#something short.. something simple.. something with potential?

I took a month off I took 2 months to get the books printed I took a month to prepare my next comic and I took 2 months to write the rest of the series (I knew the character arcs I wanted, but not the time periods or mysteries!!!) I've been working on actual episodes since then

I had to take some time off because of some pretty extreme burnout due to the sheer amount of work it was to draw over 800 pages and write 6 complete stories in a year and a half... I was getting sick almost weekly due to the overwork, it was really really bad honestly. I was having to work 60+ hours every week just to keep up...

The nature of the comic itself is also difficult... Each of the arcs is a complete, self contained story which can be read (ideally) without context, and my arcs need to be about 10-13 episodes each... And since I have an exact number of episodes to work with, it's even harder.

It takes a ton of planning and a ton of refinement, and working week to week with no breaks I was forced to put out second or even first drafts, so I just wasn't happy with the work I was doing... And to do that for the rest of the series? I wouldn't be proud of the work I did.

Plus... To be entirely honest, webtoon has treated me quite badly IN MY OPINION... They deprioritized me before I launched (I had to beg for more promotion, I'm not exaggerating), they outright denied me the opportunity to even ask for a raise, I don't make any money on fast pass and they pay me less than my partner makes working at trader joes. My first editor left me completely hanging, my second editor (who I loved) was fired... And they told me I wouldn't get a third season before my first season even finished. So it was just repeatedly completely demoralizing.

I'm sorry it has taken so long, it'll have been 10 months by the time I come back. But I realized... I won't get promotion either way. I won't get more episodes either way. I won't get more money either way. So to finish everything, to make it feel good, to make it something I'm proud of, I chose to take longer to make it better.

Scrolling through the endless list of “potential candidates” online quickly turned into a horror show.

One girl mentioned she had at least five cats. Nothing against cats—you love animals—but five? In a tiny Metropolis apartment? That’s practically a zoo.

Then there was another one who casually asked if you’d mind her being a camgirl. You didn’t. Live and let live, right? Until she mentioned she’d also have to bring her “partners” over. Frequently. Which, honestly, was not part of the cozy-home vibe you wanted. You didn’t need a parade of strangers in your living room every week, and you definitely didn’t want to hear people getting laid through the thin apartment walls.

That was when you were just about ready to give up and he shows up.

His ad had been short, almost boring compared to the others. No flashy promises, no desperate oversharing. Just a neat little message about needing a quiet place to live, being responsible with bills, and “happy to help around the apartment if needed.” Honestly, it sounded too good to be true. Responsible? Quiet? Happy to help? In Metropolis? Either he was secretly a serial killer or the most boring man alive.

Except he wasn’t boring. Not even close.

The first time you met him, he’d shown up at the café across the street wearing an ill-fitting button-down, glasses that kept slipping down his nose, and the warmest smile you’d ever seen. He shook your hand like you were doing him the biggest favor in the world, like moving in with you was some sort of blessing.

And that was the start of all your problems.

Because Clark Kent turned out to be polite to a fault. He always knocked before entering a room, never left dirty dishes in the sink, and somehow managed to make carrying the trash downstairs look like an Olympic sport. He even fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom without being asked, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing in ways you really didn’t want to notice.

Living with him should have been easy.

But with every little thing he did—every considerate gesture, every domestic miracle—it got harder and harder not to imagine what it would be like to close the space between you.

Over the weeks, you and Clark fell into an easy rhythm—one that surprised you with how natural it felt. He wasn’t just a polite roommate who paid rent on time; he was… a friend. The kind of friend who always asked how your day was, who carried your grocery bags without being asked, who remembered small details about your life that even you sometimes forgot.

And then there were the little things he did that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to analyze too closely.

Every time you covered your friend’s late-night bar shifts and dragged yourself home at some ungodly hour, Clark made sure there was food waiting for you. Sometimes it was leftovers he’d reheated on the stove, covered with a plate so they’d stay warm. Other times, it was something he’d picked up from the bakery down the block—always your favorite order.

Cinnamon rolls with hot chocolate.

