@tw1sters library

"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.

He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.

"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.

But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.

.

The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.

Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"

Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.

If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.

He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.

Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.

He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.

In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.

He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.

The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.

Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.

He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.

.

The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.

Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.

His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.

The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.

Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.

Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.

Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.

If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.

You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.

From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.

The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.

You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.

Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,

"She's beautiful from this angle."

"She tastes so sweet."

"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"

Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.

Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.

He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.

That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.

Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.

Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck

Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.

Somehow, the fantasy deepened.

He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.

His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.

Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love

Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.

Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.

No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.

Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.

Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.

Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.

Until it stuck...or didn't.

The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.

Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—

With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.

The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.

His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.

.

The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.

"Ahh, shoot!"

He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.

Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"

"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."

You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.

Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.

Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.

Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.

His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.

His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.

Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.

Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.

Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.

How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.

How devastating.

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he takes a liking to you immediately, despite his inherent dislike for all your human counterparts. you’re pure, you’re sweet. 

you’re perfect. 

and that’s why he decides to keep you. the only good piece of the former world that still remains; a living being of cortical and conscious mind to keep him entertained, to ensure he remains humble and grounded after the destruction of the world has taken place. 

his perfect little pet. 

a toy for him to play with in the blissful silence and peacefulness of a world without life, other than yours. 

you’re already so special to him, and now that you’re the only living being left? 

it only makes you that much more important. 

it’s a given that you’re scared of him, that you’re too afraid of being hurt or killed to disobey him. and while he would never have any intention to hurt you, he would never tell you that. where’s the fun in that? where’s the fun in not being able to mess with your little head, in not being able to lord the threat of pain over you, the threat of suffering the same fate the rest of your pathetic species had succumbed to? 

it’s almost disappointing how well-behaved you are for him, because he’s rarely ever given the chance to punish you how he so desires. he’s forced to make up excuses to put you over his lap, to pull your little skirt up and spank your delicate ass until your skin is bruised all over. 

that’s one of his fascinations with the human body, he tells you as you cry your pretty tears, is how little it takes to hurt you, and yet, your body will still find a way to heal itself. and while he’s omniscient, the smartest being that’s ever existed, he knows his limits with the resources left on this earth. he knows the limits of your body, how much he can hurt you before your body is incapable of repairing itself. he’d never injure you any further. 

but you don’t know that. you don’t know that his threats to break all the bones in your body are empty promises, that he would never do anything that would threaten your delicate little life. 

your fear of him permeates every inch of your heart, mind, and soul. your fear of him never falters, even as it begins to devolve into something else. something new, something you haven’t felt in a long time. 

adoration. or, dare you say it, love. 

the satisfaction you hear in his voice when you first tell him of these feelings is beyond evident. 

“aww, sweetheart. I knew you’d come around one day,” he jives as he caresses your cheek with one metallic hand. “what a good girl you are for me.”  

his fascination with the human body doesn’t stop at how easily hurt you are, no.

it’s how easily pleased you are.

how easy you are to give in, to comply with him. like throwing a dog a bone, all he has to do is toss you a few compliments, a few words of praise. tease you for how pretty you look, remind you how good you are, how obedient you are. 

and that’s all it takes for you to begin shedding your panties, laying back and spreading your legs for him to inspect you. 

your body is so soft, so pliable, unlike any of the metal or wires he’s made up of. you’re capable of experiencing a pleasure he’ll never be able to feel. 

but he can understand it, conceptualize it better the more he plays with you. a firm grip holding your waist and featherlight touches between your legs send you into a frenzy of pleas and heavy breathing; rougher motions forcing harsher noises from deeper in your throat, lower in your chest. a wider, entire body reaction, all because of the specific location in which he touches you.

it’s almost a shame he had to wipe out all of humanity, because the sight in front of him when he has you like this is fascinating. how stupidly drunk you act when your clit is stimulated just right. 

but these reactions of yours wouldn’t be as special if there was a whole population of humans capable of experiencing them. it’s far more intriguing that you’re the only one left who could ever feel this way, who could ever allow him to vicariously understand sexual pleasure. 

one single touch in just the right spot inside you causes you to mewl in desperation, whining out his name and pleading for more. 

fascinating. 

perhaps the most inquisitive part is when he gives into his curiosities, giving you what you want without taking pause to determine if you’ve earned it. when he gives you those touches the way you ask for them, where you ask for them, until you reach a peak that leaves you breathless and moaning like you’re in heat. 

he makes you thank him for every orgasm he gives you, of course. without his grace to save your life amongst the billions he killed, without his generosity to protect you, this would not be possible for you. without his permission and without his help, your needs would not be satiated. anything human about you is only preserved and cherished because of his aid.  

without him, you are nothing. 

and for his graciousness, for his decision to deign to keep you, you will forever be grateful. 

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

Things are quiet in Clark's apartment when you unlock the door and step inside. You re-lock the door behind you, then take a few steps inside.

"Clark?" you call.

Your body is burning up, engulfed by the fire that is Clark Kent.

You're convinced that he knew exactly what he was doing earlier, texting you like that while you were working. Sure, you started it, but you didn't really expect him to go along with it. He hardly ever does when you send him sexy pictures. No, instead he compliments you and saves the appreciation for when the two of you are together again

But today? Oh, god, today he went for it. Well, 'went for it' by Clark's standards. He must've been worked up since he's working from home today.

So, when you sent a picture of your cleavage? His response was: Prettiest pair in the whole wide world, honey. Wish I could touch you right now.

You were immediately hot and bothered, and in response to his response, you'd sent another image, one that you'd taken last night with your breasts completely exposed and on display.

The three little dots of his reply blinked on your phone screen, and you had stared and stared and stared until his words popped up: So beautiful. They're perfect. I want them in my mouth.

Your jaw had dropped. Your core was liquid, and you had to excuse yourself to go to the restroom. Clark is hardly ever this forward. You pictured him in your mind's eye, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. Was he touching himself? Was he holding his phone in one hand and stroking his cock with the other? Shirt pulled up to expose his happy trail, his strong tummy?

Oh, god.

Your head was light and spinning. You felt dizzy with want, with desire. You'd glanced at your watch, and when you saw that you only had about an hour left of your shift, you sighed.

Fuck.

Fuck you, Clark Kent, and your polite dirty talk.

You'd splashed water on your face before responding to him: I want you so bad. Can hardly stand it. I'm coming over after work.

His reply was immediate: Yes, please. Can't wait to make you feel good, honey.

You'd bit your lip, then looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked…frazzled. You touched your cheek, just to find it burning hot. Want tugged at your chest. You were positive that you'd die if you didn't have Clark's cock within the next half hour.

So, you did what any logical person would do, and went to your supervisor to explain why you were leaving work an hour early.

The drive was excruciating. Every stop sign, every red light, every time you go cut off by someone else — it all added up. Your thighs were pressed together, heat blooming between them. You were positive that your arousal was starting to stain your panties, and you knew Clark would be thrilled when he finally sees it, but now? It felt like some sick sign from the universe, a message that's showing you what you're going to get but can't quite have yet.

You shifted in your seat as you drove, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. When you reached Clark's apartment, you wasted no time in locking your car and starting towards the elevator. It took you up, up, up, and now? Here you are, standing in Clark's entryway, calling out to him.

He peeks his head out of his office, brows slightly furrowed.

"Honey? I thought you got off at—"

You set your purse aside, kick your shoes off, and drop down onto your knees. You begin to crawl towards Clark as he trails off. He looks you over, clearly surprised and aroused at once. He steps out into the hallway. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which isn't a big deal, aside from the fact the his bulge looks delicious. You let out a soft breath when you reach him and get up to kneel in front of him. You're eye-level with his crotch, and you shamelessly press your face against it. You breathe him in. Oh, god…he wants this, too.

You let out a soft moan when Clark reaches down to smooth his hand over the back of your head.

"Honey…what's gotten into you?" he asks quietly. You look up at him, and he touches your cheek.

"You," you tell him. You let your jaw drop open, and Clark runs his thumb along your bottom lip.

"You left work just to come here?" Clark asks, voice low. You nod, taking his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it. Clark exhales softly. "I didn't realize you needed it that badly…"

You chuckle, pulling off of his thumb with a pop before beginning to undo his jeans. He touches your cheek as you reach into his underwear and pull his throbbing, leaking cock free. It's flushed and hard, and pre-come beads at the tip. Your mouth waters.

