the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot
I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)
Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!
Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.
WC: 4.7k!
You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.
It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.
Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.
It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”
You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.
On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you.
“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”
Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.
You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.
Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?
You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.
It’s always Superman.
That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.
Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.
You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.
And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all.
You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.
God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.
Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.
You can be so ridiculous sometimes.
+++
You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.
You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.
“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.
You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”
He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”
“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”
He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.
You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.
God, you should’ve called in sick.
“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”
You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”
Her eyes widen. “What happened?”
You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”
“He didn’t even call?”
You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”
Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”
You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”
Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”
You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”
She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.
“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”
You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.
You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.
Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.
It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.
Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.
Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.
The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.
Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.
Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.
“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”
You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.
“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”
You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”
All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.
“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”
It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.
But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”
He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”
Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”
Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.
+++
Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.
Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.
He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.
He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.
It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.
It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.
Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?
I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.
He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.
You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.
You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.
So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.
“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”
“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Clark.”
He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”
You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.
You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.
“You’re not really sick, are you?”
His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.
“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”
“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”
You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”
“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”
“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.
“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”
“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”
“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”
“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”
He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?”
You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”
He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”
“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”
He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”
“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--”
Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”
“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”
“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”
Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.
Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.
“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.
He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.
It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.
And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.
You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.
Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.
“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”
“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”
“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”
Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”
“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”
He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”
If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?
“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.
You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?
You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”
“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.
“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”
“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”
“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”
“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”
Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”
“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”
“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”
You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.
“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”
You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?
“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”
You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.
“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch.
Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table.
“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.
You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.
“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.
You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.
He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”
“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”
“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”
“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”
“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”
You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.
“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”
That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”
“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”
You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”
“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”
You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”
“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”
You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”
You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”
“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”
“Clark,” you laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Just kiss me.”
He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.
go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot
I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo
Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, matchmaker!Krypto, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!
Summary: You and Clark are childhood best friends, growing up just across the field from one another. When he moves to Metropolis and announces himself as Superman, it causes a rift so large that you aren't sure you'll ever cross it. Until Superman comes home, sick and out of his mind, and only two things can help: sunlight and you.
WC: 7.7k
After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.
Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky?
“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.
It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.
You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.
It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.
And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people.
But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought.
Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.
All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does.
But you can’t think about that right now.
Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.
Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.
No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.
But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.
You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.
When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.
“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.
You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.
You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong.
Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.
She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”
You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.
“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”
Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”
Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.
Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.
Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.
“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.
She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”
You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.
“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.
“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.
“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”
Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.
“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”
You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.
You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.
You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.
“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”
You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”
She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.
“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”
“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.
“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”
“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.
Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.
+++
Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.
One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.
You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.
You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.
“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”
Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.
“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”
Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.
You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.
You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.
When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.
“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.
“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.
You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”
“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”
You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”
“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”
And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.
“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.
“For what?” you whisper.
“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”
“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”
“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”
It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking.
“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.
“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”
You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.
“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”
His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”
You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.
But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”
You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”
He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”
Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.
“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”
“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.
+++
Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.
Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.
Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.
The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.
You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.
Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.
“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”
He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”
“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”
“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”
“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”
“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you two talk?”
You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”
“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”
You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”
He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.
Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.
Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.
“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”
“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”
“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”
He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”
“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”
“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”
“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”
It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.
And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.
You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.
Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”
You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.
“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”
“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”
“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.
“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”
“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”
“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”
You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”
“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.
“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”
It’s just that.
You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”
“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”
Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”
“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”
You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces.
You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.
The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever.
That’s Clark.
That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent.
And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”
His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”
“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”
He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.
+++
The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.
Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!
You don’t listen to them.
But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.
“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”
You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.
“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.
“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”
“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”
“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”
“You don’t need to--”
“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”
“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”
He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”
You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.
“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.
He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.
“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”
He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”
+++
You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.
Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.
You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?
No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.
When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.
It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.
But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.
“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.
You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge.
He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.
So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?
You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.
Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.
“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
You believe her. It will be okay.
You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”
“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”
You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”
“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.
“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.
“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”
“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”
With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.
Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.
Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.
You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.
Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.
You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.
Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.
A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.
You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.
You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.
You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.
“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”
As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.
You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice.
You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.
Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.
“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”
“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”
You can’t help it, you start giggling.
“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”
“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”
“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”
You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”
Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”
“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”
He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”
“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”
“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”
“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”
Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”
“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”
“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”
“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”
“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”
“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”
“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”
“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”
“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”
“On flying quieter?” he laughs.
“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”
“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”
“What?”
“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”
“What about your job?”
“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”
“Clark--”
“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”
“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”
He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”
You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”
Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.
“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?”
He shrugs. “Of course he can.”
“Are you sure?” you ask again.
And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”
You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave.
“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”
“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”
“Exactly!”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”
“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”
“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”
“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
Your breath hitches.
“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”
“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.”
“Oh, it’s a competition now?”
“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”
“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”
“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”
“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”
“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.
Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.
You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.
And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away.
“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more.
“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered.
His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”
“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”
“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”
“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”
“No, she loved us.”
“Maybe you, she was your cow.”
He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”
“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”
He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”
“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.
Thinking about Dick Grayson, who did not want to get a massage. Bruce forced him. Forced, being the key word. Dick had never felt better! Limber, loose, as flexible as a trained acrobat could be! Sure, he had been more stressed than normal, and sure, he had complained once about tightness in his neck. But he was fine!
Yet, every protest that spewed from his lips fell short, ricocheted against the impenetrable wall of Bruce’s stubbornness.
And you didn’t want to massage him either! You were Bruce’s privately contracted massage therapist, not anyone else's. Let alone Bruce’s son. No. no way.
But still, you found yourself massaging Dick Grayson after a stern look from Bruce and a generous tip from Bruce in your bag--
All of Dick’s protests fell out the window when your magic fingers went to work on the muscles on the back of his neck. The second you kneaded down his trapezius, a switch flicked off in Dick’s brain. He was putty in your hands – not that he would ever admit that to Bruce. Drool strung down his lips, his eyes were half-closed and unfocused. He had never felt so good in his life.
Who knew a pretty thing like you had hands of gold – fingers that rendered Dick Grayson speechless for once in his life.
It was only right for him to return the favour, right?
You don’t really know how you ended up on the massage table. Somewhere between the rumbling cadence of Dick’s voice promising to return the favour, right, sweetheart? and his warm hands pushing you down onto the massage table, your own protests died in your throat.
You also don’t know how his fingers ended up inside of you. Pumping and curling at the right spot, at the right time. One of his hands was slapped over your mouth, his body leaned over yours to keep you pinned to the massage table.
You could barely hear his words over the wet squelch of his fingers scissoring in and out of your sticky cunt. Strings of your release clung to his fingers everytime he pulled his fingers back before shoving them back in as far as they could go.
“fuck, yessssss, gorgeous. So wet for me,” his chest rumbled against your back as his cheek rested against your head. “Gotta be quiet for me, okay? Shhh, pretty girl, don’t want Bruce to hear, right?”
The only sound you could muster was a choked whimper into the palm of his hand. Your fingers threatened to rip apart the cushion of the massage table. Pressure built up in the pit of your stomach, so consuming that your hips attempted to flee from the onslaught of his fingers.
“Wait, Dick, I can’t– it’s… this is-” your protests were barely coherent into his palm, and fell onto deaf ears as he chose to ignore them. He had already sensed what was happening before you did. He saw the arch in your back, felt the tightening of your warm, slick walls around his fingers – clamping tight and sucking him in despite your attempts to get away.
He pressed a devilish smirk into the back of your hair – sweet and clean. His lips trailed down to the back of your neck, biting down gently on the skin at the base of your neck.
“Make a mess for me, baby,” he whispered into your ear, pressing another kiss to the skin beneath your lobe. He pressed his fingers as far as they could go, his palm slapping against the fat of your ass. The tips of his fingers rubbed against the spot inside you that paralyzed you and clouded your vision, your hips locking up at your back muscles spasming with pleasure. It felt different, not the same kind of release you were used to.
The force of it surprised you. Your vision went white as you let out a choked whine into his hand, your fingers digging into his arm instead. A wet, steady stream shot out of you, coating his fingers and dripping onto the table beneath you. It clung to your thighs and dripped down his arm.
“That’s fucking right, baby, good fucking girl,” he pulled his fingers out with droplets of your release splattering onto the cushion between your legs.
His fingers that were over your mouth trailed down to your chin and forced your head back to gaze up at him. He leaned down to press a tender kiss onto your lips, a paradox to the roughness in his grip. His nose nudged gently – mischeviously – against your cheek, the ghost of a smirk already spreading across his lips.
“Think you can give me one more, pretty girl? Gotta repay my favourite massage therapist somehow,”
It wasn’t just one more
────୨ৎ────
an: im begging for requests, dick grayson makes me feral
summary: dick grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does!
tags: 18+ mdni, kissing, smallest argument with comfort, fluff, not proofread!
2843 words
based off this request -- thank you for sending it in! once again, I cannot write anything short. i'm working on it!!
You hated Dick Grayson.
He was disgustingly charming, holding a brightness in his eyes that paralleled the beauty of the galaxy. He knew how to wield that power. He was gorgeous, devastatingly so. His face was a perfect canvas of symmetrical visage.
You knew it, and he knew it.
You could see it in the way that other women in the office treated him – the fluttery lashes, the lip bites, the attempts at small, lingering touches – and how he smirked right back, giving them a false sense of hope. You refused to be a part of his roster, refused to be another person that was hypnotized by his charm. Your resistance didn’t deter his efforts, much to your dismay. Yet, despite your annoyance towards his presence, you knew he was anything but malicious. You knew he was harmless in his actions, simply just having fun.
Bruce Wayne was unpredictable in his office appearances. Oftentimes, you were left there alone to pick up the slack alongside Lucius Fox. You had no prior business experience that had prepared you for this role, so you were surprised when you were offered the position.
Today, in particular, was a harder day for you. Being Bruce’s assistant was challenging, despite all the perks that came with the job. December was the hardest month at the company – meetings, preparations for the new year, securing deals, galas – it was a constant weight on your shoulders that you weren’t able to leave at the office.
Neither Lucius, nor Bruce were in office today. Neither had been all week, leaving you to take on the brunt of the work in their absence. Dick, for the most part, was the one filling in for what you couldn’t do.
You hated how easy he made it seem. He came in, handled the meetings, handled whatever paperwork or phone call required of him, and did his work as if it was the easiest thing in your world.
You, on the other hand, were drowning. Your head was already under the water and you were losing air quickly. No matter how much you tried to claw to the surface, to break even on the amount of work you had to get done, several more tasks were added to your to-do list. Each task took you longer than you would like to admit, simply because you were afraid of ruining things. You had to teach yourself how to complete the tasks to the same standard of Bruce, Lucius, or Dick, as none of this was originally in your job description. Dealing with Dick wasn’t in your job description either.
“There’s my favourite girl! How are we doing today, beautiful?” Dick’s voice cut through the quiet space as he planted himself on your desk. He flashed a bright, charming smile down at you as he lounged comfortably on your desk. His arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt stretching against the bulging of his muscles. He could sense the tension radiating off your body, all he wanted was to see that pretty smile that you always tried to hide from him.
You were too engrossed in reading the file by one of Wayne’s Enterprise’s partners to acknowledge Dick. One monitor had the file pulled up, while you used the other to research terms and proper practices. Your brow was furrowed as you attempted to make sense of the words in the file.
His finger came up and gently twisted a strand of your hair around his finger, “nearing quitting time, sweetheart, you gonna let me take you out for dinner?” he rumbled smoothly, his head ducking in an attempt to enter your line of vision. His finger carefully untwisted your hair and gently smoothed the strand back against your head.
“Busy,” you mumbled back, letting out a puff of breath as you squinted at your notes, attempting to make sense of the numbers that were being listed in the file. His touch began to overwhelm you, invading your mind and derailing your train of thought.
“Come on,” he whined softly, his thumb coming up to your forehead in an attempt to smooth out the tense skin between your brows. “Gotta make sure you’re eating, yeah? I know a good spot over on-”
“Can you stop-” you snapped at him, slapping his hand away. Your eyes were fire, red with anger. He had never seen this side of you before, never seen you even raise your voice, despite how much he knew he toyed with you. “I’m busy. I don’t want to get dinner with you. I don’t want to do anything with you. Go ask one of your other playthings,”
He said there quietly for a moment, stunned by your sudden outburst. “Sweetheart, I-”
“I’m not your ‘sweetheart’, Dick. I have had a horrible week because I’ve been too busy trying to pick up your shit, and I have a lot to get done still. So, please, leave me alone. I’m sure you have 14 other girls on your list that you can take to dinner right now,” you seethed out again, cutting off his attempt at a response. The office went dead quiet, though you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. There was too much to get done, too much on your mind, you didn’t need his shallow flirting to make things worse. You didn’t need empty promises, you didn’t need to be a game for Dick to win.
He sat there quietly again, still stunned by your words. A glob of spit pooled in his mouth, practically choking him as he forgot how to work his motor functions for a moment. He made you mad. He was trying to make you smile, but he did the opposite?
“Right, yeah…” he murmured softly, standing up quietly from your desk. You turned back immediately to the file, immersing yourself back into the work at hand. He lingered behind you, his gaze roving over your form one last time. He didn’t want to leave you like this. He knew that you were under an immense amount of pressure this week. He had done everything he could to alleviate the workload on your shoulders. He did paperwork, responded to emails, took calls before you could get to them – yet your workload never ceased to decrease.
“You have a meeting in 20 minutes, Richard, I emailed you the notes,” you snapped out quietly, not turning to look at him. Your clipped tone paired with the formality halted him in his tracks. Richard? You hadn’t called him that since your first week as Bruce’s secretary.
He remained in a slight daze as he walked into Bruce’s office and planted himself in the chair. Was it something he said? He thought he was making progress in charming you, making you see that he was serious about his feelings for you, and he was planning to say it explicitly for you if you had agreed to dinner with him. But then again, you had said you had a hard week. It was a hard week. For everyone. The company. Gotham’s crime rate had skyrocketed and required all hands on deck. Everyone was being stretched thin.
Dick, however, was used to this chaos. He thrived in the bustle of stepping in for Bruce at the company when needed, and patrolling into the early hours of the night. His entire life was a masquerade, a show.
He knew you did not share that same lifestyle – obviously. He had watched you on numerous occasions, scaled the rooftops on your journey home to ensure you made it home safe. Patrol had conveniently situated him across from your apartment window, allowing him to keep an eye on the neighbourhood and over you at the same time. You were quiet, a steady calm in the tornado of his life. His heart, once impenetrable, was consumed by you.
God, he felt like an asshole now. He could make it up to you? right?
The sharp ring of the phone interrupted his thoughts. He leaned back in his seat, taking a breath, before a smile plastered on his face. “Michael Holt! Pleasure to hear from you-”
────୨ৎ────
You successfully avoided Dick for the rest of the work day. Whatever correspondence that was needed between the two of you was done over email. You managed to slip out of the building without being cornered by anyone. Your breath had been caught in your chest all day. There was no amount of air that was able to fill your lungs enough to give you the satisfaction of a proper breath. You felt like you were in a daze until you got home.
You dreaded stepping into the office building the next morning. You knew people were going to be whispering about your encounter with Dick. Perhaps about the lack of professionalism that you displayed. You didn’t care.
There were a few of your coworkers in the office, the early birds getting a head start on their workday. Each give you a small nod of greeting as you passed by. The room was quiet, the low energy of all the staff affecting the atmosphere on the floor.
You had expected to be met with a mountainous pile of paperwork on your desk, like everyday of the past week. To your surprise, there was a singular note.
Come into the office.
R.G.
Stepping into Bruce’s office was nerve-wracking. You didn’t want to face Dick. The way his face had fallen after your outburst caused a crack to split down your chest – seeping with guilt and tar.
The office was empty, cold with the lack of Dick’s presence. The only sign of life was a small basket placed on top of the coffee table that was situated in the lounge area of Bruce’s office. The brown, woven basket’s lid was closed, sealing off the contents from your view. Another note with Dick’s elegant scrawl was placed on top. The note began with your name, and you tried not to acknowledge his usual pet name for you missing from the note.
I know you’ve had a hard week. We would be lost here without you. I got you a little something as a token of my (our?) no, MY appreciation. Please accept it. And accept my apology for angering you, I thought I was doing the opposite. Don’t worry about your to-do list, I took care of it already. Take a half day today – think of it as an early weekend! Yay! Enjoy.
R.G.
You sat down on the chair, reading over the words quietly. Your fingers quietly lifted the lid of the basket. The crack in your chest deepened as you gazed at the contents of the basket.
At the very back was a fluffy blue pyjama set, soft and warm under the tips of your fingers. Stuffed beside it was a small box of calming tea, surrounded by some of your favourite snacks – how did he know?. There were facemasks, cozy socks, a candle, a card to some ridiculously expensive spa, and… a small, homemade coupon book?
He did all of this for you? All the hard work you had put into keeping him out of your heart had crumbled by this gesture. Your heart was singing at the effort put into this basket.
You opened the coupon and immediately rolled your eyes at the contents. Though, you had to fight to keep the smile of amusement from breaking onto your face. You hated how he made you feel, how the thoughts of him always seemed to infiltrate your mind.
Of course, Dick would make a homemade coupon book.
“Good for: one free kiss”
“Good for: one dinner date”
“Good for: one free slap”
“Good for: one free kiss!!”
“Good for: pass off your to-do list onto Dick”
"Good for: ONE FREE KISS!!!!!!”
You rolled your eyes again and moved to flip to the next coupon when the door swung open. Dick’s large frame stopped in the doorway. His eyes roved over you in momentary shock. Your heart lurched as you stood up quickly.
“You’re here early. You usually aren’t here until 9,” he breathed out, shutting the door quietly and stepping closer. He left distance so as to not startle you, afraid you would bolt out of the office once given the chance.
“Had a lot that needed to be done… um.. Thank you for taking care of it,” you responded back, your flickering between the basket and him. He smiled softly and stopped beside you. His delicate walk never failed to amaze you – the way he moved with grace, always sure of his body’s movements, and with perfect motor symmetry.
“Happy to, Swe-” he coughed, cutting himself off. His fingers fidgeted as if he didn’t know what to do with them – something you had never seen from him before.
“I was just leaving. Was hoping to be out of your way when you got here so that you could focus. Use the spa giftcard today,” his tone was gentle, a quiet murmur in the dimly lit office. The rain had cast a prominent gloom in the already present darkness of Gotham.
“Thank you for the basket,” you whispered in return, your eyes flickering up to meet him.
“Of course,” he murmured, the knuckle of his finger gently brushing the underside of your jaw. “You’re wearing the same outfit as yesterday?”
You looked down at your clothes, your hands smoothing over the top. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks in the form of heat. “Yeah…”
“I love this outfit on you,” he added softly, nudging your chin back up to face him. You pressed your lips together in response.
“Dick, I’m…”
“I know, don’t worry. It’s okay,” he whispered back, the tiniest hint of a smile breaking through his lips. “There’s… there are no other girls, by the way. You said yesterday that I have 14 girls. I see why you think I would, but I don't. I only want one.”
“Can I use one of these coupons right now?” you asked softly, your fingers sliding the cardstock material back and forth. He nodded slightly, leaning closer. His nose gently nudged against yours. The warmth of his hands slowly slid up the back of your waist, hooking into the fabric of your top.
The quiet rip of the paper echoed softly in the space between you as you gave him a soft smile.
“Close your eyes,” you whispered, slipping the coupon into his pocket. You waited until he shut his eyes before a small smile spread onto your lips. You took a moment to admire the beauty of his features. Strong features, angular jaw. The definition of perfect. Beautiful.
The crack of your hand meeting his cheek left him silently stunned. His eyes flew open in shock as he blinked down at you. “I deserved that… but what the fuck?”
Your laugh immediately filled the space, pulling the coupon out of his pocket to show which one you had chosen to cash in – “Good for: One free slap”.
A pout formed on his plump lips, his eyes filling with betrayal. “There were FOUR free kiss coupons for you to choose from!” he whined, pulling you in by the waist again. “FOUR!”
You continued to laugh, your hand coming up to gently soothe the skin of his cheek. You were both aware that the slap did not hurt him. His cheek had barely reddened in colour.
“One of them even has extra emphasis on the fact that it’s a free-”
You cut him off by pressing your lips softly to his. Your hands gently pulled him close by the black hairs on the nape of his neck, silencing his whining. His mouth was warm and sugary with the taste of sweetened coffee. He let out a soft breath of relief into your mouth, immediately relaxing into the kiss. His strong arms wrapped around you completely, pulling you into the hard planes of his body.
“Fuck, you’re so… fuck,” he mumbled into your mouth, his lips turning ravenous against yours as a sudden desperation filled the room. He pulled you closer, his lips devouring yours in a way that left you dizzy. You let out another soft giggle into his mouth, gently biting down on the pillowly skin of his bottom lip.
He ripped himself back, forcing his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, his lips wet with spit. He looked utterly destroyed, disheveled, with half-lidded eyes. His hands cupped over your cheeks, holding you close to his face.
“Again, please. Please let me kiss you again, I-” he breathed out softly, his nose nudging against yours again. Every fibre of his being was pleading, you could sense it in his breaths, in his grip on your voice, and the lower frequencies of his voice. “You’re so beautiful, taste so good, can I, please?”
“Yes, but first…” you smiled softly, leaning back fractionally. The sound of paper ripping filled his ears again before you held up another coupon in the space between the two of you.
“Good for: one dinner date”
an: I don't know if this is exactly what the request asked for??? but I had fun writing it anyways. THANK YOU FOR SENDING IT IN!!! I would make this into a universe if I have enough ideas, or if you do. thoughts are being thunk
When Clark reads your journal, it leads to you ignoring him for a week. Then, Bizarro visits Metropolis and chooses you as the target, Superman is there to save you and maybe save your friendship with Clark too
tags: 18+, fem!reader, yearning, plot, Bizarro has a unspecified intentions w reader but I don't intend for it to be taken weirdly, light injury (nothing serious), pwp, eventual smut, Clark is so understanding, friends to lovers, Reader overthinks, female anatomy, reader has hair, implied age gap?, reader is pictured to be early to mid twenties, no argument but silent treatment, barely any angst, pet names, I lowkey lost the plot, first time writing after years, very rusty, probably badly written smut, also badly written aftercare / ending! but there is smut! P in V, unprotected, oral (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, Clark has a big dick, cum eating, let me know if I missed anything!
12031 words! | AO3
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
When you walked back into your living room after your shower, you had expected to see Clark Kent scrolling through your television. You did not expect to see Clark Kent sitting on the edge of your couch reading your journal.
Your best friend. Invading your privacy.
In fact, that was a sight you had never expected to see, given how he knew how sacred this belonging was to you. It was no secret that you could often be found writing in that journal; with your head down and engrossed in your own little world as you wrote anything and everything that came to your mind. Even at times when you were meant to be working, he would catch you at your desk hunched over the notebook.
To your appreciation, Clark never asked if he could see inside – ever the gentleman. He never made any efforts to peek at the pages when you weren’t looking – or at least, not that you knew of –, and was, for the most part, very respectful of your writing; this was opposed to the occasional wish for you to share an excerpt of whatever you had written down.
There were times where you were more than happy to share aloud what you had written, and there were others when you had politely declined his wish with the claim that it was something you felt needed to stay personal to yourself.
But here you were, your lips parted in shock as you watched him hold your journal open in his hands. You felt like your world had come crashing down. A chill ran through your body and settled deep within your bones at the mere thought of all of the things that you had written down in there, things that he was now reading.
“Clark?” you breathed out shakily. There was not enough air in the world that you could inhale into your lungs, there was no cure for the dizziness that spun your brain.
His head snapped up to look up at you, his eyes meeting yours equally as wide.
“Hi, Honey,” he said softly, slowly standing up as if he didn’t want to startle you as you looked as though you were about to run away and throw up at any second. He looked down at your journal, still tucked away in his hands before back up at you.
“This… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear,” he added quickly, his hands clutching your journal between the two of you.
The room tilted on an axis. Nothing seemed right as the walls began to close in on you. As you continued to gaze up at him, a heavy weight settled on your chest that left a lingering pain in the centre of it.
In an instant, all you could see was your room tinted in a hue of red as rage exploded through your veins and clouded your mind. You stormed up to him, your face contorted in hurt and anger as you looked up at him with fire in your eyes.
You were never one to get mad, to get upset; in fact, you were probably one of the most rational people that Clark had ever encountered. It was a perfect balance to his somewhat scattered tendencies when switching between Superman and civilian life.
But here he was on the receiving end of your anger, something that he had never experienced in all his years of knowing you.
“How could you?” you asked, your voice soft through the hurt and anger that was radiating off of you was tangible in the air, as you took the journal from his hands and held it up. Your face was a stone mask of nothing but he could see the emotions brewing in your eyes. Emotions that he had caused.
He was terrified; terrified because your tone was steady, though he could feel the tension floating off your body in crashing waves. Waves that struck him and left him feeling more guilt than he thought he would feel.
“No, wait, I didn’t-”
“No! Clark, how could you?” you cut him off, your hand coming out to push him to sit back down on the couch. You had to be the one to look down at him otherwise you felt like you wouldn’t have the upper hand. Your hand gripped his shoulder as he sat on the bed looking up at you.
He went speechless as he let you handle him. Your touch was soft and gentle, just like you always were – the thing he loved most about you. Despite being used to the horrors he had faced in his life – the cold nights and harsh battles on alien planets – you were the one thing he knew would always be soft and warm.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but as he tried to get the words out they died in his throat once again. It was all too much, the scent of your perfume engulfing him and calming his nerves, your touch warming his shoulder and spreading throughout the rest of his body, and your beautiful face looking down at him – though, this time you were looking down at him as if he was the last person you wanted to see. He always had a tendency to become speechless in your presence and make a larger fool of himself than he normally would.
As he gazed up at you in this moment, he could no longer keep up that act. All he could do was savour these final moments of you; of your beauty; of the love he had for you that threatened to break through his walls at any given moment.
You continued to stare down at him for a couple of moments as you waited for him to give you an answer – to say anything. The tension in the air was palpable, a tension that you so desperately wanted to take in your hands and rip into shreds because this was Clark, your best friend. The man who saved a squirrel simply because it was a living being.
But as you stared down at him, all you could feel was pain. You shook your head, stepping back as you dropped the notebook down into his lap.
He looked down at the notebook and then up at you in confusion as the leather hit his thighs, his fingers reaching down to curl around the spine.
“Keep it, since you wanted to read it so bad,” you shook your head again in disbelief as you stepped out of your way and gestured to the door, “I’d like to be alone now.”
He stood up immediately with a soft protest leaving his mouth but you cut him off again.
