His size became even more obvious after you started dating.

"You know when I was a kid, my Ma signed me up for piano lessons." Clark says, his voice casual, like he's not knuckle deep in your cunt. Clark is sprawled on the couch beneath you, looking pretty as ever. His lips glossy and swollen from your kisses. You had done all the typical third date things, nice dinner, pretty dress, prettier lingerie underneath. He'd walked you home, taken up your entire door way and acted like he wasn't silently begging to come inside.

You were less patient, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his lips onto yours.

You can hardly breathe, his finger curling inside as he speaks. "Really?" you ask, voice breathy. You knew his hands were big, you'd seen them hold his phone and make it look like a toy, watched with fascination as he struggled to hold the little teacups they gave you at the Chinese restaurant (first date).

Looking at his hands was a lot different than having them inside you.

You had rolled eyes when he talked about preparing you. ‘Not a virgin Clark’ you’d murmured against his lips.

Clark had hummed, pulling back to bag those pretty lashes you. ‘Gonna feel like, unless you let me open you up.’ He argued.

You scoffed, reaching for his belt but Clark grabbed your wrist. He fixed you with a look, or more accurately a warning. Then he dragged your hand down past his belt and planted it firmly on his bulge.

Oh.

‘Can I please finger you?’ Clark asked, his blue swimming with want. You could drown in them.

You swallowed, trying to save face. ‘Yeah.’ You croaked, voice cracking.

Which brings you to now. “I wasn’t into it.” Clark explains. His thumb is working your clit in slow circles, helping ease his finger out to the tip and then side it back down until he reaches the knuckle. “But one of ladies in town got it into head, kept telling her I had piano fingers.”

“What does that even mean?” You ask, fighting back a moan, doing your best to seem unaffected. Your body betrays you, a gush of wetness seeping down and drenching Clark’s palm.

“You’re so wet baby.” He coos, sliding another finger in. “Means I have big hands.” He continues, “Long fingers.” He curls them, for emphasis of course.

“Fuck.” You gasp. You feel yourself clenching, your hands gripping his shoulders and feeling nothing but steel, absolutely no give.

Clark makes a shushing noise, his thumb picking up pace and he drags his fingers in and out, over and over. His lips plant wet kisses along your neck, sucking on your pulse point as you whine.

He’s deeper inside you than you’ve ever been able to get with your own fingers, deeper than any of your exes ever reached. Forget about length, they’re thick too. You make a note to ask him about his ring size later, for reference.

“I got you, it’s okay.” Clark whispers into your mouth, his fingers picking up speed, his thumb increasing its pressure.

You already feel like jello, between his lips, and his fingers, and the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your stomach you didn’t stand a chance.

“Clark.” You moan, then force yourself to swallow the next one “If these are your fingers-” you gasp as he curls his fingers, as if on cue. Your thighs twitch around his hand, your train of thought completely lost.

Clark hums, his eyes are reverent, his free hand reaches up and cups your face, catching it as you try tuck into his neck. “What was your question pretty girl?” He asks, guiding your head so your forehead rests against his.

Despite the fact that it’s your world getting wrecked, Clark’s forehead is sweaty, his eyes glistening as they study your every reaction. You whimper, hips frantically grinding down onto his fingers. Clark curls them again.

“How big is your dick?” You pant.

Clark chuckles, and then because he can, he twists his fingers together inside you and thrusts them again.

“Let go baby.” He tells you, and you nod, your stomach burning with pleasure, so close. “Let go and I’ll show you.” He promises.

With one more hard pass over your clit, Clark is catapulting you over the edge. His fingers still wrapped together inside you as you squeeze him like a vice. He can’t wait to feel it again when he’s inside you.

In the meantime he helps you ride it out, letting your head fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your thighs clenched tighter than tight around his wrist.

After what feels like an eternity, you stop shaking, your breathing finally levels out. “Oh my god.” You groan into his neck.

Clark presses a to the side of your head, his dry hand stroking your hair. The other is still inside you. “That’a girl.” He whispers.

You squeeze his fingers, body reacting before you can tell it not too. The fucker smirks, surely filing that reaction away for later.

You kiss him, hard, hoping to distract, to finally get your hands, or better yet you, around what you want.

Clark groans into the kiss, matching your force with fervor. His tongue dances alongside yours, tracing the top of your mouth, doing his best to swallow you whole.

Then his fingers start again.

“Clark.” You protest, pulling away.

Clark tries to follow you, leaning off the couch and chasing your lips. You manage to stay just out of reach. “What?” He asks.

You pout, but grind down onto his hand nonetheless. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.” You whine.

Clark doesn’t answer, instead he takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt (one handed- after all the other one is still busy). He only unzips enough to free himself.

You watch, silent, and stare at it. Clark ever so patient, takes your wrist, and this time he wraps your hand around him.

Once again, Clark Kent has made you feel oh so small.

He doesn’t break eye contact, but he makes a noise low in his throat that has you gushing around his hand again, for the umpteenth time tonight.

“Okay you can finger me a little more.” You say, as if it’s actually your idea, “If you really want.”

authors note: look at the scenes of him holding a phone and tell me I’m WRONG, anyway idk how I feel about this one so everyone tell me their thoughts! I insist

masterlist

He became obsessed with it after that.

Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered momma’s boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.

He crawls down your body, joking that he’s visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.

He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.

Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. He’s never not working you over.

“Sweetheart, I missed you so much.” He says, voice dripping with affection, as if you’ve ever spent longer than two days apart.

“Honey you taste so good, please can you give me one more?” Please, as if it’s really a question, you know better and it’s never just one more.

When you’re shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, “Baby, stop. I’m doing something important.” He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.

When he fucks you, it’s all-consuming.

He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.

By this point, you’re jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred ‘I love you’s.

Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clark’s dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that he’s yours just as much as you’re his).

Clark has surpassed every man you’ve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.

Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.

He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesn’t even break a sweat, he fucks like he’s superhuman. He fucks like it’s what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.

He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.

“This is everything, you’re everything.” He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.

“Never wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.” You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.

“They didn’t deserve you, didn’t know how to touch you. Properly.” He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when he’s this deep.

“Always gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.” He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.

You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until you’re blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like it’s on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.

Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things you’d be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future you’re still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.

He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.

“I’m sorry Honey, I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” Clark’s like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

“Just one more, c’mon baby, one more.” You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you don’t even try to fight it this time, you know it’s no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.

You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, kissing the top of your head. It’s almost a gentleman’s answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When he’s too lost in pleasure to pretend like he’s doing this just for your benefit.