He never asked, never made a big deal about it. Just left it there for you with a little sticky note that said something simple, like “Don’t forget to eat” or “Hope your night wasn’t too hard.”

The first time it happened, you’d laughed softly to yourself, touched but convinced it was a one-time thing. But then it kept happening. Again, and again. Until the sight of a steaming cup of cocoa and the smell of cinnamon and sugar waiting on the counter started to feel like home itself.

And the worst part?

Every time you took a bite, every time the chocolate warmed your throat after a long night, you thought of him—his stupid kind smile, the way his glasses slid down his nose when he concentrated, the gentle patience that seemed stitched into his every move.

After a few months, the wall between you and Clark slowly began to crumble. What started as polite small talk over shared takeout boxes turned into long conversations that stretched past midnight, sitting on the couch with the city lights spilling in through the window.

You got to know him in ways you never expected. He told you about Lois—the Lois Lane—and how, in the end, things just didn’t work out. You never pried too much, never wanted to push where it still seemed tender, but deep down you couldn’t understand how anyone, especially Lois Lane, could let a man like Clark Kent just… walk away.

And he got to know you, too. He knew you didn’t always get along with your mom, that the two of you clashed more often than not. But he also knew that, no matter how strained things were, you still called her every Sunday evening—because that’s what you did. That was your ritual. You never admitted it out loud, but those calls left you feeling both drained and relieved at the same time. Somehow, Clark understood without you having to explain.

Somewhere in all those little moments, the air between you changed. He wasn’t just your roommate anymore. He wasn’t even just your friend. He was Clark—your Clark, in ways you couldn’t quite admit out loud. And the more you let him in, the more dangerous it felt to stay this close.

It started small. A hoodie here, a T-shirt there. Clark didn’t think much of it at first—laundry got mixed up sometimes, right? But then he noticed the pattern. His clothes weren’t missing, exactly. They were… migrating.

The first time he actually caught you, you were in your room painting one of the walls a soft shade of blue. Hair pulled up messily, brush in one hand, a little streak of paint on your cheek. And on you was a shirt he hadn’t worn in years—faded cotton, the logo of The Mighty Crabjoys barely hanging on.

“I know that shirt,” his voice came from the doorway.

You turned, startled, to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to make that stupid smirk tug at his mouth. His glasses had slipped a little down his nose, and the way his eyes gleamed with amusement made your stomach twist.

“Do you?” you asked, feigning innocence as if you weren’t caught red-handed in his clothes.

Clark raised a brow, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah. It used to be mine.”

“Used to be,” you repeated, dipping the brush back into the paint as if this was no big deal. “Finders keepers, Kent.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you shot back, smirking now yourself, even though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

His eyes lingered on you a little longer than they should have, warm and soft and dangerous all at once. Then he pushed his glasses up with one finger, still smiling. “Alright. But don’t blame me when you run out of closet space.”

And with that, he left you there, paintbrush in hand, face flushed hotter than it should’ve been over something as simple as a T-shirt.

And then there were the nights.

Your last year of marine biology was brutal—endless papers, late-night study sessions, your brain swimming with notes about coral reefs and migratory patterns when all you really wanted was sleep. More often than not, you lost track of time, staring at textbooks and research articles until your water bottle sat empty for hours without you even noticing.

That’s when Clark would appear.

He never knocked too loudly, just a soft tap against the door before easing it open. In his hands: your water bottle, freshly refilled, and a plate with a couple of brownies balanced on top.

“Thought you might need these,” he’d say simply, like it was no big deal.

And then he’d stay.

Sometimes he perched on the edge of your bed with his laptop, typing away at an article for the Planet. Other nights, he just sat back with a book, glasses sliding down his nose as he read quietly. He never spoke much, never distracted you—just kept you company, the steady presence in the room reminding you that you weren’t completely alone in the chaos of deadlines and exams.

It became your favorite part of studying, though you’d never admit it out loud. The sound of his pages turning. The soft click of his keyboard. The way he’d nudge the plate of brownies a little closer when he noticed your energy fading.

It was a random Tuesday. You were in your room, halfway through reorganizing your closet, humming along to your playlist and carefully folding clothes, when you heard the doorbell ring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but as usual, Clark was faster.

