undone, then the next, as your knuckles brush hot skin.

he swallows. "you're shaking," he says quietly.

"you're huge," you say. "it's intimidating."

he laughs softly and that breaks some of the tension in the room.

"we can go slow," he promises. "as slow as you want."

"i want you naked," you say. "that's a good start."

"yes, ma'am," he murmurs, a little breathless.

you get his shirt open and push it off his shoulders, and for a second all you can do is stare. he's so broad and solid. there are faint marks on his skin like bruises, scratches, other red smudges that don't look like they came from anything normal, but you tuck your questions away for later.

"wow," you whisper. "you really do work out, huh?"

he ducks his head, sheepish. "a bit."

his fingers find the hem of your top. he pauses, searching your face. "may i?"

"please."

he peels it up slowly, and when your shirt hits the floor his eyes go wide. his hands are war, on your bare waist, thumbs stroking absentmindedly.

"gosh," he says, voice low and earnest. "you're so pretty:

heat rushes to your cheeks instantly. "shut up."

"i'm serious," he insists, gaze roaming your face like he can't decide where to look first. "you're... you're beautiful."

you roll your eyes, but you can't quite fight the smile creeping onto your lips. "you're not exactly hard to look at either, farm boy."

you help him out of the rest of his clothes and then he's down to his briefs, fabric doing a terrible job of hiding how hard he is. your gaze drops helplessly, and your breath catches.

"oh," you say before you can stop yourself. "uhhh. you're... you're like... really big."

clark's ears go pink, but his mouth curls. "i've heard that once or twice," he admits, a laugh rumbling out of him."

"cocky," you mutter, but you don't look away.

his hand slides up your spine, rests between your shoulder blades. "we'll go slow," he repeats, softer now. "i promise i won't hurt you."

you nod, throat suddenly dry.

you strip the rest of the way together with him easing your pants and panties down, you hooking your fingers in his waistband and tugging until his boxers join the pile on the floor.

"this okay?" he murmurs, eyes glued to your face instead of your body.

"yeah," you whisper. he smiles and guides you gently backwards until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you topple onto it with a soft gasp, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight doesn't crush you.

then he's kissing you.

it's slower this time, deeper, like he's finally giving himself the chance to melt. his mouth moves over yours, one hand cradling your jaw while the other spans your hip, thumb stroking absent circles into your skin. you open for him without thinking and he groans quietly, tongue sliding against yours.

his hips rock, just a little, like he can't help it. his dick nudges against your inner thigh, then through your slick folds, dragging against your clit so deliciously.

"oh," you gasp into his mouth.

he pulls back a fraction, panting. "sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs. "that okay?"

"do it again," you say, dazed.

his eyes darken. "yes, ma'am," he says again.

he rolls his hips, slow and careful, and his length slides through your folds, nudging right where you're aching for him. his tip catches at your entrance, not quite pushing in, just teasing, bumping against you with every faint thrust. the sensation makes your toes curl, heat coiling low in your belly.

you cling to him, breathing him in, letting the stress melt off his shoulders with every kiss and every gentle grind of his body against yours.

"just relax," you whisper against his lips.

he finally pulls back just enough to look at you with his pupils blown.

"ready?" he whispers.

you nod, legs already loose around his hips.

he reaches down, guides himself, and the next slow push steals the air from your lungs, he thrusts into you in one long, thick glide and the stretch is so intense you can't help the broken little cry that slips out of you, fingers flying to his shoulders.

"oh, gosh," he groans, forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out. "you're so-- tight, sweetheart, i'm-- tell me if it's too much."

"no," you gasp, clinging to him. "just-- just give me a second."

he holds as still as he can, big hands smoothing over your gips, murmuring soft apologies and praises until the sharp stretch melts into something warm and aching. when you finally tell him to move he exhales loud.

he starts slow, careful, rolling his hips in steady thrusts that have you clutching at the sheets. each motion hits deeper, the drag of him inside you turning your thoughts to mush. his control is thin and you can feel it in the tremble of his arms and in the way his jaw flexes.

"clark," you whine, arching into him. "you can go harder."

something in him snaps at that and he grabs the backs of your thighs and gently hikes them higher, until your knees are snug at his sides, then up, bracing your calves over his shoulders. the new angle has you gasping, the next thrust spearing right into that perfect spot.

you yelp, nails digging into his forearms.

"there?" he pants, breath hot, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

he braces his hands on your headboard, big fingers curling around the wood, knuckles going white as he starts to really move. the bed jolts under you with every sharp snap of his hips, the headboard thudding softly against the wall as he pounds into you, all that bottled up stress finally pouring out in every deep stroke.

it turns downright filthy fast.

once he's sure you can take it, he stops holding back so much, hips snapping forward in a hard, relentless rhythm that has you seeing stars. his dick drags deep with every thrust, his thick length punching those helpless little sounds out of your chest.

the headboard starts to rattle in his grip, wood, knocking a stuttering rhythm against the wall every single time he drives into you. his fingers flex around it, the muscles in his arms and shoulders standing out as he uses the leverage to pound you down into the mattress.