“I love that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

It’s usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.

You love it too.

The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3

Thank you for reading my friends!!!

“Y’know,” you giggle, turning onto your stomach so you can see his face. “Most guys have a preference, orchestra or balcony.”

If you had asked him before you started dating, well he wouldn’t have answered, he would have blushed up to his glasses and said how he didn’t feel comfortable objectifying women like that, even hypothetically. (His answer would have been ass).

But since you got together? The choice has been so much harder. Amongst other things that have been hard.

Clark loves all of you, there’s no doubt about that. If someone asked you, you’d tell them that he could have a second degree in body worship with the amount of hours he’s put into memorizing yours.

He’s kissed every part of you- twice.

Clark’s spent hours sucking on your neck, leaving hickies like a teenager. He adores your thighs, how plush and soft they feel under his hands, how tight they wrap around his waist. He loves your back, tracing your spine and watching you shiver. He loves your hands, so much smaller than his. How delicate they feel when he holds them, how capable they are of reducing him to putty in your hands. Don’t get him started on your lips.

Clark loves all of you. We’ve established that.

Clark just can’t help but feel torn because in all honestly his answer changes everyday.

If you ask him while wearing those flared blue jeans he loves, that hug your hips just right, and cling to you like a second skin. The ones with the back pockets that fit his hands perfectly. He’d have his answer, without hesitation.

But when you pull on his shirt, tug it closed without bothering to button it, letting him be taunted by the sliver of skin that lives between your breasts. When you wore those stupid barely there tank tops to bed. When you press your chest to his, lean up and whisper in his ear. Well, then things get a little cloudy.

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly, “What made you think of it?”

You hum, obviously not convinced. “You like me face down a lot.” You say, turning over to rest on your stomach. He can tell you’re trying to watch his expression.

Clark nods, you’re not wrong. He adores getting you on your stomach, slotting a pillow under your hips. A hand on either side of your head and his chest pressed flush to your back while he absolutely plows you. The angle made you grip him like a vice, and now he realized- it gave him an absolutely breathtaking view of your ass. The way it molded against him and the absolutely filthy sound of skin on skin.

Huh.

“I like when you’re on top a lot too though.” He argues.

Clark really likes when you’re on top actually. He can see your face, watch your thighs shake with the effort and he can watch them (your tits, obviously). The way they bounce, how they lift with each exhausted breath you take. He loves to place his hands just below the curve of your tits, over top of your ribs. He can feel each gasp, every sound you make, he can feel the way your heart beat races. He thinks you’re a vision, sex personified. His own personal Venus.

He also loves talking you through it when you’re on top too.

‘C’mon baby, use me.’

‘Take what you need pretty girl.’

Even outside of sex, half the time when you curled up against him on the couch, his hands would slip under your shirt and just hold them. “My hands are cold.” He’d joke. You let him, who are you to make Superman suffer?

You let him do just about anything now that he thinks about it.

“I think my favorite part of your body is the way you trust me with it.” Clark says.

You tilt your head.

It not like Clark manhandles you, okay actually maybe he does, but you love it. You go with his flow. He doesn’t feel like he’s taking anything with you, you give it all willingly.

You give him sloppy make-out sessions in dark corners, you give endless touches and access to all your softness. You give him passion, and heat, and ‘water saving showers.’ You give him your stories, your spare key and spine-melting smiles.

“You never pull back, or ask me too. Even when I get rougher than I should.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Clark puts a finger on your lips before you can.

“I’ve spent so much of my life walking on egg shells because of my strength, trying to find the right balance of not too little but also not too much. I never feel afraid of myself with you.”

The guess the best way to put it is: You give him all of your humanity, and never question his.

“Maybe I’m just a you man.” He finishes.

You smile and kiss the finger still pressed against your lips. Then you open up his palm and press it to your cheek. “I guess that’s a good answer too.” You grumble.

Clark smiles, thoroughly pleased with himself. He sits up just enough to press a kiss to your lips. You meet him halfway with enthusiasm.

Before Clark can take things any further (he suddenly feels as though maybe he could go for round two after all), you get up. Slipping out from under the sheet, you don’t bother putting anything back on.

Clark watches you bounce away, a little too much pep in your step for someone he swears he fucked all of the energy out of. With his eyes trained on one part of you in particular Clark quietly admits something else.

“Maybe I’m also an ass man.”

We’ll see if his answer changes when he watches you walk back though.

authors note: idk where this came from guys but I hope it’s not crap ❤️

You’ve been together about a month. A month of goofy smiles, steamy make-out sessions on his couch, and texts that probably shouldn’t have been sent over company WiFi. If you looked up honey-moon phase in a dictionary you’d find a little photo of you and Clark.

It had that new relationship sparkle and that ‘Oh my god finally’ relief, that you only get after three months of clumsy flirting and long yearning looks (primarily from Clark).

Since the first time Clark let you touch him without that stupid, poorly tailored, suit jacket in the way, you haven’t been able to keep your hands off of him. Knowing just how perfect and chiseled he is underneath that layer of nerves and clumsiness- which you’re beginning to think is an act since he almost never trips or stumbles when you’re alone- is intoxicating. The quiet strength that lingers under the skin of Clark Kent. The best part? It’s yours alone, you’re the only one who gets to see that part of him.

It was driving you crazy. You wanted to give him a back massage, bite his shoulder, and ask him to throw you across the room all in the same breath. It’d never been this bad in your past relationships, never consumed you like this before. You’re not even ovulating, you just want him, all of the time. Something that’s deeply inconvenient considering you also work together.

It’s only made worse by the fact that he’s so different in bed. None of his classic cautiousness. Everytime, he asks one quiet “Can I touch you?” and then he’s off to the races. He’s sure hands, messy kisses and a fascination with hickies.

You’re only human, of course you’re addicted to his affection. He’s barely in the door most days before you’re clawing his suit off. Luckily, Clark is more than happy to indulge you.

He’s indulged you on the couch, the floor, the kitchen counter, against the window, in the shower, and one time you almost convinced him to meet you in a diner bathroom (he blushed up to his ears and threw some cash on the table, and all but carried you to his apartment instead). You never claimed to have self control.

Today was proving to be longer than most, at least it felt that way. Usually the promise of meeting him afterwork was enough to satiate you, but today it just isn’t enough. You wanted him- no needed him now.

You were pretty sure Clark already knew that though. He’d been riling you up since sat down at your desk. He’d dropped a coffee at your desk- unceremoniously, just everyone else, but yours had an extra note, written in Clark’s signature messy scrawl and bright red sharpie.