“I got it,” he called from the hallway.

You shrugged and kept folding, letting the music wash over you.

A few minutes later, a series of repetitive thuds started echoing over your music. You paused the song and held still, listening. For a moment, the only sound was your own breathing. Curiosity won. You set down the stack of clothes and stepped out of your room to see what was going on.

And there he was.

Clark Kent, in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first few buttons of his shirt undone just enough to reveal a hint of the chest beneath, muscles flexing with every motion. He was focused, meticulously assembling a chair.

Your chair. The one you had just ordered from IKEA to replace the battered old thing that groaned every time you rolled around in it and had almost collapsed under you one night during a particularly long study session.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to stare. Every movement he made, tightening a screw, adjusting a bolt, made something stir in your chest. The air in the apartment suddenly felt charged, heavier, and somehow… impossibly warm.

You cleared your throat, trying to draw his attention without making it obvious.

Clark looked up sharply, his head snapping toward you. And then, just like that, his eyes traveled—slowly, deliberately—from your face down to your legs.

You followed his gaze, and a sudden, involuntary gasp escaped your lips. You pressed your hand over your mouth immediately, hoping he hadn’t noticed just how… revealing your outfit was.

You’d been so absorbed in reorganizing your closet that you’d completely forgotten what you were wearing.

A tiny gym short that left the curve of your butt barely covered… and on top, the cherry on the cake: Clark Kent’s Metropolis Meteors jersey, loose and hanging off your shoulders in all the right ways.

For a moment, time froze. The room felt impossibly small, the sound of the IKEA chair thudding under his hands drowned out by your own heartbeat. Clark’s expression was unreadable at first, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you everything you needed to know.

“Hmm… is that my new chair?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Clark glances up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Yes… and is that my jersey?”

You glance down at yourself, mock innocence on your face. “Maybe,” you say, letting your fingers play with the hem just slightly. “Did I mention it’s really comfortable?”

His eyes flick up from the screws in his hands, slow, deliberate, scanning you from head to toe. That smirk widens just a fraction, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—and something else. Something hotter.

“Comfortable, huh?” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer, careful to stay in the “helping with IKEA” role. “I’d say it looks… better than comfortable.”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks, but you don’t move. Instead, you tilt your head, playful, daring him to say more. “Better than comfortable? That sounds like a compliment—or a warning.”

Clark chuckles softly, shaking his head, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with every small movement as he adjusts the chair. “Maybe a little of both,” he says, voice low. “And you owe me a warning next time you decide to borrow my clothes.”

You bite your lip, trying not to grin, trying not to imagine too much, knowing full well that the air between you has just shifted—suddenly, the IKEA instructions and the thuds of the chair are the least interesting thing in the room.

You were ready to give a quick, witty reply when your phone buzzed on the dresser. 

“Give me a second,” you said, already turning toward your room. 

Clark’s eyes followed your every move, tracing the curve of your hips, the way your shorts hugged your body, the subtle sway of your ass as you walked. You tried not to notice—or rather, you tried not to notice him noticing—but it was impossible.

Clark listened faintly to your conversation, catching only a few words here and there. He wasn’t trying to abuse his super-hearing—he knew when to dial it back, when to respect someone’s privacy.

But then he heard it.

Your voice, soft and casual over the phone, casually dropped his name.

For a moment, he hesitated. Using his hearing now would cross a line… but the curiosity, the pull of wanting to know exactly what you were saying about him, was too strong.

He decided to use it.

Slowly, carefully, Clark tuned in, letting his super-hearing pick up more than the faint murmurs. He didn’t listen to everything—just enough to catch your tone, your inflection, the way you laughed at something small, the warmth in your voice when you mentioned him.

Clark froze for a moment, the words sinking in.

"I swear, every time he acts like a gentleman… tears run down my thighs."

He had to pause, just to process it. Part of him wanted to pull back, to remind himself that this was your private conversation. But another part—the part that had been quietly simmering for months—couldn’t ignore what he had just heard.

A slow, deliberate smile tugged at his lips.