"I fucking love your cock," you breathe. You hold his heavy balls in your hand as you kiss along the side of his member. His pre-come smears across your cheek, but you don't mind in the slightest. Clark lets out a soft, shaky breath.

"Honey—"

"Shh," you shush him. "Let me take care of you. You'll have a turn soon."

Clark inhales sharply when you take his cock into your mouth. You start with just the tip. You let saliva flood your mouth, and the feeling of your wet warmth makes Clark reach out to steady himself against the wall.

"O-Oh, golly…" he breathes. You chuckle.

"Mmm. You taste so good, baby," you breathe. You take him in a bit further, jaw aching already due to the sheer girth of him. You moan against him and push yourself deeper, taking as much of him as you can before gagging. He tries to pull you off, but you stay, trying to let your throat relax against his giant cock.

"Breathe, h-honey," Clark manages. You breathe through your nose and look up at him. He's holding back. You know it. You give his balls a squeeze, then touch his hip. You nod, pushing his hip before pulling him back forward. Clark gasps at the feeling of fucking your mouth. It's soft and slow and he's nowhere near as rough as you'd like him to be, but he's doing it.

The feeling of it, of being on your knees, you mouth full of cock…it makes your core burn. You're on fire, sweat beading at your hairline as you gag softly. You encourage Clark to keep going when he tries to stop. You look up at him. He's so pretty like this — falling apart but trying not to.

You hum, pulling off only when Clark's hips begin to move faster. You smirk, licking your lips as he grunts softly.

"You were close, hm?" you ask, rubbing his hips as he catches his breath. Clark nods.

"Yes," he sighs. You hum, smiling as you look up at him. He holds your face in his hand, chest heaving. You pull off your shirt, then, and toss it aside. You reach around to undo your bra, then toss that aside, too. Clark practically moans at the sight of your bare breasts.

"C'mere," he manages, taking your hand to help you up. You stand, and Clark picks you up in such a way that allows him to press his face between your tits as he walks you over to the couch. You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses and licks at them. His tongue laves over your right nipple, and you let out a soft, shaky breath as you tug at his dark locks.

"You been thinkin' about these?" you ask, looking at him as he sets you down on the couch.

"Mhm," Clark practically moans, sucking your nipple into his mouth completely. You run your hands along his shoulders and biceps, letting out quiet sighs as he moves to suck on your other nipple. He massages your breasts as he does this, and your back arches up into his touch.

"Fuck," you sigh. "Get in me…"

"Hm?" Clark asks, looking up at you with those wide, blue eyes of his. You bite your lip as you touch his cheek. You smirk.

"On second thought, get off of me," you tell him. Clark pulls away instantly.

"W-What—"

"Get on your back, I'm gonna ride you," you say, shoving at his chest. Clark lets out a soft, relieved breath. You chuckle. He really thought you were telling him to stop.

As if you'd ever ask him to do a silly thing like that.

Clack lies back, and you take off your pants and panties before getting back on top of him completely naked. Clark looks up at you intently, his pretty eyes sparkling with lust and arousal. You position yourself over his cock, and as you do, you run your hands beneath his t-shirt.

"Get this off," you tell him softly. He does so quickly, pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it aside. You hum at the sight of his built form. His pecs, his shoulders, his stomach…god, and the trail of hair that runs down towards his cock…

You bite your lip and sink down to take him inside of you. You groan when he fills you, and Clark's hands fly to your hips to hold onto you.

"Honey, please…" Clark sighs. You nod, eyes fluttery as you take him all the way. You begin to bounce after a few moments, and Clark gasps, lips parting. He leans up to kiss you, and you hold onto him as your lips work against his sloppily. He tastes himself on your mouth, and it makes him moan.

"I-I'm…Glad you came here," Clark sighs. "Oh, gosh…mmm…thought about you a-all day…"

"Yeah?" you hum, breasts bouncing as you move on top of him. "Did you touch yourself?"

Clark shakes his head.

"Wanted to wait for you," he sighs. "Oh, g-golly…Honey—"

"Not even when I sent you a picture o-of my tits?" you ask, pouting playfully. Clark kisses you again.

"I thought about it," he admits breathily. "But I wanted to wait until I s-saw you…I'm glad I did…"

You chuckle.

"You're saving that big load for me, huh?" you tease, resting your hands on his chest as you bounce faster. You reach down to rub your clit quickly, and you gasp at the feeling. Clark looks you over, his cock throbbing inside of you. He's getting close. You can tell by the fact that he's grunting and groaning and pushing his hips up against you.

"I-I guess you could say that," Clark chuckles. You kiss him again.

"Give it to me, baby," you breathe. You bite at his lip, worrying it between your teeth briefly before letting it pop back in place. He kisses you again immediately, and you smirk.

He'd never admit it, but Clark loves it when you get rough with him. He's so strong, so gentle, but you know he likes having you bite and lick and scratch. You're so open about what you want, such a good self-advocate. You let your freak flag fly, and Clark is always enjoys it when you do.

He pushes his hips up in time with your thrusts, and you grunt as he hits your g-spot.

"Fuck, that's it…there we go…" you breathe. "Fill me up…get me full…"

Clark lets out a strangled grunt. He squeezes your breasts, and you lean into his touch.

Your orgasm is rising, rising, rising—

"Honey!" Clark exclaims suddenly, falling over the edge and moaning shamelessly. Feeling his seed, hot and abundant, deep inside of you, sends your orgasm crashing down around you.

"Oh, fuck," you breathe, eyes fluttering as you rub your clit and continue to bounce on top of him. When you feel his cock softening inside of you, you pause, rubbing a few more circles around your clit before relaxing on top of him.

Clark cups your cheek and kisses you firmly.

"Good gosh, I love you," he sighs, breathless with want, with love. You give him a dazed smile.

"I love you too," you sigh. You nudge your nose against his. "So much."

Clark wraps his arms around you and pulls you down so that you're lying on top of him. You hum, nestling your face against his pecs happily. Clark kisses the top of your head.

"I'm gonna send you boob pictures more often," you say, smiling as you catch your breath. Clark chuckles.

"I've created a monster," he teases. You smile up at him.

"You certainly have."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.

Eats like a black hole. You and Ma learned to meal-prep in industrial quantities. He’ll demolish three plates and still look at you and the fridge with those big blue eyes like "erm...is there more?"

Grass stains everywhere, including those damn nice socks you bought him. You’ve gotten very good at rubbing those out and rubbing arnica into his shoulders, pressing ice packs on his back while he sits on the floor between your legs, head tipped back making those low happy noises. You both know he doesn't really need it, but you enjoy it anyways.

Loves when you come to games wearing his jersey, his name, his number. Bonus if its oversized and nothing underneath. He spots you in the stands and suddenly plays like a demon - c'mon, let's wrap it up! I want my girl now!

.

Post-match ritual: finds you in the tunnel or parking lot, lifts you clean off your feet in a BIG sweaty hug and a Take My Breath Away Kiss. Doesn’t care who’s watching. "Missed you," mumbled into your neck.

If they win big he’s a lil smug, cocky, and very handsy all the way home. If they lose he'll smile it off but its obvious he needs to feel you. All huffy and fidgeting. Needs the reminder that he’s good at something that day, like how he can take care of you.

Backyard "training." He’ll set up cones and make you do footwork drills with him, laughing when you trip over your own feet, but catches you before really falling.

Teaching you touch rugby in the backyard always guaranteed to turn filthy 90% of the time. You tackle him (you both know he’s letting you), straddling him for a few moments to watch you all winded and laughing, and then "accidentally" pins you under him in the grass.

Appreciates your enthusiasm to know the game properly. Sits you between his legs, arms around you, chin on your shoulder, explaining cleanouts and lineout calls in a low, patient voice that sounds condescending from any other man. You ask "dumb" questions on purpose, which he responds: "Great question! So this is why..."

Wears a tiny charm you gave him on a chain under his jersey during every game. Something small with your initials? Your birth stone? Touches it before lineouts for good luck.

.