“You drive me crazy.”

Strike one.

Around ten thirty he had leaned over your shoulder, under the pretense of helping you with an article. He’d gotten so close you could smell his cologne, feel his breath against your ear. Then he had to audacity to lean his arm over your body onto your desk, trapping you between it and him. Just when you finally got your heart beat back under control- he brushed his lips against your ear and whispered “You look gorgeous today.”

Strike two.

It came to head when Lois offered to set him up with one of her friends and he explained to her that he’s actually seeing someone. Not you, no one knew about that yet. But you knew it was you, and that was enough to bring the roaring, horny, possessive, monster that lives between your thighs to life.

Strike three.

By the time lunch finally rolls around you feel like a live wire. Jumping every time some touches you, snapping at Jimmy when he asks if you want to go get subs. Your skin feels like it’s fire and you’re avoiding eye contact with Clark out of fear you might actually burst into flames.

When the office finally empties, you make your move. Spinning your chair away from your computer (and the blank word document where your article should be) you turn to Clark, only to find him already staring you.

“Lunch?” He asks, that innocent look on his face. As if he didn’t spend the past four hours proving that you really as no better than a man.

You nod, and give him your best attempt at nonchalant, “I have a new spot we can try.”

He smiles that Clark Kent, all American, captain of the football team, smile and seals his fate.

When the elevator stops at the third floor he follows you diligently, without question. He doesn’t falter when you make a sudden left and pull him by the tie into what is quickly revealed to be a small closet. Yeah, you think, he knew this was coming.

Clark looks around, taking in the clutter and what is definitely not enough space for what you have in mind. “I don’t think they have lunch in here Honey.” He tells you.

Honey, you love when he calls you that. It’s so soft, you can almost hear just a little of the Midwest in his voice. It drips with affection and it shouldn’t make you as horny as it does.

“Not hungry for lunch.” You whisper, and then you’re pulling his lips down to yours.

Clark catches up quick, it’s only a moment before his hands find their rightful place on your hips. Still gentle, no tongue- it’s as professional as a kiss can get. He pulls back, much sooner than you would like.

“Brought me all the way down here just for a kiss?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. He looks at you like he already knows the answer, he just wants to make you say it. Like he can hear the way your heart pounds in your chest and your thighs squeeze together. Under his scrutinizing gaze, it’s very hard not to feel shy.

You shake your heard, reaching as high as you can until you’re standing on your tippy toes. Planting your hands on his chest, you use it as leverage, and lean against him while you try to recapture his lips. He pulls them just out of your reach, his smile only getting wider.

“Gotta tell me Honey, or else I won’t know what you want.” Clark teases. He uses his grip on your hips to pull you flush against him, chest to chest, heart to heart. Then he asks the question you’ve been waiting to hear all day, “Can I touch you?”

You don’t feel the pressure on your toes anymore, like he’s holding your weight for you. “Want you Clark.” You sigh. “Please touch me.”

All that bravery ten minutes ago and now you’re like putty in his hands.

He hums, but still doesn’t give in. “Thought we said no funny business at the office?” Clark asks. Despite his teasing tone, you can tell there’s a level of sincerity in his question. This was a line you hadn’t crossed yet, your relationship has only lived inside of little diners and your apartments. This would stretch your bubble further than ever before.

“Not in the office,” you reason and point to a mop in the corner. “Supply closet loophole.” You explain.

Clark nods, you can feel him start to back you up, step by step (though you’re still not convinced your feet are actually touching the ground). “Supply Closet loophole.” He agrees, and when your back finally hits the door his lips crash onto yours.

As previously mentioned, Clark always indulges you.

There’s nothing professional about the way he kisses you now. His tongue finds its way to yours with the first opportunity and one of his legs slot firmly between yours. If you were getting any oxygen to your brain, you’d notice the click of the door locking-ever so practical Clark, but you’re too distracted. All of your attention is diverted to rolling your hips against his thigh and tangling your hands his to hair.

You find the extra curly spot you like, right at the nape of his neck, and tug. As if you pulled on a string Clark groans into your mouth. His hands are slide off of your hips and squarely onto your ass. He squeezes, like he’s just as riled up as you are. He begins to guide your movements, pressing your cunt even harder against his thigh.

You moan, embarrassingly loud for just some dry humping.

“Whats got you all worked up Honey?” He asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

“You’ve been teasing me all morning.” You whimper. The hand that isn’t tangled in his hair is playing with his tie, rolling the smooth silk of it between your fingers.

Clark chuckles, and then his lips find the crook of your neck. “Me?” He asks, having the audacity to sound surprised. Then he rolls your hips even harder against him, bouncing his leg once for good measure.

You see stars, you can’t be bother to take your skirt off, so it’s bunched around your hips, it’s more of a joke than a piece of clothing at this point. You don’t doubt that your underwear is soaked, distantly you hope he’s wearing black pants. He bounced his leg again.

“Please Clark.” You beg, you need more than this and he knows it. He all but has your body memorized at this point, he’s spent hours upon hours worshipping it. He’s traced every curve with his tongue, twice, He’s made you very aware of his plans to do it a third.

“I wanna see if you can cum like this.” He tells you, unbudging. Another tap with a long punishing roll.

You shake your head, you can hardly see straight. If anyone can get you there it’s Clark, you don’t doubt that. Alas, you don’t have time for trying new things right now. “Not enough time.” You reason, grabbing one his hands and sliding it around to your cunt. “Need more Clark.”

Clark kisses you again. “Another day then.” He relents, and his fingers slip under the band of your panties.

He completely bypasses your clit, much to your dismay. You open your mouth to complain, but before you can he slips on finger inside you. You feel like you could cry from the relief of finally having some inside of you. It only takes a few thrusts for one finger to become two.

Your body slumps into the door when his thumb starts to rub your clit. “Fuck, Clark.” You moan, biting your lip to try and control your volume.

You’re in a pretty abandoned part of the building, only an old fax machine next door, but still- it’d be just your luck that Perry is the only person who uses it.

“That’s my girl.” Clark whispers. His thumb presses even harder, drawing slow circles around your clit while his fingers pick up their pace. “Such a filthy mouth.” He taunts.

He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand.

“Want you inside.” You plea, voice breaking as you try not to moan.

Clark clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Gotta cum at least once for me first. You know the rule.”

Sweet, filthy, ridiculously hung Clark.