“You slut!” he heard your friend laugh on the other end of the line.

Clark’s gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door, tightening slightly. Part of him wanted to knock, to stop listening, but curiosity—and something far more primal—won.

“I just can’t help it,” you continued, your voice soft and casual, completely unaware he was listening. “Today I ran on him assembling my new chair from IKEA, that huge biceps popping out of the sleeves, and those curls falling on his forehead…”

Clark swallowed, heat rising in his chest. He tightened his grip on the screwdriver in his hand, pretending to focus on the bolts, but every word was burning its way into him.

He could feel the pull—the magnetic, impossible-to-ignore tension—and he realized with a sharp jolt just how much he wanted you in ways that went far beyond shared chores or quiet nights studying together.

Clark shook his head slightly, setting the screwdriver down on the partially assembled chair. It was time. Time to stop abusing his super-hearing, time to respect your privacy, and time to process everything he had just heard.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the apartment fade to normal—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the city beyond the window—and carefully pushed the intrusive words to the back of his mind.

But even as he did, he couldn’t deny the way his body reacted, the way his heart still raced, the subtle tension in his muscles. That pull, that magnetic draw toward you, hadn’t disappeared.

Clark exhaled slowly, trying to center himself. He would process this. He would think it through. But he also knew, deep down, that nothing between the two of you would ever feel quite the same again.

After a few minutes, you returned to the living room, oblivious to the fact that Clark had overheard your conversation.

“Need some help?” you asked casually, leaning against the doorway and watching him crouched over the chair, meticulously sorting the pieces and screws.

Clark glanced up, giving you a small, polite smile. “No… I’ve got it,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But thanks.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping a little closer, handing him a small Allen wrench anyway. “Are you sure? It looks complicated.”

He gave a tiny shrug, his focus still on the chair, but you caught the subtle flex of his arms as he adjusted a bolt. “I’m sure,” he repeated, tone calm, measured… but there was an edge to it now, a quiet intensity that made your pulse pick up.

You turned your back to him, reaching into the fridge for something to drink, completely oblivious to the storm that was about to hit.

That’s when Clark finally snapped.

His eyes landed on the jersey stretched across your shoulders, the name “Kent” clearly visible on the back. Something deep inside him ignited. Without thinking, he rose from the floor and closed the small distance between you.

Before you could react, he had you gently but firmly pinned against the open fridge. He leaned in just slightly, his face hovering centimeters from yours, the heat radiating off him undeniable.

With a smooth, almost casual motion, he picked up the juice jar you had been reaching for and closed the fridge behind you both, trapping you in that small bubble of kitchen space.

Clark’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, and every muscle in his body was taut, controlled, aware of you in a way that had been simmering for months. “You… have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate, almost teasing.

The room shrank around you, the IKEA chair forgotten, the mundane apartment sounds fading away. It was just you, him, and the magnetic pull between you—the tension that had been quietly building for months now impossible to ignore.

"…I… wanted juice?" you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper as you meet his intense gaze. Your eyes flicker nervously, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the storm behind his blue eyes, and the way his chest rises and falls steadily, controlled.

Clark lets out a low, almost amused sound, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Juice,” he repeats, the single word rolling off his tongue like it’s a secret, like it’s somehow the most ridiculous thing in the world compared to what’s really happening right now.

His hands, still resting near your arms on the fridge door, don’t move, but the pressure of his presence is inescapable. “You have no idea… how dangerous it is to wear that,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower, brushing against your ear. “You think this is about juice?”

Your heart skips, your breath catching, and you shake your head almost involuntarily, realizing that whatever this is, it’s not about juice anymore.

He tilts his head, studying you, a slow, deliberate smile creeping across his face. “No… it’s about this,” he says, and the word hangs between you, thick, heavy, and impossibly charged.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the closeness, of the heat radiating off him, of the way the tiny kitchen feels impossibly small now, containing only the two of you. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“I… I didn’t know… look, if you were upset that I grabbed your shirt—” you try, your voice trembling, swallowing nervously with each word.