“Go,” you said, looking down before looking back up at him with a quieter, “Please.”
You glanced up at him as he looked down at you with a pained expression, his lips parting again to speak. All you could do was shake your head and look away to fight the tears that were threatening to spill if you continued to see your journal within his grip.
The sounds of his footsteps with a slight silent hesitation near your door as he exited your room, kept your body tense until you heard the door shut softly behind him and the fading of his steps as he retreated.
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That was a week ago, and it was one of the hardest weeks of your life. You avoided Clark like the plague – leaving when he entered the room, not looking in his direction, and even going as far as to pretend he didn’t even exist. It wasn’t completely because he read your journal, it was the knowledge that he knew everything you had written in there, especially the entries regarding him.
Maybe it was your fault to write down your feelings for him in there, knowing that another set of eyes could have read them, but that notebook never left your side. Unless you were in the privacy of your own home and in a space in which you had trusted him to respect – which he had never given you a reason not to. You needed an outlet for the depth of your love for Clark. It was always so consuming, even debilitating. You could feel it in every crevice of your being, and the only way to expel it was to put it on paper.
Maybe you were being overdramatic. Maybe.
You walked into work that morning, a week after the incident, exhausted from a long and restless night. Metropolis had been a hub for extraterrestrial behaviour this past week, you had assumed, since Superman had been flying around more than normal. You could hear him outside your window. You could see him outside of your window. Flashes of blue and red as he zipped around and hovered.
This morning at the Daily Planet felt infinitely more hectic than usual. Papers were flying, bodies were blurs as they moved around the room in a hurry. You spared a quick glance at his desk. A turn of the eye through a blink, and nothing more. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment yet.
Clark was already gazing at you. His fingers wrapped tightly around his pen as his thumb clicked the end repeatedly. Unconsciously.
He had already sensed your presence the second you had turned onto Fifth and Concord. The comforting scent of your perfume slowly infiltrated his nostrils when you had stepped into the building. His mind calmed down the second you stepped out of the elevator and into the room. You calmed him down.
His body called for you. His skin longed to be pressed against yours in any capacity whenever he saw you. He saw you glance over, of course he did. He noticed everything when it came to you. He saw you pretending like you weren’t looking, and it made his heart skip a beat at the idea that you didn’t want him to know.
A loud snap flinched him out of his trance. The broken plastic of the pen scattered in his palm brought him back to reality as he gazed back up at you. He dropped the scattered pieces across his notepad as he quickly stood up and silently followed you to your desk.
You didn’t hear him following behind you, but you felt his proximity when you stopped just behind your chair and gazed at the wrapped package where your keyboard normally sat. For someone who took up as much space as Clark did, you never heard his footsteps thud under the heavy weight of his mass. The heat from his hand hovering over your shoulder seeped into your skin and had you tensing in your spot. You gazed down at the wrapped package as if it was toxic waste on your desk.
“It’s for you-” Clark’s gentle timber barely reached your ears as you gently grabbed the present and pressed it back into his hands. Quickly. Softly, but quickly. The package itself burned your hands in a branded reminder of the intent behind the present.
I’m sorry.
An apology gift. An apology gift for sorrow-filled feelings consequenced out of their own volition.
“No, Clark,” you murmured back softly as you slid into your seat and turned your monitor on. The silence behind you stretched on for a moment, and you didn’t dare to turn around. Your vertebrae grinded and cracked with the force of your rigidity.
Finally after a few short moments, Clark leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “I understand, I’m sorry. I miss you, Honey.”
He didn’t touch you beyond that. His large, always warm – almost too warm sometimes – hands remained respectfully by his side. Fuck Clark Kent. Fuck Clark Kent with this gentlemanly manners, his understanding, his patience, his farmboy charm, his kind eyes, his captivating–
No.
You shook those thoughts from your mind immediately as you quickly dove into the articles that needed editing for the day. By the time the work day ended, your exhaustion streamed through your bones and into your brain.
“Hey, Babes, what are you up to tonight?” Lois planted on the desk in front of you as she knocked her legs between yours. Her signature smirk, though a hint softer as she gazed at you, was plastered on her face as she leaned forward. “Drinks? Bar? Jimmy is in. Clark will go if you go-”
You tensed at the mention of Clark before shaking your head slightly.
“Sorry, Lois, I’m not feeling a night out this week,”
Her gaze narrowed as she analyzed your form. Her analytical eyes zeroed in on various points of your form.
“Spill it.”
“... Nothing to spill.” you attempted to feign nonchalance, but fidgeted under her gaze. “Stop doing that!”
“What are you hiding from me?” She stated again, her eyes boring into your features. “What happened with Clark?”
Your hand came up to quiet her, as if that was possible for a personality as loud as Lois’.
“Shh, what if he hears you!” You whispered in embarrassment, looking around as you ducked your head down. Despite the fire coursing through your body, you knew Clark had left The Planet an hour and a half ago on reporter business, you know?
“He left so long ago, we’re fine” She waved you off, rolling her eyes as she gently kicked her feet, “tell me, tell me, tell me!”
“Yeah, and somehow, he always manages to know, you know? I think he has superhearing or something cause there’s no way-” you began to ramble, giving her a speculative glance as you leaned into her bubble as well.
“Okay, what did he do?” She pressed again as she interrupted your ramblings, this time quieter for your sake. Coaxing. Your quiet-natured heart always appreciated softer conversations, something Lois had actively attempted to start doing when she was with you.
“He read my journal,” you mumbled through a soft breath, frowning at her. Your hand came up to cover your eyes at the frustration. “Am I overreacting? Am I being immature?”
Thoughts swirled through your brain and out your ears, so wild and loud that you were sure Lois could see them. Were you overreacting? Did Clark’s actions warrant silent treatment, or even a termination of friendship? Your immediate thought was no. Truthfully, you didn’t think you could be without Clark’s friendship. He was your best friend. You didn’t want to be without him, but you struggled to look him in the eye. And, sure, you were younger than most of the Daily Planet staff, but you had just graduated from your Masters program! Give a girl a break!
Your gaze focused back up at Lois’ face as a small pout formed across your lips.
“You’re not overreacting, he shouldn’t have done that,” Lois sighed softly. Her hand rubbed your shoulder soothingly before gently nudging your chin as she gave you a small, reassuring smile. “But I do think you owe him a conversation. Let him explain.”
Her words were urging, and kind – the kind of tone she always took with you. Your pout lingered on your lips for a few moments longer before you let out a resigned sigh. Your bones were heavy and weighed your skin down into your chair.
“I think I’m just embarrassed? You know? That he read it? That he saw everything?” You attempted to rationalize, nibbling on your bottom lip softly before sitting up again.
Lois hummed in understanding as she stood up and grabbed her bag, “Movie night? Take out, Ice Cream and Snacks?” You nodded appreciatively as you gathered your own belongings. Despite not knowing her for long, she had quickly become one of your closest friends.
Lois smiled and squeezed your hand, “Perfect! Go home, get cozy. I’ll be over later with everything. Don’t worry about anything.”
Your journey home was uneventful. Your preparations for your movie night with Lois were sluggish, but left you feeling lighter than the past week. She kept you distracted with conversation and avoided anything related to The C-Word. Gratitude simmered deep in your chest and thawed your frozen heart. Moving to Metropolis had been scary for you for a number of reasons, but you worked so hard to persevere due to your love for your program at Metropolis University. Making friends was even harder. It had seemed like everyone kept to themselves or avoided getting too close due to the growing threat of extraterrestrial visits.
But then, you secured an internship at The Daily Planet, and your life changed for the better. Sure, everyone else had a few years on you, but it never felt that way. They accepted you. They made an effort to include you despite your shy demeanor and hesitations to get too close.
Lois was your mentor, your supervisor, and, eventually, your best friend. She molded you into the journalist you wanted to be – the journalist you strived to be. She also helped you realize that being on the front lines wasn’t your passion, it was a projected dream. You loved editing, you just didn’t know if you could make a career out of it. Lois showed you that you could. Perry recognized that as well, and offered you a job as a Daily Planet Editor.
After Perry hired you, you suddenly felt like you belonged somewhere, with a job that you were genuinely happy with. Clark was the root of that feeling. He made you feel seen. Over the course of your year working at the Planet, you had become the closest with Clark, and Lois. Weekends spent alone in your apartment turned into nights out with the Daily Planet team.
Then, things shifted and nights with the group turned into nights with Clark. Hushed words were shared in the quiet of various shared spaces with Clark: in your living room, at his kitchen table, under the dim lighting of your fairy lights that hung from your bedroom ceiling. It was real. Honest. Quiet. Safe.
You weren’t looking to fall in love with Clark, but it was really hard not to. You were sure that everyone in Clark’s life was in love with him. He was beautiful. His curls were always a little bit messy. His tie was never tied properly. You loved when his glasses began to slip down his nose and how quickly he pushed them back up. You loved his dimples and how you could always see the indent threatening to break his skin.
A small smile spread on your own face at the thought of Clark. You stood up and began to tidy up your apartment after Lois’ departure. You had let yourself go this week, which wasn’t something you were proud of. The mess that had accumulated was a reflection of your state of mind.
You began to unpack your work bag for the weekend, taking out your lunch containers to put into your dishwasher. You froze as you opened your bag, blinking down at the wrapped package that was nestled between your lunch container and your pouch of necessities. With careful hands, you pulled out the package.
That sneaky little bitch-, you thought as your eyes narrowed down at the gift. When did he? Oh. you knew exactly when he slipped the gift into your bag. Your shoulders slumped at the memory of his lips gently pressing into your head.
I understand, I’m sorry. I miss you, Honey.
Those words that he whispered earlier into your hair branded your scalp. Honey. That stupid nickname that only Clark called you that you loved so much. That made you feel gooey inside. You missed him too. You really missed him.
Your fingers slid under the edge of the paper and gently unwrapped it. Guilt settled over you like a blanket as you gazed at the gift laid out before you on the table. Your fingers gently traced over the letters burned into the front of the browned leather. C.K. The gold lettering branded into your finger tip.
You were in disbelief over what was in front of you. His journal? What was this – Some kind of journal swap? You didn’t even want to read his journal, you didn’t even know he had–
Well, that was a stupid thought. You had assumed he had one, you had just never seen it. The leather was soft and worn under your hands. Flimsy, like it had been broken in with consistent use. You could practically see his fingerprints etched into the cover, certain areas changed with the memory of his fingers. You thought that about yourself sometimes too. His fingers had also left imprints on your heart; In the skin just above your elbow where he liked to hold you in his attempts to be respectful; The little path his thumb would trace behind your ear and into your hair – you swore you had developed a cowlick there from Clark’s constant ministrations. The unnatural warmth of his hands melted down the barriers of your reservations just by tender touches alone.
Though, everything about you had changed since you let him into your life.
Through your thought process, you had made your way outside and onto your balcony. The cushion under you was grounding as you curled up in the chair. Possessing Clark’s journal was charting into a dangerous territory. You knew he gave it to you in order to even the score; he read yours, and now you could read his. That exchange didn’t sit right in your gut. It bubbled at the thought of opening these pages. You were almost scared to find out what he had written down in there, and why he was so willing to give it to you.
Almost.
“Breaking news, Supervillain ‘Bizarro’ is spotted in Metropolis. Live footage of him on Clinton Street, residents take safety measures-”
You lazily glanced at the news channel displayed on your TV as you continued to contemplate the journal in your hands. Wait. Clinton Street? You lived on Clinton Street. But there’s no commotion anywhere? The streets were quiet. You stood up and looked over the balcony to see any activity.
Your breath caught in your lungs as you became face to face with Bizarro himself. You blinked quickly at him as he floated up past your balcony and in front of you. The leather of Clark’s journal pressed into your chest as you stumbled back. God, you had hoped Clark was okay, he only lived a few buildings next to yours.
There wasn’t enough air to adequately fill your lungs. Bizarro floated closer with the dopey smile spread across his mouth. You weren’t fooled, however, you knew the strength he possessed. It was scary how similar Bizarro had been created to clone Superman. He moved with a heavy limpness, a contrast to the elegant grace that Superman seemed to float with. Closer, he floated, and you stumbled back further with the grace of a newborn baby gazelle.
The sky remained dark and empty, not a cloud was there to mock the position you found yourself in. You could only hope that Superman would be on his way soon, but the familiar flashes of red and blue that you had grown accustomed to this past week was nowhere in sight.
Still, Bizarro floated closer, a thick glob of drool stringing down the corner of his lip and hung down from his chin. His lips were moving as if he was speaking to you but only gargled noises reached your ears. His large hands, grey tinted and uncoordinated and nothing like the warmth of Clark’s hands, reached out for the strands of your hair.
A strangled shriek burned your throat as you tripped over your balcony chair, your head almost slamming onto the concrete if it wasn’t for the hands that cradled your body.
Hands, on your waist, and tangled in the back of your hair. They lifted you upright and steadied your shaking form. Blue; and red; and yellow. A cape. Superman? Your eyes focused on his face, blinking through the haze of panic. Yes, Superman. Definitely Superman.
“You with me?” The rich gravel of his voice reached your ears as the vibrations squeezed through the panic flooding your system. A small nod was all you could muster. Superman’s thumb traced the patch of skin behind your ear and into your hairline, the same way Clark always did. You shook your head at the thought of Clark, swallowing thickly. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking of Clark, not when Superman and Bizarro were about to face off on your balcony. Even if you did wish it was Clark holding you at the moment instead. Even if you did wish that it was Clark’s thumb tracing that familiar spot. How did Superman know to do that?
“Good, I’m good,” you mumbled out thickly. Superman’s eyes glanced down at Clark’s journal in your hands before guiding you backwards. Bizarro’s figure floated up behind Superman’s shoulder. His unfocused gaze was transfixed on your head.
“Her… yes.. I want,” Bizarro’s words hung in the air, a tenseness settled over your heads. Superman turned around to face Bizarro. He floated up to meet Bizarro’s eye level.
“We talked about this last time,” Superman chided as if scolding a child. “Why are you out right now? You know you are not supposed to be.”
“... girl,” Bizarro frowned, looking around Superman’s shoulders and back down at you.
“No, Bizarro, no. What did I tell you? I let you stay at your compound, untouched, if you stay there. Away from Metropolis. Away from people. There is no girl,” Superman’s cadence turned stern, blocking you from Bizarro’s view.
Bizarro’s expression contorted into anger. His spit flying through his roars.
“Alright, you’re done here, buddy,” Superman gritted out, his hands slapping down on Bizarro’s shoulder. Bizarro snarled back, his hand coming up and connecting with Superman’s stomach with a solid thud. Superman’s solid form flew right by you, knocking you over with the force of the wind, and slammed into the concrete wall of your balcony. You hit the ground hard, sliding back until your body was stopped by the sliding door separating you from your living room.
Your world spun. You could hear the struggle between Superman and Bizarro, and the faint sound of a helicopter hovering somewhere above you. As your head stopped spinning, your eyes focused on Superman wrapping his arms around Bizarro and shooting into the air.
Your hazy gaze flicked back to your television that was showing a live broadcasting of the fight. There was your balcony. There was you – God, how embarrassing! And there was Superman and Bizarro having a sparring match in the air. A comically overly powered sparring match, more like. You pushed yourself up and crawled back inside. Your bones were heavy with exhaustion, screaming in protest at every little movement.
The news showed Superman apprehending Bizarro and shooting off into the sky once again. Gone. They were gone. What the fuck just happened? Superman and Bizarro just fought on your balcony. Your gaze flickered back outside and into the body shaped dent into your balcony wall. Concrete shards crumbled onto the floor, some pieces grinded to dust.
Your phone buzzed with an onslaught of missed messages and calls. Lois, Jimmy, Cat, and…. None from Clark. Oh. He's probably busy? Another call from Lois came through on your phone before you could deliberate any further.
“...hi,” your voice was small and breathless.
“Oh my god, are you okay? I saw you on the news, C-.. Superman saved you?” Lois’ voice immediately rang out through your speakers.
“I’m fine… promise, um… I don’t…” you rested your face in your hands, attempting to breathe air into your lungs. Your world was tilted off its axis.
“Do you want me to come back? Do you need anything?” you would hear her voice but nothing registered.
“No, I’m good, Lois, promise. Just shaken up. Call you tomorrow, yeah?,” you responded back quietly, attempting to keep your tone light. You barely finished hanging up the phone before another flash of blue on your balcony caught your attention. Superman… was on your balcony?
You were paralyzed in your spot, blinking up at him standing on your balcony. He was… different than you had expected from up close. Larger. His hair was perfectly intact, except a singular strand that hung down his forehead. His blue eyes were striking, yet kind. He radiated an energy of safety that infiltrated your barriers and blanketed over your nerves.
You stood up and slowly walked over to the balcony door, sliding it open. Your arms ached at the exertion it took to open the door.
“Hi?” you murmured out softly. Your sock covered toes pressed into the wall that held the sliding door in place. It was an attempt at grounding you to this reality – that the haze in your head was clearing and this wasn’t a part of your imagination.
“Hello, Ma’am. Are you okay?” Superman’s gaze locked onto your form, you felt as if he was looking inside of you. You gave him the faintest nod, your eyes wide and unblinking. You gripped the sliding door frame so tight that you swore it was bending under the pressure of your fingers.
His gaze settled at the top of your head before slowly making his way down your form. His eyes glowed as they lingered over certain areas more than others. “Minor bruising in some spots, no concussion. No brain damage or internal injuries. You’ll be fine in a few days.”
“How do you… what?” your confusion was evident on your face. You knew he had X-Ray vision, but experiencing it was a jarring experience.
“How do you know that?” You repeated your question. Your voice was meek, uncertain. No concussion? Sure felt like it.
“X-Ray vision. I know what injuries look serious enough for medical attention,” He stated professionally – sure of himself. His gaze remained intense, checking over you again.
His words were meant to assure you, balm over the past hour so you could move forward. It wasn’t that simple. You couldn’t wind down, not after the events of the week, and this night could have tipped you over the edge. Your body yearned for Clark’s comfort. Even just the simplicity of being in his presence would have been enough to quiet your brain. You knew your actions towards him this week bordered the line of disrespect. You couldn’t just run back to him now that you needed him.
“Is he… what happened to him? Bizarro,” you snapped out of your thoughts. You didn’t recognize your own voice. You could feel the disconnect between your brain and your synapses. You felt delayed, like your mind might have been playing tricks on you. Superman’s voice washed over you in a calming wave, something that only happened to you when Clark spoke to you.
“He won’t bother you ever again, Ma’am, I promise,” Superman’s words did little to assure you, despite how trusting you were of him. Your body responded to his words in relief, though your mind remained on edge. He bent down and retrieved a notebook off the floor – Clark’s journal.
“Oh, I didn’t realize I… thank you,” you murmured out softly, reaching your hand out for the journal in Superman’s hands. Your fingers connected with his, trapping the leather between your grasps. His hand was warm, unnaturally warm, and instantly seeped up into your fingers and through your arms. A familiar warmth that was enough to replace the feeling Clark’s hands gave you – it would do, for now.
It was interesting seeing Superman up close. You could see the strength in his body. Otherworldly. Comforting where it should be terrifying. Your eyes flickered down to his hands where they brushed over yours, before back up to his eyes. Soft. Blue. Familiar. Your head tilted slightly to the side in contemplation. That shade of blue, so–
“C.K… your name?” his voice rumbled out, distracting you from your thought process. He could see your thoughts swirling in your brain, the look of contemplation in your eyes. You were smart, Clark was well aware of your intelligence. Looking too closely at him would reveal a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share yet. He gave you a kind smile as he pulled his hand away from yours.
You breathed your name out softly, failing to elaborate and let your name hang in the silent air for a second.
Stupid, stupid.
Superman had a small, almost fond, smile on his face as he regarded you. You felt like he was in on a joke that you weren’t. Your mind spun, and your nerves went into overdrive. As he moved to respond, you couldn’t stop your words from vomiting out.
“I mean, the lettering on the journal isn’t for my name, but this is mine? Well, not mine, it’s someone else’s-” you pressed your lips together to cut yourself off from speaking further.
“You have someone else’s… journal?” Superman mused, his hands clasping behind his back. His gaze was intense, his head cocked down as he regarded you.
“It’s complicated,” you responded softly, bringing the journal to your chest.
“You know, I can do more than just fly around and fight bad guys, I’ve been told I’m a great listener,” his tone remained gentle – a stark contrast to his physical appearance. He lowered himself into one of your balcony chairs, gesturing to the one beside him for you to join.
“Adding “therapist” to your job description?” you lowered yourself into the chair, bringing your legs up comfortably. “Do you always come back to check on the people you save, Superman?”
“Not always,” The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back to settle in. He practically spilled over the edges of the seat, making the normal sized chair look miniature. His response was simple, but unmistakable. The unspoken words hung in the air, words that you weren’t sure you were imagining due to the dissipating haze that was slowly lingering in your mind. His comically large figure sat in your balcony chairs like he owned the place, like he had done this a thousand times before in your apartment.
“Lucky me,” you murmured back softly, a silence settling over you. You had already begun to pick at your nail polish, deciding to distract your fingers with tracing the lettering of Clark’s journal instead. All the words died in your throat. This was weird, right? Really weird? Superman was sitting on your balcony, offering to be your therapist.
His gaze settled on your fingers. He was well aware of your nervous stature, the silent anxiety you could harbour occasionally. He knew, but you were under the impression that you were talking to Superman, not Clark. You didn’t know they were the same person – that the very man who was the reason for your troubles was sitting right beside you.
“So what happened?” He urged softly. His smile was reassuring, his gaze flickering down to the journal in your lap.
You hesitated slightly, still struggling to find the words. “I… I feel like speaking to you is a conflict of interest,”
“Why would you think that?” His breath caught in his throat, but you didn’t notice. Clark’s mind went into overdrive. Did you know?
“Well, I mean. Everything is just… stupid, and petty of me, it’s all my fault. You’re a conflict of interest because you know Clark, he interviews you, and you guys are friends?” you finally gazed back up at Superman. “I don’t want to put you in the middle of whatever is going on between us.”
“Clark, right. Yes, Clark Kent. We are friends. Very close,” he cleared his throat, looking forward at the view off your balcony.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even-”
“No. Nothing to apologize for, I promise. I’m here to listen to you if you want,” He rumbled back gently. He didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He sat there, quietly coexisting beside you as if he had all the time in the world to sit right there; as if there was no other place he would rather be right now. “Besides, whatever horrible thing Clark did to you, I won’t tell him.”
“I could never say anything bad about Clark, ever. He has the biggest heart I have ever seen,” your voice was small, laced with guilt. “I guess, I just don’t know if I can face him,”
Superman remained quiet beside you, waiting for you to gather your thoughts. He didn’t look at you with judgement, only understanding. Your gaze was fixed on Clark’s journal on your lap.
You let out a huff of embarrassment, your hands covering your eyes. “I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to talk to me again. I’ve been a horrible friend to him this past week.”
“I can assure you that he wants you in his life, you don’t have to worry about that,”
“How do you know that? Did he say something to you?” You sat up slightly nervously, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth. “Cause if he said something, you have to tell me, I don’t want to make an even bigger fool-”
He gave you a hint of a smile, his expression soft as he regarded you. “Just talk to him, Honey. I can assure you that Clark would be happy to.”
You nodded, settling back in your seat with a quiet breath. Your mind raced with scenarios and possibilities. Honey? Superman called you-
“Okay, you’re right. I can talk to him. It’s only Clark, right? Nothing to be scared of.” You turned to face Superman again, your anxiety tangible in the air. You shook the previous thoughts out of your mind, it’s just a nickname. “Right?”
“Nothing to be scared of,” he assured with a nod. His eyes were light with amusement.
“But, I mean, everyone has reached out to me since the news broadcasted me getting thrown onto the floor like a ragdoll, but Clark hasn’t. So that must mean that he hates me,” You countered, your voice laced with panic.
Superman threw his head back, a smile still spread across his face. He couldn’t help but think about the love he had for you at that moment. You had no idea who he was, who you were talking to. How madly in love he was with you, the complete opposite to what you were rambling about.
“Let me ask you this,” he focused his gaze back on you. “You have Clark’s journal in your hands.”
You nodded in confirmation, waiting for him to continue.
“Have you read it? Before deciding that he hates you. You have all of his thoughts right there,” he grabbed the journal from your lap and held it up.
“Oh, no, I don’t think that I could,” you denied immediately. Your hands raised defensively as if that would stop the thoughts from penetrating your mind.
“You can. Read it, trust me,” he urged. This time, you could feel the pressure he applied with his words. His hands pressed the journal into yours and guided your hands to open the journal.
Your eyes hesitantly read over the words on the first page. Daily Planet thoughts. Mundane, but in Clark’s unmistakable cadence.
The next page – details about his visit back home to Smallville for the weekend. You remembered that weekend that he went. He was so excited to go home, finally get away. You smiled fondly at the memory.
You flipped a few pages ahead, landing on an entry dated around a year ago, the day you started your internship at the Daily Planet.
‘Today, I met an angel. That is the only way I can describe her. Angel. She is stunning. Beautiful. Ethereal. The new intern working at the Planet with us. She walked in all nervous, I could tell. I could smell it on her skin, hear her pulse racing. Perry is putting her under Lois – good choice. I don’t think I would be able to handle it if I had to mentor her. I forgot everything when I looked at her face. She told me her name, it’s beautiful just like she is. I’m a goner. Completely gone.–’
You read the top part of the entry quietly. You couldn’t keep reading this. You couldn’t.
“Keep going,” Superman commanded from beside you. Your mind was screaming with hesitation. His arms wrapped around your form settled in the chair, guiding your hands again. When did he move out of the chair? How is he so large?
His guided your fingers to flip ahead with an odd familiarity, like he knew his way around these entries intimately. He held open an entry dated 6 months ago. “Read it. Now.”
Your eyes flicked over the words hesitantly. “This isn’t right, I don’t want to invade Clark’s–”
“Read it.”
‘Everything about her reminds me of honey. The sound of her voice, her scent – it sticks to me and clings to my essence, the smooth glide of her touch. That’s why I call her ‘Honey’. I can never get enough. I shouldn’t have gotten as close as I did, as I am right now. I should have kept my distance. It’s not safe for her, for me. I could never forgive myself if something happened to her, but I love her. I am in love with her. Gosh, I am such a coward. I love her but I am lying to her. I can never tell her my real name, my real identity, where I’m really from. Every time I see her, the words are on the tip of my tongue; the words that reveal that it’s me wearing that cape–’
Your brows furrowed slightly. Cape?. Your synapses exploded with realization. The thoughts exploding through your mind and firing down to your fingertips. You could feel it in your toes, where they were pressed against Superman’s legs. This wasn’t just Superman, this was Clark. Your Clark.