He’d had told one night about how the first girl he slept with cried because he was so big, it hurt. Now he refus’es to sleep with anyone until they’re ‘properly warmed up’ in his words. You insist you can handle him, but he won’t hear it. The last time you tried to argue he made wait until you came eight times (once for each inch) before finally fucking you.

Now that you think about it, it might just be a poorly camouflaged overstimulation kink. Something to pester him about later.

Clark’s lips find that spot on your neck, the one that makes your shiver and he sucks hard. His hand starts to move even faster and with one more well timed bounce of his leg you’re falling over the edge.

You bite down on your lip so hard you think you can taste blood, and Clark just helps you ride it out. His thumb not stopping until your legs finally release their death lock on his thigh.

“So good Honey,” he whispers you, placing an achingly soft kiss to your lips. “Still want me?” He asks.

You don’t think it’s possible to nod faster. Your body is like Pavlov’s dog for him now, it knows that was just the warm up.

You hear him undo his belt buckle, and he pulls it through the loops in one quick movement. It’s quickly forgotten on the ground. You beat him to the button on his slacks, deftly undoing it and pulling down his zipper in the next breath. Normally you tease him, pull it down slow and make him suffer for forcing you to wait.

Right now there is the small issue of time, or lack there of. There’s not even a clock for you to check, but you’re sure lunch is almost over.

You palm him through his boxers, just so you can hear the noise he always makes when you do it. A broken moan, it sounds like he could shatter, as if he’s made of porcelain and not steel. Clark is painfully hard, a puddle of pre-cum leaving a damp spot on the fabric. You resist the urge to suck on. Again, time.

He pulls your hand away and takes himself out in one swift movement. No matter how many times you see Clark’s cock, it still knocks the air out of your lungs. If you could go back four months and tell yourself that the shy farm boy is packing, you’d probably have ended up in this situation sooner. Instead you bite his lower lip and whisper, “What’s got you so worked up Clark?”

Instead of answering, Clark grabs the back of one of your thighs and pulls it up and over his hip, your other leg follows without prompting. Your under wear is roughly tugged to the side, and he slides in.

“You’re the one who’s was teasing me.” He finally answers.

Your head is swimming. It doesn’t matter how many times you have him, the stretch of his cock still stuns you. You can feel your walls twitch around him, squeezing tight as if welcoming him home. He feels deeper than ever before in this position, like he’s in your ribs. Clark stays still for a moment, chest heaving you know he’s struggling just as much as you are.

“Tight.” He pants, his forehead is pressed against yours, but his eyes are squeezed shut. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was in pain.

A minutes passes before you start to get impatient, wriggling your hips as much as you can at this angle. “Please.” You whimper, hands clawing at his back, trying to find purchase against the smoothness of his button down. “Please move Clark.”

“So impatient,” he whispers. You clench again and it’s like you can feel him snap. He finally obliges, he’s just not nice about it. Clark pulls all the way out and then slams back in with one deep stroke. He’s not even using his hands to hold you anymore, they’re everywhere else. One is under your shirt reaching up to pull your tits out of your bra. The only is back in your clit, drawing those same hard circles but he even faster this time.

As if he can hear the moan coming up your throat Clark presses his mouth to yours and swallows it.

You fall into a rhythm. Clark fucking you as hard and deep as he can with your legs wrapped so tightly around his waist. You’re doing the best you can with the way he has you pinned, squeezing your cunt in time with each thrusts. It feels as if your body is trying to suck him in, keep him there forever. Your hands clutch uselessly at his shoulders.

The you hear it.

The jingle of keys and someone walks down the hall. The unmissable sound of steps coming towards you. You’re forced to deal with two terrifying thoughts at once.

Lunch is definitely over and if you’re not quiet so is this.

Clark is ahead of you, as he so often is.

His face is calm, still concentrated on the task at hand. Like he once again already knew this was coming. With no hesitation he places a hand tightly over your mouth to muffle your moans, and continues to fuck.

The same Clark Kent, who blushed when you asked if he works out, ignores the very real chance of getting caught in order to keep fucking you.

That familiar heat begins to boil in the pool of your stomach.

For a moment you wonder if this is all just a very elaborate wet dream. Then he hits that extra hard to reach spot inside of you and you are reminded that is it very much real. He hits it again, and then again and then you’re cumming, hard. You don’t just fall over the edge you dive headfirst off of it. Clark jumps right behind you. You assume that whoever was in the hallway is gone because his hand moves from your mouth and his jaw is dropped like he’s moaning. You can’t hear a thing, like it’s all faded to white noise. You’re too lost in pleasure to think straight, you don’t even think you’re in your body.

You feel Clark release inside of you, the intimacy of it enough to make you shiver. As your body comes back down to earth, you feel him slump against you, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he sighs.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, hands smoothing out over the back of his shirt. Neither of you move yet, bodies still humming with the after shocks.

“Yeah.” Clark murmurs against your skin. You can’t see his face, but you can feel his smile against your neck.

Slowly you detangle from each other and begin to pieces yourselves back together. You straighten your skirt out, too cockdrunk to care that it’s a wrinkled mess. You’re tucking your shirt back in when remember something he said. “How am I the one who teased you?” You asked, trying to sound accusing but too fucked out to muster the necessary force.

“You’re wearing my favorite skirt.” Clark’s says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And my shirt.” He adds, walking over too you. His belt is still undone but he helps you fix your buttons anyway.

Looking down, you realize he was very much right. This is his shirt. You had gotten ready at his apartment this morning. You keep a hand of clothes in his closet and your white button up must have gotten switched with one of his. You’d been in too much of a rush to notice, tucking the excess into your waist band and rolling the sleeves up to your elbows. “You didn’t think to tell me?” You ask, though you’re not exactly angry.

“Figured it was on purpose.” He admitted, “That’s why I was teasing back all morning.”

At least he admits it.

Feeling generous you reach down and buckle his belt. After you reach up and straighten out his (very askew) tie. Then your stomach breaks the silence.

“Ugh, I’m hungry.” You complain, realizing you had just used up for entire lunch break without thinking about the fact that you do still need to eat.

“I told Jimmy to bring us back subs.” Clark assures you. He fixes your hair, helping tame any pieces that were rogue or flat. “Told him we had to work straight through lunch.”

“You knew I was gonna do this?” You ask, smiling anyway.

“If you didn’t- I was.” Clark explains. Adjusting his glasses.

“Awww, we’re so insync.” You melt a little. On a serious note, you really do love how you and Clark are almost always on the same page.

“I think we’re just horny.” Clark laments. He presses one last kiss to your lips, then opens the door.