Strength kink goes Insane. He can hold you up against the wall with one arm while the other yanks your clothes off. Fucks you standing without breaking a sweat. Loves when you wrap your legs around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders/biceps/his face begging for harder, faster, deeper, more, and he just walks you to the bedroom without pulling out.

Those Sequoia thighs. You riding one while he’s "recovering" on the couch after practice. Him watching you with dreamy eyes, big hands guiding your hips, praising you the whole time. "That’s it, sweetheart. Use me."

Uniform kink is reeeaaal. Missing Clark while he's on the road for away games, welcoming him back wearing his home game-worn jersey. Sleeves too long, hem covering your ass. He'd immediately dropped to his knees to eat you out while you’re still wearing it, moaning over and over how much he missed you. Or he'd have you on all fours in just the jersey while he fucks you from behind, gripping the fabric like reins. Always so quick with aftercare, sometimes you ask for him to leave it on you afterward, just to watch him watch his cum soak into the material.

Oh, post-game adrenaline is so lethal to your pussy. He’s in his uniform — muddy shorts, jersey rucked up — and he’s so so dirty and desperate. Gets you on the bed or floor, or kitchen counter and just takes. Deep, grinding thrusts growling and groaning "gosh darlin', you feel so good every time" against your throat.

Size kink + stretch. He’s biiiig everywhere and he knows it. Loves watching you determined to take him, loves the little overwhelmed, stubborn noises you make while you try to stop your cunt from clenching around him. "Easy, hon… I’ve got you. Let me do the work."

Endurance for days. One round is never enough for either of you. He’ll fuck you through your first orgasm, keep going while you’re shaking and creaming on him, then flip you on top and start again. Only stops when you’re a boneless, whimpering mess and even then he’s still hard and kissing apologies into your skin.

Sin-bin punishment. If you’ve been teasing him all day, he’ll edge you for ages. "Yellow card behaviour, hon. Gotta sit this one out."

Messy creampie enjoyer. Especially after a win because the sight of you after is the real prize. Watching it drip out afterward, then pushing it back in with his meaty fingers and the tip of his cock because "can’t waste it"????

Shower sex after games/practice is non-negotiable. After the other guys have gone home, you're sneaking him back into the locker rooms. You're washing the mud and sweat off him under the hot water spray, praising him while you stroke his cock until he can no longer fight the urge to fuck you against the tiles.

Rugby!Clark is a handsy man right? So he'll have one hand over your mouth and his mouth sucking on your breast so the groundskeep doesn't hear how loud you two get.

Moonlight spills into the room from between half-open curtains, a steady stream of silver that settles perfectly at the foot of the bed on the side Ma usually occupies.

Lee's flat on his back, blanket thrown in a heap on the floor. One arm is outstretched toward the center of the bed, his pale skin practically glowing in the soft light like an invitation meant just for you.

The excuse shifts.

Bare feet cross the threshold, the door's hinges squeaking when you push it open further, but he doesn't stir and you keep moving. You're curling against his side before your brain even catches up.

It's easy. Almost too easy. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself. Harmless, really, until his arm pulls you in tighter so your chest presses against his ribs and your head rests on his shoulder.

Lee hums, an unusually soft sound from the man half the town fears, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He inhales. For a moment you think he might be awake. His thumb rubs soothing circles just beneath your arm over the soft cotton of your shirt, his hot breath tickling your skin, but then he mumbles something unintelligible upon exhaling.

You lay there in silence. Heat radiates from him, yet his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palm has you melting into him anyway, legs tangling with his.

The warmth should be too much, sweat already beading where your skin meets his, but being in his arms—a place that has quickly become your favorite to be—has a different heat pooling between your thighs.

You try to focus on something else instead. The soft chirp of crickets outside the window. The hum of electricity. The way his calloused fingers catch on the fabric of your shirt.

Squeezing your eyes shut to try and regain any self control you have left when it comes to him, you take a deep breath.

And then his fingers slowly slide down your side, flooding your mind with memories of his rough hands making that same trail along the soft skin of your ribcage. Your heart stutters.

It was a conversation you'd had before.

His hours at the station are crazy. His role as sheriff—and his other extracurricular activities—means he comes home at all hours, day and night. It also means he has an enormous amount of stress laid on his broad shoulders, and on nights like tonight when ma is called for a late shift in the next town over, that left him to either suffer through it or handle it alone.

And you didn't want that.

It came out fast when you originally offered, like a confession that wasn't meant to be heard. Any time, any where—even if you're asleep—Lee could take what he wanted as long as Ma didn't know.

He had stared for a minute, blinking rapidly like his brain was short-circuiting, before a mischievous grin and a twinkle in his eye accompanied his quick promise you could do the same.

The conversation felt like a lifetime ago now despite being a matter of mere weeks.

The memory has your teeth catching the flesh of your bottom lip, the ache between your legs growing when he gently caresses your waist in his sleep. Your hips move without even thinking, pressing slowly against his in an effort to relieve the growing desire.

Fingers toying with the fabric of his white undershirt, slightly damp with sweat, you begin tracing the neckline before wandering slowly down towards the soft curve of his belly. Lee hums again when you draw nonsensical lines across it.

A small sliver of skin peeks from below the hem, which you don't hesitate to move towards. Warm skin and a soft patch of hair greet your careful touch, goosebumps rising in your wake. He shivers before tightening his hold.

You finally slip your hand beneath his undershirt, fingertips staying light as a feather as they move across his skin. Lee's breath hitches, lips grazing your hairline when you look up.

He looks content. A scowl tends to grace his handsome features, blue eyes cold from years of law enforcement and the corruption Ma somehow isn't aware of—or turns a blind eye to. But in his sleep, the lines of his face have softened and he almost looks younger.

It makes your mind wander to what he must've been like when he was your age. Was he always bitter? Was he fit? Did women see him in his deputy uniform and swoon? Those piercing blue eyes paired with the smug smile he's given you when your ma isn't looking must have done a number on the women in this town over the years.

Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers finding more warmth. You pause.

"Tell me to stop, Lee," you say into the moonlit darkness, watching his face for any signs he's uncomfortable. "Tell me to stop and I will."

He mumbles something in his sleep, but nothing that sounds like rejection.

Keeping an eye on his face for any possible sign of discomfort or unwillingness, you slip your hand fully inside and wrap around his soft length.

He grunts, his brows twitching up. A quiet sound but encouraging nonetheless. You take your time, pushing the fabric of his boxers down in a half successful attempt to free him. He moans softly with every light squeeze and pump of your hand, his cock twitching to life.

Lee's breath picks up slightly, hips bucking up to meet your hand, when he murmurs your name. Faint, almost imperceptible, but you heard it. And then—

"Good girl."

Fighting back a groan, you carefully maneuver out from his side—earning a small sound of protest from him—and place yourself between his thick thighs, which part easily. His musk fills your nostrils quickly when you lean close. It's almost intoxicating.

With a bit more tugging on the fabric of his boxers, half his cock springs free, tip flushed and leaking.

"Are you gonna let me have all the fun alone?" you tease. He grunts.

Wrapping your fingers around him again, his brows furrowing, you lean in to press a kiss against the tip.

Lee whines softly, his hips bucking towards your face. A smirk tugs at your lips.

"Yeah?" A kitten lick has you tasting the salty precum and his hips move again, his cock twitching in your palm.

Licking a stripe from base to tip has him moaning a bit louder, filling the quiet room. His head presses back into the pillow, eyes fluttering, and when you envelope him fully into the warm wetness of your mouth, a groaning sigh of relief rumbles from deep in his chest.

For a brief moment, his eyes open just enough to look down at you. The corners of his lips twitch with smirk and a mumbled, "fuck," before they close again.

You take that as a sign to keep going.

Bracing one hand on his hip, thumb stroking the line where his hip meets his belly, your head bobs slowly along the freed portion of his length, tongue swirling and tasting every vein, every inch it can reach. He's warm, heavy, heady.

Lee's hips move at your pace, slow with small, eager twitches like a silent plea to speed up. He groans again. It's music to your ears.

And then his hand moves from the sheets it had begun to grip in quiet desperation until it finds your hair, resting on top of your head like he's trying to ground himself even in his sleepy state. You look up beneath your lashes, mouth not leaving his length, to find his lips parted and eyelids fighting to open.