Your eyes snapped up to meet his. You were speechless at the revelation, not having the strength to continue reading.
“Clark?” your voice was far away. Breathless. It barely reached your ears, you were sure he couldn’t hear your words either.
“Hi, Honey,” he whispered gently. Placatingly, lovingly. He shifted again, in that elegant way that he always seems to carry himself, and placed himself right in front of you. His large body was nestled between your knees, pressing against the edge of the chair. He had that soft smile on his lips that he only ever reserved for you, the crater in his cheek barely denting into his skin.
“Clark.” you repeated again, disbelief written over your features and in your eyes. You surged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your body slid off the seat of the chair and settled into his lap. His arms – strong, sure, steady – anchored you to his body.
His laugh rumbled through his chest and rattled your bones. He smelled the same. Warm, familiar, distinctly Clark – Superman? No, just Clark.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed into his neck, your nose nuzzling into the skin. “I’m sorry for being upset with you, and ignoring you. I’ve been the biggest bitch, and the worst friend,”
“You have nothing to apologise for tonight,” his voice was barely above a breath into your ear. The smooth tip of his nose traced a path from the base of your neck up to just below your earlobe. He would never get enough of your scent up close. Sweet, fresh, no amount of the scent could satisfy his cravings. It was an insatiable desire that clouded his mind. It was times like these that he was thankful for his increased sense of smell. He never really got many opportunities to be this close to you, to have direct access to your skin. “Tomorrow, though, you have some groveling to do, Honey.”
His words, meant to be teasing, bounced right off the shield of panic that surrounded your thoughts. “Anything. You’re fucking-”
“Language,”
“Shut up.”
There was safety in Clark’s arms, in the ridges of his chest, in being engulfed by the man you loved. His hands, strong enough to rip the burning sun apart without a mark to show for it, held you like you were something worth keeping. Something precious. Maybe you were worth keeping.
“It wasn’t right of me to read your journal,” Clark’s voice began again softly against the skin of your neck. “And I don’t have a good enough excuse as to why I did it.”
“Why did you?” you whispered back. The night was cold in Metropolis, biting at your cheeks and freezing your joints. Though, you barely felt it in the warmth of Clark’s embrace.
“I thought you knew I was Superman,” his words were a puff of air against your skin. His forehead was pressed into your shoulder and the shame he was radiating practically seeped into your skin. He let the words hang for a few moments before he lifted his head to catch your eyes.
“It was eating me alive, not knowing. I wanted to ask you, but it felt dangerous. I thought I could take a quick look and be done with it,” he let out another huff, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he blinked at the Clark-shaped dent in your balcony. “X-Ray vision, you know, I can see the words without even opening the book. But then I saw what you wrote about me, your confession, and I had to see it for what it was – without the X-Ray.”
Your gaze averted. You knew exactly what you had written there – cheesy declarations of love and your insecurities about not wanting to ruin your friendship – and you knew he had seen it. Hearing him say it out loud only deepened the embarrassment that festered in your stomach.
“I was so happy to see that you returned my feelings, that the girl of my dreams loved me too. When you walked in and saw me with your journal, you looked like you hated me,”
“I don’t, no! I didn’t mean, I was just mad-”
He cut you off gently, his hand cradling your cheek. “No, Honey, let me finish.”
“I know you don’t hate me, My Darling, I can hear your heartbeat, I know how it beats to your emotions. That doesn’t make it better, though, does it? I know I hurt you, and I’m truly sorry,” his fingers curled around his discarded journal in your lap. He held it up between the two of you, “I know giving this to you doesn’t erase what I did, but I hope that it can be a start. It tells you everything that I’ve been too afraid to say outloud.”
“I love you, Clark,” you blurted out softly. Your fingers curled around the smooth material of his cape.
His lips quirked up slightly, his tongue poking out and covering his teeth. His eyes sparkled in the reflection of the moon. “I love you, Honey, even if you couldn’t wait two seconds for me to say it first.”
A small, apologetic smile spread across your face. Fire spread up your spine and into the tips of your ears. You were still feeling overwhelmed from the events of the past week. You thought seeing Clark would quell your anxieties, and soothe the claws scratching inside your throat, but it didn’t. He noticed instantly, of course he did. He could smell the distress mixed in with your natural scent.
Both his palms rested on your cheeks, holding your head in place. His forehead pressed against yours. Unmistakable, final. “I am going to say this once, okay? I’m not upset with you in any way, I love you.”
Your eyes fluttered in acknowledgment. You could feel the sincerity in his words finding home in the grooves of your sulcus. The space between your bodies had been charged with an electric current, magnetic force field that neither of you could resist.
“I’d also really like to kiss you now, if that is okay with you,” he whispered softly, his chin angling towards you with physical restraint. His nose brushed against yours and traced along your cheek. “Please.”
He could sense your answer before you told him. You released a slight hitch of a breath, so miniscule that your own body may not have been able to perceive it if you weren’t paying attention, and a barely perceptible nod of consent. Yes. Yes, you wanted that too.
“Say it,” he murmured softly, hovering his lips over yours. His gaze was zeroed on the part of your lips, every line that made up the shape of them burned into his mind.
“Yes-”
His lips meeting yours felt like getting tossed into the wall again. You had dreamed of this moment, the taste, the feel – it exceeded any fantasy you had curated. You leaned closer to him, your lips moving against his with gentle familiarity. The rhythm was natural, as if you two had done this a thousand times before. Your arms locked around his neck, leaning your weight into his chest from where you were settled on his thigh. The cold plastic of the balcony chair pressed a line into the bottom of your back, though the tender pain of the earlier bruising barely registered in your mind.
Clark licked into your mouth, his fingers slipping into the back of your hair and angling your head back. Your taste settled into his tongue, burrowing into a molecular level and binding to his own. He was addicted. Hooked.
You pulled away first, leaving millimeters of space between your mouths. He didn’t give you a moment to react before he was up and moving inside to your bedroom. His lips found yours again, pressing your back into the bed. His weight grounding on top of you, the only thing that could keep you breathing in this moment. You both moved against each other with a fervor, the sparks between you crackling into explosions.
You whined breathlessly into his parted lips, the words you wanted to say died in your throat with a bite to his lower lip. His fingers intertwined with yours and pressed them above your head.
“I want you, and I want this. But I want to do it right. If you want me to stop right now, I will. Otherwise, I’d really like to keep going, Honey,” His tone was steady, not a breath out of place, unlike your own. His words were ragged like rocks corroded against a cliff. They cut sharply through the pleasure induced fog that he caused in your mind with a simple kiss.
You nodded frantically, angling your head back up to meet his lips again. Clark met you halfway, his kisses turning demanding and claiming. It was messy, wet – his spit dribbling down your lip and to your chin from the force of his kiss.
His lips trailed down your jaw and towards your neck, pressing soft and insistent kisses over the smooth expanse of skin. His hands let go of yours, sliding down your arms. One arm curled around your lower back, holding you up to him. His other hand slipped under your hoodie, his fingers settling in between the intercostal spaces of your ribs. You had always wondered what his hair would feel like between your fingers – what noises he would make, how they would feel when you tugged them.
You gripped onto the hairs on the base of his neck with a soft tug, and a rough groan erupted low in his throat. “You can’t do that,” his voice was torn with desire. Despite Clark’s usually lightly disheveled appearance, you had never seen it to this extent – his blue eyes, so crystalline, were blown out and unfocused; his lips were red and puffy with indentations where your teeth had bitten for a taste.
His hand slid up under your sweater to cup your breast, another groan ripping out from his throat. Your skin was a canvas, one he wanted to explore and mark. Every dip, every mark was catalogued in his mind – saved in a file that he made sure he would memorize forever. His head dropped against your collarbone as he bit down slightly on the skin. “You’re killing me, Honey.”
He sat up, his hands sliding your hoodie up and over your head. His eyes focused on your chest, burning with need and restraint. His mouth came down and sealed over your nipple, sucking and biting. His free hand came up and cupped your other breast, rolling the bud of your nipple between his fingers. Your back arched to meet his mouth with a soft whine. The sensation of Clark’s mouth was instant, relentless. Despite the voracity of his movements, the effort of restraint was visible in his muscles. The tension in his back coiled tight as he fought his biology to remain gentle.
His mouth pressed wet kisses between your breasts before biting down softly on the fat of your other breast. He was starving. His spit was shining across your skin like a claim, a mark without blemishing your skin.
“Beautiful, so beautiful, wow-” his words were mumbled into your skin and he explored your torso with his mouth. He marked his path down your stomach and to your hips. His fingers left a blazing trail as they hooked around the waistband of your pyjama bottoms.
Your hands instantly wrapped around his, halting him. “Wait-”
Clark froze, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. Specks of uncertainty broke through the rage of desire that clouded the blues of his eyes. “What is it, Baby?”
You sucked in a soft breath, your fingers curled again in the collar of his Superman suit. Your voice was soft, almost shy. “I don’t want to be the only one exposed… makes me feel uncomfortable,”
He sat up immediately, grabbing your fingers and pressing them into the notch on the smooth kevlar of his suit. Your fingers pressed onto the hidden notch, the soft click echoing in the space between your bodies. The material deflated off his body, slowly pooling down his arms and around his waist.
Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of his skin. He was akin to a marble statue. Strong, smooth, breathtaking. He remained still, using barely a fraction of his strength to hover above you – enough to remain close without suffocating you. Your hands gently rested on the front of his shoulders, feeling the hardened chord of muscles. Kryptonian muscles, Kryptonian biology. His power thrummed through your fingers, a measure that you were unable to comprehend.
You could see it now, how Clark Kent was Superman. How your Clark harboured a strength that he made look so gentle, but could be destructive – catastrophic. Yet, he never used his strength for what it was intended for. He never brought intentional destruction to Earth.
Your fingers met the fabric of the suit that pooled around his waist and slid it down with his assistance. The fabric hit the floor beside your bed with a soft thud – finalizing the moment that the two of you were about to share. He was bare, save for his boxers, in all his Kryptonian glory. He settled back between your thighs, pushing his hips into yours.
That was when you felt it – every ridge of hardness that was between his legs, the size that took your breath away, even with the layers of clothing still separating you two. You pulled him back down, pressing your chests together again as you smashed your lips back into his.
The kiss was desperate, full of apology and promise for what was to come. Clark’s fingers found your waistband again, ripping off your bottoms and your panties in one go without breaking the kiss. The shred of fabric went unnoticed in your ears. The taste of his tongue was dizzying, consuming. Your mind was black, a dark void of mass that was drowning in anxieties from the past week. Clark was the light that cut through that void, dissipating the smoke with each kiss and flick of his tongue against your skin.
His hands rested on the inside of your thighs, pushing your legs apart and settling his stomach against the bed. His hand trailed through your slick folds, gathering the wetness on the tips of his fingers. A low groan rumbling in this throat. Your legs jumped, a soft squeak exiting your own mouth at the same time.
“Clark!” you panted softly, your fingers digging into his biceps where they rested on your thighs.
“This all for me, Honey? I haven’t even touched you yet,” his voice was rough as he thumbed circles over your clit. His hand held your thigh to the side, keeping your leg from shaking under the pressure of his circling thumb.
“Oh, fuck, Clark, please,”
“What did I tell you earlier about your language,” he growled out softly, his finger slipping inside easily into your heat. He met your gaze, tearing his focus away from where his finger was plunging deep inside of you. His eyes were feral, gone was any trace of the soft Clark you knew.
Before you could respond, his finger began to move slowly, working you open. His finger alone, felt like too much, a steady pressure that you had never experienced with anyone else before. He added another one, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a wet schlup. He pumped his fingers steadily, curling his fingers until he found the spot he was looking for.
“Fu-”
He cut you off with his own mouth before you could finish, scissoring his fingers into that spot with viscous precision. Your legs shook under his hold as you whined into his mouth. It was consuming, your body was on fire. His thumb circled your clit again, the pace of his fingers never faltering. Heat curled up your stomach and through your spine.
“I’m, Clark, I think I’m-” you could barely mumble into his mouth. He was devouring you, sucking the words from your throat before you could get the chance to speak them.
“Let go for me, give it to me,” he whispered into your panting mouth, his arm resting beside your head. His thumb swiped you one more time before your body tensed with your release. Your eyes rolled back and your muscles locked up, a soft cry ripping from your throat as your legs threatened to close. His fingers slowed down, helping you ride out your pleasure.
“That’s it, Darling, so good for me, yeah?” Clark murmured roughly, slowly sliding his fingers from you. His gaze darkened further at the slick coating his fingers. You propped yourself on your elbows and followed his gaze. He wiped his fingers over your folds before leaning back down and sealing his lips around your clit.
You let out a shriek, falling back as your hands gripped his hair. “Clark!” your hips shifted away from his mouth. His hands wrapped around your hips and held you to his mouth. He was ruthless, his tongue licking every trace of your release before dipping inside your entrance. You let out another cry at the sensitivity, another release ready to snap from you like a rubber band. He continued to lick at your walls, his nose bumping into your sensitive clit. Your hands pulled at his curls again, attempting to push his head away, though your hips ground closer to his mouth.
The pressure built up steadily once more, your movements faltering. It only encouraged Clark further. He licked up through your folds again before wrapping around your puffy clit. All it took was one suck before your body convulsed again with release. You grabbed the pillow and pressed it over your face, choking on your moans.
“Holy shit, Clark, so good, I can’t,” your voice cut off with another high moan. He didn’t stop. His lips remained suctioned around your nub, continuing to lick circled around it with his tongue. One of his arms settled across your stomach, pinning your hips down in place. His other fingers prodded against your entrance again as your muscles jumped.
“Too much, Clark-”
“One more, Baby, please, you can do it, yeah? I need it, please, you can give me one more,” he praised softly, pressed suctioning kisses over your clit and down your slit. His fingers found your spot inside of you again, vibrating with unparalleled strength. You clenched tightly around him as he groaned deeply, rumbling deep in his chest.
“She’s doing so good for me, so good, I can feel it, Honey, you’re almost there,” you could barely hear him over the loud squelching of your wet slick sliding with his fingers. He kissed back up your body until he met your lips again, his thumb meeting your wet clit once again. You let out a soft cry into his mouth, tensing around his fingers. The taste of your release entered your own mouth, Clark’s soft groan rumbling down your throat. Your face contorted slightly, struggling to keep up the pace of his mouth.
“I can’t, Clark, please, I can’t,” you choked out into his mouth, your hand wrapping around his wrist weakly. Your muscles were gelatin, your legs were tingling with the force of keeping them spread. His fingers slowed down and gave you some relief from his onslaught.
“It’s okay, did so good for me, so good, I’m sorry. You taste so good, feel even better,” Clark pressed apology kisses to your lips and over your face. He pulled his fingers from your heat and brought them up to his mouth, licking them clean. He leaned down and pressed another kiss to your lips, softer and full of love.
That was how you remained for a few moments as you caught your breath – holding onto him gently as your lips moved gently in sync. His lips, though unspeaking, pressed the depth of his love into your mouth. The words, hidden in the bubble of his spit, settled between your teeth and tattooed into your cheek. I love you.
Once your heart rate had calmed down, your fingers slid down to his boxers, moving to pull them down. Clark pulled back slightly, blinking down at you through half-lidded eyes. “Hey, we don’t have to go further. That was a lot,”
“I want to. I promise, I want to,” you pressed your lips back to his, hoping it would convey the desire behind your words. You wanted this, you knew you did. Your fingers curled around the band of his boxers again, slowly pulling them down.
He let out a soft breath, reaching down and ripping the fabric away from his body. You blinked down at the shreds of fabric beside you on the bed, before up at him again in shock.
You didn’t have a chance to respond before your eyes landed on the hardness between his legs.
“O-oh,” you gulped softly. It was huge. Every ridge, every vein protruded against the smooth skin of his cock. You could see the prominent vein running up the side, the feature distinguishing his appendage as Kryptonian biology and unattainable of regular men. Drool pooled in your mouth at the sight and practically spilled down the corners of your lips, you wanted to taste it. You wanted to dip your tongue into each crevice and feel the silky skin weighing on your tongue.
“Need you, Darling,” his rough words broke you out of your daze, his hand reaching down to gather some of your slick from your folds on his fingers before spreading it around his tip. He stroked himself twice before leaning down to meet your lips softly. “You can take it, right? Gonna be my good girl and take it?”
The head of his cock gently slid through your folds as he whispered the words into your mouth. They destroyed you, forcing themselves down your throat and settled into your heart. Yes. Yes, you would take it. You could take it.
“Please, Clark, want it, please,” you babbled softly, your nails digging into the back of his shoulders.
“Relax for me, need you to relax,” he whispered soothingly into your temple. His tip gently nudged at your entrance, preparing you for him to take him.
Clark pushed his tip in, immediately stilling when you tensed. A soft, strangled noise caught low in your throat at the sudden pressure. He let out a groan of his own, his eyes squeezing shut momentarily. His arm bracketed your head, while the other ran through your hair. “Shh, relax for me, baby, you’re doing so well,”
He gently kissed you again in an attempt to distract you. His other finger came down, gently rubbing over your clit to relax your muscles. “I love you, Honey, you feel perfect.”
Your ears were full of cotton, your head was underwater, you could barely breathe through the sensation of him inside you. He pushed in a little further, your breath choking again from the force of the pressure. Your teeth sunk into the skin of his shoulder – though barely due to his impenetrable skin.
“Is that all of it?” your voice was weak and breathless, pressing your eyes into his shoulder.
He chuckled into your temple, “Honey, I’m barely even halfway,”
“What the fuck, Clark?” you bit out through a soft whine. You adjusted your hips to make room for him. Clark got the hint and grabbed your previously discarded pillow, situating it under your bottom. The movement caused him to slide in deeper, your legs trembling at the sensation.
He began to move his hips softly, pulling out before sliding back in half way. Your head tipped back, your mouth dropping open. He took that opportunity to mouth at your neck, gently biting down on the spot at the base of your neck.
He continued to push his hips into yours, sliding in further inch by inch until he was flush against you. Your fingers gripped into the bedsheets beside your head, your knuckles white from the force.
“You’re… gosh, so tight,” his words were strangled against your skin. His muscles were coiled with restraint, more restraint than you had ever seen from Clark, or Superman. He looked as though he was a second away from unraveling, “relax for me, or else I won’t be able to last,”
You attempted to breathe, forcing your muscles to relax. Your legs wrapped around his waist, holding him into you. “Move, please, I want it hard,”
He didn’t respond, the force of his thrust was enough verbalization alone. The air was punched out of your lungs, he was so deep inside of you. His tip hit your cervix, rubbing against that spot that had your vision fading out. He was everywhere, inescapable, the pressure of him molding your walls.
Your walls sucked him in greedily, clamping down as if you needed him. Clark’s thrusts were calculated, brutal, methodical. “Look at her, sucking me in, she’s so tight,” he grunted.
His grip shifted on your hips, angling them further to slide deeper. The sound of his hips slapping against yours filled the air, along with the wet squelch of your juices mixing with his.
“Please, Clark, please, please, please,” you pleaded, though you did not know what you were begging for. Your eyes were unfocused, drunk off the feeling. Your lashes fluttered against your wet cheeks, your skin sliding against his from the thin layer of sweat coating your bodies. The pressure of his thrusts increased, the spongy head of his tip hitting your spot every time.
“Look at me, wanna see you when you come again. Come on, Honey, show me those pretty eyes,” he whispered softly, grabbing your chin with his free hand to hold your gaze. You struggled to keep your eyes open, the pleasure coursing your body was overwhelmingly debilitating.
His hips slowed down, pressing right to the hilt inside of you. “Open your eyes, pretty girl, ‘m not moving until you look at me,”
His voice was commanding, grinding softly into you instead. Your fingers dug into his back, attempting to hook your nails into the skin. Clark let out a rough chuckle, his free hand gathering your arms and pinning them above your head.
“Look at you, ruined for me. This all mine, Baby? Look so pretty like this,” he punctuated his words as he grinded his hips hard against yours, pushing himself as far as he could go.
You let out a strangled whine, forcing your eyes open. Your legs shook with the exertion it took to keep your legs open for him. You gazed into his eyes as best as you could.
He pulled his hips back again until his tip was the only thing inside of you, before slamming his hips forward again. He let out a deep groan. His hips found an unforgiving pace, his eyes boring into yours.
“Hmmmm, yeah,” his thrusts were unforgiving, spiraling out of control. His heartbeat, usually calm and steady, was erratic and pumping against your chest. Your hearts playing a steady dance, one beat after the other, a perfect steady rhythm shared between you two. He was breathless, panting, every sound that left his lips went straight into your core, building your own pleasure. The ache in your muscles was a distant pain from the haze you felt.
“Gosh, Honey, I can’t, I need to, you’re so good, I can't–” he slammed his lips back into yours as his finger came down to rub at your clit again. His thumb stroked tight, deliberate circles as he bit at your neck.
“One more for me, baby, you can do it. I’m gonna come too, same time,” he begged softly as he trailed kisses back up to your mouth. You had been teetering on the edge with every punch of his head to your spot. The pressure was a steady build up, crawling up your spine with every hit.
“Clark, FU-” you practically scream, your muscles tightening as your walls sucked him in tightly. He cut off your expletive with his own mouth, overpowering your breath with his own groan. You held him in you as far as he could go, feeling the warmth of his cum filling you. Clark continued to shake with release for several seconds, thick spurts of cum dripping between you.
“S-so much,” your words were barely above a breath, gasping softly as he grinded his hips into you to emphasize your words.
“I love you,” he murmured into your mouth, pressing one, two, three kisses to your swollen lips. Each kiss was accompanied by a soft grind of his hips. He slowly pulled out, the release of pressure an uncomfortable loss for you.
His fingers came down and trailed through his cum and spread it through your folds, “Beautiful,” he pressed a thick glob back inside, snickering softly at your whine of sensitivity. Your hand, weakened by exhaustion, came up to hit him.
With the speed only capable of Superman, he had you cleaned with precise gentleness. He dressed you back in your sleep shirt and a pair of underwear, careful not to disrupt the ache in your muscles. Clark settled back beside you, laying you down on his chest. His fingers trailed through your hair as he listened to your heartbeat slow to a relaxed pace. peaceful. Comfortable. Safe.
“I love you too, Clark,” you whispered into his chest, finally having the strength. He knew you weren’t sleeping from the sound of your breathing, but he had not expected you to respond. Clark’s arms pulled you closer, attempting to fuse your bodies together. “Go to sleep, I’m not going anywhere,”
The two of you remained there, hearts beating in sync, breaths twisting in harmony – the same rhythm you two had danced in for months now, but had been too scared to face. Maybe Clark reading your journal hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.
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an: hi! I'm very excited to enter this journey -- of finally being brave enough to post my writing. I'm still relearning and getting the hang of it. 🥹 thank you for everything!
tags! mdni, period pain, masturbation (f!receiving), clark is in love
583 words
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Thinking of bf!clark taking care of you while you’re on your period.
Bf!clark who always has your cycle memorized. The estimated week of your period is in his calendar. As that week nears, he listens carefully to your body for the familiar changes of your cycle starting.
Bf!clark who already has your period cravings stocked up in a cupboard that he specifically has for you. Chocolates, candies, and snacks readily available for you should you need them.
Bf!clark who keeps his apartment dim and warm, with a mountain of blankets cocooning your body in his bed. He knows the first few days are the worst, he cringes at the sound of your muscles swelling and sticking together, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.
Bf!clark who quietly slips into the bed behind you, his arms barely hovering around your form until you give him permission to touch you.
Bf!clark who immediately envelopes you into his body, his hand finding your lower stomach and applying gentle pressure to ease the pain. He immediately cringes at the raw skin from your heating pad – making a point to rub ointment on it later.
Bf!clark who keeps you engulfed in his embrace for as long as you need – listening to the breaks in your breathings and inhaling the scent of your skin. His fingers massage your lower back and hips, and force you to nibble on a snack and drink some water here and there.
Bf!clark who begs you to let him make you feel better. “I hate not being able to help you, honey, let me relax your muscles. Promise I’ll be good for you, I’ll make you feel good.” with gentle kisses to your hair and ear.
Bf!clark who smiles into your temple when he isn’t met with resistance as trails his fingers down past your waistband and gently slips between your folds. The tip of his middle finger gently presses to your clit and slowly begins to circle the nub. “Mmm, that feels good, Darling?”
Bf!clark who locks his other arm around your waist, pinning you to his body as he continues to gently circle your clit, the pressure enough to make you feel good but not enough to send you over the edge. He presses another gentle smile into your temple as he feels your body melt against him. Your fingers dig into his arm as weak whimpers spill from your lips and into the fleece blanket. “There she is, I got you, honey, doing so good for me,”
Bf!clark who quickens the pace of his finger, rubbing you with purpose. The pressure steadily increased, no longer teasing. His lips pressed against your neck gently, a stark contrast to the vigor of his fingers.
Bf!clark who continues circling your clit after you come, helping you ride through the aftershocks and making sure it sticks. He only stops when you pull his hand away, settling it back on your stomach. He smiles as your breathing evens out and your muscles settle just slightly – enough to give me a small reprieve from the pain.
Bf!clark who whispers a soft “I love you, honey,” into your cheek as you finally doze off to sleep – satisfied, warm, and curled up against your favourite person.
Bf!clark who is there to do it all over for you again whenever you need it. Perfectly happy to take care of all your needs, his girl.
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an: SELF INDULGENT, OKAY, SUE ME. I did half a request but am posting this instead. im sick and tired because im on my period and this is all I could muster.
the birds & the bees -- Superman x Fem!Reader (Kinktober 2025)
I don't care that it's November now it's still Kinktober to me!!! (this is what I get for trying to do a million things during one month but we carry on)
Summary: Clark Kent leaves work abruptly to cover a breaking Superman story, but he practically goes missing right after. You, being the caring friend and coworker that you are, decide to go to his apartment to see if he's okay. And he is, he's just...a little under the weather, and he really needs your help.
Warnings: 18+ only mdni!!!, baby's first sex pollen fic (i think?), needy + sort of subby!clark, blink n you miss it handjob, he gets a lil rough, pussy pronouns, unprotected sex, oral/facefucking (f + m rec), voyeurism if u squint, lots of manhandling, size kink ofc, clark cums...a lot, dirty dirty talk, pollen lowkey affects reader too, lots of petnames ('honey' 'sweetheart' 'baby'), he begs a lot whoops, improper use of his x-ray vision (naughty clark!!), he's still just a giant sweetie even w the pollen <33
WC: 7.7k (this ran the fuck away from me ok)
It’s Saturday, and you’re standing in front of the door to your coworker’s apartment. Uninvited, you might add.
This has to be a new low for you.