Clark raises an eyebrow, that corner-of-the-mouth smirk still there, amused and more intense than ever. “Upset?” he repeats, the word drawn out, almost as if savoring it. He tilts his head just enough so that his breath brushes your face, making you acutely aware of every inch between you.

“N… no, it’s not that,” you stammer, feeling heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just… I didn’t know that… that this would…” You falter, unable to finish, because the truth—the attraction, the tension, the pull between you—is impossible to put into words.

Clark laughs, low, almost a purr, his hand sliding slowly to rest over yours, firm yet gentle. “This… this is exactly what I wanted you not to know,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with that intensity that slices through the air between you.

“Know what?” you whisper, your eyes flicking to his lips, drawn to the curve of them, the slow, deliberate way his mouth moves.

Clark’s gaze drops to yours, dark, heated, impossibly intense. “Know that… I want you,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word lingering between you like a spark hovering just above a flame. His hand tightens slightly over yours, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel the weight of his intent.

“I’ve… wanted this,” he continues, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand, sending shivers up your spine. “Every time you wear that shirt, every time you don’t even realize you’re looking at me… it’s like it pulls me in. I can’t… I can’t look away. I can’t ignore it.”

His eyes search yours, unwavering, and there’s an edge to his tone, a mixture of confession and challenge. “Do you know what it’s like, to want someone this much and have to pretend like it doesn’t matter? To see them, to feel them, and know that every second I stay still, I’m dying a little inside?”

“I know, Clark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but certain. Your hands slide up, resting lightly on his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. “I know… because I want you.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just enough, and then darkening with a mix of relief and hunger. “You…?” he murmurs, as if testing the word, letting it hang between you like a promise.

“Yes,” you murmur, letting your forehead lean slightly toward his, your fingers threading lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve wanted you too… for so long. I didn’t know how to say it… but I can’t fight it anymore.”

The air between you thickens, charged, your hearts hammering in sync, the kitchen shrinking around the two of you until nothing exists but the pull, the heat, the undeniable need.

You can’t hold back any longer. It’s like a pressure building inside you, a fire threatening to consume every rational thought. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, your hands clutching at his neck as if anchoring yourself to him, to this moment.

“Clark…” you breathe, your voice trembling, almost a plea. “I… I can’t—”

He silences you with a small, knowing smirk, his eyes dark and sparkling with the same desperation you feel. “Then don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough with restrained desire.

Before you can think twice, your lips are crashing together, urgent, hungry, the kiss exploding through you like electricity. Every second of restraint, every glance, every touch you’ve held back, pours into that moment. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and his arms wrap around you, pressing you impossibly tight against him.

It’s chaotic, desperate, and perfect—the world outside the kitchen vanishing entirely as if you’re the only two people left on Earth. The heat, the need, the longing you both tried to ignore, finally has a release, and it’s everything you imagined… and more.

Clark’s hands slide down to your waist, fingers gripping gently but firmly, pulling you impossibly closer. Your body melts against his, fitting perfectly as if you were always meant to be pressed together like this.

Your own hands thread through his curls, fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands as you tug him nearer, craving every inch of him. The sensation sends shivers down your spine—his warmth, the steady beat of his chest against yours, the heat radiating off him, all overwhelming in the best possible way.

He leans his forehead against yours for a brief moment, just enough for both of you to catch your breath, before his lips find yours again, deeper this time, slower, letting the tension simmer as your hands continue to explore the silky texture of his hair. Every small movement, every brush of skin against skin, is electric, a silent confession of the desire that’s been building between you both for far too long.

Without a word, his hands tighten at your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as his lips find yours again—this time deeper, hotter, his tongue slipping against yours, exploring, claiming, leaving you gasping.

The world narrows to the two of you, the kitchen fading into background noise, the fridge, the counter, everything forgotten. His arms hold you perfectly, steady and strong, yet every movement is deliberate, teasing, making your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

With a slow, controlled motion, he carries you over to the counter, setting you down gently but firmly. He leans in immediately, lips brushing yours again, tongue darting teasingly, hands gripping your waist, holding you close as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Every kiss, every touch, every heated glance is a reminder that the tension that’s been simmering for months has finally ignited—and neither of you wants it to stop.