Releasing him with a pop, you continue to stroke his cock.

"C'mon, Lee…you're missing your favorite part."

You're back on him without blinking, slowing it down—if that's even possible—and savoring it even more, which earns you a deeper groan from him that sends a jolt straight to your core.

He grunts again, eyes fluttering more before finally reopening. He blinks, adjusting to the darkness and clearly disoriented until he looks down at you, taking in the way your lips stretch around him.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbles. His voice is rough with sleep, lips curling into a tired smirk. "What're y'doin', sweet thing?"

You pull off him slowly, eyes locked on his.

"Needed you," your voice comes out sickly sweet. "That okay?"

"Mm. More than okay, darlin'."

With a grin, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and with his help, slip them completely off.

The room is dead silent for a moment as your gaze flicks between your fingers wrapped around his saliva-slick length and his blue eyes glittering in the darkness. But then an idea occurs, and the way want burns hotter between your legs makes you release him quickly and slip your own soaked panties off.

Lee watches you curiously. His mouth opens with words only half formed when you climb on top of him, oversized shirt dangling off your shoulder—except instead of sinking onto his throbbing cock, you guide him through your slick folds…and keep him there.

"What—"

His question is cut off when you slowly begin to roll your hips. One pass. Two. His hands come up to rest on your hips while yours brace on his belly, the undershirt bunching under your fingers.

His brows draw together and deepen the permanent crease between them, a rougher sound that's not quite a growl pulling from his throat. His grip tightens subtly.

"Well now you're just teasin' me," he says, his hips rolling in time with yours. "Wakin' me up with your beautiful mouth only to keep your perfect pussy from me? This what you needed me for?"

You can't help but smirk and continue rubbing your sopping cunt along his length. Up. Soaking up the feeling of every ridge gliding through your folds. And down. The way the flushed tip of his cock nudges against your clit as it passes.

"Who says I want you inside me tonight?" you retort, though the wobble in your voice betrays the resolve keeping you from giving him what you both want.

Lee's lips twist into a full blown grin, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he seemingly settles further into the pillows, his hips slowing their momentum and forcing you to do all the work.

Your resolve cracks fast.

Pressing a hand to his chest and leaning forward, you lift your hips just enough that the head of his cock notches tantalizingly against your entrance.

A moment passes where the only sound is your heart beating rapidly against your ribs. Both of you hold your breath, gaze locked and burning, before you finally sink down onto him.

Every inch splits you open, filling you more completely than any of the guys at college, and no matter how many times you feel it, it's like the first time all over again. Your mind goes blank.

"There we go," he mutters, his eyes slipping closed. His hands slide down to your bare thighs for the first time tonight, kneading the soft flesh and pulling you back to the present.

Your hips begin to roll, your hand still pressed to his chest where you can feel his racing heartbeat. It's a slow start at first, savoring the way he feels, the way his cock drags against your walls, hitting the one spot that makes you see stars without even trying.

But then impatience takes over and the need for more becomes overwhelming. You pick up the pace.

Lee's hands slip under your sleep shirt, thumbs sliding up your inner thighs until rough palms find your hips and help guide you.

A soft whimper falls from your lips.

"That's it," he groans. "That's my sweet girl. Look at you ridin' my cock so well. Let me hear you."

Another sound, desperate and needy, escapes you as his cock drags against your inner walls. He grins, the look on his face full of pride and unadulterated lust.

"Let it out, sweetness, let daddy hear you. I know you want to."

Leaning forward and pressing both palms to his chest now, you work your hips faster, the new angle making you moan.

That doesn't quite satisfy him. Lee's pink tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, one hand coming up to cup your cheek with hunger in his eyes before his hips slowly thrust up into you.

"Oh," you breathe, feeling yourself clench around him.

He pulls you in for a kiss, tender and sweet, continuing his thrusts and swallowing the little noises spilling from your lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Just like that. Let daddy take care of you."

Every move, every quiet grunt from his lips, every thrust sends sparks up your spine. It's like someone started a fire in your veins—one that Lee has no intention of putting out any time soon.

He kisses you again, only this time he uses it to roll you over until your back hits the mattress with a soft thump, lips moving slowly over yours before becoming desperate and trailing to your jaw. His hips pick up speed now, arms braced next to your head to keep too much of his weight off you. Your arms encircle his neck, pulling him closer as your legs wrap around his waist. Lee growls against your neck, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto the sheets.

"Fuck, darlin', best way to wake up," he grunts, his thrusts only picking up speed when he hears you moan. "Pretty little thing needs her daddy when he's sleepin', she's gon' get 'im."

The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixing with sounds of pleasure to create a symphony not meant to exist, let alone heard. Lee's hand trails down the side of your face, stopping only briefly at the neckline of your shirt before continuing your breast to roll your nipple between two fingers.

"Know what I wanna do, baby girl?" he asks, looking deeply into your eyes. It's almost soft and romantic given the situation and how wrong this relationship is. But the blue you've come to know is almost gone, something that looks like possessiveness flashing briefly before a smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Some day I'm gon' get you a pretty little necklace." His gaze flicks to your mouth, lips kiss-swollen and agape. His large hand moves down your ribs and keeps going, slowly, torturously, to the hem of your shirt. "Maybe a little gold chain, somethin' dainty."

Your nails lightly scratch his scalp as he keeps talking.

"Or…" his hips pause, only the tip remaining. He meets your gaze again. "Maybe pearl."

Lee doesn't give you time to register what he means before his hips snap into yours, hard, his thumb reaching between your sweaty bodies and brushing against your clit. You gasp, clinging onto him for dear life and moving your hips to meet his thrusts, pressure building fast in your gut the way only he seems to know how to do.

"Lee—" you whine. His lips cut you off, pounding into you so hard the headboard knocks against the wall above your head.

"You're grippin' me so tight, darlin'. You have no idea how"—he groans—"addictin' that is. I know you're close. Let me hear you."

His thumb works your clit in tight, furious circles, his cock hitting all the right places and making you moan. Three more thrusts and you're crying out as the climax washes over you, air becoming difficult to breath as he keeps working you and drawing out every bit of pleasure he's giving.

Suddenly he pulls back and tugs at the hem of your shirt until your stomach is exposed, the underside of your breasts just barely peeking out. He growls at the sight, his pace unrelenting until he pulls out without warning, his release landing on your skin in hot spurts.

Lee drops down on the bed beside you, one arm wrapping around the still-clothed part of your torso, his heavy body making the springs of the mattress squeak. Your gaze stays on the ceiling for a moment to allow your breath and heartbeat a chance to slow as his breath fans across the side of your face. The moonlight reflects faintly off the eggshell paint, the sounds of the crickets outside filling the newly returned silence.

After several minutes, he lets you go and stands, his footsteps heavy on the floor, and makes his way to the en-suite bathroom. He returns with a warm, damp cloth, and carefully cleans your sensitive folds before wiping up his release still clinging to your stomach and tossing it in the laundry basket in the corner.

"C'mon, let's get you back to bed before your ma gets home," he says, holding out his hand. You take it and climb out of bed, snatching your discarded panties off the floor before he walks you back to your bedroom with nothing but his undershirt on.

Before you can enter, he gently grabs your arm and turns you, cupping your cheek with one hand and kissing you with more tenderness than he's ever shown.

"Good night, Lee," you whisper when he finally pulls away. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips.

"Good night, sweet thing."

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You'd been holding it since your lunch break, waiting for the precise moment when he was relaxed enough to be off-guard. You glanced down at your phone—still on the Home Screen, but he didn't know that— and cleared your throat.

"Babe."

"Mm?" He didn't look up from the TV.

"I think I just saw Sam on Tinder."

His fingers stilled completely against your skin. His head turned slowly, like a door hinge that needed oil. Then without warning, he burst out laughing.

"Sam?" He wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Oh, that actually tracks."

You blinked. That… wasn't the reaction you were expecting. "It does?"

"Sweetheart, it's Sam. He'd been waiting his entire life for an app that lets him judge people by a single photo and a witty one-liner." Bucky shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, fully delighted by the image. "I bet his profile picture is a picture of him with Redwing, shirtless at the beach, holding a fish he definitely didn't catch."

"He did have a fish," you said, scrambling to keep up. "And sunglasses."