"clark--" you sob, every syllable bouncing with his thrusts.

"i know, baby, i know," he groans, eyes glued to where you're stretched around him. sweat beads at his temple, jaw clenched like he's seconds from losing it entirely. "you feel so good, sweetheart-" he slams in deep and you choke on a cry. "-can't help it. taking me so well."

then, it only takes a few more rough thrusts before you realize he's really, really into it.

his rhythm turns nearly frantic, head tipped back, breathing coming out in broken groans as he drives into you. the headboard is taking the worst of it-- each snap of his hips makes it slam the wall a little harder, wood creaking under his grip.

you're just about to warn him when there's a sharp crack.

the headboard lurches, one of the legs gives, and then a whole corner of the frame caves in. the mattress drops a few inches on that side, tilting you both. you squeal at the sudden dip, hands flying up to cling to him.

"oh my god--!"

clark barely seems to notice the bed. his hands fly from the broken headboard to you instead, hauling you flush against his chest in a full body bear hug. he adjusts without thinking, settling his knees wider, bracing his weight, and then he's right back in it, rocking you through the uneven mattress like the broken frame is the least of his concerns.

"sorry--" he pants against your ear, though he doesn't slow down at all, "i'll fix it, i swear, just--can't--"

his words dissolve into a low, wrecked groan as he buries his face in your neck. his arms lock around you, one under your shoulders, one around your waist, holding you tight while he fucks into you.

eventually you can feel it when it hits him.

his thrusts start to stutter, every snap of his hips coming a little rougher and needier. his arms tighten around you, dragging you impossibly closer.

"i'm--" he chokes, voice wrecked against your neck. "sweetheart, i'm gonna--"

you're already nodding, babbling into his shoulder. "it's okay, it's okay, clark, just let go, it's okay--"

that does it.

he drives up into you once, twice, and then he's gone, whole body going tight as he spills inside you with a rough, helpless groan. he stays buried to the hilt, grinding deep like he can't stand having any ounce of space between you two.

the motion isn't even thrusts anymore, just desperate circles of his hips, his thick dick pulsing inside while his pelvis grinds hard against your clit. the coarse little drag of his hair there hits you just right, again and again, and the pressure low in your belly finally snaps.

you see white.

your back arches, a broken sound tearing out of your throat as you clamp down around him, cumming hard. your whole body trembles in his arms. clenching around his dick while he keeps grinding, chasing every shock and groaning into your neck.

"yeah, sweetheart," he pants, voice raw. "that's it."

you shake apart together on your half collapsed bed, clinging to him while he holds you through it, buried deep, still shuddering as the last of his stress finally rips free of him in the form of hot, pulsing pleasure inside your cunt.

then, for a long moment, all you can hear his breathing.

your ears are ringing, your body still clenching weakly around him in aftershocks while he trembles above you. clark doesn't even try to pull out.

"you okay?" he finally manages, voice rough and small against you.

you huff out a laugh. "i think i should be asking you that."

he shifts just enough to see your face, hair a mess and cheeks red. his eyes are wrecked and so fond.

"i'm...better than okay," he says honestly. "i'm sorry about your bed, though."

you glance at the crooked headboard, the sunken corner of the frame, then back at him. "yeah, you did a number on it farm boy."

he groans, dropping his face back into your neck, but you feel the smile against your skin. slowly and carefully, he rolls you both so you're half on top of him instead, keeping himself tucked inside you as long as he can get away with it, one big hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.

the adrenaline fades, leaving you boneless and warm, listening to his heartbeat gradually steady under your ear. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine gently.

"thank you." he murmurs into your hair after a while. "for...all of it. i didn't realize how much i was holding on to until..." he squeezes you a little tighter. "until i didn't have to anymore."

you smile, eyes drifting shut. "anytime, clark."

-

a few days later, it's almost like nothing happened.

almost.

the newsroom hums around you like usual with phones constantly ringing, keyboards clacking, and someone constantly yelling. you swing by clark's desk with a stack of files hugged to your chest.

"hey," he say, looking up at you over the rim of his glasses and his shy little smile.

"morning."

"morning," you chirp, a little too bright.

you slide a folded slip of paper onto his desk.

he blinks, glances down at it, then back up at you. "what's this?"

you bite your lip to keep from grinning and lean in just enough that only he can hear.

"the bill for a new bed frame," you whisper.

his ears go bright red instantly.

you giggle and straighten up, already turning away to drop your files at your own desk. behind you, you hear him choke on a quiet laugh, paper rustling as he unfolds the receipt.

"guess i really do owe you," he calls after you, voice warm and a bit flustered.

you glance back over your shoulder, meet his eyes, and give him a little smile that says you both know replacing the bed frame isn't the only thing he'll be invested in now.