The truth is something a little more like this: It’s Saturday, and you’re standing outside your best-friend-slash-coworker-who-has-a-(mutual)-crush-on-you-slash-the-most-handsome-man-in-Metropolis’s door because you haven’t heard from him since Thursday night.
You’ve called, you’ve texted, you’ve sent emails, you’ve left who knows how many voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.
Jimmy has tried, Lois has tried, Cat has tried -- hell, even Perry tried, because when Clark didn’t show up for work by lunch time yesterday, Perry was even getting worried. It’s normal for Clark to be a little late from time to time. You think his problem is that he’s just too nice and he’ll talk to anyone, and he gets caught up with anything. You’ve witnessed it in real time.
But not showing at all? That’s unheard of. He hardly ever has sick days, now that you think about it, so if he is sick, it must be lethal, and you have to at least make sure he’s okay.
At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to justify the fact that you’re showing up, uninvited, and debating letting yourself inside with the spare key under the plant in the corner (Clark is so predictable).
You try knocking again. “Clark?” you call out. “Are you in there?”
It’s just so unlike him, to not show at all, especially after such a big day for Superman on Thursday afternoon. Clark rushed out of the office to go see the action and to get his front-page interview like he always does, and you all were certain it would be plastered on Friday’s paper. But it wasn’t.
Instead, it was some piece Jimmy was working on -- congrats, Jimmy, really, but still -- and Superman saving the city from a creature no one has ever seen before was tucked away inside, and barely a full column. It was a quick write up, the quickest you’ve ever seen Lois do, and it works, but it’s not what everyone was expecting. Steve ended up fielding phone calls about why Clark Kent didn’t interview Superman and why he didn’t get an exclusive like always.
Needless to say, yesterday was hectic at the Daily Planet, and you worried yourself sick over Clark’s whereabouts, so much so that you’re now staring down his front door before noon on a Saturday.
God. You shake your head at yourself. He’s probably-- Maybe there was a family emergency? Your heart clenches at the idea of anything happening to Ma or Pa Kent, but…it’s a real possibility. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to look at his phone because of it.
It’s one of the worst case scenarios, but it feels like that’s all you’re working with considering you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.
Your foot taps impatiently on the floor. The tote bag full of cold remedies and just general things to cheer up a sad Clark Kent weighs heavily on your shoulder. You had thought you’d find him here, maybe sick with an awful flu, or--
You hear movement. Your foot immediately stops its tapping, your breathing halts, you think your heart might even stop beating. You lean a little closer to the door.
Definitely movement. Someone is inside.
“Clark?” you call out again. “It’s me,” you try instead. “I haven’t heard from you, I-I got worried.” You pause, listening for the same shuffling. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
The only response you get is a low groan. Groaning that you aren’t even sure is Clark, but it’s something, and it doesn’t sound good.
“Can I come in?” you ask. You’ll think later on how to apologize for coming over unannounced and for presumptively looking for the spare key and for letting yourself in. Right now you just need to see if he’s okay.
You hear more groaning, followed by the sound of something crashing -- you have no idea what -- and you decide that’s it.
You tip the plant and swipe the key, inserting it and twisting the knob all in one swoop. “I’m really sorry,” you say as you push the door open. “I’m so sorry, but it sounded like-- I just had to check--”
All words promptly die on your lips when you see the state of Clark’s apartment.
You’ve been here once. Only once. You were caught in a bad storm after drinks with Clark, Jimmy, and Lois, and Clark’s apartment was closer, so he offered you dry clothes and a warm shower while the storm waned. That night, every lamp was on, he had hot cocoa ready for you as soon as you got out of the shower, and the two of you talked and laughed while the rain beat the windows.
Today, the sun is out, but it looks stormy in Clark’s apartment. Not a single light is on, the couch is askew, the coffee table overturned.
And Clark.
His back is pressed to the far window, hands splayed like he’s pinning himself to the glass with all his strength. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers that are tented, and that would normally be enough for you to avert your eyes, except he looks ill. He’s practically ashen, and he’s sweating so much that his shirt is sticking to his skin, to every muscle. His hair is curled to hell, bordering on messy in a way that is worrisome, like he’s been gripping and tugging at it and trying to rip it out.
“Clark?” you ask, shutting the door behind you. You place the spare key down on the little table by the door. “Are you… What’s going on?”
His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he won’t look at you. He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him.
“Clark, please…” you pause, swallowing. You set your bag down by the door, walking closer to him, approaching him like he’s a skittish animal that might run away from you at any second. “Talk to me.”
“Stop,” he bites out. “Please.”
You stop moving, holding your hands up in surrender. What the hell is going on? His legs are shaking, he looks like he hasn’t eaten since Thursday’s lunch, and he still won’t lift his head.
“You should--” he pauses, sucks in a harsh, sharp breath. “You should leave.”
You scoff, not unkindly, just, confused and stressed and what has gotten into him? “Clark, I’m not leaving. We need to get you to a doct--”
“No!” he shouts, immediately shaking his head. “No, no, I’m…fine, I don’t need a doctor.”
“You are not fine,” you argue gently. “You look like you can barely hold yourself up. Are you sick with something?”
“No,” he whines, then adds, “yes, kind of.” One hand leaves the glass to press to his temple with a grimace.
“Is it a migraine?” you ask, wondering if maybe that’s why it’s so dark in here. But that doesn’t explain the fact that it looks like a tornado took off in here, too. “Don’t you get those if you don’t wear your glasses?” He’s not wearing them right now, which you’ve only just now noticed. “Where are they?”
You look around and spot them on the kitchen counter, as if they were ripped off and thrown down. Your eyebrows furrow.
“Clark,” you turn back to him. “Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help. You’ve had everyone worried sick, and we damn near called a wellness check for you, but I figured, let me just come knock on his door first-- But I can’t help if you won’t even let me near you.”
He whimpers this time, high in his throat, almost like he’s going to cry. “Please.”
“Please, what?” you cry. “What can I do? Let me help.” You take tentative steps toward him, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“I-I can’t,” he shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you--”
“Hurt me?” You keep walking slowly. “Why would you hurt me?” Your mind is running wild with all kinds of possibilities right now, one namely being, is Clark on drugs or something?
“It-it’s not something I can control,” he says.
“What is?” you ask, taking more steps. You’re just past the coffee table now. You’ll be able to reach out to him any second.
“It’s--” he cuts himself off with another wince. “Please, you need to stay back, I--”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just stand over there and watch you like this,” you say sternly, taking more intentional steps now. You reach him quickly, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”
He sighs when you touch him, knees buckling. “I-I know. H-Hurts.”
“Clark,” you whisper, placing your hands on his shoulders. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt when you went to interview Superman? Did you get caught in the fight or something?”
He chuckles, but it’s not his usual sound. “Or something,” he murmurs sheepishly, finally tipping his head back to look up at you and--
Your eyes go wide. The world sways. Suddenly you feel like you’re the one who is sick.
“C-Clark?” you stutter in disbelief. “Superman?”
He groans again, head lolling forward. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”
You come back to yourself and remember he’s violently ill and you shake your head. Now is not the time to be starstruck. “Hey, no, no, it’s okay, it’s fine! So you’re Superman? It’s okay!” You know you sound ridiculous. “Do you-- Don’t you have healing-- Doesn’t the sun help you or something? Why are you still like this?”
“The sun can’t help this, it’s-- This is different. The Superman robots tried to help, but--”
You nod along, noting things to ask him about later, like Superman robots because what does that even mean? Who are they?
“Okay,” you say, like you’ve got it all figured out after what he’s told you. Like you have a plan. “Okay.” You don’t know what to do. “So we-- Did they-- Do the…robots know what it is that’s making you feel like this?”
He nods slowly, tipping his head back again to look at you, his blue eyes not at all tired like you expect them to be. They’re practically molten. “They have an idea.”
“Okay,” you lick your lips. You should not be thinking about how attractive he is up close like this when he’s practically on his death bed. “What is it?”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to spill it all out right then, but he snaps his jaw closed. “No, I-- I can’t tell you.”
You nearly scream out of sheer frustration. “What do you mean?” you try to have a gentle tone, but you’re not sure you succeed.
“It’s--” he hisses in pain again (you think?), hanging his head. “It’s complicated.”
“I don’t think anything can be more complicated than the fact that I just found out you’re Superman when you’re like this.”
He chuckles again, the sound growing warmer this time. “It’s-- Can you promise me something first?”
“Yeah, Clark,” your face softens. “Anything.”
He groans at that. “No…no, I mean it, I mean, if I tell you what this is, and you’re scared, or you-- You just don’t want to be around me, you have to tell me.”
Your eyes widen. “Clark--”
“I mean it, please,” he begs. “Because if you say you don’t want this, I promise, I will-- I’ll go and bury myself in the ice and I’ll wait it out and I won’t hurt you.”
“Clark, you’re not gonna hurt me.”
“I might,” he chokes out. “I could. I’ve-- It’s been two days of this, I don’t know my own strength, I might--”
“Clark, stop, stop,” you cut him off, both your hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help.”
“I’m-- I think the creature on Thursday was released by Lex Luthor as a distraction.”
He stops, so you press gently, holding his face as you whisper, “Distraction for what?”
“When I was flying home after it -- back to the Fortress -- as I was leaving Metropolis I flew through a cloud but it wasn’t a cloud, it was-- I think Lex manufactured it because he knew I’d fly through it and he knew it would do this to me.”
You still don’t know what this is, other than the fact that he looks three steps from the grave.
“It’s…my body is--” He pauses again. “This is embarrassing.”
“Clark…” you sigh, pulling him into your arms despite everything. He’s much taller than you, yet right now he feels so small. His face finds your neck and he inhales deeply, holding his breath. “You can tell me.”
“It was a pollen cloud,” he murmurs into your skin, nosing your carotid artery. “And the pollen sets my hormones on fire.”
You rub circles onto his back. “So you’re…?”
“So turned on that I might die,” he whines, still mortified from having to admit this out loud. His hips move on their own accord, and you feel him grinding against your leg before he promptly stops himself. “S-Sorry.”
Your brain is spinning circles in your skull as you try to figure out exactly what he means. What this means.
“Will you actually die?” you ask instead of the other thousands of thoughts running through your head. You scratch his scalp gently, hoping this is somewhat helping, having your arms around him and his around your waist.
His breaths are shallower now, like he’s either afraid to inhale too much of you, or like he can’t get enough. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think I just have to wait it out.”
“But,” you lift your head and he does the same, “is there anything that will help?”
“I can’t ask that of you,” he says immediately, his throat working around a swallow. “I-It’s why I haven’t answered your calls-- I’m sorry that I haven’t, I just-- I flew all the way to the Fortress of Solitude and when the robots told me I needed to-- told me what would help, I flew to Ma and Pa’s, and then didn’t even go in and see them, I just came straight back here because you were--” He pauses, shutting his eyes, twisting them shut, his head thudding as it hits the window. “You were too far, I couldn’t hear you from there and I… I needed to hear you.”
“Hear me?” you gasp. “Clark, I don’t even live close to you, I--”
“I know!” he cries. “I know, but I swear I could hear you, or-- or maybe I really couldn’t, but I couldn’t stand being so far away from you, I had to be in the same city. And then I heard you when you got inside the building, and your heart was so loud outside my door, and gosh, you-- You smell like Heaven, sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, banging around against your ribcage. Sweetheart.
“Clark,” you begin, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t. For the second time today, you decide, fuck it. You cup his jaw with one hand, not forceful, but not entirely gentle either. You know he’s embarrassed, but enough is enough. “Look at me.”
Clark’s eyes open instantly, glassy and red and full of fire. “Yes ma’am?”
“If what I’m gathering from this is correct, then…I want to help.”
“You do?”
You nod, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to?”
“Of course I want you to,” he whines, head threatening to tip back again. His smile is lazy, crooked, and so Clark. “I just-- I wanted to ask you out on a date first.”
You chuckle quietly. So your suspicions about your crush being requited weren’t all in your head, it seems. “We can go on a date once you feel better, okay?”
He nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing again, like his mouth is making far too much saliva. “Okay. Can we-- Can we go to that place on--”
You don’t know what else to do, so you kiss him. He’s embarrassed, he’s rambling, and he’s gotten so worked up in his head that he’s fighting it -- keeping you from helping him.
It’s a syrupy-sweet first kiss. You try to put every ounce of your nearly year-long crush into it, hoping he can feel all of it. You’d do anything for him, you’ve always felt that way, and you’ve shown it before too. Just in more normal, friendly ways than this. Than agreeing to have sex with Clark so he will feel better.
It sounds absurd, even just in your head, and if you think too much about it, you won’t be able to do anything because of how hard your mind will be reeling. Just this morning, just two hours ago, you thought Clark was sick with maybe the flu or had a family emergency or something else normal, and now. Now you know he’s Superman, now you’ve agreed to help him through whatever pollen-induced horny sickness this is, now you’re finally kissing Clark Kent.
He whimpers into your mouth, fingers wrapping around your wrist to tug your hand down to where he needs you.
“S-Sorry,” he cries, grinding into your palm.
You shush him, applying the pressure he needs. “That better?”
He nods furiously, lips mashing against yours as he chases the feeling of your hand on him, and you haven’t even really touched him. When you finally snake your hand under his waistband, his head falls into your neck, shoulders slumping.
His skin feels hot all over, but somehow even hotter here when you wrap your fingers around him, gently stroking. He kisses your neck, then licks, your eyes rolling from the feeling of him clinging to you, completely at your mercy.
Soon he’s rocking his hips into your hand, then wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body to his like he wants to meld you together. You thumb over his slit once, twice, and without warning, he’s shaking in your hold, spilling into his boxers.
He goes still against you, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Your free hand strokes his curls where he has his head buried in your neck, wondering if that was enough, or if it was too much.
“Clark?” you whisper. His skin doesn’t feel any cooler, but maybe it takes time.
The only warning you get -- though you don’t realize it’s a warning at all -- is a low groan, deep in his chest before he’s spun you around, pressing your back into the glass.
When he kisses you this time, the sweetness from earlier is gone, replaced with a desperate, ravenous hunger. He’s still as hard as he was before when he fits his body against yours, hips grinding into you.
“Clark--” you try to get out in between kisses, but he’s ravenous now. Gone is the hesitant, shaking Clark from before. “Mmph-- Clark. Clark.”
He finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all, and doesn’t look it either, the way he’s not looking at your eyes at all but instead at your lips. “What did you--” He pauses again, out of breath. “What were you saying?”
It makes you giggle, seeing him like this, but there’s heat pooling in your lower belly, too. “No, I just-- That was a change.”
“Oh,” he grins, and it’s a bit wolfish, making your thighs clench. “I told you, I’m a little--”
“I know.”
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, pushing your hips out to grind into him. “Yeah, it’s great.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, hands squeezing your hips as he dives for another kiss, tongue immediately coaxing your mouth open. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me have you.”
“You have me,” you whisper. “Do whatever you need to-- Ah!”
His hands immediately split the seam of your shirt, exposing your breasts. He finds the clip to your bra and suddenly he’s thumbing over your nipples, massaging them, pinching them lightly, watching you squirm.
You grip his shirt, knowing you won’t be able to rip it, but after a few tugs, he gets the idea and does it for you, letting you shove it off his arms and to the floor with yours. His boxers go next, his previous release still sticky inside them, and then he’s dragging your pants down your legs, kneeling as he goes.
You’ve never been so grateful for him to have an apartment on one of the top floors as you are now, when he has you bare and pressed to the window.
“Look at how pretty…” he muses, kissing your inner thigh as he spreads your legs to accommodate his wide frame. He shoulders between them, then lifts one of your legs to rest over his body. “Already so wet for me,” he whispers, like he’s talking to your pussy, not you. “Gotta get her ready for me, though.” He looks up at you, so sweet despite the filth he’s speaking and how close he is to your clit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
You pet his head, smiling as you stroke his curls. “You won’t hurt me, Clark.” Even though he’s not in his right mind, you don’t think he’d ever be able to hurt you.
He leans his cheek against your thigh, just gazing so lovingly at your core. “I won’t,” he promises with a little sigh. “S’too pretty.”
You think you might have to physically guide him to where you need him, but then he’s finally leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to your clit that makes you jump.
He grins again, wide and hungry. “Sensitive?”
“A little,” you admit. Because you won’t stop teasing me.
“I’ll be gentle,” he swears, and then proceeds to be anything but.
He wraps his lips around your clit, tonguing the hood back ever so slightly to focus directly on your most sensitive spot. Your hips buck involuntarily into his mouth and he moves closer, setting in.
His tongue darts lower, separating your folds, teasing your hole. You don’t think you’ve ever cum from someone eating you out without using their fingers too, but Clark just might get you there. And he seems determined too.
With his nose providing friction to your clit, his tongue presses into you, and he hums. A deep, guttural noise before he somehow moves closer, like he doesn’t even want to breathe while he’s going down on you.
You’re gripping his curls like your life depends on it, because it sort of does, and you try to warn him before you cum, but he doesn’t slow down or make any indication that he hears you. He just dives deeper, licks faster, and starts mumbling nonsense into your pussy.
“I know you’re close,” he almost whines, like he’s desperate to feel it, to taste it. “Please, baby, please let me have it.”
Your head hits the window with a dull, quiet thud, your chest heaving. “Clark,” you gasp, and somehow he knows what you mean, what you’re trying to say in that one word because then he goes back to sucking on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly.
“Come on,” he says, somehow speaking while still fucking you.
“Clark,” your head lolls against the window, the pleasure making it impossible to hold any part of your body upright.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to stabilize you. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
You finally tip over the edge and climax with a cry, body sinking down the window until it’s only Clark’s strength holding you up. He lets you ride his face through it, one hand in his curls, pushing and pulling exactly where you need him most until you’re trembling with the aftershocks.
He crawls up your body, littering kisses as he goes, pausing to focus on your nipples again, swirling his tongue around them. Your brain is in a haze as you drag his face back to you so you can kiss him, not caring -- and frankly, finding it a little hot -- that you can taste yourself on his tongue.
Clark gives no warning before picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you like you’re nothing back to his bedroom. He practically tosses you onto the bed, covering his body with yours, caging you underneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, almost like he can’t believe it as he covers your face in kisses. “Taste so good, every piece of you.”
While he speaks, his hips start to have a mind of their own, steadily rocking into yours, grinding his erection into your stomach. You felt him before, wrapping your hand around him, but feeling him like this, right there, is different.
It makes you gasp into his mouth when the head of his cock catches on your clit. He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip, doing it again just to see your reaction.
“That feel good?” he asks, just as out of breath as you are. You just nod pathetically as he does it over and over. “I’ve gotta stretch you, honey,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Feel how big I am?”
You nod again, feeling, from the outside, how deep he’ll be and God, you have no idea how he’ll fit, but you want it to. You want it so bad you might start crying.
One hand snakes its way downward while you continue kissing Clark. It’s hot and messy and there’s spit all over both of your chins, but you can’t bring yourself to care, especially not when he’s pushing a finger inside you and one already feels so big.
The whine you let out just tells him exactly how you feel, and he soothes you by putting pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand.
“It’ll feel better in a second, honey,” he promises, already teasing another finger before pushing in, shushing you as you squirm and writhe against him. “Too much?”
You shake your head. “Feels good,” you groan.
“That’s my sweet girl.”
“Feels good but I want you.”
“You’ll get me, honey, don’t worry,” he whispers, kissing you gingerly. “Need you to cum again for me first. Can you do that?”
You don’t know, but then he spreads his fingers, pressing right into your G-spot, and that lights your body on fire.
“Knew I’d find it,” he says, mostly to himself. “Gonna add another, okay, baby?”
You nod frantically and you hear him chuckle, but he’s not laughing at you. He’s just mystified by how gorgeous you are like this. By how much you need him, like you might need him as much as he needs you.
The Superman robots didn’t mention anything about the pollen being contagious, but then again, they weren’t even entirely certain of what it is, so it could be possible. You’ve swapped enough spit with Clark by now that he wouldn’t be surprised if some of it has transferred.
The thought of it just makes him feel even more needy for you. But he won’t hurt you.
He inserts a third finger, gently prodding your G-spot until you’re clenching then relaxing around him. He thrusts slow at first, warming you up to all three before he gradually spreads them, working you open.
Your hips grind against his palm with vigor, chasing your high while simultaneously rubbing against his cock. He ruts against your hipbone, giving you what you need and letting himself have just a little friction too.
He feels it when you start clenching around him erratically, hears it when the little whines you let out start stringing together. “Gonna cum, baby?” he coos. “Gonna let go for me again?”
You’re helpless against him as you nod, pulling his face toward yours to devour his mouth.
When you cum this time, his fingers slip in even deeper, and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You’re sucking them in and not letting go, and the noises you’re making are music to his ears. He spills against your stomach, but only a little, because he wants nothing more than to finish inside you.
“I’ve gotta be in you, honey, I-I can’t wait anymore,” he groans, dragging his fingers out of you and lining himself up, his head easily slipping in from how wet you are.
“Please,” you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Oh Clark, please, need to feel you--”
“I’m right here, my sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing in slowly. “Just let me in.”
Your legs widen in response and he sinks impossibly deep on the first thrust, his head nestled right against your cervix, just barely kissing it. The pain of it quickly blurs into pleasure with every movement until you’re rocking against him, your body somehow trying to take him deeper, even though that isn’t biologically possible.
“Oh, honey,” he groans, head falling forward and he mouths at your neck, nips at your sensitive spots there. “You’re so warm.”
You try to say something back, but it just comes out complete nonsense, except Clark catches some of the words.
“I’m so big, I know, honey, I know,” he coos, kissing your forehead. “But you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. Feel how deep I am?”
You nod against him, wailing when he lightly presses his palm down over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, right where he knows he’s nestled without even needing to use his X-ray vision. But after having that thought, he does use it, just for a moment, just to see.
The only problem is that seeing himself so deep inside you causes his orgasm to come barrelling toward him at a terrifying speed. He’s barely thrusting, more grinding deeper into you, once, twice, and then he’s falling over the edge, shuddering as he spills inside of you.
You gasp at the feeling, eyes going wide with how much there is. You guess it makes sense, given that he’s not exactly human, so things will be different. Like this.
And, you guess, like the fact that despite now cumming two times, he’s still just as hard as he was when you first got here. It doesn’t seem like his orgasms have given him any relief.
If anything, this last one has only spurred him on even more.
“Golly,” he hisses, leaning back onto his knees, hoisting your hips up onto his thighs without slipping out of you. “Are you okay? Still feeling good?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, circling your hips against his. “Keep going.”
He grins, wide and wild. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he pulls out, working himself inside again, seemingly in awe at how easily he slides inside. “You’re so wet, baby,” he sounds like he’s praying. “Some of that’s me, though, yeah?”
You nod, not even caring what he’s talking about because he’s so deep and hard inside of you that you don’t know what you’re going to do without him inside you.
“Wanna feel you again,” he mumbles, thumbing over your clit. “Can you give me another?”
You don’t even need to nod; he feels you immediately clench around him.
“Love that I get to have you like this,” he whispers. “All for me, yeah? All mine.”
“All yours,” you gasp, writhing again. “Fuck, Clark.”
“Yeah?” he says, moving again, thrusting inside you and pulling all the way out before slipping back in, because he loves the way you clench and the little whine you let out when he does it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You don’t need to say anything, sweet girl, I know it does. Show me how good it feels.”
You were already on the edge, but hearing him speak to you like this, when all you’ve known before is quiet, sweet, bumbling Clark in the office sends you right over. The stark contrast is doing something wild to your brain, short circuiting everything until you’re spasming around him uncontrollably.
“There we go, that’s my sweet girl,” he soothes you, letting you ride it out against him. “Can I move you, baby? Wan-Wanna try something else. Promise it’ll feel so good f’you.”
You nod and he slowly pulls out, shushing your whines at the feeling of emptiness. He gently turns you over, places a pillow underneath your hips. He palms at your ass, unable to help himself really, before moving you where he needs you with his hands on your waist.
And he just keeps talking to himself. “There we go, so pretty,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to caress your spine. “Laid out for me so pretty, so I can just-- O-Oh, honey.”
Just the head slips inside and you squirm immediately, feeling a tiny spurt of cum enter you, and then he’s slamming forward in one devastating thrust, holding himself there. You can feel him shaking, feel him holding himself back.
“You feel too good, baby, I-I can’t,” he breaks off into another moan, hips pressing forward again, and a strangled cry leaves his lips before he’s cumming again, filling you up and spilling out around where he’s entered you. “N-No,” he whispers, sniffles. “Wanted to-- Wanted to last longer.”
But he’s still not going soft, so his early orgasm only seems to deter him for a brief moment. He catches his breath, leaning over you to kiss the back of your neck, blanketing your body with his.
And then he’s moving again, barely pulling out at all before pushing back inside, carving a space deep inside you just for him, as if he needs to, as if that space wasn’t already there.
The little noises you make are his only indication that you haven’t passed out beneath him, and he takes them as his cue to continue moving, to keep slamming right into your G-spot.
“Wanna cum together this time,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please, for me?”
You’ve never had this many orgasms with a partner, let alone in one night in such quick succession, but somehow it isn’t a question when Clark asks if you can give him another. It’s as if your body is perfectly attuned to him now, and if he wants you to give him another orgasm, then well, you will. Easily.
He keeps working your body perfectly, hitting all of the right spots, until he’s close and holding himself back just until he feels you right on the edge.
“Let go, honey,” he cries. “Let go with me, please, please, please.”
And you do, as if on command, your body lets go right as you feel his hips begin to stutter until he’s spilling another load in you, this one you can feel practically all of it leaking out of you and sticking to your inner thighs, and him.
Clark uses his X-ray vision almost by accident this time, just wanting to see if he can tell how full you are, and oh, he can. He tips his head back, holding onto your waist as he groans.
And then he hears you, and you’re asking for him.
“What is it, honey?” he asks, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. “Doing okay?”
You nod, a dopey smile on your face. “Can I--” you swallow, eyes hazy as you look at him. “Can I taste you?”
His hips involuntarily buck into you before he kisses your lips as best he can when you’re in this position. “You wanna taste me?”
You nod frantically. “Please?”
“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Okay. Yeah, anything-- Anything you want.”
He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt or shock you as he does.
You bounce back remarkably fast, already sitting up and sliding off the bed to sink down to your knees, hands reaching out for him. He moves willingly, stumbling around to you, cock bobbing as he goes, still impossibly hard. He wonders how long the pollen will affect him, because although he feels his mind clearing slightly, he’s definitely not feeling any less turned on. And you don’t seem to be, either.
You lick him eagerly, cleaning him off first. He hisses as you do, the sensitivity starting to reach him, but it isn’t so bad that he wants you to stop. He needs you to keep going.
You grab one of his hands and move it to your head, and he asks, “Are you sure?”