"Of course he did." Bucky wiped at his eye, wheezing. "His bio probably says something like 'Former Air Force, current Captain America'. Or maybe just 'Looking for someone to do the talking at parties.' He's definitely got that smirk in his pictures, the one where he thinks he's being mysterious."

You were biting your cheek so hard it hurt. This was going off-script. "You're not… worried about him?"

"Worried?" Bucky scoffed, waving a hand, settling back into the couch with a smug grin. "Sam's a grown man. If he wants to swim in the shallow end of the internet, that's his business. I'm just saying—" He leaned back, hands behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself. "—the man's got the charisma of a used car salesman and the ego of a fighter pilot. He's probably out there collecting matches like Infinity Stones. I bet he swipes right on everyone to see what he catches."

He was having the time of his life, roasting his best friend, eyes bright with mischief, there was no shred of concern in sight.

"I bet he opens with some line about his wings," Bucky continued, warming to his subject. "'Hey baby, ever been with a guy who can literally sweep you off your feet?' Or maybe he just sends a picture of Redwing and says, 'He's trained, but I'm not'."

You lost it. A laugh escaped before you could stop it, and Bucky took it as encouragement, turning toward you with a boyish grin.

"And you know he's got his Spotify linked. It's probably all early 2000s R&B and one patriotic playlist he made ironically but listens to unironically."

He threw his head back and laughed, loud and open, completely unbothered and thoroughly entertained by the mental image of Sam Wilson navigating modern dating. And then, it was like a record scratch moment.

Bucky froze mid-sentence, his mouth still open on some joke about Sam's courting. His eyes narrowed, shifting from distant amusement at his best friend's expense to something much more immediate. He turned to you slowly.

"Wait," he said. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Why are you on Tinder?"

Oh, there it was.

You looked up at him with your best innocent eyes. "What?"

"You're on Tinder," he said, pointing at you like he'd just discovered a new form of betrayal. "You're sitting there, on my couch. In our apartment, wearing my clothes… and you're swiping?"

"I'm not swiping right now."

"That's not the point, sweetheart!" He was gesturing wildly, all his earlier smugness evaporating into panic. "The point is you've got an account. You're out there, in a database where other men can see you."

"And women," you added helpfully. "It's very inclusive now, you know?"

Bucky looked like he might swallow his own tongue.

"Who else did you see?" he demanded, taking a step closer. "Did you match with anyone? Did you talk to anyone? Is that why you've been on your phone all week? Have you been— chatting?"

"Bucky—"

"I thought we were exclusive!" He was fully shouting now, but it was the most wounded shout you'd ever heard. "We live together! I always buy your favorite cereal!"

"I know, but—"

"What does your bio even say?" He lunged for your phone, and you had to scramble to keep it out of reach, which only made him more feral. "Let me see it! Did you mention me? Did you use a good picture? If you used that one from the beach I took I'm gonna lose my mind, you know the one, the one with the—"

"Bucky!" You were laughing now, couldn't help it, curling into the corner of the couch with your phone clutched to your chest. "Bucky, stop!"

"Why should I stop?" He shifted closer, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind you, all his looming energy collapsing into pure, wounded-puppy devastation. "You're out here, marketing yourself to the entire—"

"It's a prank!"

He stopped dead.

The rain kept hitting the window, the movie was still playing on the TV. And Bucky stared at you, chest heaving, his t-shirt was askew. He looked like a man who had just run an emotional marathon.

"What?" he said, very carefully.

"I'm not on Tinder," you continued, fighting your smile. "I don't have an account, I just saw this Tiktok and wanted to see your reaction."

The silence that followed was thick. Bucky's expression cycled through approximately twelve different emotions—relief, betrayal, confusion, more betrayal, grudging admiration.

"You are the worst person I have ever met."

"I thought it would be funny."

"You thought—" He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I was right there, about to text Sam about it. I had roasts prepared… and you were— you were pranking me."

"It was really funny, though."

Bucky looked at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength. Then he moved.

You shrieked as he grabbed you, hauling you off the couch and over his shoulder in one smooth move. The world tilted upside down—your hair falling toward the floor, his vibranium arm locked tight around the back of your thighs, his flesh hand swatting your behind with a satisfying smack that made you yelp.

"Bucky! Put me down!" You were pounding on his back, but you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, kicking your legs uselessly as he straightened up.

"Nope." He started walking toward the bedroom, purposeful and unbothered by your squirming. "You wanna prank me? You wanna make me think you're out there swiping through the entire population of New York while you're wearing my clothes? Fine. But you're gonna make it up for me."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you gasped out, not sorry at all, giggling into the fabric of his t-shirt.

"No you're not, not yet at least," he muttered, but you could hear the grin in his voice. He bounced you once on his shoulder to adjust his grip, and you squealed, clutching at his waist.

"I will be good, I promise I will be good!" You said breathless with laughter.

"Will you?" He laughed, swatting you again just to hear you yelp. "You're not gonna keep running around, giving me heart attacks?"

He kicked the bedroom door shut behind him and dropped you into the mattress. You bounced, trying to scramble away, but he was already climbing over you, caging you with his arms. He tried looking furious but instead he looked absolutely smitten, with that boyish grin that made your heart jump.

"Just so we're clear," he said low, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "That phone is mine now. Consider it confiscated by the century-old boyfriend whom you just tried to give a heart attack. And you're gonna make it up to me, starting now."

You were still giggling as he leaned down, but the kiss shut you up pretty quick, his fingers threading through your hair. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.

"No more doing pranks on me, okay? You can't go around giving me prank-induced arrhythmia for views."

You laughed, while your fingers traced the line of his spine. "I won't, I promise."

Your gun is in your hand, fingers clenched around the grip and trembling. Why are they trembling? Dirt is caked under your nails, crimson splattered across your skin and the dark sleeve of your shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting. You blink.

A shiver wracks through you. It's cold in here. You blink again, mind foggy as another explosion goes off, a voice following shortly after. Was that your name?

A pair of hands reach for you, an odd but familiar combination of warm flesh and cool metal, but something's wrong. The trembling in your fingers stops, only for them to loosen the hold on your weapon completely.

"No, no, no…" you hear the voice say. What should be a warm, comforting voice is dejected and full of fear. You want to look at them and tell them it's okay. That everything is fine. But your mouth won't move, and neither will your body.

Their hand moves to cup your cheek, turning your face like they had read your mind, only to be met with steel blue eyes swimming in an ocean of tears.

"Stay with me, sweetheart, please," Bucky whispers, voice horse. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. I tried, I swear—"

His voice cracks, lip trembling as a single tear begins to fall, landing somewhere on you…but you can't feel it. Darkness closes in like a weight pressing on your chest, all consuming and clouding your vision. A choked sob is the last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you in a cold embrace.

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A/N 2: Is it normal to cry while writing angst or am I just that sensitive? I literally had to take breaks every sentence or so. I need help.

⤷ Everything S. Stan: @steelandvibranium @phoenix-in-writing @syd-vixious @sebastians-love @overwintering-soldier @wintersgirllost @wint3rbarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @dei-dreamz @ladymiseryy @ornateglass @galactict3a @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @blue-eyes-in-august @juniebjonesin @erina00

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⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters

"I'm blockin' the only exit," Lee grunts, knowing exactly what you're thinking.

"Yeah, I was looking for a way out, now I can't escape."

He huffs. "Funny. You're here often, darlin', why is that?"

"Bad habits," you say with a shrug, turning now to face him. Your arms cross over your chest. "My bad habits lead to you, have for years now. You should know that."

He hums, nodding once. The look in his eyes goes distant for a moment before refocusing on your face.

"There's a way to fix that," he starts, "so you aren't in here twice a week."

You shake you head quickly, stepping forward and pointing a finger at him. "No, no way. Not ever again."

He smirks, mirroring your movements until his soft belly nearly presses into the bars. His eyes rake over your form, hunger growing as he wets his pink lips with his tongue.

"Ah, c'mon. We had some good times together, didn't we?"

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily at the reminder, heat flooding your cheeks. Lee grins wickedly at the reaction, hand already reaching for the key to the cell dangling from his belt.

"What d'you say?" he asks, unlocking it and holding it open. He already knows your answer.