His kisses move lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and a soft gasp escapes your lips as you tug at his hair, guiding him closer. Your hands roam across his chest, lingering on the firm planes of his body as you undo the last buttons of his shirt, revealing more of the warmth beneath. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers tracing the smooth curve of your bare back, memorizing every inch of your skin. There’s no hint of a bra to slow him down, and he leans in, letting his palms slide to your sides, pressing lightly, teasing your bare tits, making you arch into him.

Your breaths mingle, shallow and fast, and the tension between you feels electric. You feel his lips grazing your collarbone, his fingers exploring, mapping, claiming. Every movement is deliberate, charged with a heat that leaves the air between you trembling.

"Baby…" Clark murmurs, the word almost escaping as a whimper, and you watch him slowly kneel before you. His hands move deliberately, sliding your shorts down along with your panties, sending a shiver through you. You start to reach for the jersey, but he gently catches your wrists.

"I want you wearing my jersey," he says, his voice low and rough, eyes dark with need. He finishes removing your shorts, and the heat radiating from him makes your skin tingle. Your body instinctively arches toward him, every nerve ending alive, every touch sparking fire. The room feels impossibly small, every sound, every breath, every gasp between you two amplified.

You feel a sudden warmth spreading through your core as you realize his intent. He wants you wearing his jersey, a symbol of his possession, while he explores your most intimate parts. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he pushes your legs apart, his strong hands spreading your knees wide.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before trailing open-mouthed kisses up to your soaking wet center. You gasp loudly, your back arching off the counter as he parts your folds with his thumbs and dives in, licking a harsh stripe up your pussy.

His tongue swirls around your clit, sucking and licking with an intensity that makes your legs shake. He hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body. His hands grip your thighs possessively, holding you open as he feasts on you like you're his favorite meal.

You tug at his hair desperately, moaning his name as he smirks against your wet flesh. His tongue plunges deep inside you, curling up to hit that sensitive spot that makes your eyes roll back. He adds two fingers alongside his tongue, pumping them roughly while sucking hard on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his lips glistening with your juices. "Goddamn, you taste so fucking good" he growls softly, before diving back in with renewed vigor. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue and fingers work in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You're a panting, trembling mess on the counter, your hands fisting in his hair. 

"Oh god, Clark... I'm gonna..." You warn breathlessly, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth. As soon as the words leave your lips, Clark redoubles his efforts. He sucks your clit hard, his fingers pistoning in and out of your spasming pussy. Your back arches off the counter completely as the orgasm rips through you, a loud cry of Clark's name echoing off the kitchen walls.

He pulls back, licking his lips clean of your release. He's so goddamn sexy like this - on his knees, between your thighs. He rises suddenly, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his lips and tongue, moaning softly as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your eyes lock with his deep blue ones. "I need you right now" you whimper.

Your hand dropping down to cup his length through his boxers. You can feel him hard and thick beneath the cotton, making you bite your lip. "Golly." he growls softly, thrusting into your palm.

You let out a soft giggle, leaning down to kiss him, your lips parting against his as your fingers work quickly to undo his pants. The fabric slips down, revealing him fully, hard and demanding.

You look down, your eyes widening as you take in the sheer size of him. He's huge - long and thick, with a vein running along the underside. The head is wide and purple, already leaking pre-cum. You swallow hard, looking back up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

He smirks slightly, reading the worry in your eyes. "Don't worry." he reassures softly, cupping your cheek. "It'll fit." He leans down, kissing you deeply, dominating your mouth with his tongue while his hands move to lift your legs higher around his waist.

He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your arousal. Then slowly, so slowly, he starts to push in. Your body stretches around him, taking him inch by thick inch. You both moan into the kiss, neither of you breaking contact as he sinks deeper.

He's fully sheathed inside you now, his hips flush against yours. He stays still, allowing you to adjust to his considerable size. His head rests on your shoulder as he takes deep breaths, inhaling your scent. "You're so tight." he murmurs huskily against your skin.