You nod. “Wanna feel you in my throat, Clark.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling so fondly down at you. “You tap me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod, but you’re not looking up at him, you’re too focused on getting your lips wrapped around his cock. And he decides to stop teasing and let you.
You surge forward, taking the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper.
He lets you have your way with him first, and if anything, his grip on the back of your head is so he doesn’t lose control and thrust into your mouth too harshly, though it seems that’s what you want him to do. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s not entirely sure how much of this is you and how much of this is the possible added effects of the pollen.
His train of thought is promptly interrupted by you taking him into your throat with zero warning, pressing your nose to the neat little hairs that gather at his base.
“O-Oh my gosh, honey, give a guy some warning,” he chokes out, hands cradling your head.
You pull off of him with a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”
His thumbs stroke your cheeks, shaking his head fondly at you. “Enjoying yourself?”
You nod frantically. “Are you?”
“I am, honey, I am.”
“Are you feeling better?”
He nods. “I am, thank you. Still,” he pauses, rolls his shoulders. “Still turned on, less like I’m about to die.”
You hum. “That’s good.” Your hands explore idly while the two of you speak, ghosting over his inner thighs, close to his still-hard cock, but not actually touching him. “But you’re not done?”
You ask it so softly, like you don’t want to be done, either, and it almost breaks his heart. “No,” he says, petting your head a little. “We can keep going.”
“Good,” you mumble, starting to kiss him again, all along his length. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
His knees nearly buckle because you, once again, give him no warning before you’re taking him in your throat. And then you put both his hands on your head, and place your palms over his thighs, giving him full control.
He’s so glad his brain feels a little clearer now because if this had been earlier, he really might’ve hurt you. Now he can give you what you want without the guilt and worry.
You hum around him, causing his hips to buck on their own accord. He pulls himself back to then try an experimental thrust, his head slipping right into the back of your throat with ease. And instead of moving away, you press your head forward, taking him just a little more.
“Honey,” he gasps. “You’re being so good for me.”
Whatever you try to respond with comes out garbled nonsense around his cock, but he doesn’t mind. He holds your head gently, moving you back and forth just the way he needs, and you let him.
“You feel so good,” he groans, holding you down for just a moment before letting go, letting you breathe. “Don’t wanna-- Where do you-- Oh golly-- Where do you want me to--”
You answer by wrapping your arms around his legs, moving closer on your knees, practically trapping him against you.
He whines, high in his throat. “O-Okay, okay, just for you, just this one, next one goes inside your pussy, though, yeah? Please?” You nod against him and he nearly cums right then, feeling the head of his cock moving in your throat. “Baby, I-I’m not going to last much longer like this--”
That only makes you move with more fervour, like you need to feel him cumming down your throat.
He can barely gasp out a warning before he’s spilling so deep into your throat that you barely taste it, and you don’t even move, you just swallow him down, humming happily to yourself.
Clark pulls you off of him after a moment, hauling you up to your feet so he can kiss you. He can feel himself softening now, just a little, but you--
The look in your eyes is wild.
“Shoot,” he hisses, hands cradling your face. “Sweetheart, look at me.” Your heart is racing, and maybe it has been this whole time, he’s only just now noticing because he’s finally starting to feel like himself again. “How are you feeling?”
“Hot,” you whine, arms looping around his neck. “Empty.”
“Okay,” he says, turning and laying you down. “Honey, I think…I think some of the pollen might be in your system now.”
You just blink up at him through bleary eyes, none of his words registering in your brain. But you’re still alert, for the most part, and able to move your body just fine because the next thing he knows, you’ve got your ankles locked around him.
“Okay, honey, okay,” he tries to soothe your disgruntled whines. “Hurts bad, doesn’t it?”
He can’t imagine how you’re feeling considering he felt bad and it was designed to affect him. You’re human.
What if it kills you?
Clark stops that train of thought before it even starts, letting your hand move down to stroke him until he’s fully hard again. He can make it better. He just needs to keep fucking you, and it’ll keep working through your system until (hopefully) it’s out of it, and everything will be okay. It’ll be okay.
“Clark,” you whine, lining him up with your entrance. “Feels empty.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he shushes you, kissing all over your face. “I’ll make it better, okay? Just let me make it better. Let me do all the work, okay?”
You nod, your hand leaving his cock to instead thread your fingers through his curls. “So handsome.”
He beams, slipping inside you just an inch, and it's so easy after the many rounds you've endured. “Thank you, darlin’.”
Your body is pliant beneath him, just barely holding onto consciousness as he slowly rocks into you. He keeps a steady pace, and listens intently to your heart rate and breathing, just in case. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he continues on -- as if you’d let him stop.
“Inside me this time?” you ask, but your voice is quiet, like you’re afraid he’s going to tell you no, but Clark could never. Not right now, not ever.
“Yeah, honey,” he promises, kissing your nose, then your forehead. “Is that what you need?”
Your head nods erratically against the pillow. “Need more. Not full enough.”
“Jesus,” Clark swears, hips stuttering at how desperate and certain you sound. He holds onto your waist, thumbs pressing over your stomach. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart, you just lay here for me, yeah? I’ll fill you up as much as you need. That sound good?”
You reach for his face and pull him down into a kiss, immediately licking into his mouth. You are ravenous, and he’s not sure how he’s going to satisfy you. He just hopes he can, because he doesn’t know what this pollen is doing to your body.
Worst case scenario, he guesses, he can fly you to the Fortress and see if the Superman robots can check you over. He might do that anyway, just to be safe.
Clark keeps the same steady pace, hitting your spot over and over and over, fussing over your every whimper and whine. Tears slip from your cheeks but you aren’t in any pain, just clinging to him and telling him to keep going.
You finally quiet when he spills inside you, sniffling into his neck as he holds you.
“Honey?” he asks, but he doesn’t move, just stays inside you, pressing just a little of his weight into you. “You okay?”
You nod against him but you don’t speak.
Clark can feel himself going soft inside you but he doesn’t dare move, not sure what you need right now and if moving might set you off.
But he doesn’t want to crush you beneath him, either.
“I’m gonna move over, okay?”
You immediately cling to him even tighter, even clenching around him, worried he’s going to pull out.
“Just so we can lay down,” he rushes to explain, pressing a kiss to your temple.
He rolls the two of you easily, putting him on his back with you on his chest, holding onto him like a little koala. It’s endearing, really, though it worries him. You’re just so quiet.
Clark fumbles for a blanket and spreads it over your back, his arms caging you against him. He feels your entire body relax, a content sigh leaving your lips as you snuggle even closer.
Your heart is finally slowing down, too, so he takes that as a good sign. You must just be worn out -- who wouldn’t be, after all of that?
He hears your breathing even out and he smiles, trying to crane his neck to get a look at your face, but it’s hard when you have it buried in his neck.
“Are you asleep?” he whispers, though he knows the answer. He rubs slow circles on your back and you shiver just a little, inching closer to him, as if you can get any closer. “Just sleep, honey. I’m right here.”
When you wake up, he’ll have to make sure you rehydrate and eat something. He’ll probably run you a bath, too, just so you can relax your muscles even more.
And then, the two of you can talk. Because he has things he needs to confess, things he really should’ve said to you a long time ago. Then he can plan your first date -- actually plan it out because you deserve the best, especially after today.
He hugs you close, nuzzling his cheek against your head, three words already on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them in. He wants you to be awake when he finally tells you.
a/n: I tried something new w time stamping each section bc i keep thinking about superman (2025) could have had the cuts throughout the film for the different days lol. i also wanted to experiment more with weaving in clark's thoughts and a dual narrative (though it could use some work in my opinion)
6:03 AM
The first pale blade of dawn slipped between the half-open blinds of your Metropolis apartment, painting thin gold stripes across the hardwood floor, the rumpled duvet still tangled from last night. You had been awake for twenty minutes, long enough for the city to begin its low, metallic growl outside; distant sirens, the clatter of delivery trucks, the elevated train rumbling like a sleeping dragon along the elevated tracks three blocks over. But inside the bedroom, the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the steady thump of your own heartbeat.
You stood barefoot in front of the full-length mirror propped against the exposed brick wall, the one Clark had carried up four flights of stairs two years ago with a sheepish grin and a muttered “It’s not that heavy.”
Your reflection stared back, hair tousled from sleep, lips still faintly swollen from the slow, lazy kisses he’d pressed to your mouth at 2:00 AM when he’d finally flown in from a late-night rescue in Suicide Slum. He’d smelled like cold wind and rain, and you’d pulled him down onto the bed without a word, legs wrapping around his waist, whispering stay until he’d fallen asleep still half in costume, the red cape draped over the footboard like a flag of surrender.
Now, though, you were the one declaring war.
Your fingers traced the edge of the bra you’d hidden in the back of your drawer for weeks, bright, impossible red, the color of stoplights and Superman’s boots. The lace was delicate, almost weightless, but the cups were split straight down the center, a deliberate V that framed your nipples like a frame around a painting you had no intention of hiding.
You adjusted the underwire, watching the way the fabric lifted and presented, the cool morning air tightening everything to aching points. Lower, the matching panties were even more brazen: high-cut, with tiny silk bows at each hip and a seamless opening from front to back that left you entirely exposed.
You shifted your weight, feeling the air kiss slick skin, and a slow, wicked smile curved your mouth.
This was for Clark. Your Clark. The man who had been your best friend for five years before he’d ever been your lover.
The one who knew the exact way you took your coffee, the precise pitch of your laugh when you were faking it, the scar on your left knee from the time you’d tried to outrun a story in Gotham and ended up in a dumpster. The same man who could hear a heartbeat across a city, who had taken you on every surface of not only your apartment and his, but also of his parents farm house back in Smallville, but still blushed when you whispered filthy promises in his ear in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen.
You lifted your phone, angling the mirror just right. The shot caught the red lace, the swell of your breasts, the shadowed dip of your waist, but nothing explicit. Just enough to make his jaw clench. You typed with one thumb: Work uniform. Thoughts? and hit send before you could second-guess.
The reply came in three rapid pings.
Clark: You’re grounded.
Clark: From existing.
Clark: I will be outside your door with coffee and approximately zero chill in five seconds if you tell me to be.
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room, and padded to the closet. The charcoal pencil skirt slid up your thighs like a secret, the white blouse crisp and professional, until you buttoned it just low enough that the lace at your shoulder peeked if you breathed wrong. The fabric rasped over sensitive nipples, and you shivered, imagining his hands later, the way his fingers always hesitated at the edge of control.
By 6:45 AM, you were in the lobby of the Daily Planet, the marble floor cool under your heels. The building was still half-asleep, security guard dozing at the desk, the globe above the building spinning with lazy grandeur. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and there he was.
Clark Kent filled the small space like he always did, broad shoulders straining the seams of his navy suit, tie already slightly askew, hair falling over his forehead in a way that made you want to push it back and kiss the worry line between his brows. He held two paper cups from the corner cart, steam curling up in fragrant spirals, and his eyes, those ridiculous, earnest blue eyes behind the glasses, were fixed on you with a mixture of adoration and barely leashed panic.
“Morning, Smallville,” you purred, sliding in so close the elevator doors kissed shut behind you. You stole the coffee from his left hand, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear just long enough to feel him shiver. “Tell me, farm boy… did you dream about me after you snuck out at dawn?”
Clark let out a low, delicious groan, the sound thrumming against your ribs as the elevator began its climb. “Slipped out at five-thirty, like always,” he murmured, voice velvet-rough. “You were still curled in my spot, sheet tangled around your hips, hair everywhere. I kissed your shoulder, whispered I’d be back with coffee… and you just sighed in your sleep and stole my pillow.”
His glasses had slipped; he pushed them up with one finger, eyes dark behind the lenses. “Spent the next hour in the Fortress of Solitude trying to convince myself that the Arctic was calling my name. Then I remembered how you look when you wake up, and suddenly the only thing calling my name was you.”
You took a slow sip of the coffee he’d brought, letting the steam curl between you, then tipped the cup toward his mouth. “Poor baby,” you teased, voice honeyed. “You’d miss me too much to stay that far away.”
“I’d miss a lot of things,” he muttered, and his gaze dropped to your collarbone, instinct, superhuman reflex, maybe, before he caught himself and snapped it back to your face. His free hand rose to adjust his tie, knuckles white. “That bra. The red. It’s…”
“Distracting?” you supplied, stepping closer until your hip brushed his thigh. The elevator was mirrored on three sides; you could see him from every angle, the way his shoulders tensed, the faint flush climbing his neck. “Good. That’s the point.”
Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “We’re professionals. Perry’s on a tear about the merger. Lois is already circling like a shark. And you’re…” His voice dropped to a whisper only you and his super-hearing could catch. “You’re bare under there. I can smell it. You. God.”
The elevator hummed upward, a slow, deliberate climb that felt like it was stretching time itself. The mirrored walls threw back infinite versions of you pressed close to Clark, your reflection overlapping his in a kaleidoscope of navy wool and charcoal skirt. Steam from the coffee curled between your mouths like a secret.
You took another sip, slow and deliberate, then let the cup hover just under his nose. “Taste?” you asked, voice syrupy. “Or are you too busy pretending trying not to peek at what’s under my blouse?”
Clark’s eyes flicked down again before he wrenched them back to your face. The flush on his neck deepened to scarlet. “I see you’re feeling particularly evil before seven AM,” he muttered, but he leaned in anyway, lips brushing the rim where yours had been. The contact was feather-light, accidental-on-purpose, and you felt the tremor that ran through his shoulders.
You tilted the cup, letting him take a sip. A drop clung to his lower lip; you reached up with your thumb and wiped it away, slow, then sucked the coffee from your own skin. His pupils blew wide behind the glasses.
“Evil?” you echoed, stepping closer until the toes of your heels nudged his loafers. The elevator was small; there was nowhere for him to retreat. “I’m just making up for lost time. You did sneak out while I was asleep. Again. Left me cold sheets and a stolen pillow. Rude.”
Clark’s free hand rose, hovered, then settled on your waist, fingers splayed wide, thumb tracing the seam where blouse met skirt. “I didn’t want to,” he said, voice rough. “And I kissed your shoulder before I left. Twice. You sighed like you were dreaming about me.”
“I was,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed the hinge of his jaw. “Dreamed you stayed. Dreamed you woke me up with that mouth of yours instead of flying off to play hero in the arctic.”
His grip tightened, just enough to feel the restrained strength in his fingers. “Fortress of Solitude,” he corrected, breathless. “Not the Arctic. And I only went because…” He stopped, swallowed. “Because if I’d stayed, we’d still be in bed. And Perry would’ve had my head on a spike by eight.”
You hummed, letting your teeth graze the stubble along his throat. “Mmm. Perry. Always ruining our fun.” Your hand slid up his chest, fingers toying with the knot of his tie. “You know, I could fix that. There’s this magic button that makes the elevator stop… and then, one little tug and this tie’s on the floor. Then we’d really be late.”
Clark’s breath hitched. The elevator dinged, floor twenty, but the doors stayed closed, the car pausing for no one. His eyes flicked to the panel, then back to you, dark and desperate. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“No, silly, I’m trying to keep you,” you corrected, pressing closer until the lace of your bra rasped against his shirt. He let out a strangled noise that bordered on a whimper. You could feel the heat of him through the layers, the way his hips shifted involuntarily, rutting against the thigh you pressed between them. “You can hear my heartbeat from space, right? Tell me, Smallville… how fast is it right now?”
He closed his eyes, lashes fluttering. “Like a hummingbird,” he rasped. “And if you don’t stop, I’m going to–”
The elevator lurched again, resuming its climb. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, letting your fingers trail down his tie, stopping at the buckle of his belt. “Going to what?” you asked, voice innocent. “Carry me to the roof and have your way with me before the bullpen opens?”
Clark’s groan was pure torment. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Too late,” you whispered, and leaned up to steal a kiss, just a brush of lips, a tease of tongue, before the doors slid open on the newsroom floor. The bullpen was waking up, phones starting their shrill chorus, the coffee machine guryng in the corner, Perry White’s voice booming from his glass-walled office, “Kent! L/N! Merger story on my desk by 5pm or I swear I’ll staple your bylines to the ceiling!”
You stepped out first, hips swaying, coffee in hand, leaving him to follow with a tie that suddenly felt way too tight. “See you at your desk, farmboy.”
Clark followed a moment later, coffee sloshing dangerously in his cup. You could feel his eyes on your hips as you walked to your desk, directly across from his, because Perry believed in “synergy” and you believed in torment. He sat down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight, and powered on his computer with the air of a man preparing for battle.
You settled into your chair, crossing your legs with deliberate languor. The charcoal skirt rode just high enough to let cool office air kiss the inside of your thigh. The crotchless lace parted with the motion, slick folds brushing slick folds, and the sensation was so sharp you had to bite the inside of your cheek to trap the moan behind your teeth. A tiny, involuntary catch escaped anyway, just the softest hitch of breath.
Across the aisle, Clark’s head snapped up like a bloodhound catching a scent. His fingers froze mid-keystroke, hovering an inch above the keyboard. The newsroom clattered around you, phones, printers, Lois yelling at a source, but to him it might as well have been vacuum-sealed silence. His nostrils flared, subtle to anyone else, obvious to you. He could smell you: the warm, unmistakable bloom of arousal that had started in the elevator and only thickened with every teasing step.
His super-hearing caught the wet click when you shifted again, the faint rustle of lace against skin, the way your pulse spiked in your throat and between your legs. A muscle in his jaw flexed; the pen in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip. Behind the glasses, his eyes went dark, pupils blown wide.
God, I can smell her from here. Like heat and honey and mine. Clark thought, tugging at his tie to loosen it just a bit. That little hitch in her breath? That’s the same sound she makes right before I… He swallowed hard, fingers working across his keyboard with a little more force than he intended. She’s soaked. Dripping. And she knows I know. He realized, for a moment, that he had been mindlessly hitting backspace on a blank document. Focus, Kent. Merger. LexCorp. Not the way her thighs are trembling under the desk.
Every breath he took pulled more of you into his lungs, and every heartbeat you skipped echoed in his ears like a siren.
By 8:15 AM, your first real strike landed. You stood, smoothing your skirt, and crossed to his desk under the pretense of checking a typo in his draft.
“Here, let me see,” you murmured, leaning over his monitor. The angle was perfect, your blouse gaped just enough for the red lace to flash, the split cup shifting to reveal the tight peak of one nipple.
Clark’s typing stuttered to a halt. His left hand froze mid-word; his right gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood groaned.
Red. Like the cape. Like blood in my veins right now. She’s doing this on purpose… He resisted the urge to take in a deep breath, despite his mind screaming to do it, to take more of you into his lungs. If I use super-speed, I could have her in the supply closet in 0.8 seconds. Pin her against the toner cartridges, rip that blouse open, taste her… He physically shook his head, his hair tickling against you. No. Merger story. LexCorp. Perry’s watching. Focus, Kent. Focus.
You straightened slowly, letting your fingers brush his as you slid a yellow sticky note beneath his palm. It read, in your neat reporter’s handwriting: Kiss me at 10:07am.
His eyes widened behind the glasses, a flush creeping up his neck. You were already walking away, hips swaying just enough to make the skirt cling, the lace rubbing with every step. Clark stared at the sticky note like it was a live grenade.
The hour trudged by, dragging its heels against the ticking of the clock. His responses to colleagues were clipped, his emails terse. He loosened his tie further with one distracted tug, then another, as if the room had jumped ten degrees.
Every so often, you caught him watching you, eyes dark behind the glasses, jaw clenched, one hand white-knuckled on the desk while the other typed with mechanical precision. You could practically hear the countdown in his head: 10:07. 10:07. Don’t look at her legs. Don’t think about the red. Don’t–
The clock on the wall ticked louder with every passing minute, and you smiled into your coffee, tasting anticipation like dark chocolate on your tongue.
9:00 AM
The bullpen had slipped into its morning rhythm: the metallic clack of keyboards, the low murmur of phone interviews, the faint squeak of Lois Lane’s chair as she spun to bark at different source on speaker. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching on dust motes and the brass nameplates screwed to every desk. The air smelled of burnt coffee, fresh toner, and the ghost of someone’s microwaved fish from yesterday. You inhaled it all and felt the lace shift against your skin like a second heartbeat.
Clark sat opposite you, shoulders hunched, pretending to read a LexCorp press release. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose; every few seconds he pushed them up with the same absent gesture he used when he was pretending not to listen to a hostage situation three states away. You watched the muscle in his jaw tick. Good.
At 9:12 AM you rose from your chair with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who knew exactly how many eyes tracked the motion. The charcoal skirt hugged your hips like a second skin, hem brushing mid-thigh, and every step tugged the crotchless seam apart just enough for cool office air to slip between your folds and make you bite back a shiver. The restroom door clicked shut behind you; the lock snicked home with a soft, conspiratorial sound.
Inside the single-occupancy stall, the fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. You leaned back against the cool tile, the chill seeping through your blouse and raising gooseflesh along your arms. Your fingers found the top button, slow, savoring, then the next, and the next, until the fabric parted to the sternum.
The red lace bra framed your breasts like a dare, the split cups already tugged wide from the morning’s teasing. Your nipples tightened instantly in the colder air, aching points that begged for touch. You circled one with the pad of your thumb, slow, deliberate, feeling the rasp of lace and the faint callus from endless hours at the keyboard. A low thrum of pleasure pulsed straight to your core; you let your head fall back against the tile, eyes fluttering shut for one heartbeat, two.
Snap. The camera flash bleached the mirror white, catching the flush climbing your throat, the way your lower lip caught between your teeth. You angled the phone lower, capturing the swell of your breast, the dark peak framed by crimson, the faint tremor in your fingers. Caption: Thinking of your mouth. Sent.
Back in the bullpen, Clark’s phone buzzed against the scarred oak of his desk. He glanced down, and froze. The screen lit his face in stark relief: the red lace, the tight nipple under your thumb, the unmistakable glint of want in your eyes. Color surged from his collar to the tips of his ears in a perfect, mortified gradient. His fingers flew over the screen, each word a plea.
Clark: Stop.
Clark: Please.
Clark: I’m begging, sweetheart. We’re at work. I still have to interview a CFO at 11.
Sweetheart. Even flustered and tortured, he defaulted to tenderness. It made your chest warm even as heat pooled lower.
At 9:45 AM you slipped away again, the click of your heels a metronome. In the same restroom, you locked the door and hiked the skirt to your waist in one smooth motion. The mirror reflected everything: the red lace panties, the open seam gleaming under fluorescent light, the slick evidence of how thoroughly you’d been wound up since dawn.
You were wet, embarrassingly, gloriously so, your arousal coating the inside of your thighs, the air cool against swollen folds. You spread your stance just enough to frame the view: the delicate silk bows at your hips, the way the lace parted like a curtain, the faint tremor in your knees.
You dragged one finger through the wetness, slow, gathering it, then brought it to your lips and tasted yourself, salt and want. Snap. The flash caught the sheen on your finger, the flush high on your cheeks, the way your breath fogged the mirror. Caption: Just tasted how ready I am for you. Come find out for yourself. Sent.
Clark didn’t reply. When you returned, he was already unraveling. He sat rigid, shoulders hunched, one large hand pressed flat to his lap as if he could will the obvious bulge away. His typing had slowed to a crawl. The knuckles of his free hand were blanched white against the desk’s edge. You could see the pulse leaping in his throat from twenty feet away, a frantic drumbeat only he could hear in perfect clarity.
You wished, not for the first time, to know what exactly was going on inside of his pretty little head.
She’s soaked, he thought, the words slamming into him like a physical blow. Just from pictures. From knowing I’m looking. The scent of you, warm, musky, unmistakable, curled through the air-conditioning and straight into his lungs. He could hear the wet click when you’d shifted in the stall, the soft hitch of your breath when your finger had slid through slick heat. If I glance up she’ll be smirking, that red lace probably shifts every time she breathes. Don’t look. Don’t–damn it, I looked. Nipples like cherries under that bra, the memory of your taste still on his tongue from last night. Focus on quarterly earnings. Not on bending her over the city desk and… oh crap, Perry’s watching. Breathe.
He forced his gaze back to the screen, but the words blurred. It took more physical strength than most battles he fought to hold a whimper in as you dropped unceremoniously back into your desk chair, breasts bouncing as you did so.
At 10:05 AM exactly, you let your pen roll off the edge of your desk. It clattered, spun, and disappeared beneath Clark’s chair. You sank to your knees with theatrical slowness, skirt riding high enough to flash the lace tops of your stockings. The carpet smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and old newsprint. You crawled forward on all fours, lips brushing the inside of his knee through the fine wool of his slacks, a kiss so light it was barely pressure, more suggestion than contact.
Clark jolted like he’d been shocked. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your elbow with careful, impossible strength.
“Stairwell,” he said through clenched teeth, voice gravel and honey. “Please,” he added as he hauled you up and across the room in one fluid motion, careful to move at a normal speed despite everything in him screaming to be faster. He exited with you through the fire door, the heavy steel clicking shut behind you.
The stairwell was a concrete echo chamber, cool and dim. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. Clark backed you against the wall, palms flat on either side of your head, caging you without touching. His breath came in short, controlled bursts; you could see the restraint in the tremor of his biceps.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked, soft, almost laughing. The bashfulness was still there, but it was threaded with raw want.
You tilted your chin. “Kissing you at 10:07, like the note said.”
A helpless grin tugged at his mouth. “You’re making things very difficult.”
“And you love it.”
He did. The proof was pressing against your hip, thick and unmistakable. Clark dipped his head, glasses fogging, and kissed you like a man drowning, slow at first, savoring, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours with a low, involuntary sound. You fisted his shirt, felt the heat of him through cotton, the faint tremor in his shoulders. His hand slid to your waist, thumb tracing the edge of the lace beneath your blouse, a question and an answer all at once.
You nipped his bottom lip. “We’re at work, Smallville.”
He groaned, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re quoting me now? Cruel.”
“I prefer thorough, and efficient,” you corrected, straightening his tie with deliberate tugs. The silk was warm from his skin. “Copier’s jammed by the way. You should probably fix it before Perry notices.”
Clark’s laugh was ragged. “You jammed it.”
“Can’t prove it.”
He kissed you once more, quick, filthy, a promise, then let you go. You slipped out first, heels clicking down the hall, pulse thrumming between your thighs.
12:30 PM
The CFO interview had run long, forty-three minutes of quarterly projections and polite deflections. He looked relieved to be back in the bullpen, until he spotted you leaning against the copier, hip cocked, a single sheet of paper already crumpled in the tray like a white flag of surrender.
He approached, but not before grabbing the small red toolbox the office kept for when the printer jammed that he definitely didn’t need, knees creaking as he knelt. The machine hummed its usual irritable whine. You shifted your weight, letting one heel drift forward until the patent leather toe nudged the inside of his thigh, just a tap, polite as a question.