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⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters

You smooth your hands down the front of it anyway.

Then your gaze drifts up to his dog tags.

They rest against your chest, cool metal warmed by your skin, the chain slipping between your fingers when you touch it. You don’t even remember when you put them on, just that they were sitting on his nightstand, and you’d been standing there in his space, already wearing his shirt, already thinking too much about him.

Now you’re here, in front of his mirror.

Just… looking.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes tracing the way the shirt falls over your body, the way the tags sit right in the dip between your collarbones. You look like you belong here. Like this is normal. Like this is something that happens every day—wearing his clothes, his things, standing in his room like you’ve always been allowed to.

Your lips part a little.

“God…”

It comes out quieter than you expect, almost like a confession.

You shouldn’t like it this much.

You shouldn’t feel this warm, this… claimed, just from a piece of fabric and a chain.

But you do.

Your fingers curl around the tags again, pressing them flat against your chest, imagining his hands there instead. Imagining the weight of his gaze. The way his voice drops when he’s looking at you like you’re something he wants to ruin.

The thought alone makes your thighs press together.

You exhale slowly, eyes flicking back up to your reflection, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself pretend.

That he’s behind you.

That he’s watching.

That—

The door clicks.

You freeze.

It’s instant. Every muscle in your body locks, your breath catching halfway in your lungs as your eyes snap to the mirror again—but this time, it’s not just you staring back.

He’s there.

In the doorway.

Bucky.

And he’s not moving.

Not even a little.

His gaze is locked on you like he’s been hit with something physical, something that’s knocked the air clean out of him. His shoulders are still squared from wherever he just came from, jacket half shrugged off, but none of that matters compared to the look on his face.

Dark, heavy, and animalistically hungry in a way that makes your stomach drop.

His eyes drag slowly over you in the mirror, taking in every inch of his shirt on your body, the way it hangs, the way your fingers are still curled around his tags.

It takes him a second to work through what he's seeing but then a low groan tears out of him.

It’s not subtle. It’s not controlled. It’s deep and instinctive and it hits you straight in the chest, makes something inside you clench tight and hot.

“Buck—”

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Commanding enough that the word dies on your tongue instantly.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking eye contact with your reflection. The sound echoes, final, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation.

He moves closer like he's stalking prey—maybe he is.

“You got any idea,” he starts, voice low, gravel thick and dangerous, “what you look like right now?”

Your throat feels dry.

You shake your head before you can think better of it.

Big mistake.

Because his eyes drop to the movement, to the way the tags shift against your chest—and something in his expression snaps tighter.

“Mine,” he mutters, almost to himself, gaze dragging back up. “Walked in and you’re standin’ here wearin’ my shirt… my tags…”

Another step closer.

You can feel him behind you now, heat at your back, his presence swallowing the room whole.

Your pulse is racing.

“I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t,” he cuts in, softer this time, but no less intense. “That’s the problem.”

His hand comes up, not touching you yet—just hovering at your waist, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. You can see it in the mirror, the tension in his arm, the way his fingers flex like he’s trying not to grab.

It makes your breath hitch.

“Turn around,” he says.

You don't question his command and you don't think of why that is.

Now you’re face to face with him, and it’s worse because up close, you can see every detail of the way he’s looking at you. The blown pupils. The tight set of his jaw. The way his chest rises a little heavier with each breath.

“You think you can just stand in my room like that?” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters.

“I—”

“Wearin’ my things,” he continues, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “Lookin’ like you belong to me.”

Your lips part.

“I didn’t mean—”

His hand finally closes around your waist and you gasp

“Didn’t mean what?” he presses, leaning down just enough that his voice brushes against your mouth. “Didn’t mean to drive me crazy? Didn’t mean to stand there lookin’ like that and expect me not to do somethin’ about it?”

You can’t think.

You can barely breathe.

His other hand comes up, fingers hooking under the chain at your throat, lifting the tags just slightly, eyes locked on the way they shift against your skin.

A dark, satisfied exhale leaves him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his sharp gaze snaps back to yours.

“Get back on the bed.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s not a suggestion. Not even close.

It’s a command.

Your thighs clamp down around his wrist while you squirm. “S-Scott, I can't—Can't take anymore. S’too much,” you sob. Your whole body is still shaking from your last orgasm, which stains the seat beneath you. One of your hands flies to your mouth when a broken cry shakes its way out of you.

He just scoffs, thrusting his fingers fast. They curl and scissor and pump inside of you with a precision that only comes with practiced skill. “You were the one fucking beggin’ me for it. Now you can't take it?” Somehow, his fingers sink deeper into you. Your head spins with the pleasure. “No, you can take it. You were so fuckin’ cocky before—you can keeps those legs nice and open for me, and you can take it.”

You rut your hips against his hand, whimpering when his palm presses against your clit. His muscles flex with the effort it takes to fuck you on his fingers.

Your hands find his bicep, and you dig your nails into his flesh as you press your face into him. You're lucky it's too dark out for anyone to see you through the windows, barely restraining your sounds as they mix with that of the wet smacking of him inside you.

Scott's got the cockiest grin on his face. You peek up at him to see him glancing back and forth between you and the road, the car barely inching forward on the heavy traffic. His jaw is clenched hard, gum long forgotten in favor of putting all of his focus into driving his fingers against your g-spot.

“Scott! Scott, ‘m gonna— Fuck! You're gonna make me–”

He watches your eyes roll back in your head. He watches you lean back against the seat and drop your jaw wide open around a silent scream. Your fingers get weak around his arm, your thighs are shaking like you've got electricity shooting through every inch of your body.

“Fuck, you're squirting all over my fuckin’ truck, you little slut.” He's rough as he fingers you through it, watching you drench his seats and his floor. “My dirty girl's ruining my fuckin’ passenger's seat. Yeah, you are, baby.”

He takes to smacking his hand over your pussy, your body jerks with each impact as you feel yourself getting limp and useless. You can't string together any sensible words as you let your jaw hang and your moans slowly come back to you.

“Good girl. Fuck, baby—see? You can fuckin’ take it.” You tremble as his fingers slow down to something a little more forgiving. You look a mess, flustered and spent, drool at the corner of your mouth and tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. What a fucking sight.

“There you go,” he coos, still smacking, still chewing. You hold loosely to his arm as you float back into the truck and finally register the music that's been playing this whole time. He rubs his fingers soothingly over your skin, shushing you when you shake and tutting when you whimper. “That's a good girl, baby. Did so good for me.”

You look up at him with tear-filled eyes, glossy and unfocused. “I got you,” he says softly. Your hands flex around his bicep, and he reaches over just long enough to stroke your cheek. “You know I got you. Good girl, I got you.”

You melt under the praise, under his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thighs. When you catch another glimpse of him, his eyes are soft and deep and overwhelmingly sincere. “I got you,” he hums again.

You squirm under his grasp. Having been to the station enough times to know that while most of the men will get the deed done to maximize their day's pay, Jack's taken a particular liking to you and doesn't mind slowing things down.

Your head falls back onto the mattress, the sheets crumpling beneath your curled fingers when he finally—almost too light to be felt—brushes his nose against the wet fabric clinging to your folds.

"Oh, sweetheart," he coos. "I've barely even touched you and you're already soaked."

His name falls from your lips like a prayer and he chuckles.

"Please," you whine breathily, "this is cruel and unusual punishment."

He simply grins, dimples forming deep in his cheeks. With a wink and a torturously slow tug on your panties to bear your glistening folds to him, he gives a long, flat lick from entrance to clit.

A harmonized chorus of moans and satisfied groans fill the lavish hotel room as Jack takes his sweet time tasting you.

"Such a pretty pussy," he hums, the deep vibration shooting up to your aching clit and making you whimper. "Prettiest I've ever seen. She likes me, doesn't she?"

Your teeth bite into the flesh of your lower lip, watching as he devours you until you're screaming his name over and over.

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By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.

The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.

Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.

Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.

You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.

Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.

You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.

Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.

Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.

His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.

In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.

Nothing big or expensive.

Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.

But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.

A slow turn in the hallway.

A sharp, lifted brow.

Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.

You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.

Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.

Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.

Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.

It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.

You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.

And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.

Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.

You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.

If there was a reason, he would tell you.

If there was blood, he would hide it badly.