“Mind sleeping at mine tonight? I need some shirts apparently.” You ask, hand brushing his as you walk side by side back to the elevator. The hallway is still deserted, whoever had been there was long gone.

Clark shakes his head, “I have a sweater you can wear tomorrow.”

The doors ding and you and Clark step inside. By the time you get upstairs, you’ve transformed back into co-workers. With a polite smile you separate and retreat back to your own desks.

You you have about five minutes of peace at, just enough time to unwrap and take the first bite of your lunch when Lois shouts, from across the floor.

“Nice hickey!”

Your hand flys to your neck, and when you spin around to look at her, you don’t miss how beat red Clark’s face is. Before you can even try to play it off, Jimmy comes up behind him and pats him on the shoulder.

Just like that, with a shared smile, some laughter and maybe even a little relief, the bubble pops. Something a little more real, and a little deeper takes its place

Authors Note: working on a masterlist as we speak. another one in the can!!! I have lots of ideas and stuff on working on but I also get very tired so bear with me.

Also is now a good time to admit I haven’t seen the movie yet??? Clark Kent has taken over my TL and subsequently my heart.

Thank you so much for your time and for reading! It means the world to me ❤️

Love you, say it back!

"Twelve-Krypto, we copy you loud and clear. Go Ahead." You repeat, a little sharper this time.

One of the other nurses floats by the station, pausing for a just a moment as she passes you. Her eyebrows raise in a silent question, Big Trauma?

You shake your head, ignoring her relief as you mouth Clark, sighing as if it's worse. 

For you, it is.

"Oh okay, right, Miss. Professional." He cracks. You can hear his laughter jumping through the frequency, broken by pops of static and the occasional catch of the rig's siren. His voice cuts in again, obviously teasing as he pushes it deeper. “Copy, we are inbound with one pediatric patient. Female, age seven, approximately fifty five pounds. Chief complaint is mild abdominal pain and nausea."

You mark the information down, "Copy, is the patient alert?" You ask.

"Patient is alert, calm, talking comfortably. No vomiting or fever. Pain started about an hour ago after eating some snacks — parents list popcorn, cotton candy, and a ‘mega swirl churro.’ No known allergies or medical history of note."

"Copy, vitals are stable?"

"Vitals are stable, BP one-oh-two over sixty four. Heart rate is ninety eight. Abdomen is soft with mild tenderness." Clark reports, in between he mutters something about funnel cake and not having enough time. You only catch every other word, "She's resting comfortably and drinking water. Parents are accompanying. No interventions required en route." 

"Copy, no intervention required, no red flags noted, parents with you- understood." You're already motioning to someone else, checking that the pediatric room is clear. "What's your ETA?"

"ETA is six minutes, anything you need on our end?" 

"Negative, Twelve-Krypto. No special requests. Go to Bay three and I'll be waiting to receive."

"Copy,” His voice returns to its normal cadence, smile evident as he adds “Can’t wait to see you." It's playful, biting in the way a nibble is. Not breaking the skin, just teasing it. 

"Metro Receiving out." Is all he gets as a reply.

They arrive in four minutes, Clark waltzing though the trauma bay with a mop of curls in his arms and two tired parents behind him.

He goes straight to pediatric room without even stopping to check, dimpled smiles given out like candy to every person he passes. 

You watch them melt under his gaze, a mess of weak knees and distracted patients left in his wake.

Why doesn't anyone else see it? You wonder, see him the way you do?

The constant flirting, the heroics and risky saves that have left him needing stitches more times than you can count. The way he moves through your ER like he knows it better than any one else. How he steals coffee from your break room and doesn't bother to start a fresh pot because the just happened to 'get a call!' as soon as he finished pouring himself a cup.

The last one only happened once, but the point still stands. 

That's why you don't fall for it when he greets you with a warm "There she is!" 

"Clark." You give him a tight nod, "You can go we've got it from here."

The patient- Gracie, is snuggled under the thin blanket on the bed. Her entire upper body is still clinging to Clark. Both arms wrapped around his bicep and her face mushed against his shoulder. 

"No!" She panics, pulling him even tighter to herself, hard enough to make Clark sway on his feet just a little. "He can't go!" She insists.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

You pull a chair over, throwing Gracie's parents an assuring smile and sitting on the side of the bed opposite to Clark.

"Hi Gracie, I'm sorry I should have introduced myself." You start, setting your chart down on the far end of the bed where her feet catch reach. "I'm gonna be your nurse today, okay?"

She nods, curls bouncing.

You smile again, as warm as you can muster. "My friend, Clark-“ you almost choke on it "-told me you have a pretty bad tummy ache."

Her parents take over from there, launching into the full extent of her Carnival food binge. It sounds like too much sugar and mild dehydration, but for the sake of their worries and peace of mind, you suggest a blood test and some iv fluids. Also an antacid. 

By the time the orders are written, and you're clear to get started Gracie has finally released Clark's arm, settling for holding onto his thumb instead.

You choose to ignore just how big his hand looks compared to hers.

Much to your dismay, Clark is a great help. He keeps her distracted with photos of his dog and stories of carnivals back in Kansas. How he got lost in the corn maze one year and almost became a scarecrow. Her little mind is occupied through every needle.

By the time you get the antacid and fluids rolling, she's fast asleep. 

As you make you exit, ready to face a the ten other patients who are probably looking for you, Clark follows.

In the privacy of the hallway, he gives you a mega-watt smile. 

"We make a good team." He says, smile smug and dimpled. "We should go out, get dinner to celebrate." 

"Celebrate?" You deadpan.

"Yeah!" Clark shrugs, "For saving little Gracie." 

"I would hardly consider giving her a tums life saving." You deflect. 

It's quiet out here, the closest thing you can find to it. The pediatric section is careful about that, a little secluded area away from the rest of the Metro ER insanity. No beeping monitors, no screaming patients, just pastel wallpaper and lollipops in every cabinet.

"Then let's call it a date." Clark suggests.

You lied earlier, when talking about all the reasons you hate Clark Kent. This is the reason. 

He won't take no for an answer.

You huff a sigh, beginning to walk with him hot at your heels, not answering until you make it to the breakroom. "I told you Clark I'm not going out with you again."

You hear him try to protest behind you, a halfhearted, almost genuinely disappointed "Still?" falling from his lips.

"Are you still doing that whole hero thing?" You bite, ignoring his gaze as you pour yourself a lukewarm coffee.

Clark sputters behind you, "The whole what?" 