Clark’s hands paused over the paper jam. His exhale was slow, measured, but you caught the way his shoulders locked. “Subtle,” he murmured, voice pitched for your ears alone.
You crouched beside him, pretending to peer into the guts of the copier. Your skirt rode a careful inch, revealing the lace edge of a garter clipped to sheer stocking. “Thought you might need a second set of eyes,” you said, soft enough that the words brushed the shell of his ear. “Or hands.”
His fingers flexed on the plastic tray. A tremor ran through his wrist, barely there, but you felt it like a plucked string. He cleared his throat. “Jam’s in the back panel.”
“Mm. Tricky spot.” You let your knee rest against his, the heat of you seeping through wool and cotton. “Bet you could reach it if you really stretched.”
Clark’s jaw worked. He eased the panel open, metal scraping softly. “Tonight,” he said under his breath, eyes fixed on the machine. “Conference room. Bring your lanyard.”
You smiled, tracing an idle circle on the carpet with your heel. “Promise?”
He didn’t answer with words. Just the faintest pressure of his shoulder against yours, steady, deliberate, before he freed the crumpled sheet and closed the panel with a quiet click.
Back at the desks, the game simmered in micro-doses, every glance and breath a fresh spark.
You leaned over Clark’s monitor to “correct” a comma, letting your blouse gape just enough for the red lace to flash. The split cup shifted; your nipple grazed the edge of the fabric, tightening instantly in the cool office air. Clark’s fingers stuttered mid-sentence, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. There it is again, he thought, the scent of you curling into his lungs, warm skin, coffee, and that darn lace. His left hand abandoned the keyboard, knuckles whitening against the desk’s edge while the right rubbed the back of his neck as if he could scrub the image away.
At 12:45 PM you slipped your shoe off under the desk, the leather sighing free. Your stockinged foot slid between his calves, pointed toe tracing slow, deliberate circles up the muscle of his shin. Clark’s leg tensed; he kicked back lightly, a warning that felt more like invitation, and didn’t pull away, even as you trailed your foot higher. She’s tormenting me, he realized, pulse thudding in his ears. Every inch. If she moves any higher… His breath hitched, audible only to him as you.
Lunch was a non-event; Perry’s glare and a looming deadline chained you both to your keyboards. But at 1:17 PM you “accidentally” nudged your water bottle. It tipped, arced, and spilled across your blouse in a cold cascade. The white cotton went sheer instantly, red lace blooming like a neon sign beneath. Clark walked in for coffee, took one look, and pivoted so fast he nearly clipped Lois with his elbow.
Wet blouse. Lace like a second skin. Nipples hard from the cold…or from knowing I’m watching. The thought slammed into him, heat pooling low. I could super-speed her home. Press her against my mattress. See those thighs– Lois was right there. Perry’s deadline loomed. Breathe, Kent. In for four, out for four. You were grinning, water dripping from your chin, and you knew exactly what you’d done. His suit jacket found it’s way around your shoulders as he softly pressed his finger against your nose, a soft move he often did when he wanted to lecture you on safety.
Under the desk during lunch, your bare foot found his again, this time bolder. You pressed the arch against the inside of his knee, then slid higher, the silk of your stocking whispering over wool until the ball of your foot rested firmly between his thighs, right where he was still as achingly hard as he had been since the elevator this morning. Clark’s hand dropped instinctively, fingers closing around your ankle, not pushing away, just holding, grounding himself. His eyes flicked to yours across the aisle, dark and desperate behind the glasses. She’s right there, he thought, under the desk, under my skin. One more inch and I’m gone.
By 2:00 PM Clark was unraveling in the sweetest way. His tie hung so loose, it might as well just be removed, the knot pulled to one side; his hair stuck up where he’d raked his hands through it one too many times. When Jimmy asked him a question about photo captions, Clark answered in monosyllables, eyes flicking to you every three seconds like you were the only oxygen in the room.
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead until the blouse pulled tight across your chest, his suit jacket tucked against the back of your chair. The lace rasped over sensitive skin. Clark’s gaze snapped to you, held, then dropped to his keyboard with a muttered curse that sounded suspiciously like please.
The clock on the wall ticked toward evening, and the bullpen slowly emptied. You could feel the tension coiling between you like a live wire, humming, waiting for the spark.
3:30 PM
The bullpen had turned into a low-grade sauna. The air-conditioning wheezed like an asthmatic dragon, pushing lukewarm air against the rising heat of bodies, monitors, and the summer sun that hammered the plate-glass windows. Someone had opened a window on the east side; the breeze that snuck in carried the smell of hot asphalt, roasted chestnuts from the cart on the corner, and the metallic tang of the L-train braking three blocks over. Every exhale tasted faintly of toner dust.
Clark’s draft of the LexCorp merger piece had hit Perry’s inbox at 3:29 PM, technically on time, but the file was riddled with typos he’d never normally let slide. You watched him scrub a hand over his face, glasses fogging with the motion, then glance at his phone for the fourth time in five minutes. His thumb hovered over the screen, no doubt scrolling back to the last photo: skirt rucked to your waist, red lace framing slick skin like a neon arrow. You could see the pulse in his throat from across the aisle.
At 3:47 PM you thumbed a new text, quick and vicious.
You: Closet. Now. Or Pic #3 goes to the bullpen group chat.
You didn’t have a Pic #3, yet, but the bluff landed like a grenade. Clark was out of his chair in a heartbeat, the motion a hair too fast; the reporter two desks over blinked, wondering if the AC had kicked into overdrive. You rose more slowly, letting the skirt settle against your thighs, the crotchless seam parting with every step so that cool air kissed you in places that made your breath hitch.
The supply closet was tucked behind the photo lab, a narrow rectangle of flickering fluorescent light and industrial shelving. You slipped in after him, the lock sliding home with a soft, decisive click. The air inside was thick, paper dust, warm plastic, the ghost of someone’s tuna sandwich from last week. Shelves pressed close on every side; a single bare bulb overhead buzzed like a trapped insect.
Clark’s back hit the door the instant it shut. You crowded in, chest to chest, the heat of him radiating through cotton and wool. His heart thundered under your palm, fast, but steady, the rhythm of a man holding a tidal wave behind his teeth.
“You’ve been good all day,” you murmured, lips brushing the hinge of his jaw. The stubble there rasped against your mouth, a delicious scratch. “One reward. Look with your other eyes.”
His hands found your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt like he was anchoring himself to the planet. “I shouldn’t,” he said, but the words came out ragged, half-laugh, half-prayer.
You nipped the soft spot beneath his ear. “Please, Clark.”
The plea undid him. A faint blue shimmer flickered behind his glasses, x-ray vision flaring to life. You felt it like a physical touch: the cool sweep of his gaze peeling away blouse and skirt, lace and skin, until he saw everything. The red bra split wide, nipples drawn tight; the crotchless panties framing you, open and glistening; the frantic flutter of your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. His breath stuttered, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through both of you.
“Evil,” he whispered, forehead dropping to yours. “You’re evil and y-you’re…,” his thumbs traced the undercurve of your breasts through the blouse, feather-light, reverent. “You’re dripping for me. In the middle of the office.”
You kissed him, slow, filthy, tongue sliding against his like you had all the time in the world. Your hand cupped the thick line of him through his slacks, stroking once, twice, feeling him twitch and swell. “See what you do to me?” you breathed against his lips.
Clark’s control fractured. He kissed back harder, one hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your thigh. His fingers dug in, hiking your skirt an inch, then two, until the lace garter snapped against his wrist. You felt the tremor in his arm: he could lift a city bus, but right now he was shaking.
You drew his hand between you, letting it ghost in between your thighs, not quite where you wanted him most. You groan softly in frustration, shoving your hips towards his palm. He chuckled softly, the sound smug in your ears, as he stroked the skin near the apex of your thighs, feeling your slick even there.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned quietly. “We really shouldn’t.” But his hand inched higher, tips of his fingers a feather light brush against the sensitive bundle of nerves between your thighs. Your head fell back in anticipation, his mouth trailing along your neck.
She’s soaked and open and mine. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His hand, still cupped between your thighs, curled into a fist, then slowly withdrew, fingertips shining with the ghost of your arousal.
You watched, breath caught, as he lifted those fingers to his face. Not subtle. Not accidental. A deliberate, low-key retaliation for every picture, every brush of your foot under the desk. He pressed the pads to the curve beneath his nose, inhaled slow and deep, eyes locked on yours. The scent of you flooded him, warm, musky, unmistakably you. His lashes fluttered; a low, involuntary sound rumbled in his chest.
Then, still holding your gaze, he slipped the same two fingers between his lips. Tongue curled, tasting you with a reverence that made your knees weak. The corner of his mouth lifted, just a flicker, a silent you told me to come find out, before he tucked the hand into his pocket like nothing had happened.
“Not here,” he rasped, voice raw. “Tonight. Conference room. I promise, sweetheart.”
He eased the door open, toolbox swinging, and stepped into the hallway.
“There you are! Perry’s about to blow a gasket. What were you doing in the supply closet?” Jimmy laughed, and you could picture the way he’d throw his arm around Clark despite being shorter than him.
“Uh, needed a quiet place to think. Somewhere that really sparks creativity. You know how it is.” Clark’s voice was steady, but you caught the faint tremor underneath.
Cold shower. Now. Clark thought, the taste of you still on his tongue as he walked away with Jimmy. Or I’ll bend her over the water cooler in front of Lois and Perry and the entire city desk. Get it together, Kent. In for four, out for four. Do not think about the way she’s going to taste on that conference table tonight.
You stayed inside, ear pressed to the cool metal, listening to their footsteps fade. You waited another thirty seconds, heart hammering, then slipped out. Clark was already at his desk, shoulders rigid, staring at his screen like it had personally betrayed him. His right hand rested on the keyboard, fingers curled slightly, as if still holding the ghost of you.
At 5:15 PM you glided to his desk on the pretense of needing a file from his bottom drawer. You bent at the waist, slowly, letting your breath fan the shell of his ear. Your lips brushed the lobe, barely a kiss, more a promise, and you felt him shiver, the reaction rippling down his spine like a struck tuning fork.
His hand rose, hovered, then settled on the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, thumb tracing the edge of your blouse where it met skirt. He muttered, “stop,” but his palm stayed put, warm and possessive.
By 6:02 PM the break room was nearly empty, just the hum of the vending machine and the drip of the coffee pot. You cornered him by the candy display, rising on tiptoe to press a quick, hot kiss to the hollow of his throat, just above the knot of his tie. The skin there tasted faintly of salt and the cedar soap he used at home.
“Almost quitting time,” you teased, voice low enough that only he could hear.
Clark’s reply was a grunt, half laugh, half groan. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, the other drifting to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric like he was memorizing the feel of you.
“You’re going to get us both fired,” he murmured, but his thumb traced a small, secret circle against your hipbone.
Perry bellowed from his office twice, once for a missing caption, once because Clark had accidentally typed LexCorp merger as LexCorp merger merger merger in a paragraph. Each time, Clark flinched like he’d been cattle-prodded, then shot you a look that was equal parts exasperation and helpless want.
At 6:47 PM you “dropped” your stapler. It clattered under his desk. You knelt again, this time letting your cheek brush the inside of his thigh as you retrieved it. The wool of his slacks was warm, the muscle beneath rigid.
Clark’s hand dropped to your shoulder, fingers tightening, not pushing you away, just anchoring.
When you rose, you let your breasts graze his arm, the lace rasping over his sleeve. His breath hitched audibly.
By 7:00 PM the bullpen was thinning, reporters trickling out in twos and threes, the overhead lights dimming to half-power. Clark stayed, ostensibly finishing notes, but his eyes tracked you like a hawk watching a rabbit. Every time you moved, crossing to the printer, stretching to pin a photo to the corkboard, he followed the motion with a hunger he didn’t bother hiding anymore.
You leaned back in your chair, arching just enough to make the blouse pull tight across your chest. The red lace flashed beneath the white fabric, a deliberate signal. Clark’s pen snapped in his hand; ink bloomed across his fingers like a bruise. He didn’t even notice.
The clock on the wall ticked toward evening, and the air between you crackled, electric, inevitable.
8:00 PM
The newsroom had thinned to a skeleton crew: a night-desk copy editor snoring in the corner, the janitor’s cart rattling somewhere near Sports. Overhead, only every third fluorescent tube still glowed, casting long shadows across the desks. The LexCorp merger story was 98% locked; your edits, Clark’s fact-checks, Perry’s final growl of approval still echoing in your ears.
Takeout containers from Big Belly Burger steamed between you and Clark on the city-desk island: double bacon cheeseburger for him, curly fries for sharing, extra pickles on the side because you both know if you didn’t get them, you’d fight over them.
Clark sat sideways in his chair, one foot propped on the rung of yours, tie finally abandoned in his top drawer. He speared a fry, dragged it through the ketchup you’d squirted in a perfect heart, and lifted it to your mouth. “Open,” he murmured, voice low enough that the copy editor wouldn’t stir.
You obeyed, letting your tongue catch the salt on his fingertips a fraction longer than necessary. His eyes darkened behind the glasses. She’s still wet, he thought, the memory of the supply closet ghosting across his tongue. I can smell it every time she shifts.
Jimmy bounded in with a camera bag slung over one shoulder, oblivious. “Thought you two would still be married to your screens, not each other. Mind if I steal a fry?” He didn’t wait, snagging one and dropping into Lois’s empty chair. “Perry said the merger package is gold. You guys are legends.”
Clark’s foot nudged yours under the desk, slow, deliberate pressure against your bare ankle where your shoe had slipped off again. “Just cleaning up commas,” he said, perfectly casual, even as his toes traced the arch of your foot. Two can play, sweetheart.
You hummed, leaning forward to snag a pickle spear. The motion made your blouse gape; red lace flashed for half a heartbeat. Jimmy didn’t notice, busy scrolling through photos on his camera, but Clark’s fry paused halfway to his mouth. Gosh, that bra again. Is she really going to risk Jimmy seeing? Clark found himself wondering, biting his fry more harshly than he should have.
Conversation drifted, Jimmy recounting a rooftop shoot, you laughing at his impression of Perry’s vein-popping rage. Every time Jimmy looked away, Clark’s gaze flicked to you: the way you licked salt from your thumb, the slow cross of your legs that let cool air tease the open seam of your panties. You answered with a subtle roll of your ankle against his calf, the silk of your stocking whispering up his slacks.
At 8:27 PM Jimmy yawned, stretched. “I’m out. Early call for the mayor’s presser. Don’t stay all night, lovebirds.” He winked, clueless to the actual heat that had been brewing all day, and ambled toward the elevators.
The second the doors closed, the air thickened.
Clark set his burger down, wiped his hands on a napkin, and leaned in. “You’ve been killing me since noon,” he said, voice velvet-rough. “That fry thing? The pickle? You’re lucky Jimmy didn’t choke on his own tongue.”
You plucked another fry, dragged it through ketchup, and held it just out of reach. “You started it with the foot thing.” You let the fry hover near his lips. “Open.”
He did, slow, deliberate, tongue curling around the fry and, for a heartbeat, around your fingertips. His eyes never left yours. Tonight, he thought, conference room. Lanyards. Table. I’m going to taste every inch she’s been teasing me with.
You pulled your hand back, licked the lingering salt from your thumb. “Edits won’t finish themselves, Smallville.”
He exhaled through his nose, turned back to his screen, but his left hand dropped under the desk, fingers brushing your knee, tracing idle circles that climbed higher with every keystroke.
You answered by sliding your foot up his inner thigh, the ball of it pressing lightly, accidentally, against the growing bulge in his slacks.
The wall clock’s minute hand crawled past nine, then ten, each click a slow heartbeat in the half-dark. The remaining fluorescents had slipped fully into sleep mode, leaving only the green EXIT signs and the soft cobalt glow of standby monitors. The bullpen smelled faintly of cold fries and cooling coffee, the ghosts of dinner clinging to the air.
You rolled your neck, listening to the soft pop of vertebrae. Clark’s reflection in his screen showed him doing the same, sleeves shoved higher, glasses catching the low light like twin moons. Every time you leaned to “check a source link,” your knee brushed his under the desk; every time he reached for the shared style sheet, his knuckles grazed the inside of your wrist. A whispered “nice comma” from him became a murmured “perfect em-dash” from you, each phrase loaded, a private code.
10:45 PM. You saved the final file. Clark hit submit. The soft whoosh of the intranet was the only sound for three full seconds.
He exhaled, long and shaky. “Done.”
You answered by catching his gaze, letting a slow wink bloom across your face, deliberate, unmistakable. Then you pushed back from your desk, the chair rolling with a soft shhh across the carpet. Your pumps were still kicked off under the desk; you left them, padding barefoot toward the restrooms, hips swaying just enough to pull his eyes like gravity.
Clark’s voice followed you, low and steady, pitched for your ears alone.
“Conference room,” he said, already standing, jacket slung over one arm. “When you’re ready.”
The hallway lights dimmed further as you disappeared around the corner, the click of the restroom door the only sound before silence swallowed the bullpen whole.
11:12 PM
The restroom door clicked shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the cavernous hush of the empty bullpen. You took your time, freshened up, smoothed the skirt, let the cool tile ground you, knowing exactly what waited on the other side of the floor.
Clark had already vanished from the city desk. You caught the faint whoosh of displaced air as he moved, human speed, but barely, toward the conference room. The hallway lights had dimmed to a bruised indigo; the frosted glass of the door glowed faintly from within, a beacon in the dark.
Inside, Clark paced the length of the long oak table, three strides one way, three back. His jacket lay abandoned over a chair; sleeves shoved to his elbows revealed forearms corded with tension, the faint blue veins that surfaced only when he was holding back something enormous.
This is the Daily Planet, he thought, pulse hammering in his throat. Perry’s kingdom. Lois’s favorite place. And I’m about to… He stopped, raked a hand through his hair, glasses catching the standby glow of the projector. With her. On the conference table. God, she’s been such a tease all day. Every picture, every brush of her foot, every wink. I can’t wait anymore. Dangerous? Yes. Worth it?
He paused at the head of the table, fingers drumming once on the polished wood, then forced himself still. The air tasted metallic, charged, the way it does before lightning. He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and waited, heart drumming a syncopated rhythm against his ribs, the lace between your thighs a phantom ache in his memory.
The door handle turned with a soft, deliberate click.
You stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind you with a muted thud that echoed in the cavernous room. The city’s fractured glow bled through the half-drawn blinds, striping your silhouette in gold and shadow. Your heeled feet were silent on the carpet; the charcoal skirt clung to your hips, the red lace beneath already damp from anticipation. You paused just inside the threshold, letting the weight of the day settle between you like a held breath.
Clark stood at the head of the table, one hand braced on the oak, the other frozen mid-air as if he’d been about to rake it through his hair again. His eyes, dark, hungry, but still impossibly tender, locked on you. The green EXIT sign painted his cheekbones in low ember light. He exhaled, a shaky sound that cracked in the middle.
Worth it, he thought, the word flashing like a neon sign behind his eyes. Every second of risk. Every heartbeat I’ve spent pretending I’m not dying to touch her.
He crossed the space in two strides, no hesitation, no farm-boy shuffle. The first stride closed half the distance; the second brought him flush against you, chest to chest, the heat of him radiating through cotton and wool. His hands rose instinctively, hovering an inch from your waist as if the air itself might burn. Then they settled, large, steady, grounding, fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hips.
“All day,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, warm breath raising gooseflesh along your neck. “Every second. Your scent in the elevator. The way the lace moved when you breathed. Those pictures…” His voice cracked on the last word, raw.
You turned your head just enough to catch his eye. “Then do something about it.”
The growl that tore from his throat was pure animal. His hands slid up, large, careful despite the tremor, and gripped the collar of your blouse. Fabric protested; buttons pinged off glass and wood like hailstones. Cool air rushed over your skin as the blouse parted, baring the red lace bra, the split cups framing your nipples already peaked and aching. Clark’s gaze raked downward, reverent and ravenous.
But he didn’t rush.
He stepped closer, chest to your back, the heat of him seeping through your remaining clothes. One palm slid up your sternum, slow, until it cupped your throat, no pressure, just presence. Promise. His thumb stroked the frantic pulse beneath your jaw.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he whispered, lips grazing the tendon where neck met shoulder. “Every time you leaned over my desk, I could smell you. Every picture…Gosh, the way you looked in that mirror is going to be in my mind for the rest of my life.”
His other hand found the zipper of your skirt, drawing it down tooth by tooth, the sound loud in the stillness. The wool slid from your hips and pooled at your feet. You stepped free, left in crimson lace and the fractured glow of the city. Clark’s inhale was shaky, reverent.
He turned you to face away from him. The table’s edge kissed the front of your thighs. His eyes, dark, hungry, but soft at the edges, locked on yours as you glanced over your shoulder. “Hands on the table, sweetheart,” he said, voice low. “Palms down.”
You obeyed, the oak cool beneath your fingers. Clark dropped to his knees.
The first touch was his breath, warm, deliberate, against the inside of your thigh. He started at the lace tops of your stockings, lips brushing the sensitive skin just above. His hands followed, palms gliding up the backs of your legs, thumbs tracing the garter clips with a reverence that made you tremble. When he reached the crotchless panties, he paused, exhaling shakily.
“Look at you, soaked still,” he murmured, voice rough with awe. “Let me finally take care of you, sweetheart.”
His tongue traced the open seam, slow, flat, from entrance to clit in one long, languid stroke. You gasped, hips jerking. He pinned you gently with one hand splayed over your lower back, holding you steady. The other hand cupped your ass, fingers digging in just enough to anchor. He licked again, slower, savoring, the flat of his tongue dragging over every nerve. When he reached your clit, he circled, once, twice, then sucked gently, the pull sending sparks up your spine.
Your knees buckled. Clark’s arm slid around your waist, supporting your weight without effort as he nudged your thighs farther apart. He hummed against you, the vibration making you moan, cheek pressed to the oak. His tongue delved lower, pushing inside, tasting you deeply, rhythmically, like he was memorizing every inch. The lace rasped against your nipples as your back arched; the table creaking beneath your grip.
He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing slick skin. “You taste so good,” he said, voice wrecked. “Been thinking about this all day. Couldn’t stop imagining you like this. Open for me, dripping, mine.”
His fingers joined his mouth, two thick digits sliding through the open seam, curling inside you, stroking that spot that made your vision blur. His tongue returned to your clit, flicking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation built fast, pleasure coiling tight and hot. Your thighs trembled; your breath coming in broken sobs.
“Please, Clark,” you whimper, rocking your hips back into his face, meeting in time with his curling fingers.
Clark slowed, drawing out your torture. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, nipping gently. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Want you to feel how I felt all day, sweetheart.”
He rose slowly, mouth glistening, eyes dark. His hands roamed, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking the exposed nipples through the split cups until you whimpered. He leaned in, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slow, filthy, a promise. His hips slotted against yours and you could feel the hard press of him against your thigh.
Clark’s hand left your hip and stretched across the oak table, fingers closing around the two lanyards he’d slipped in earlier while you were in the restroom. The nylon cords glinted faintly in the low light, Daily Planet badges swinging like twin pendulums.
He straightened, pulling you upright with him in one fluid motion. Your back met his chest; the heat of him seared through the remnants of your blouse. His free arm banded around your waist, steadying you as he brought your wrists together at the small of your back. The cords whispered over your skin, cool, smooth, crossing once, twice, tightening with deliberate care. Not cruel, but unyielding. The plastic edges pressed neat, cool lines into your flesh; the badges clacked softly between your shoulder blades, a private chime only the two of you could hear.
He tested the give with a gentle tug. You swayed, breasts brushing the table’s edge, nipples dragging over polished oak and sending sparks straight to your core. Clark’s breath hitched behind you; the hard, unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed firmly between your cheeks through wool and lace, a promise and a threat.
“Perfect,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. His hand settled over the bound knot, fingers curling possessively around your wrists. Then he bent you forward again, slow, controlled, until your cheek met cool wood. Papers slid away in a white avalanche; a stapler thudded to the carpet. Your bound hands forced your back into a graceful arch, the position leaving you open, vulnerable, offered, while the heat of him stayed flush against you, a steady, throbbing reminder of exactly how the day had ended.
Clark stepped between your spread thighs. You heard the clink of his belt, the hiss of a zipper, the rustle of fabric pushed just low enough. Heat radiated from him, skin, breath, the blunt pressure of him nudging your entrance through the crotchless lace. No barrier. Just slick skin on slick skin.
He paused. One large hand splayed over the base of your spine, grounding. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You managed a breathless laugh. “Clark, I’ve been begging for too much all day.”
The sound he made was half-laugh, half-snarl. Then he pushed in, one long, slow glide that stretched and filled until your toes curled in your heels. The table creaked beneath you; the lanyards bit deliciously as he seated himself to the hilt. For a moment he stilled, forehead dropping to the nape of your neck, breath shuddering against your skin.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “That’s seventeen hours of you in my head.”
He drew back, agonizingly slow, then snapped forward, the slap of skin on skin echoing. Again. Again. Each thrust deliberate, measured, angled to drag over every sensitive spot inside you.
His free hand slid beneath, fingers finding your clit through the open seam of the panties. He circled, firm, perfect pressure, the way he’d learned you liked months ago on a rainy Sunday in his loft when the world had been quiet enough to hear your gasps.
The lace rasped over your nipples with every rock of your body; the table’s edge kissed your hipbones. Pleasure coiled low and tight, a spring wound to breaking. Clark’s rhythm never faltered, deep, claiming, but his touch everywhere else was tender: the hand on your bound wrists stroking soothing circles, the other working you with devotion, the low litany of praise against your ear.
“So beautiful like this. Open for me. Letting me take care of you.”
You were close, teetering on the knife-edge of release, every nerve alight, when Clark slowed his rhythm to a maddening crawl. The sudden drag of his cock inside you, thick and deliberate, made you whine high in your throat, a desperate, needy sound that echoed off the glass walls. Your hips chased him instinctively, but the lanyards kept your wrists pinned, your body arched and open for whatever he chose to give.
Clark’s eyes flashed behind fogged glasses, dark, hungry, but still impossibly tender. He leaned over you, chest brushing your back, and caught the knot of his tie between his teeth. The silk whispered free with a soft hiss, the fabric warm from his skin. He pressed it to your lips, voice low and velvet-rough.
“Bite down, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t want security coming up here to find my good girl screaming my name.”
The words good girl landed like a spark on dry tinder. You opened for the tie, teeth sinking into the silk, tasting cedar soap, coffee, the faint salt of his throat where it had rested all day. The moment the fabric filled your mouth, something in Clark snapped—not cruel, never cruel, but unleashed.