After a moment, you whimper out, "Please move, Clark." Your inner walls flutter around him, encouraging him. He lifts his head from your shoulder, his blue eyes burning into yours as he starts to move. He pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, before thrusting back in just as slow."Like this?” As he pulls out, a sense of emptiness fills you, quickly replaced by the delicious stretch of him entering again. The feeling of his thick length sliding through your wet folds is incredible. When he bottoms out this time, you let out a soft, pleasure-filled moan. 

"Yeah baby," you breathe out, your nails digging into his back. He's being careful, his hips rolling slowly, making love to you more than fucking. He watches for any signs of discomfort. You see his concern, so you pull his face close, making him look at you. "Clark," you chuckle softly. "Baby, go faster. You won't hurt me.”

Hearing your encouragement, Clark's hesitation vanishes. He grips your thigh tightly and presses his forehead against yours, his blue eyes locked intensely with yours. With a groan, he starts moving faster, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. Each thrust is deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot inside you. As he picks up the pace, so does his vocabulary. His deep voice fills the room with moans, groans, and the occasional "Fuck" or "Goddamn." You realize that under that quiet exterior, there's a very vocal man who enjoys expressing his pleasure loudly.

His movements become more urgent, more frantic. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, going even deeper. His balls slap against your ass with each thrust. "Honey..." he pants, his face twisting in pleasure. "I-im fucking close. Fuck, I need to cum so bad.” He leaves quick pecks on your lips down to your neck.

Your nails raking down his back snap something inside him. He growls deeply and pounds into you harder. You whispering  "inside" makes his mind race with dirty thoughts. He pulls back almost all the way out before slamming deep again. "Baby..." He grunts loudly.

With a final, powerful thrust, Clark buries himself deep inside you and roars his release. His thick length pulses and throbs as he fills you with warm, sticky cum. The feeling of him coming undone inside you pushes you over the edge too. You scream his name loudly, your body convulsing with pleasure as you orgasm around his cock.

You both stay locked together, bodies slick with sweat and hearts pounding in sync. Clark's softening cock remains buried inside you, still twitching gently with residual pleasure. His breath comes in hot pants against your lips as he rests his forehead against yours once more.

With great care and a soft smile, Clark slowly pulls out of you. You both watch as his now flaccid member slides free, glistening with your combined fluids. He reaches down and gently lifts the jersey off of you, revealing your naked body beneath. "Goddamn…”

You press soft kisses on his neck, making him shiver. "That was..." You start to say before he captures your mouth in a deep kiss. He suddenly hoists you up again, making you yelp. 

You wrap your legs around his waist. "Mmm" He hums. His hands squeeze your bottom possessively as he carries you towards the bathroom. His lips trail open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone while walking. "This is not over" He growls playfully, making you laugh loudly as your head falls back exposing your throat completely.

And in that moment—wrapped in his arms, your laughter mixing with his—you realize being roommates with Clark Kent was the best decision you ever made.

He brings his canteen to his lips, sipping, conserving the last of what’s left until god knows when he’ll find more.

The sudden crackle of his earpiece clangs through him in the silence, communication having been so spotty the last few days that he’d grown too used to his own thoughts for company.

“Leon?” The voice on the other end is so sweetly familiar that he sighs, eyes closed, head falling back against the wall.

“Hunnigan. Finally.”

“Are you ok?”

“The usual. Nothin’ new.”

“Thank god. Sorry, we’ve been working through the comm failures. It’s been chaos here.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Silence stretches. So long that he nearly breaks it, not ready for another extended blackout, before there’s a new burst of static.

“Leon, something’s happened.”

Rarely, if at all, did he panic—any reaction not calculated or practiced hammered out of him by years of intense training and experience. But it sears through him now at Hunnigan’s barely restrained urgency, settling a tight fist in his gut.

“Tell me.” It comes out harsher than intended, and Hunnigan, despite herself, falters.

“We’ve been trying to reach you, but the blackouts—“

“Don’t. Just—please.”

A pause, loaded, then: “Your wife was taken to the hospital yesterday. Premature labor. Updates are… infrequent, but we’re trying. The latest is that she’s stable and progressing.”