You check the fridge for cream, only to find none. "I told you-" You take a sip, black and bitter and perfectly fitting for how you feel about this conversation. "I can't do this if you're constantly throwing yourself into dangerous situations." 

The hero thing.

Clark sighs, "You know I can't promise that." 

You do know, you know better than anyone. Except it's not that he can't promise it, it's that he won't even try.

"I'm not asking you to give up your job Clark." You tell him through gritted teeth. "I just want you to promise you won't run into a falling building when everyone is telling you not to." 

"It was one time-" He tries to defend.

"I don't care!" You bite, "Do you know what it was like to see you come in here on a gurney?" 

He falters, hands dropping to his sides and his eyes dropping to the floor. 

"I know you can't promise you'll be safe, I'm not naive." You swallow around the lump in your throat, washing it down with another sip. "But you won't even try, Clark."

Clark stands there stunned, and dejected, like you just sucked the wind out of sails. "I was fine." He insists, like the stubborn, stupid, self-assured man he is. "They said I set the record for fastest PT-"

"You almost died!" You interrupt. "I can't be with someone who doesn't understand how serious that is."

Silence, he knows you're right, you know you're right, hell, the janitor eavesdropping outside the door knows you're right.

You down the last of your coffee, the taste almost as bitter as the ache in your chest. "I have to get back to work." You leave him there, alone on the hill he's chosen to die on.

You're pretty sure you hate your job.

Or at least hate today.

A pile up the length of five city blocks. Thirty cars, two buses, and a trolley all tangled together. One bad swerve and now half of Metropolis is stuck in gridlock.

You're the first to raise your hand for triage. You can hear the sirens from the ambulance bay, the chaos unfolding just a few streets over. You're close though to walk. 

The ER splits in half, part of your team staying back to wait in the ambulance bay for when things finally loosen up, while the rest of you make tracks. 

You're armed with a supply pack on your shoulder and a walkie-talkie clipped to your vest. The smell of burnt rubber stings your nose as you walk head first into hell.

"Triage this is Kent from Krypto-Twelve, where do you need me?" His voice knocks the wind out of you.

Since when were EMTs allowed on this channel?

You haven't spoken in almost two weeks.

One of you changed your shifts (Clark), the other one tried to apologize and chickened out (you).

They must have called in off-duty units, desperate for any hands with medical training. 

You keep busy, ignoring the way his voice cuts through the static as you work. 

You're barely sticking out from beneath a flipped SUV, your bag abandoned on the asphalt while you climb underneath get a better angle on a head lac. 

Suddenly, it all shifts. The weight changes, someone's wheel turns or a steel beam finally gives way, who knows. One second your gasping, throwing your hands up in panic and the next you're moving. 

Two large hands grab your ankles, using them to pull you out from the wreckage just as it shifts again, landing with a metal groan where you just were. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Clark bites.

You're not sure what he is, buts it's something you've never seen before. Wild eyes tracing over every line of your face, holding your arms out and flipping them over as he checks you for injuries. 

When he meets your eyes, something else has melted in his gaze, fear eclipsed by worry. 

His hand swallows one side of your face as he cups in his palm, thumb brushing over your cheek bone as he looks you over once more. "Are you okay?" He asks it, but it doesn't sound like a question, more like a plea. As if he's begging the answer to be yes.

The car shifts again behind you, another snap of metal knocking you back to reality. 

You swat his hand away with a dismissive "I'm fine." 

"Why are you here?" He lets his hand fall, but it twitches at his side. 

You bend down to reach in your bag, eager to lose his stare. "Triage certified." is all you say. Fresh gauze in hands you try to move back to the car. 

You were able to reach the driver through the moon roof before, a thready pulse and steady blood flow enough for you confidently mark them as yellow. Unconscious but breathing. 

You'll have to go in through the passenger window now, it's tight, but should be doable as long as you can get the right angle-

You hardly make it two steps before Clark's arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you with ease, ignoring your protests as spins you around, placing himself between the car and you.

"Are you insane?" He asks, voice breathy and rougher than you've ever heard it. He sounds nervous, you realize, shaken. Something Clark Kent is notorious for not being. "You're not going back in that car, it's too unstable."

You try to walk past him, pushing against his chest only to met with solid muscle. He doesn't even sway. "The driver is still inside," you explain. You hold up the supplies in your hands as if to prove your point.

Clark nods, but instead of moving aside, he takes the gauze from your hands and before you can protest, climbs in the window himself.

It's almost incredible, watching such large man squeeze into such a tight space, his shoulders folding in on themselves as he slides into the window.

"What are you doing?" You ask. 

Clark doesn't even give you a smile, none of his usual tease as he replies, "Triage certified."

He disappears into the car, his legs still visible from the outside as he maneuvers himself.

You wait to hear the sound of tape or gauze pulling over skin, instead it's just Clark's voice again. 

"Pass me a back tag." He says, and his voice is even heavier than before. 

You falter, your hand that had already been reaching for morphine stills. 

"What?" You ask. "They had a pulse three minutes ago! Clark it should be yellow-"

It's his turn to interrupt, a hard bang from the inside of the car as he answers. "Blown pupils and no pulse." He says. You hear him sigh from inside, his voice softening as he adds, "Not your fault, just shit luck." His hand reaches back through the window for the tag.

You pass it to him without saying anything else, forcing yourself to take a few deeps breaths as he shuffles back out of the window.

Before you can protest he's hoisting your supply pack onto his shoulder, and walking toward the next victim in your path. 

Begrudgingly, you follow.

It's quiet work, short instructions and the occasional question. Clark is uncharacteristically focused, each task getting his full attention. 

He hands you supplies before the first syllable even hits your tongue, hauls debris out of your path as if it weighs nothing and insists on checking the stability of every car before letting you near them. If they so much as list in a direction he doesn't like then he's climbing through the rubble instead.

If he can, he holds it steady himself, a strong arm braced as he twists himself into human scaffolding so you can work. Those are the most unnerving moments, your spine tingling with his gaze and the way he watches you work.

You wonder if it's the same way you're watching him, worry, respect, all tinged with a sense of awe.

Like cold water, the realization hits you. You’ve never actually seen him in the field.

Blue eyes gone cold with determination and a promise to help. He only softens when the patient needs it. A single mother still clinging to her steering wheel warms his voice. A man asking for a phone to call his wife has Clark ready to empty his pockets. 

A little boy whose parents were on the trolley has him misty and forcing a smile. 

Your chest aches with it, his overwhelming goodness. 