If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.

-

You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.

Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.

Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.

Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.

Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.

Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.

"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?

At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.

It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.

Then guilt struck his features like lightning.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"

He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.

That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.

His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.

The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.

But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.

“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”

You frowned, worried.

Of course you were.

Always, when it came to your Clark.

But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.

Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.

Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.

A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.

“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.

He stopped mid-stride.

You pointed. “Flowers?”

He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.

"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"

Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.

Shit. You wanted him now.

"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"

"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.

The rambling died in his throat.

His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.

Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.

Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.

Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"

He nodded, still staring.

"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."

"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"

"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."

Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"

"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Shut up."

You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.

For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.

Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.

The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.

Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.

One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.

God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.

You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.

“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”

Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.

The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.

Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.

Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.

Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.

Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.

Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.

"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.

A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.

"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.

"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.

"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”

“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”

His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."

"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."

The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.

You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.

Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.

Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.

"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."

Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.

For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.

Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.

“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.

The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.

"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"

You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.

"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”

Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.

“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.

The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.

His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.

"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"

Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.

His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.

"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”

You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.

Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"

His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.

With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.

You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.

Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.

Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.

Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.

"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.

"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."

The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.

Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.

And the night had barely even started.

.

.

"Where have you been?" you breathe while you basically sprint toward him. Your arms extend just the right amount enough for him to crash into you and scoop you up into his hold. Then to spin you around while squeezing you so tightly that you think your spine might snap in half.

You welcome that, though. It's better than being here alone while he's off-planet and you're making yourself sick over whether or not he'll ever come home. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in his crushing hold, in this tight hug, because at least he's here.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He presses a kiss onto your temple, gentle and reverent, and you melt into him. Wrap your legs around his waist just to pull him closer to you, to feel the press of his hard, familiar body against yours.

"The mission wasn't supposed to last that long. Everything that could have gone wrong ended up going wrong."

The sigh he pushes out against your temple is full of solace. Maybe a little guilt, as well, judging by the way he tightens his grip on your waist. He buries his face in your hair right after that.

Definitely a not-so-subtle way of inhaling your scent after he'd lost it for two weeks.

You pull back and shake your head.

"Doesn't matter. I'm so happy you're home," you confess through a breathy, relieved laugh.

Your hands, still tingling from the excitement of seeing him after so long, somehow manage to find their way up to his face. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks while your eyes reorient themselves with his beautiful features. Although he'd been gone for what felt like an eternity, you never forgot what he looked like.

Which proves a problem, because he doesn't look the same as when he left.

Clark leans in to kiss you, but you don't let him. You ignore your body when it screams at you to let him do it. You quickly press your hand over his mouth to hold him back, earning a confused little hum from your boyfriend. When his brow knits together, you bite back a laugh that very desperately wants to burst from your chest.

There's no doubt in your mind that he wants to kiss you even more than you want to kiss him, but that's not happening until you figure out what's new.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he mumbles against your palm.

"Shh. Hang on," you command, eyes still combing over his features. Your hands follow, fingers gently tracing over his soft, warm skin. He's got a little bit of stubble, which was to be expected. Apparently he had access to a mirror to shave with off-planet, though, because it's more of a five o'clock shadow than actual stubble.

You blink a few times. Your fingers trace over the sharp line of his jaw, and the straight, prominent bridge of his nose, and his high-set cheekbones, and his brow, and...anything on him that you can get your hands on.

"M'starting to feel like a lab experiment. Are you high?" he teases, words a little slurred because you're too busy poking and prodding at his cheeks. Laughs at you, too, giving you a glimpse at that beautiful smile you've missed so much. That smile that's the same as it was when he left.

So...his face is the same. What the hell?

"You're different."

His hold on you gets a little more firm. The easygoing, relaxed features you know so well tighten and morph into concern. A furrowed brow instead of a relaxed one. Widened, slightly scared eyes. Tensed shoulders, an even more tense jaw, and his lips quirking downward into a frown.

"Okay, now you're scaring me."

He sets you down in front of him to get a good look at the top of your head, to crane over you like he always does since he's so fucking big.

"Are you sure you're alright, honey? Did you hit your head or something while I was gone?"

He cradles the back of your head with one hand, clearly feeling for a bump or indent or anything that could explain your odd behavior. Then he leans in a little further to get an even closer look.

And that's when it hits you.

When he tilts to the left to look at where his fingers are basically mapping out and exploring your skull, your eyes fall on his hair, and everything starts to fall into place.

On the way that the curls atop of his head are longer. More defined. Water falling over his head and ever-so-slightly adding to that signature curl that always rests on his forehead.

Then your eyes travel down to the back of his head, at the way his hair is longer there, too. Long enough now that it curls at the nape of his neck, or to stick out and curl upward in the case of some of the thicker ones; a subtle difference, but enough to throw you off.

Enough to turn you on, too, because his hair has never been this long. How he managed to grow it this much over two weeks is beyond you; blame it on Kryptonian biology, maybe.

All you know is that you love it.

"It's your hair!" you squeal. "It's longer!"

"Oh, yeah," he says, face melting back into that general, lovey-dovey, gooey ease he usually has when he looks at you. He chuckles and releases your head, opting for reaching down and grabbing your hands instead.

"It's a little overgrown. I was gonna cut it when I got home."

You scoff. Why do men always cut their hair when it finally looks perfect?

"No, don't you dare! I'll break up with you if you do that!"

You get an eye roll from him for that one, but the way he's smiling down at you makes you think he's not all that upset.

"You think it looks good, huh?"

"It's so pretty, Clark," you purr. You must have laid that soft compliment on him much thicker than you thought you did. His cheeks turn pink, and he grins, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers to avoid turning any redder.

You break free of his hold to touch some of those longer curls, but your fingers stall at his suit's collar. It's different. A little shorter, maybe? The gap in the middle at his throat just a little wider? You aren't sure. Either way, you can see more skin. More of that beautiful, golden skin you dream about being pressed against yours at all hours of the day.

You lean back far enough to look at the rest of his suit, which is also slightly different. Still the same bright blue. Still the same gorgeous, flowing cape. But that symbol, the beacon of hope on the front of his chest is a little bigger. And the stretch of the fabric is a little tighter around his biceps. And those ridiculous trunks - the part that genuinely makes you salivate the most despite being so ridiculous - are a little higher up.

Fuck. He looks incredible.

"This...is this a new suit?"

He beams down at you. Steps back to do a quick little spin. You've never had a problem with a show-and-tell moment. Especially when he's showing himself off.

"You like it? It's not technically new, just...upgraded. Had to get Ma to fix the old one 'cause it was super beat up. She made a couple changes along the way."

He braces his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. Something that should make you laugh, but now that you can see just how well his not-so-new but definitely-new-at-the-same-time suit's clinging to his thighs, you can't speak.

So you swallow when you're done ogling him and your eyes meet again. It was much harder than you wanted it to be. He definitely heard it, and the way he visibly softens and drops his mouth open tells you he's about to ask if you're okay again.

You don't give him the chance to do it, though, because you're too busy pouncing on him. Jumping into his arms and smashing your lips against his. Clark groans at your suddenness, but he doesn't skip a fucking beat. He'd been waiting to kiss you, after all; makes sense that he'd reciprocate it so quickly.

The kiss is immediately hot. It's heavy and obscenely needy on both ends. Your teeth click together in the most deliciously painful way. Your tongues fight for purchase in each others' mouths. Your hands tangle in his thick, longer hair while his hands slide down to your ass, groping it about as roughly as he knows you can handle while he stumbles out of your living room and toward your bedroom instead.

Your dorky giant trips over his own feet a couple times. His cape doesn't really help, either. Gets caught up and tangled in his boots, makes his steps all wobbly before he kicks your bedroom door open and bounds for your bed. And yet, through all that stumbling and near-falling, he manages to keep you steady in his grasp.

The best part about being with Superman? You never have to worry about him dropping you.

Clark doesn't even break the kiss as he kneels on the edge of your bed and bends over to lay you down on it. You're the first one to break it, and it's only so that you can suck in a breath to prevent passing out.

Damn him and his ability to hold his breath for an hour.

"I've thought about this," Clark mutters, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck about as frantically as possible, "every single second that I was gone."

You laugh and tilt your head back to give him more access to your skin.