His hips snapped forward, hard, sudden, the table jolting beneath you with a sharp crack of wood on wood. The new pace was relentless: deep, punishing strokes that drove the air from your lungs in muffled gasps.
Each thrust slammed home, the head of him dragging over that spot inside you that made your vision spark white. The lanyards bit into your wrists as he used them like reins, pulling your bound arms taut, arching your back until your breasts scraped the oak with every rock of your body.
“There she is,” he growled, voice ragged with awe. “My perfect girl, taking me so deep. You feel that? Feel how hard you make me? Been aching for this all day.”
His fingers found your clit again, circling fast, slick pressure that matched the brutal rhythm of his hips. The dual assault shattered your composure. Your thighs started to quake, muscles jumping under his palm where it splayed over your hip. You screamed into the tie, raw, desperate, the sound swallowed by silk but vibrating through your chest.
Clark’s breath hitched at the noise. “That’s it,” he rasped, hips pistoning faster, the slap of skin on skin filling the room like a drumbeat. “Oh gosh yes, baby. Let me hear how good I make you feel. You’re squeezing me. Gosh, just like that. Such a good girl, clenching so tight around me.”
The praise poured over you like molten honey, pushing you higher. Your body seized, pleasure exploding outward in white-hot waves, thighs trembling violently, toes curling in your heels. You came undone hard, a full-body spasm that rippled from your core to your fingertips, your walls fluttering and gripping him in rhythmic pulses. The tie muffled your cries into broken, desperate sobs, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.
Clark’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, a low, wrecked groan tearing from his throat. “Gosh, yes, take it f’me, sweetheart. Take every drop. You’re perfect.” He buried himself deep on the final word, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, each spurt dragged out by the clench of your body around him. His forehead dropped to the nape of your neck, breath sawing in and out, trembling with the force of his release.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your muffled panting and the distant hum of the city. Clark eased the tie from your teeth with gentle fingers, pressing soft kisses to your swollen lips.
“Good girl,” he whispered again, voice hoarse with reverence, arms wrapping around you to hold you close as the aftershocks rippled through you both.
For a long moment the only sounds were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the city.
“You okay?” His voice was back to farm-boy soft, glasses fogged, hair falling over his forehead.
The question floated in the hush between your heartbeats, gentle as the hand that brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek. You nodded, throat thick with the kind of fullness that had nothing to do with words. “More than.”
Clark’s smile was small, crooked, the one that always surfaced when the world narrowed to just the two of you. He eased out of you before he sat you upright on the table’s edge, the oak cool beneath your bare thighs.
The lanyards had left faint pink bracelets around your wrists; he noticed before you did. His thumbs traced the marks with the same reverence he used when handling fragile evidence, then lifted each wrist to his lips, one kiss, two, warm and lingering, as if he could erase the pressure with tenderness alone.
“Hold still,” he murmured, and disappeared for a heartbeat. You heard the soft whoosh of air, the rustle of fabric. He was back before the chill could settle, jacket in one hand, a bottle of water from the break-room fridge in the other. The cap cracked open with a quiet hiss; he tilted it to your lips, steadying the back of your head like you were made of spun glass.
“Slow,” he coached, voice low. The water was cold, perfect, sliding down your parched throat. When you’d had enough, he drank what was left, throat working, then set the bottle aside.
Your ruined blouse lay in tatters; he shrugged out of his dress shirt, still warm from his skin, and draped it over your shoulders. The cotton smelled of cedar and coffee and him. He buttoned it with careful fingers, skipping the missing buttons, tucking the shirttails around your hips like a makeshift dress. The sleeves swallowed your hands; he rolled them twice, three times, until your fingertips peeked out.
“Better?” he asked, smoothing the collar.
“Getting there.” Your voice came out husky. He smiled again, softer this time, and scooped you off the table. Your legs felt like warm taffy; he carried you the three steps to the wide leather chair in the corner, settling you sideways across his lap.
The city lights painted gold stripes across his cheekbones. He tucked you against his chest, one arm a solid band around your waist, the other cradling your head to the hollow of his shoulder.
His heartbeat was steady under your ear, thump-thump, thump-thump, a metronome that had lulled you to sleep on a hundred nights. You felt the faint tremor in his thighs, the aftershock of restraint. He pressed his lips to your temple, then your closed eyelids, then the corner of your mouth, feather-light.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, the same promise he gave when nightmares woke you at 3 AM, when deadlines loomed, when the world felt too heavy. His fingers combed through your hair, untangling the knots his own hands had made earlier, massaging your scalp in slow, soothing circles.
You turned your face into his neck, breathing him in. “You always do.”
He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest. From somewhere, his pocket, maybe, he produced a clean handkerchief, the one monogrammed with a tiny C in the corner. He dabbed gently at the corners of your mouth where your drool had slipped past the tie, then folded it and tucked it away. His thumb brushed your lower lip, checking for soreness, then traced the curve of your cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape all over again.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice rough with lingering want but laced with laughter, “turtleneck. Please. I need at least one day of plausible deniability.”
You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin, and nipped his lower lip. “Only if you rip it off at lunch.”
He groaned, but the smile that broke across his face was pure sunlight, wide, unguarded, the one that made the whole newsroom pause when it appeared. “I really had no idea my girlfriend was a super-villain.”
“And you love it.”
“I do,” he said, the words simple, enormous, landing between you like a vow.
You felt them settle in your chest, warm and heavy, and tucked the moment away for later: the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way the city lights caught in his glasses, the way I do rolled off his tongue like it had been waiting years to be said again.
One day, you decided right then, you’d hear it in a different light, softer, golden, with Ma Kent’s roses in your hair and Jonathan’s old suit jacket on Clark’s shoulders. A little farm-style wedding in the backyard of the Smallville house, the same porch where he’d first kissed you under a sky full of stars. You’d watch him say it again, no teasing, no lace, just the two of you and the quiet certainty of forever.
But tonight, you just squeezed his fingers, let the leather jacket settle over your bare legs, and smiled into his shoulder.
“Save that one for the vows, Smallville.”
Clark’s entire body stuttered, like someone had just hit the pause button on the universe.
Vows. She said vows.
The word ricocheted inside his skull, louder than any sonic boom. He’d had the ring hidden in the lining of his childhood trunk for two years, polished it with the same microfiber cloth Pa used to polish Ma’s, whispered soon to it like a prayer every time he flew home to Smallville. And now you’d just casually said it.
His ears went scarlet. A soft, mortified “oh golly” slipped out before he could stop it, the same farm-boy reflex he’d had since he was twelve and Ma caught him sneaking cookies.
“Stay right here,” he managed, voice cracking like a teenager’s. Another soft whoosh, he was back in seconds with a damp paper towel from the restroom, cool and faintly lemon-scented. His hands shook as he knelt, cleaning you with the same reverence he used to polish his glasses: gentle strokes between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of him, of you, of everything you’d just shared.
Every pass of the cloth was followed by a kiss, inside of your knee, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, each one a tiny apology for the way his heart was currently trying to punch through his ribcage.
She knows, he thought, dizzy. She’s always known. And she just…
He pressed one final kiss to the hollow behind your knee, then rested his forehead there, breathing you in. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled, flustered, besotted. “And I’m gonna let you.”
When he finished, he tossed the towel into the trash with pinpoint accuracy, then gathered you close again. The chair creaked under your combined weight, but it held. Outside, a police siren dopplered into the distance; inside, there was only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the soft brush of his lips against your hair.
“Home now, okay?” he promised, voice drowsy now, the adrenaline ebbing. “I’ll fly us. You, me, and whatever’s left of your outfit.”
You hummed, content, and let your eyes drift shut. The city kept spinning outside, oblivious.
Inside, Clark held you like you were the only story that mattered, fingers tracing idle hearts on your thigh, already planning the next round, and the one after that, and the one after that, until the skyline blurred into dawn.
He pressed his cheek to your hair, breathing slow, steady, the way he did when he was trying to convince himself the world wasn’t tilting.
She was joking, he told himself, the thought looping like a mantra. Just teasing. She doesn’t know about the ring. She can’t know I’ve rehearsed saying her name in front of Ma’s roses a hundred times.
But the way you’d said vows, soft, certain, like it was already written somewhere, lodged in his chest and refused to leave.
Probably doesn’t know, he repeated, thumb brushing the faint red line on your wrist. Just a joke. Totally not serious.
Still, he tucked the moment away beside the ring, in the same quiet corner of his heart where he kept the sound of your laugh at 3 AM and the way you looked in his old Smallville High hoodie.
One day, he promised himself, he’d say I do again. Out loud. Under open sky. With you in white and him in whatever Ma pressed and the whole world finally in on the secret.
For now, he just held you tighter, lips brushing your temple, and let the city spin on.
a/n: I am backish from a brief hiatus. Life and work got to be a lot, my mental health wasn't great, and now I am attempting to ease back in. this is NOT my best piece (it really shows in how the writing shifts from the different times I picked up trying to write it, but i do not have the drive to crazily edit it.)
The night before the gala, Gotham bleeds out slowly, like a confession.
Rain slashes the skyline into strips of mercury and soot; streetlamps smear into jaundiced halos; the river wears a coat of oil and regret. Sirens curl through the alleys like cigarette smoke and old promises. The city tastes metallic, pennies on your tongue, poison in your lungs, and the gargoyle under your boots sweats cold, rain-slick stone kissing your knees through combat-weave. You’re a silhouette stitched to the roofline, heart beating quarter-time with the thunder.
You are not supposed to be here.
You’re the contractor. The fixer. The voice in their ears, the hand on the hinge at the exact second a door needs to open. You keep the maps in your head and the triage kits under your desk. You are the one who sifts wreckage for the missing piece, the one who ends the argument with a better plan. Behind screens, you orchestrate elegance out of ruin. You lay contingencies like chessmen, you make enemies forget their own names for twenty precious seconds, you specialize in the unglamorous art of getting them home alive.
Tonight the cave was hollow, empty chairs like headstones, cooling coffee ringed with rain. There was a low voice over your shoulder, old and even and not asking.
We need you.
So you brought your smaller kit and your larger fear. You brought the bolt cutters and the lock scripts and the field patches and the gun you swore would always be for show. You brought your ribs that ache when the weather turns and the memory of a crowbar that learned your bones like music.
Three stories down, a deal frays into noise. A crate splits open. A man shouts. The muzzle-flash stutters against the rain and is swallowed whole. You have cross-streets in your ear and a flicker of a municipal camera dying to static. Your throat is dry on the word you don’t say: Abort.
A shadow sluices down beside you, soundless but sure. Nightwing lands in a crouch that looks rehearsed and holy. Water threads the blue chevrons of his suit, beads on his smooth jaw before dropping from the clean angle of it. He doesn’t look at you yet. He’s counting barrels. Reading body language. Weighing wind.
Then he clicks your frequency, and the city shifts hue.
“Sure you’re ready for this, hotshot?” Dick’s voice slots in smooth as a blade newly honed. Teasing, because it always is. “Wouldn’t want you scraping those pretty knees for my sake.”
“Worry about yourself, bluebird.” Your mouth finds the old groove, the forgotten joke, the harder truth underneath. “I’ve seen you trip over your own cape.”
He holds the laugh for the length of a heartbeat, then lets it break open, low, caught behind his teeth, rain-soft. It warms your spine. It really shouldn’t. “I was twelve,” he says, and he doesn’t say: and you still remember.
He moves like a trick of light; one blink and he’s gone, a blue note dissolving into the downpour, chalk-and-citrus in the breathing space he leaves behind. You think of the file where you’ve logged every alley he prefers and every rooftop he hates for wind shear.
You think of the text he sent at 3:17 a.m. u awake? and the way you lay awake anyway.
The next arrival doesn’t aim for silence. It aims for certainty.
Red Hood hits the roof like a verdict. Leather, steel, weight. Water leaps away from him. The red of his helmet is an arterial bloom in a gray world. He stands, breath steady, rain violently polite against his armor. The visor tilts; you feel rather than see the measuring. You can list the places he hides knives. You can draw his scarring from memory. You know how often his hands shake when the world isn’t looking.
“You are not supposed to be here.” The modulator grinds the edges off, but it can’t hide the grit. Or the fear.
You hold his gaze as best you can through glass. “I’m operational tonight. You were light on bodies.”
“You’re light on body,” he snaps. He steps close enough that rain sliding off his pauldrons begins to soak your collar. Close enough that you smell cordite and winter cling. Close enough to tilt his helmet down until the forehead meets yours. A touch like a door braced with a shoulder. “Last time you were ‘operational,’ you cracked three ribs and told me not to tell Bruce.”
You don’t look at the place his gloved hand finds, because you can feel it: the bruised memory right under the banding, the way his thumb presses once like a dare and then gentles like an apology. Your breath goes crooked. You don’t let it break.
“I can handle myself,” you say.
He could make it cruel. He doesn’t. “You can’t handle me worrying.”
Lightning crawls along the edge of the next cloud. You count the beats to thunder and fail.
“Stay close,” he says, and the word close tastes like a home you pretend not to want.
Then he steps away without looking back, because looking back is a luxury neither of them likes to buy. You drop from the gargoyle’s spit-black mouth into the wet neon.
Below is the color of a dying bruise. A man with a gun and a prayer lifts both. Nightwing is already behind him, laughter like a wet match struck in the dark. A wrist twists; the gun clatters; the prayer is revised. Somewhere to your left, a crate gives up an avalanche of counterfeit scripts that smear like mascara across the flood.
“Window two,” you murmur into your mic. “Shutter lock override. Three seconds.” Your thumbs dance. Your code hums. The rusted shutter hiccups open: a mouth gasping for air. “Now,” you say, and a boy who will write a report later dives for cover he did not earn himself.
“Behind,” Jason’s voice slams through your skull, and you drop before the warning fully forms. A knife writes a sentence in the rain above your head. By the time you plant a boot and shove, the arm connected to that knife is broken in two places and will learn humility in a bright room. “Try that again and you’ll be eating your teeth.” Jason sneers to your would-be attacker.
“Left,” you return, and he trusts you, which might be the most dangerous thing either of you do tonight. He moves into the empty space you made like it was waiting for him. Two shots bark, measured, chasers for the thunder. A body forgets what was so important about the gun it held.
Nightwing’s at your shoulder again because he likes to appear like a card from behind someone’s ear. “You change your perfume?” he murmurs, breath a ghost over the shell of your ear. “Something… reckless?”
“Same as always,” you deadpan. “Smells like you ignoring a plan.”
“Ouch. Set me up just to cut me down.” His gloved hand hovers a breath above the span of your hip. He doesn’t touch, Dick is a creature who survives on restraint, but his pinky flexes where it hangs beside your thigh, the smallest reach. You refuse to lean. He makes a sound that isn’t a laugh but wishes it were. “Eyes up, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me that,” you say, and he won’t stop, you both know. He rolls the word like a coin across his knuckles and tucks it behind your ear, just in case.
Hood moves like weather: blunt, inevitable, the kind that makes men board windows. He is a series of choices executed without doubt. You love him for his doubt anyway. You watch him through the morse-code blink of a broken neon sign and think of his bare hand on your kitchen counter, steadying a mug he does not drink from while you tell him, softly, that ghosts do not negotiate with the living.
The deal, such as it was, disintegrates. The wind changes. Your mouth says, “We’re done,” even as your body says, Not yet.
You push the shutter up on a second window with a code that isn’t legal anywhere and say, “Out, out,” like you’re calling alley cats in a downpour. Nightwing flips for the joy of it, because he’s alive and insists on proving it. Jason covers the retreat with two shots that ricochet thoughtfulness off the concrete. A man who wanted to hurt you changes his mind.
By the time the sirens pick a direction and commit, the rain has softened to a gray breath. Steam climbs the vents in exhausted spirals. You pull yourself back to the rooftop with hands that pretend not to shake.
Dick breaks the skyline first, slipping over the ledge like a promise. Mask shoved into his hair, rain ribboning off his cheekbones, smirk dialed down to save your life. “You’re bleeding,” he says lightly, as if pointing out a run in your tights.
“It’s fine,” you say, because it’s the script, and scripts are something you’re good at.
He kneels without asking and with absolute certainty, knees bracketing your boots. The arrogance of tenderness. The snap of gloves coming off echoes like a vow. He takes your hands, wet, grimy, foolish, and turns them palm-up with something close to reverence. The gauze unspools, a small white miracle in a dirty world.
“For someone who hates being fussed over,” Dick says, low, “you’re hell on the supplies.”
“Says the man who took a bullet and insisted on finishing the acrobatic sequence.”
“Had to impress the contractor.” He glances up. It’s ridiculous that the glance feels like standing under a heat lamp in January. “Was it working?”
“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve said all night.
His thumb presses to the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate. Your pulse does something you don’t sign for. You watch his mouth soften as he feels it. Watch his eyes flick to your throat, the rain there, the way you swallow. He lets your pulse go, not because he wants to, but because he always lets go when he should. It’s how he survives the falling.
The impact of Jason’s landing rattles the gravel into a nervous halo. Helmet off, curls pressed damp to his temple, that white streak defying weather, time, and sense. There’s a split in his brow that will insist on a scar. He does not appear to feel it.
His eyes go to the place where your fingers have threaded with Dick’s in the necessary choreography of gauze and steadiness. He is a man who can kill without a tremor; he is undone by the sight of your hand in someone else’s.
“You’re hurt,” he says. Not a question. A charge.
“Handled,” Dick sings without looking away from your knuckles. He tucks the gauze and ruins the tuck to retie it tighter. A little petty. A little pretty.
“Wasn’t talking to you.” Jason’s voice scrapes against a place in your chest you pretend is nothing but anatomy. He crouches; his bulk becomes shelter more than threat. His gloved fingers tip your chin up. He doesn’t force. He never forces. His thumb drags rain off your lower lip and finds the copper there. When he sees red on black leather his jaw flexes once, habit, history, hunger.
“You don’t get to bleed for either of us,” he says, softer than thunder and twice as inevitable. You could say something sharp. You could say something safe. You do neither. You look at him like your name was a hymn.
Dick’s voice cuts in, silk over steel. “If you two are done eye-fucking, debrief is still a thing.”
Jason moves first, he always does when the choice is stay or swing. The shove is a brother’s argument and a man’s jealousy. Dick takes it like a dancer and returns it like one; a hook, a twist, a break in the light. They’re not trying to hurt each other, but they are trying to make a point. Rain stipples the world to static.
“Enough,” you say, and your voice makes the kind of quiet that cloth makes when it tears. You step into the space between lightning and thunder. You take the heat and the force and the promise of both and hold them in your body like it’s what it was made for. “If you want to measure dick sizes, do it on your time. I am not a prize.”
Dick’s arm loosens. Jason’s fist lowers. They back off because you asked. Because that, at least, is a line nobody crosses.
“You’re bleeding through,” Jason mutters after a long beat, staring at the bruised bloom on the gauze he didn’t tie.
“And you’re shaking,” Dick says, and you hate him a little for noticing; you love him a little for saying it like it’s a secret he’ll keep.
The pain arrives late and rude, dragging its luggage. Cold in your marrow. Bruise pulling at your breath. Hands that tremble like bad radio.
“I’m fine,” you manage, a lie so familiar it feels like a childhood nickname.
Jason has already shrugged out of his jacket. The leather lands on your shoulders with the weight of a promise he won’t let himself make. It holds heat the way he does, stubborn, surprising, yours as long as you let it be. Gun oil and smoke and a citrus note he denies wearing. It engulfs you. He looks at you like you were meant to live inside every piece of him he can give without dying from it.
“You’re freezing,” he says. “And an idiot.”
“You’re one to talk.”
He huffs, half laugh, half prayer. “Takes one to know one.”
Dick’s knuckles skim the edge of your temple. He’s so careful it hurts. “Hey,” he says, and the word is a light he puts on the table between you. “You scared us.”
The line in your throat snags on the word us. You’ve held the shape of them in your mouth for months: the way Dick’s hands say stay without ever closing, the way Jason’s jaw says go and his hands say don’t you dare. You are their contractor and their contraindication. You know where they hide their fear. You know how to pick the lock.
“We can’t keep doing this,” you say. The fighting, your body adds. The wanting, your bones amend. The pretending, your pulse insists. “It’s going to kill one of us.”
Jason sinks down until his shoulder presses into you. The leather between you squeaks like a confession. He flexes his hand once, pinky brushing yours, small and seismic. He pretends it was an accident. You pretend to believe him. “Doesn’t mean I want to stop,” he says.
Dick’s stance eases, the smirk sheathing itself. He looks, not at your mouth, not at the gauze, but at your hands, at the way you’re measuring breath. He reads you like you are the only file he never misplaced. “You and me both, Jay,” he admits, and it lands between you with all the graveness of a church bell.
Wind combs cold fingers through your damp hair. Sirens tug the horizon taut. Somewhere a radio argues with itself. Gotham exhales, tired. You close your eyes and let the rain mark time on your face.
You think about your job. About how you catalog their damage and hide your own. About the nights you stitch Jason together on your kitchen floor while he tells you he’s fine and you tell him he’s lying and the kettle screams for both of you. About the mornings Dick shows up with pastries he didn’t eat and a smile he can’t carry and parks himself in your chair like he’s been there his whole life. About how you keep their passwords and their last words in the same notebook. About the silence you’ve stored for them, the safe you’ve made out of your ribs.
“I need boundaries,” you say, and the word skitters, unsure of its legs in this weather.
Jason’s mouth pulls. “I know,” he says, and it sounds like it hurts. “I’ll follow whatever lines you draw.”
Dick nods once, the kind of assent that is also a stake. “We respect them,” he adds. “Even if I hate them.”
A moment passes. And then two. You don’t tell them the line you want is not a line at all but a room, warm and lamplit and wide enough for three stubborn ghosts to hang their coats and learn, slowly, how to stay.
“Here’s the deal,” you say instead, because you have always been a creature built on terms. “On the job, I am command if I’m on comms. You do not undermine my calls with machismo or miracles. You tell me before you bleed. You do not make me pick between you in a firefight. You do not use me to hit each other.”
Dick says, “Yes, ma’am,” like a joke made to keep his mouth from betraying his heart. His hand flexes once where it rests on his thigh. His pinky bumps your knee on purpose. He pretends it wasn’t. He does not fool you.
Jason says nothing for a long moment. He watches your mouth. He looks at your throat. He looks at your hands, at the places you’re fraying that the gauze isn’t covering. “Copy,” he says finally, as if saying it out loud carves it into him. He sets his palm on the edge of the ledge, close enough that you can slide your fingers until they meet, knuckle to knuckle. You do. He doesn’t move; neither do you. The contact is absurdly small. It is also everything.
“And off the job?” Dick asks, soft.
“Off the job,” you say, and the words feel like stepping out of wet clothes in a dark room, “we try telling the truth before it gets us killed.”
Rain ticks in the pause that follows.
“Truth,” Dick says, rolling the word like he wants to keep it. “Okay.” His gaze flickers to your mouth, down, back up. He smiles, small and private. It looks like a promise he’s afraid to spend. “Then truth: I think about your voice in my ear more than is professional. I like when you tell me I’m being reckless in that tone that makes me want to behave. I want,” He stops. Nightwing never stumbles; Dick Grayson does. It knocks something tender loose in your chest. “I want more time. With you. In rooms without exit plans.”
Jason’s truth arrives like a door kicked in. He doesn’t bother dressing it. “Truth,” he echoes. “You make me want to stay. You make me want to go where you go and put my back to every door so you don’t have to look over your shoulder. I think about you on the nights the world is too loud to sleep. I think about your hands,” His glance drops to the gauze, to the places he didn’t get to hold. He swallows it. “and I hate the rain for touching you first.”
Your throat tightens on a laugh that isn’t one. “Okay,” you say, and the word feels like you’ve moved a brick with your bare hands. “Then the truth is: I want you both alive more than I want anything. And I want,” You are not built for confession. You do it anyway. “I want to stop pretending I don’t want to be seen.”
Dick’s eyes go bright, even in the rain. Jason’s jaw finally unclenches. The sirens decide on some other tragedy and fade.
“You’re seen,” Dick says, and the certainty in it lifts the hairs along your arms. “You’ve been seen.”
“Hate to tell you,” Jason adds, a corner of his mouth tipping, “but it’s way too late to go invisible on us.”
You sit there with the city humming like a neon wound and let yourself have the smallest indulgence: you look at them the way you never let yourself look when the comm light is red. You catalog the things that won’t fit cleanly in a report: the way Dick’s curls kink at the ends when they’re drenched; the sliver of scar just below Jason’s left ear where his helmet once bit too hard; the particular generosity of both their mouths when they say your name.
Wind combs more rain through your hair. The leather shifts on your shoulders, heavy enough to anchor, light enough to choose to keep. Your hands, stubborn, find them: left pinky hooking Dick’s, right knuckle resting against Jason’s. A ridiculous geometry. A blueprint anyway.
“We have to move,” you tell them at last, because the city doesn’t care about epiphanies. “We leave prints when we sit still this long.”
Dick rises and offers you his palm like an old-fashioned gentleman who can break a man’s femur with that same hand in under a second. You take it. His fingers close around yours, firm and careful, like he’s lifting something precious from a shelf. He doesn’t let go right away.
Jason stands and takes the weight of the leather across your shoulders with one palm as you do, as if redistributing gravity is a thing he can do for you. It is, more often than you admit. His thumb lingers at your collar a millisecond longer than necessary. The touch burns like a brand you asked for.
You move to the ledge together, three shadows in a city that devours silhouettes for sport. You count yourself, quietly, like an old superstition, one, two, three, and feel the small grace of all the numbers answering back.
“On you,” Dick says.
“Always,” Jason adds.
You look out at Gotham, wet and ruinous and yours by stubbornness if not by right. You are not supposed to be here. You are here anyway. You taste copper and rain and a future you don’t have language for yet.
“Go,” you say, and the word is the first honest thing you’ve ever given the night.
They go. You follow. The city swallows you all and, for once, does not bite down.
-
The drive to Wayne Manor is a ribbon of wet glass and quiet engines, the town car humming like a kept secret. Crimson satin pools around your thighs, the slit inching higher every time the road curves. Your knuckles, still raw from last night, tingle beneath concealer that can’t quite convince your nerves to forget. In the rearview, the driver’s gaze brushes yours and skitters away. You wonder if he knows. You wonder if everyone does, the way your pulse learned two different rhythms and refuses to choose.
The manor lifts out of the rain like a cathedral that remembered it was a fortress: all gothic ribs and golden windows, a spine of old money straightening against the storm. Flashbulbs strobe the steps, paparazzi lightning, and for a heartbeat you stand with the night in your lungs, the cold kissing your bare shoulders, and then you step into the light.