You can see him throwing himself in danger for the sake of any one of them, suddenly it’s a lot harder to blame him for it. 

You're there for hours, patching wounds and placing tags until you run out of gauze, and eventually out of everything else. Clark stays at your side the whole time, ignoring calls of his name over the radio with a simple "Busy." Murmured into the receiver. 

By the time you make it back to the meetup spot, you're both dragging. Covered in dirt and grime as your feet drum heavy footsteps. 

It's started to clear, a handful of ambulances on scene and a tow-truck beginning to clear the rubble. Traffic will probably be back within two hours, and the city will move on. It always does, long after the carnage still burns the back of your eyes.

Clark passes you your empty bag with a word, just a tight smile on his lips and a nod. 

Then he turns and starts to walk away, back toward his rig.

"Clark!" You call after him, voice shaping around his name on its own accord. 

Clark stops, long legs having already carried him almost ten feet away. He looks over his shoulder to you, distant and sad, as if it hurts him not to run back to you. His eyebrows raise, silent surprise as if he expected you just let him go. 

Does he really think you’re that cold? The question sits on your tongue, right at the edge like a dare.

"Thank you." Is what you muster instead. best you can muster. It's genuine, you wouldn't have been able to help half of the people you did today if it weren't for Clark. 

Clark just nods, and for the first time all day he gives you a smile. Not the fake, flirty one he usually flashes you. No, this one is softer, a gentle curve with no teeth. It's almost sheepish in its subtlety, just enough for his dimple to carve out its place on his cheek. 

You spend the entire ride back to hospital trying to quiet your racing mind, and worse, your racing heart.

You're pretty sure you hate the new girl.

Okay that's not fair. She hasn't technically done anything wrong, she just had the misfortune of being the one to take the call.

A sleepy shift, hardly any traumas, hardly any patients, just a nap in the on call room and the snow falling outside.

You should've known better than to think it would stay that way. 

The radio went off with a shrill cry, snapping every head in its direction. 

New girl was closest, tripping over herself to pick up the receiver.

"Twelve-Krypto, General is receiving. We copy" Her voice is shaky with nerves, hands reaching for a pad to write down the patient information.

Her face goes pale, her hand pausing over the notepad before resuming its scribbles in ten fold. She smushes the receiver between her ear and and shoulder, brows furrowing as she tries to keep up.

"Must be a bad one." You whisper, you start to move on autopilot, walking towards the supply pantry. You're already halfway through your mental checklist, forming a plan of attack when she says-

"You said you have a medic down?" She asks, looking around for reassurance. "How much blood has he lost?"

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Despite the fact that he's still on nights and the shift change doesn't happen for a another few hours, you thoughts immediately shift to one person.

Clark.

A pit settles in your stomach, sure and heavy, like a stone sinking into a lake. 

One of the other nurses has taken over the receiver, motioning to get a trauma room ready and whispering something about paging upstairs. 

They try to placate whoever is on the line, voice even and calm, but their eyes betray them. A quick glance at to you with the briefest flash of panic, just as they say the words that confirm your worst fears.

"Jimmy, slow down." It's said to into the radio but it might as well have been whispered in your ear with the way it sends a shiver up your spine.

Jimmy is Clark's partner.

They never work a shift without the eachother.

Jimmy hates talking on the radio, that's why Clark always does it. 

Suddenly you're underwater, ice rushing through your veins as you realize it's happening again.

Except there's no anger like you thought there would be. 

There's no instinct to fight, or urge to slap him silly. All that you can think about is how sorry you are.

Sorry for ever fighting, for being so stubborn. Your legs swell with your regrets and keep you planted in the middle of the floor, everyone moving around you as if the world hasn't tilted on its axis. 

A doctor taps you on the shoulder, a gentle voice suggesting that "Maybe you should sit this one out."

That does it, he's dying. 

He's dying, he's going to come through those doors with the grim reaper at his heels and you won't ever be able to tell him you were wrong.

It burns the back of your throat, emotion rising like bile as you nod in agreement. 

Everyone else is in aprons, ready to whisk him away to a trauma bay. Gloves are on, blood bags are hanging, an operating room is being cleared upstairs. 

Then there's you, sitting at the nurses station like a statue in Figs. You watch the door like a gargoyle, unblinking as the siren gets closer and closer.

You hear the chaos from inside, tires screeching and metal slamming as everyone jumps into action. When the doors open it's like floodgates, a sudden burst of noise as a gurney is wheeled across the linoleum floors.

Jimmy's on top of it doing chest compressions, counting under his breath as he fights to keep time. You can't see Clark's face through the crowd, craning your neck and lifting onto your tippy toes to try and get a glance. All you can see are tatters of his uniform and bloodied skin. 

You hear yourself asking questions, How long have you been doing compressions? Did anyone push epi? What the fuck happened? But your voice ignored, lost among barked instructions.

Then, as quickly as the noise came, it disappears. You're not sure when you stood again, but you're left in the middle of the all, arms useless at your sides as you stare at the doors they took him through. 

You have half a mind to follow, the instinct to push your way in and hold his hand, even if he is already gone. You need him to know you were there. You need him to know you weren't angry. 

Tears well faster than you can stop them, threatening to spill over your lash line as you try your best to think- 

"How is he?" 

A voice interrupts from behind you. 

You turn, wiping frantically at your cheeks are you try to take a deep breath, "I don't know, but I can come find you as soon as…" The words are lost, disappearing from your lips.

It's Clark, all six feet, four inches of him. His uniform is a wrinkled and stained mess, but the exception of a cut on his forehead, he's untouched.

"Clark?" You choke, throat tight as you rub at your eyes again. "I thought-" you cut yourself off, head snapping to the trauma room doors and then back to Clark. 

You're not sure if it's because of your tears or obvious confusion, but Clark closes the distance. He walks until you're almost toe-to-toe, hardly even noting how close he is. His hands are on your cheeks and despite the grime and dirt you don't flinch away when he wipes your tears, melting into his touch.

"Are you okay?" Clark worries, "Are you hurt what happened?" 

You're too busy staring at him, it's as if you're seeing him for the first time. There’s no bright and shiny gloss or distraction of things you’ve projected onto him. Just the man. 

"I thought it was you." You manage to whisper. You hands reach up to rest over his, making sure he's really there.

Clark goes still, pretty blue eyes popping wide. You admission hangs in the air, dragging it down and filling it with unexpected emotion.

"You cried for me?" He asks, the question is genuine, no teasing or forced professionalism, just the raw vulnerability of the moment.