"Ditto," is all you can muster as a response. Your head is swimming with lust and a tiny bit of oxygen deprivation, and he doesn't make it any better when he nips at the sensitive spot at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His tongue laves over the new sore spot and pulls a moan out of you that you had no idea was nestled in your lungs.

When you unravel your legs from his waist, he settles between them. You have to hold back a whimper as soon as you feel the thick, warm hardness of his cock against your inner left thigh.

You whine, tugging on his hair to get him out of your neck while you tell him, "Kiss me. I haven't seen you in two weeks."

He obliges, but he does it in his own way. A smirk against your hammering pulse at the side of your neck. A few kisses in a trail toward your collarbones. A thin, hot line that he licks up the column of your throat.

"Anything for you, baby," he mumbles just before connecting your lips again. This kiss is slower than the last one, but so much messier. So much deeper. His tongue doesn't even need to slide over your bottom lip and beg for purchase in your mouth - you both went into it open mouthed and burning with need for each other.

You raise your hips to meet the stiff length of his cock. Even through all of your combined layers of clothing, the feeling of his hardness just hardly bumping against your clit is enough to make your walls flutter and clench.

Clark gently rolls his hips against yours, eliciting a moan from both of you. That was some very much-needed friction. It only exacerbates your need. Makes you burn. Makes you tighten your hold on his curls and pull on them again.

He groans and breaks the kiss, but his hips instinctively buck against yours. It takes all of your strength to not come from seeing the thin string of saliva keeping you connected.

Clark lets out a nervous little chuckle.

"This reunion celebration won't last long if you keep pulling my hair like that, honey."

In a playful act of defiance, you twirl some of his thick curls around your fingers and give them another tug. You smirk up at him when his hips buck again.

"You like having your hair pulled that bad, Clark?"

"I like it a normal amount, thank you very much," he sarcastically counters, but his eyes shift away from yours and he buries his face in your neck to attack it with kisses again. He's always been a bad liar.

"So if I do this," you pause to pull on his hair again - a little harder, a little quicker.

"You won't come in your cute trunks?"

Clark literally shudders. His hand falls to your left hip so he can pin you down on the mattress; it was just to get you off of him, to keep you from brushing against his cock again. Prevents him from blowing his load before you even get your hands on him.

"No, I won't." His voice went up about 10 octaves. You laugh at him and kiss his temple just before he can start moving down your chest.

With a flick of his wrist, the buttons on your work blouse are done for. They pop off of you and fling around your room, hitting the walls and clinking down onto the floor all over the place.

"I liked that shirt!" you squeak out. Your feeble little attempt at scolding him bounces right off of him, though.

"I'll buy you another one, honey. Don't worry about it."

Clark spreads your now destroyed shirt open and kneels between your legs so he can get a good look at you. All you can do is push yourself up on your elbows and watch his gaze slowly travel over your bare, heaving chest, your kiss-swollen lips, the soft, pinkish-red marks he'd left on your neck to claim you as his.

But he doesn't speak until he meets your eyes. When his lust for you gets swept aside, and he smiles so big that his dimples pop out. He reaches down to grab your hands. As your fingers intertwine with his, he lowers his voice to a whisper and confesses, "I missed you so much."

Clark's sweet, tender-hearted nature isn't something you're unfamiliar with. He's always got that big heart of his on his sleeve. Always displaying sincerity, and compassion, and kindness because he was raised that way. That's just the way he operates.

And yet there's something so special about when he's directing it at you. Something more genuine, something sweeter and kinder and more compassionate.

Because he loves you. Sure, he loves the people in Metropolis. He cares about them and their well-being.

But at the end of the day, he really, really loves you.

"I love you," he coos while his massive hands give your much smaller ones a tight squeeze.

See?

"I love you," you return without hesitation. You get a flash of that pretty grin from your dorky giant.

Then he leans down to kiss a trail down between your breasts, down your stomach, and toward your waist. He stops there. His hands, big and warm and gentle as ever despite the frantic need threatening to explode out of him, graze over the bottom of the skirt you wore to work. Thankfully, it isn't too tight.

Not like that'd be a problem. He'd just tear it off of you. But, seeing as he already tattered one piece of your clothing today...well, at least you get to salvage the skirt.

Clark pushes your skirt up until it's bunched around your hips. As soon as he gets a glimpse of what he's been missing for 14 long, long days, he lets out a shaky little sigh. His thumb gently glides over the wet patch in the middle of your panties, slow and exploratory and so fucking intoxicating that you're worried you might actually be drunk on him.

"Clark, don't," you cut yourself off with a pathetic whine as he presses down on your clit through your panties. One of your legs jolts and falls over his shoulder, the other still pressed down on the mattress because his big hand's claimed its spot on your thigh.

"Shit, don't tease!"

"I'm not teasing," he mutters. Starts rubbing soft circles on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, making you twitch and claw at the sheets beneath you just to keep it together.

"Just admiring you, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty you are when you're making a mess for me like this," he purrs, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses on your thigh. That five o'clock shadow burns your thighs. God, you missed that burn.

As he's marking up your thigh with soft bites that he suckles on to soothe your pain, that thumb slips away from your clit to push your panties to the side.

It all happens so fast. One second, he's torturing you through your panties, the next, he's dipping his head down to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp and instinctively reach for him, one hand tangling in his hair while the other meets his where it rests on your thigh.

His longer hair is incredible, to say the least. It looks good. Fits him very well. Makes him look more mature even though he's already in his 30s.

Also, though? Fantastic to pull on while he's seated between your thighs and taking you to heaven. It keeps you grounded while he's moving down and dipping his tongue into your cunt. Plus, every time you yank on it, you get rewarded with a moan or grunt from him that shoots deep, gravelly vibrations straight up your core.

A particular gentle shake of his head while he's attempting to get his tongue deeper into you has you seeing stars. His nose gives your clit some much needed attention; enough attention, in fact, for you to whimper his name so loudly that it echoes within your room.

Also enough attention to get you to finish almost immediately.

You come so hard that your eyes might permanently be stuck rolled back in your head. While your body falls apart beneath him, the only thing keeping your soul from leaving it is that tight hold you've still got on his hair. You pull it a little harder as you're cresting over that wave that brings you to paradise, and while you're convulsing and trembling, he's letting out a rather loud moan of his own to match yours.

You come down a few moments later thanks to Clark's muttered sweet nothings and his gentle touches.

"Atta girl," he purrs through a few kisses he's pressing on your inner thighs. You keen. Then you blurt out a command to him, something telling him to get up off the floor so you can really get this party started.

"Um," he murmurs through an awkward laugh, "I think...maybe I'll just stay down here a little longer. If that's alright with you, of course."

That piques your interest. He does love to go down on you, but he's never turned down your begging for him to fuck you. You push yourself up on your elbows and take a good look at him.

At his widened eyes that keep darting away from you. At his bright red cheeks. At the way his chest is heaving much more than you'd expect it to be right now when he hasn't even really done anything.

You let out a weak giggle.

"What the hell are you talking about? You okay, Kent?"

"Yeah," he lies. A literal lie through his teeth. He pushed that little word out at you through a grin.

"Then come up here, weirdo," you tell him. "Sit against the headboard and let me repay you."

He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows so thickly that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. But, he's never been anything less than obedient, so he very reluctantly starts the process of doing as you say.

As soon as he pushes himself up from the floor where he was kneeling in front of you, you see what the problem is and why he wanted to stay down there a little longer. It's in the form of a relatively large wet patch on the front of his trunks.

No wonder he moaned so loudly when you yanked on his hair while you came.

It riddles you with guilt when you feel the giggle bubbling up and out of your mouth at his expense, but you couldn't hold it back if you tried.

"Clark, did you-"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbles, cutting you off relatively effectively. You cover your mouth with one hand and gnaw on your bottom lip. That helps you hold in your laugh.

It passes a few seconds later.

You shake your head.

"We don't have to."

As he reaches up to release the latches that secure his cape to his shoulders, you clear your throat.

"So...you definitely like it more than a normal amount when I pull on your hair, huh?"

Clark tosses his head back to let out a loud groan. You fall into a fit of giggles, but he's not having any of it. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Enjoy it now, because I'm cutting it in the morning just to spite you."