Sick. He was going to be sick. His canteen skids where he discards it, head in his hands, fingers snagging as he pushes them backward through his hair. The rare urge to scream, to rip at the concrete beneath him, forces a deep exhale through his nose. Another.

Hunnigan eventually speaks through his distressed quiet. “I’m sorry.”

He knew the apology wasn’t solely for the situation, but also the truth of it: he couldn’t leave. Extraction now could take days. The mission was too important, there was too much at stake. Fighting it, as much as the desire to do so was tearing through every inch of him, would do nothing if not delay him even further.

Helplessness takes hold. Then resignation, determination.

“Can you have a team ready even if we go dark again? I’m getting this done.”

Her response is soft but sure. “I’ll do everything I can.”

—

Two days. You labored alone, nurses and midwives your only support, their check-ins infrequent enough that they didn’t count for much at all.

You thought of him through the pain. Imagined it was his hand on your back, his voice in your ear as you groaned, screamed, and fought through the marathon that was bringing life into the world.

And at the end of it all, the warm, small thing placed on your chest, declaring herself as yours, as his—the curve of your brow, his soft, full lips. Perfection in its purest form, meant to be witnessed in tandem but instead held by you alone.

They kept you both for observation. She was early, but only just, so she remained with you, this tiny reminder of him. She was a comfort while you waited, hoped, to hear any word of how he was doing.

When the door opens on your second day in recovery, you don’t look up from where your daughter rests on your chest, expecting, as it had been, another nurse performing their daily rounds.

In absence of the familiar greeting, though, your eyes flit to the door.

Leon stands beside the curtain, bandaged on one arm beneath his black t-shirt, but whole. Alive. And looking uncharacteristically unsure, awe and apology warring on his face.

Tears, quick and heavy, spill down now familiar tracks on your cheeks, and you shake with the suddenness of your shock.

Then he’s there, carefully folding you into him while mindful of what you hold, your face buried into the crook of his neck, his head against yours. You grip the back of his shirt, one hand on the bundle in your arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he exhales into your ear, holding fast as a quiet sob chokes out of you.

He pulls back just enough to cup your cheek in his palm, thumb banishing the tears there in a gentle stroke. “I am so sorry.”

The profound grief so plainly contorting his features threatens to rip your heart from your chest.

Nodding, you bring your hand to rest atop his, unable to voice everything you’d endured, felt, and thought the last few days in the breath of a single moment. Instead, you smile, slight, running your thumb over his knuckles. “I know.”

He looks inclined to say more, but his eyes, soft where they take you in, trail down at the light, noisy breathing from your chest, as if dragged by an invisible, all-encompassing force he’d only just realized.

You fight to contain yourself as his expression changes. Awestruck, almost afraid.

“Want to hold her?”

The barest of smiles tugs at the corners of his lips, and his eyes don’t leave her as he nods, accepting the tiny, swaddled bundle when you move to place her into his arms.

He stands then, one hand supporting her neck, the other supporting her bottom as he lifts her face closer to his, like he needs to take in every bit of her.

You feel a renewed prickle at the corners of your eyes and you blink at it, unable to help your light laugh as you watch them, witnessing in real time what you’d been imagining for the last four days.

“God, she’s beautiful,” he chokes out.

His tender gaze falls back to you, eyes glassy, lower lids unmistakably shining. “That’s all you.”

You laugh again, overwhelmed, ecstatic. “I disagree. She’s so your child.”

The grin that splits his lips is one you’ll remember as the brightest you’ve seen from him. It morphs into something softer as he brings her head to rest on his shoulder, his chin dipping to lightly touch it.

And when she nestles closer, her comfort in his warmth palpable, Leon’s eyes are on you again, that silent apology returning.

“I never would’ve let them send me if I knew.”

You incline your head, tired, resigned. An argument, if there was one, for another time. “It’s the life I chose, Leon. We knew the risks. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

He shakes his head, unconvinced, but remains silent, regret suffocating whatever else he needs or wants to say. Your daughter stirs in the sudden quiet and he begins a tentative tap against her back, murmuring softly to her until she settles into him once more.