Another tear escapes rolling down your cheek, and giving him his answer.

"I'm sorry." He says, earnest and real. He has nothing to apologize for, but it soothes your souls anyway and heals something deep inside of your fragile heart.

"You're okay." It's hardly more than a whisper, "That's all that matters." 

The distance between you gets smaller, your chest brushes his with every breath. You can feel his exhales, his gaze dancing between your eye and your lips as he begins to dip his neck towards you. 

You look closer, eyeing the dirt on his cheeks and the way blood has trickled from his forehead down to eyebrow. You plant your hands on his chest, stopping him from leaning in the rest of the way.

The room erupts, a flurry of noise as the EMT they brought in is wheeled to the elevator. 

You and Clark jump apart, caught like children. 

"C'mon." You tell him, grabbing his hand and guiding him away from growing chaos as everyone goes back to their original tasks. "Let me get you cleaned up."

Shockingly, Clark goes without protest, his fingers curling around yours as he follows you into an empty on-call room. He doesn't argue when you turn the lock, or unclip your pager. Not a peep when push at jacket of his uniform, peeling it down his arms to check for any other scrapes. 

He doesn't speak until you open the wipes you'd snagged off a supply cart on the way in. The soft tear of plastic breaking the silence. 

"What are you doing?" He asks. 

You look everywhere but his eyes, hand shaking as you pull out a wipe and lift it to his face. You focus on his cheeks, gently tracing his jaw and the swiping the cloth across it, over and over again until the only dark spots left are his freckles. Then you move to the other side, cleaning up to where his eyes crinkle. 

"I'm cleaning you up." You tell him, purposely obtuse, "You're covered in dirt or soot or whatever this is." 

"Yes I know, but why?" 

You start on his nose with a fresh wipe, the other tossed somewhere on the floor. You ride the curve of it, fingers sweeping down until you brush against the crest of his upper lip. You feel him hold his breath, still as a statue while he waits for your answer. 

"So your face is clean when I kiss you." You admit. You feel naked in the confession, wearing your busy hands like a shield. 

Clark captures your wrist, pulling the wipe from between your fingers and tossing it onto the floor the first one. 

He takes the package of wipes from you and finishes his face, clearing the blood from his forehead and even wiping down his neck. He makes faster work of it then you, harsh drags of microfiber until his skin is pink and irritated.

"But you said…" he struggles to find the words, mouth opening and closing as he works the wipe over his collar bone.

He finishes with his hands, carefully going over every finger and across the divots of his palm while he stares at you. 

You nod "I know what I said." You assure him. 

Finally ready, you start to close the distance. 

"I care about you." You tell him, voice steady as you take the wipe from his hands and toss it to the floor. "I'm going to worry about you whether we are together or not.” You give him a soft smile as you continue, “I was wrong, pushing you away didn't make it hurt any less."

"I get it though." Clark's lips twitch, like he's torn between a smile and a grimace. "The day at the crash, when I saw you under that car. It was like my whole life flashed before my eyes." His hand lifts to your cheek, cradling your entire face in his palm. "I never want to make you feel like that again."

You keep smiling, soft and happy as you take another step. You're closer than you were in the hallway now, your feet between his as you tilt your head up to look at him. 

"You will," You promise, "And I'll do the same to you." You turn your face to kiss his palm, gentle and sure. "That's what love is."

Clark doesn't answer, not with words at least. Instead, faster than you can blink, he leans down and kisses you. 

It's bruising in its force, his other hand cupping your neck as he tries to bring you even closer, pulling until your chest is flush with his, keeping contact even as he curls himself over you.

The kiss is everything you haven’t said since that first date, since the day you told him ‘no’ the first time. In the months that have passed since with banter and teases. It s a kiss that tries to make up for lost time.

You can feel his smile against your lips, your own threatening to break through, until eventually it does. You smile into eachothers mouths until the kiss devolves, becoming a messy clash of teeth and giggles as you enjoy the euphoria of just touching one another.

Slowly he walks you back, short steps until your knees hit the edge of the cot. 

You pull away from him with a gasp, your smile still so wide it makes your cheeks ache. 

"I'm really glad you're not dead." You whisper, bringing your hand up to his collar, fidgeting with the button at the top until you finally undo it.

Clark beams, eyes shining as he presses another kiss to your lips. "Me too." He murmurs against them.

Then your feet are off the ground, but only for a moment as he lifts you to sit on the bed, pushing your shoulder so you lie back. It's barely a twin, hardly big enough for one person, but as Clark slides his body over yours, you don't mind the tight quarters. 

Your hands go back to his buttons, this time with purpose. 

"I still think I should make it up to you." He says, teasing and cocky. The same tone that used to make your blood boil on the radio. 

You hum in agreement, jutting your chin just enough to chase his mouth. When you capture it, you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, punishing it with a gentle bite. "Can't argue with that." 

Clark groans deep in the back of his throat, somewhere between tortured and happy as your tongue soothes over the indentations of your teeth in his skin

"No arguing." He agrees, bending his neck to press a wet kiss to your neck. "From now on, I do whatever you say."

Your hands finally finish his shirt, palms sliding underneath the opened fabric and tracing his skin through the ribbing of his tank top. "Mm-mm." You agree, arching your back into his chest as you smile. "I like the sound of that." 

Clark works down to your collarbone, his tongue dragging a wet line over it's valley until he finds the neck of your scrubs.

Clark's touches start to wander too, one arm keeping him hovering above you while the other reaches down to the hem of your scrub top. 

"No more burning buildings?" You ask, it's meant to be a tease, but it's broken by a gasp as his hand slides underneath the fabric. Rough fingers drag up your stomach, finding the curve of your ribs and splaying over them. 

"Nope." Clark assures you, placing another kiss to your lips as he lays his hips even firmer against you. 

"What about de-railed trains?" You suggest. Your voice is breathless, your back arching into his touch. 

You feel Clark shake his head against you. 

"I'm retiring from the hero thing." He promises, and despite the way he peppers your cheeks with kisses, you can tell he's serious. "Not worth the risk." He says. 

"Yeah?" You ask, small and hopeful. Your heard pounds under his palm, pulse thrumming as his shifts to look you in the eye.

"Yeah." He says, "As long as you promise to be waiting for me, I promise to do everything I can to I come home to you." 

It's not perfect, and you know Clark, you know that there will be a cat in a tree or an old lady who needs him, but he’ll try, and that’s all you ever needed.

"I promise." You whisper.

Masterlist

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bonus look at the trenches that was me trying to write this