The ballroom exhales you into warm perfume and polished crystal. Candleflame quivers along chandeliers; light fractures through cut glass and skates in silver down the spill of your dress. The air tastes of champagne and roses and the faint, metallic ghost that clings to every Wayne gathering: the memory of gun oil, polite and inevitable. The orchestra swells, Strauss, maybe, and the notes jar against the thud of your pulse, two tempos arguing under your skin.
You don’t see them first. You feel them.
Dick is kinesis before he’s man: a ripple widening in the crowd’s surface tension. Midnight-blue wool sits like a second language on his shoulders, spine straight as an oath. He smiles at a diplomat because his mouth knows how, but his eyes go hunting the second you cross the threshold. When they find you, conversation turns to static in his ears. His gaze drags, slow, and deliberate, down the line of your dress, over every place satin clings, pausing on every breath of bare skin the slit allows. He excuses himself with a word that means nothing and starts toward you; the crowd parts on instinct.
Jason is gravity. Stillness with the weight turned up. He’s a bruise of shadow against the bar in a charcoal henley and dark trousers, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms mapped with pale scars the tuxedo men pretend are bad lighting. No bow tie. No apology. He lifts his bourbon and lets amber catch a chandelier’s gleam like a low fire, eyes never leaving the space Dick is beelining toward: you.
The game begins before anyone names it. Not quite cat and mouse: more like wolves, and you, a red thread pulled taut between their teeth.
You start with Dick. He materializes at your side like he’d been there all along. The air shifts, cedar, clean sweat, rain on cold glass, his cologne threading the sugar of chilled champagne into something you want to breathe for a long time.
“You clean up nice, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pitching the tease for your ears alone. His hand finds the small of your back with a feather-light certainty that feels like muscle memory. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you in something I couldn’t peel off one Kevlar strap at a time.”
“You just like thinking about me half-dressed,” you say, and the corner of his mouth curves like he’s tucking the image into a pocket for emergencies.
“Can you blame me?” His thumb draws a slow circle over the bare skin at the dip of your spine. Your breath missteps. His answering laugh is quiet and satisfied, the sound of a man who catalogues cause and effect like a favorite trick.
“Dance with me,” he says, and it isn’t a question. Still, he offers his hand.
You take it.
The floor receives you like an old friend. Dick leads with deceptive ease; he always does. The first step is an apology for last night’s chaos, the second a promise to be better tonight, the third a smile you can feel where he’s touching you. He guides without crowding, lets your weight decide the next turn, skims you past diamonds and gossip with the same finesse he uses to slip past knives.
“You always move like this?” you ask, chin tilted just enough that your lips almost brush his jaw.
“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.” His mouth is a breath from your temple. The orchestra swells; he steals a spin you didn’t see coming. Satin flares around your legs, whispering over his trousers as you turn back into him. He catches you low and slow, the world tilting into a honeyed blur of chandeliers. His palm is heat at your back, sending a shiver down your spine that builds to a heat between your legs. His breath ghosts your cheek. “Hows it working?” he asks, voice gone soft at the edges.
“You’re getting there,” you say, voice breathless, and his laugh hums against your collarbone like a lover's caress.
He doesn’t look away often when you’re in front of him, but when he does, it’s to check on you: a flick to your mouth when you bite back a smile; a sweep over your shoulder to the mirror, where the two of you flash like a dare; a glance to your knuckles where the concealer hasn’t quite bested the ache. His thumb shifts, sliding down a vertebra, anchoring.
“You’re dangerous tonight,” he says quietly, eyes tracing the shape of your mouth. You feel your chest tighten at the motion, your nipples drawing into taut peaks beneath your dress as you wonder, not for the first time, what his mouth might feel like on yours.
“Good thing you do dangerous for a living, Grayson.” You challenge, tongue tracing the seam between your lips. His eyes glint dangerously as they track the movement.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.” You find that you long to hear him say those words again, over and over. He squeezes your fingers once, an extra beat off the measure, your own rhythm tucked into the music, and lets the moment hover, unsaid things burning a low, steady blue between you.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Grayson.” The voice is smoke and gravel at your back; you feel the heat of it along your spine before you turn. Jason. Closer than you expected. The slightest brush of his knuckles grazes your hip as he reaches past to take two flutes from a passing tray. “Some of us don’t have a dance card.”
Dick’s mouth quirks. “Make one.”
Jason’s eyes don’t leave yours as he hits his brother with a vulgar hand gesture. “Mind if I cut in?”
Dick holds your gaze for permission, always, always, and when you incline your head, he releases your hand with a reluctant grace. His pinky lingers a heartbeat longer than the rest of him, a tiny hook letting go.
Jason replaces the warmth at your back with a different heat: heavier, rougher, more obvious about the ways it can burn. He doesn’t ask where to put his hand; he puts it low at your waist like gravity would if it had a say. His other hand finds yours, fingers lacing, calluses catching on your rings.
“You don’t dance at these things,” you say.
“Didn’t have a reason.” He steers you into the waltz with an economy that reads less ballroom, more battlefield: fewer flourishes, more intention. He matches your breath instead of the strings. The room fades to a one-color wash behind him, amber bourbon, storm-cloud eyes, scars like constellations you’ve named alone.
“Nice dress,” he says, mouth close to your ear. “Looks like it’d rip easy.”
“Try it and see what happens.” You warn.
“Tempting.” His smirk is brief; the look after isn’t. His thumb traces the hinge of your wrist, the same place Dick tested your pulse, only his touch is rougher, like he wants the thrum to answer to him. It does.
“You look different in the light,” he adds, softer. “Less haunted.”
“Concealer,” you say dry, and he huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh.
“Not that kind.”
He doesn’t dip you. He doesn’t show you off. He keeps you close. His thigh slides between yours in the turn and pauses there long enough to be a question he won’t ask in public. You feel a pulse between your legs, heat flaring instantly against the thick muscle pressing against you. Your hand tightens on his shoulder. The muscle bunches under your palm like a promise.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but you’re looking at me like you’re one breath from doing something we can’t take back.” You say, teeth worrying your bottom lip as he flexes the muscles of his thigh, pressing harder against your mound.
He leans in until his stubble grazes the shell of your ear. “Only if you ask nice.”
“Pretty please,” you whisper, and feel his inhale stagger.
He spins you slow then, deliberate enough to taste, and your slit flares high. His hand is there on your thigh before the room can blink, fingers splayed across bare skin above the garter, not hiding you so much as claiming the privilege of seeing. Heat sparks under your skin as his thick flinger dips under the garter, your hip hiked over his, the hard line of his thigh pressing against the soaked fabric of your thong.
“Careful,” he growls, but the word breaks in the middle. “Don’t want anyone else thinking that’s for them.”
You should laugh it off. Instead you angle closer, forehead tipping against his jaw. “You don’t get to claim me, Todd,” you manage.
“No?” He doesn’t move his hand. “Then why’s your pulse say otherwise?”
You refuse to answer. He doesn’t need you to. You rock your hips subtly against his and his eyes flash in warning. When the song softens itself into applause, he doesn’t let go. The room brightens; the two of you stay in stormlight.
“Breathe,” he says finally, but the subtle flex of his thigh says if you can.
“I am.” You huff, trying to appear far less affected than you feel.
“Then come on.” He releases your thigh and, with gentle rudeness, takes your hand again. “Five minutes. Somewhere quiet.”
You glance instinctively for blue. Dick stands a few paces off, watching over the rim of a champagne flute, mouth curved, something fond, something aching. He tips his head: go.
You go.
Jason leads, but not by much; you could break away and he knows it; he would let you and try again tomorrow. He shoulders open a door that looks like a wall and suddenly you’re in a corridor hushed with old wood and real paintings. Your heels snap lightly on parquet; rain whispers at leaded windows. He takes you down two turns you didn’t know and into a small library with a fireplace dressed in marble and a decanter of wine no one will miss.
Dick is already there. You’re unsure of how he beat the two of you, but you know better than to linger on it. He’s shed the party smile but not the tux. The blue has darkened toward midnight; his eyes have not. His jacket hangs from a chairback, sleeves rolled, throat open a button too far. He’s paced, you can tell; the carpet’s dented under the window. He looks up like you’re the answer to a question he finally decided to ask out loud.
“Was wondering if you’d remember the passage,” he says, half to Jason, half to you.
“Wasn’t going to announce this on the PA,” Jason replies, dropping your hand only to close the door. The latch clicks. The storm outside makes an old house sound like a living thing.
For a moment the three of you just breathe.
You are the first to puncture the quiet. “We didn’t speak after patrol,” you say. “We didn’t know how.” You swallow. “At least… I didn’t.”
Jason leans his shoulders against a bookcase like it’s a wall he trusts. Dick takes a step closer and stops, as if he’s promised himself he won’t crowd you without being invited.
“Say what you need to say,” Dick offers softly. “We’ll match you.”
You look from one to the other and let the truth strip down. “I want both of you,” you say. The chandelier doesn’t fall. The world does not crack. “And I don’t know how to want you without breaking us in half.”
Jason’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t look away. “I want you,” he says, like a door kicked open. “And I don’t know how to want you without wanting to put my back to every door in every room you’re in.”
Dick’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I want you,” he echoes, voice low, “and I don’t know how to want you without planning twelve different ways to keep you safe and then wanting a thirteenth where you teach me how you do it better.”
You huff a laugh that hurts. “This supposed to be a debrief or a disaster?”
“Knowing us? Both.” Jason says.
“Let’s stage the scene,” Dick says gently, slipping into the language you reach for when the world is too big. “There’s the easy option: we pretend last night was heat-of-the-moment, tonight is gala nonsense, and in the morning we revert to our regularly scheduled terrible decisions.”
“Option two,” Jason says, “we take one night, blow the fuse, and then we walk away clean.” A muscle in his cheek jumps like it wants to contradict him.
“Option three,” you say, because your mouth is brave when your heart can’t be, “we try.” The word hangs in the warm library air. “We build something with three corners and refuse to apologize.”
Silence greets your words. Not hostile. Not even heavy. Just… aware.
“How?” Dick asks, and it’s not skepticism; it’s an invitation to make a plan.
Your lungs find air. Your work voice steadies your wanting voice. “Rules,” you say. “We’re good with rules.” The boys shoot you a look and you laugh. “Okay, I’m good with rules.” You tick them on fingers still faintly aching. “No using jealousy as a weapon; if something hurts, say it. No martyrdom, no mind-reading; we practice radical honesty; ask before touching, anyone can tap out at any time with no drama; we go slow; we learn as we go; and we don’t use me, or each other, to act out old grudges.”
Jason nods once, as if welding each line onto his ribs. “Check-ins,” he offers. “Real ones. Not ‘fine.’ Not ‘don’t worry about it.’ Once a week we look each other in the eye and say the thing that’s ugliest.”
Dick’s eyes have gone bright. “And we celebrate, too,” he adds. “Wins. The small ones. A good night’s sleep. A mission where we felt… easy.”
“And a hard stop,” you say, because you know how important exits are. “Any of us can call time if we’re drowning. No questions, no punishment. We regroup when we can breathe.”
Jason’s gaze drops to your hands. He steps closer, slow enough to be interrupted, and turns your left palm up. His thumb sits in the center like he’s pressing a seal. “One more,” he says. “No lying about pain. Physical or otherwise.”
Dick mirrors the gesture with your right hand, thumb over pulse. “And we don’t turn desire into a weapon. Not against each other. If the wanting’s too loud, we tell the truth about that, too.”
“Can this be more than a night?” you ask the room, and the room answers with stormlight sliding down the window, with heat from a fire that’s been banked for hours, with the scratch of Jason’s stubble when he finally doesn’t hold his distance, with the careful way Dick leans his forehead to yours as if the contact might change the math of the world.
“It can,” Dick says, simple as a streetlight coming on.
“It will if we don’t bolt the first time it gets ugly,” Jason adds. He is close enough now that the edge of his henley brushes your arm. He doesn’t take more than you give; he doesn’t know how to take less.
You tilt your face to him. “You going to survive sharing?”
“No,” he says truthfully, and then softens it with the thing he’s learning how to do, “But I’m willing to try.”
Your laugh slips out, wet at the edges. “You?”
Dick’s smile is small and helpless. “I have been choosing not to choose for months. Walking away would be the coward’s choice. I’m finished being afraid of wanting good things.”
You breathe. In. Out. Their thumbs circle your pulse points, two different pressures writing the same promise. You let yourself look at them the way you never do when the comm light is red: the sunshot flecks in Dick’s blue; the stormbank green of Jason’s; the shared set of their mouths when they decide to be brave.
“I want slow,” you say. “I want to remember this in ten years and not hate us for it.”
“Slow,” Dick agrees. His hand leaves your pulse only to rise and cup your jaw, warm and callused and heartbreakingly careful. He doesn’t pull you in; he waits.
Jason’s knuckles graze your shoulder, down, then along the edge of crimson satin. “Slow,” he echoes, as if surfacing with the word.
You step into the space you opened. It’s a small step and also the whole night.
Dick kisses your temple first, soft, steady, like swearing in a language no one else hears. Jason kisses the corner of your mouth without taking your mouth, rough breath, restrained want, a promise to earn the rest. The two touches meet in your chest and light a lamp you decide you’ll leave on.
“Back to the ballroom?” Dick asks, nudging his nose against your hairline like he’s checking you haven’t short-circuited. “Or do we keep hiding in here until someone comes looking?”
“We should go back,” you say, exhaling. “Pretend we’re normal for at least ten minutes.”
Jason snorts. “Yeah, we’re real big on normal.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. Pretend we’re functioning adults, then. But,” You jab a finger lightly between them. “Meet me after midnight.”
Dick’s brows lift. “Where?”
“Pick a guest room,” you say. “Any of them.”
Both men exchange a look, one you can’t decode but definitely feel in your chest.
Jason’s mouth curls first. “We grew up in this mausoleum, sweetheart. We know every room. Every hallway. Every spot Bruce pretends no one knows about.”
Dick adds with a half-smile, “So unless you want us to pick the room with the world’s creakiest floorboards…”
You glare. “You absolutely would not.”
He grins wider. “I’m a big fan of a challenge.”
Jason steps in close enough that you feel the heat of him through your dress. “We’ll pick a room,” he says, dropping a kiss to your temple. “Not the squeaky one.”
“And not one with ten portraits staring down at us,” Dick adds, pressing a kiss to your nose. “Those things still creep me out.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “Midnight,” you repeat.
They both nod.
Jason’s voice drops, low enough it lands somewhere under your ribs. “We’ll be there.”
Dick’s hand brushes the small of your back, dipping teasingly low, careful, warm, deliberate. “Time to go pretend we’re social butterflies.”
“And count the minutes,” Jason mutters.
You laugh under your breath. “We really need to go. Before Alfred notices and sends someone to find us.”
Dick offers his arm, the showman, the gentleman, the man who falls and always gets up. Jason reaches past him to open the door, the soldier, the sinner, the man who never lets an exit be the last word. You take both: one arm, one glance, one red-thread pull through the dark corridor and into the glittering sound.
The gala swallows you again, softer now that you’ve taught your pulse a new tempo. People look and look away; rumors slither; the orchestra picks something lush. Dick’s palm finds your back like it’s found its address. Jason’s knuckles test your pinky, brush once, hook and unhook, a secret handshake in plain sight.
“Ready?” Dick asks.
“No,” you say honestly, and smile. “But I’m here.”
“Good enough,” Jason rumbles.
You stand between a man who moves like light and a man who moves like weather, letting the ballroom swallow the three of you again, each of you pretending to mingle, all of you silently counting down to midnight.
-
The guest room door clicks shut behind you, and the world narrows to this: mahogany breathing beeswax and old leather, lamplight spilling gold across velvet cushions and the spines of books that have never been read. The bed is a satin stain amongst the eggshell white of the walls.
The air tastes like rain-soaked wool and the faint, metallic bite of anticipation. Your pulse is a live wire in your throat and between your legs, a frantic rhythm that echoes the storm still whispering at the leaded windows.
There’s no preamble, no careful negotiation of space. Dick moves first, a shadow unfolding from the doorway’s edge, his chest pressing to your back like a vow he’s been holding too long. His hands slide over your hips, fingers splaying wide, possessive, pulling you flush against him until you’re the hinge in a storm of heat and muscle and unspoken want.
The room tilts on its axis, chandeliers blurring into streaks of fractured light, the air thickening, electric, a breath held before thunder cracks.
His mouth finds the curve where your neck meets shoulder, a kiss that starts soft, reverent, until his teeth graze the tendon there, sharp, deliberate, and your knees buckle like wet paper.
Jason doesn’t glide into your space like Dick; he arrives. The floorboards don’t creak so much as yield beneath his feet, a low, deliberate groan under his weight as he shoulders through the half-open door, letting it swing shut behind him with a thud that rattles the leaded glass.
He’s a bruise of shadow against the lamplight, henley stretched tight across his chest, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms corded and scarred like a map of every fight he’s ever walked away from. His boots scuff once, twice, deliberate, the sound of a man who’s done waiting in hallways.
The air shifts, heavier, warmer, edged with gun oil and winter and that very same citrus he pretends isn’t his, and then he’s there, a wall of heat at your front, caging you between them without a word.
His palm spreads across your stomach, fingers dipping low, the edge of his thumb brushing the lace beneath your satin, where you’re already damp, a secret your body won’t keep. His exhale rumbles against your throat, vibrating through your ribs like a second heartbeat, low and satisfied, a sound that curls heat in your core.
Dick’s voice is velvet over shattered glass, intimate against your ear. “Feel that? She’s trembling already.”
Jason’s answer is a low laugh, dark and filthy, the kind that sinks into your bones and pools liquid between your thighs. “Bet she’s drenched through that pretty lace. Has been all night. Aren’t you, princess?” His fingers flex against your stomach, claiming, and you feel the heat of him seep through the crimson fabric, the hard line of his thigh wedging between yours, pressing just enough to make you sway.
The words should jar you, pull you back to the careful lines you drew earlier. They don’t. They ignite, molten and aching, low in your belly, a fire that makes your breath hitch.
When Dick’s hips roll, one slow, deliberate motion, dragging the seam of your dress across your clit, you bite the inside of your cheek to trap the moan, but it escapes anyway, a desperate whimper that Jason feels, the way your body jerks against him. His grip tightens, anchoring, his mouth at your ear, breath scorching.
“Say it,” he growls, the command wrapped in gravel. “Tell us what you want.”
Your head spins, the orchestra a distant swell downstairs, strings soaring while the crowd blurs into silk and diamonds and indifference. All you know is this cage of their bodies: Jason’s rough edges, Dick’s sleek control, too much and not enough, everything you’ve denied.
You want Jason’s teeth on your throat, his hands bruising your hips like ownership. You want Dick’s whispers teasing your edges, his fingers threading your hair like a leash.
Dick’s hand glides up your spine, slow and worshipful, fingers weaving into your hair to tilt your head back against his shoulder. The stretch bares your throat to Jason, who doesn’t wait. He leans in, teeth scraping, then soothing with his tongue, marking you in a bloom that will be purple by dawn.
Dick’s lips brush the shell of your ear, soft as a confession. “You’re thinking too hard, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice honey and sin, laced with that teasing edge. “We can feel it. You do want us both, don’t you?”
The question hangs, sharp as a blade. Your breath catches, shaky, betraying.
Jason pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, green storm-lit and searching, a flicker of possession and something softer, almost holy. “Say it,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less insistent. “Tell us, and we’ll give it to you.”
You swallow, throat dry, heart hammering like Gotham’s sirens. The conflict twists inside you, a living knot. You know the agreement: no choosing, just this storm of them around you, in you.
You’ve spent weeks circling it, dodging the truth in the midnight, in the rain, in every careful touch and loaded glance. Dick’s flirtation like sunlight on water, Jason’s protectiveness like a shadow that guards and devours.
You laid the rules, drew the lines, promised radical honesty. You said we try. And now the trying is here, raw and trembling, the first time all three of you cross the line you once swore to yourself you wouldn’t.
“I…” The word fractures, and you try again. “I can’t choose. I want you both…”
The air shifts. Not a release, more like the moment before a match strikes. Dick’s exhale is soft against your neck, a laugh that isn’t a laugh, just the sound of months of restraint finally giving way. Jason’s hand flexes on your stomach, thumb pressing once, hard, like he’s anchoring himself to the truth of it.
“Good,” Dick says, the word low and reverent. “Because we’ve wanted you for so long it hurts.”
Jason doesn’t speak. He leans in, forehead to yours, breath ragged. His eyes are wide open, no mask, no helmet, just Jason Todd, stripped bare. “Never done this,” he mutters, voice rough. “Not with anyone. Not like this. Not with him.” A flicker of something vulnerable crosses his face, fear, maybe, or wonder. “But I want it. Want you. Want us.”
Dick’s hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, fingers threading into your hair. “First time for me too, baby,” he says, softer now, the tease gone. “Never shared. Never wanted to. Until you.”
The confession lands between you like a live wire. You feel it in your chest, your thighs, the slick heat already pooling between your legs. This isn’t just sex. This is the culmination of every late-night text, every rooftop touch, every time you stitched them up and pretended your hands weren’t shaking. This is the first time they’ll have you. The first time you’ll have them. Together.
You nod, small and certain. “Then take me,” you whisper. “Both of you. Now.”
Jason’s mouth crashes into yours first, rough, desperate, like he’s been starving for it. Dick’s lips find your neck, open-mouthed and slow, a counterpoint to Jason’s hunger. Their hands move in tandem, not choreographed but instinctive, Dick peeling the straps of your dress down your shoulders, Jason’s fingers already under the hem, dragging it up your thighs. The satin catches on your hips, then falls, pooling at your feet like spilled blood.
You’re bare beneath it. No bra. Just the soaked lace of your thong, clinging obscenely. Jason groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. Dick pulls back just enough to look, his breath hitching.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.” Your pulse is a caged thing between your thighs, frantic and slick. “So eager, baby. You’ve been aching for this all night, haven’t you?”
Jason doesn’t ask for permission. He hooks the lace and rips it down your thighs with a sound like shredding silk, the elastic biting your skin before it gives. The torn scrap is soaked in you; he lifts it to his nose, inhales deep, then tucks it in his pocket with a grin that’s half feral.
“Souvenir,” he rasps, “for the nights I stroke myself raw thinking how fucking divine you smell when you’re desperate like this.” His hands claim you, rough palms scraping your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft give above your ass.
Dick’s arms band around you, one hand splaying across your stomach, the other cupping your breast, thumb circling your bare nipple until it peaks hard and aching. “Use your words,” Dick coos into your hair. “Come on. Beg for it. Say please.”
You whimper, canting your hips back into Jason’s. He scoffs, his mouth trailing against your collarbone. “Dickie said use your words. Not your body.”
“P-please,” you grit out, feeling as Dick’s slender hand trails down your hip, toying with the garter on your thigh, his teeth lightly grazing your nipple, making you moan.
“Please what?” The men ask you before sharing a look of annoyance that only brothers can manage.
“Please make me feel good.” You whimper. “Want to feel your mouths. Your fingers. Your… cocks.”
Jason instantly drops to his knees in front of you a growl escaping his lips, eyes locked on yours as he drags your garter down your legs, slow and deliberate.
The first touch of his mouth to your cunt is a shock, even as you watch him do it. It’s hot, wet, filthy. His tongue drags up your slit in one long, possessive stroke, and you cry out, legs trembling. Dick’s hand tightens on your breast, grounding you as Jason spreads your pussy open with his thumbs, licking into you like he’s trying to memorize your taste.
Dick’s voice is a low rumble against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let him have you. Let us both have you. Arch your back some,” he breathes, moaning softly as you do as he says, “that’s my good girl.”
Jason’s stubble scrapes your inner thighs as he devours you, tongue spearing inside, nose pressed to your clit. You’re already close, embarrassingly fast, but he doesn’t let you tip over. He pulls back just as your hips start to chase his mouth, smirking up at you with slick lips.
“Not yet,” he growls. “Not until we’re both inside you.”
Dick’s already moving, guiding you to the bed, laying you down on the satin like you’re something sacred. Jason follows, shedding his henley in one fluid motion, scars and muscle and that white streak in his hair catching the lamplight. Dick’s shirt is gone, slacks undone, cock straining against the fabric.
They don’t rush. They savor. Dick kisses you slow and deep, tasting Jason on your tongue, while Jason’s mouth returns to your cunt, licking lazy circles around your clit. Dick’s fingers join him, sliding two inside you, curling, stretching, until you’re writhing, begging, tears pricking your eyes.
“Please,” you sob. “Please, I need…”
“We know,” Dick murmurs, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “We’ve got you.”
“Look at you,” Jason growls against your cunt, voice smoke and grit. “Already ready to come again. Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?”
Dick presses one last kiss to your lips before’s kicking off his slacks completely to he kneel on the bed in front of your face, fingers weaving gently through your hair.
“Open up, sweetheart.” The words are coaxing, but his grip tightens just enough to sting sweetly. You part your lips, mouth stretching around the slick head of his cock. He tastes of salt and precum, the vein throbbing against your tongue. He doesn’t thrust; he holds you there, letting you feel the weight, the heat, the ache blooming in your jaw.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, voice laced with condescension. “Keep that throat relaxed for me. You’re doing so well, taking me like you were born for it.”
Behind you, Jason spreads your cheeks with unyielding force. Cool air teases your holes; then his tongue is there, hot, wet, unapologetic, lapping from clit to rim in one long, owning stroke. You moan around Dick’s cock, the vibration drawing a hum from him.
Jason’s stubble abrades your inner thighs as he devours you like a man starved, tongue plunging into your cunt, nose now pressed to your ass. He pulls back to spit on your hole, watches it drip, then sucks your clit into his mouth with suction that borders on cruel, making your vision flicker white.
“Taste so fucking good,” he rasps, thick with something like awe. “Could drown in this greedy little cunt.”
Dick’s hips begin to move, slow glides pushing deeper until your nose meets the trimmed hair at his base. Tears well; saliva drips in thick strands down your chin.
“That’s it,” he croons, thumb brushing your cheek even as he claims your throat. “Drooling like our perfect angel. You love being our toy, don’t you, baby?” He withdraws just enough for you to gasp “Yes” before sliding back, turning the word to a gurgle. “Shh. Just take it. You’re so pretty when you choke.”
Jason’s fingers join his tongue, three thick digits thrusting into your cunt without prelude, curling viciously. The stretch burns sweet; your walls clench around him. He targets your g-spot, rubbing relentless circles until your legs quake.
“So fucking tight,” he growls against your clit, vibration jolting up your spine. “Gonna stretch this needy hole till it knows my cock’s shape.” He adds a fourth finger, scissoring wide, tipping the burn into exquisite pain-pleasure. You scream around Dick’s cock. “That’s it, scream for me. Let me hear how much you love being my filthy little whore.”
Dick pulls out, slaps your cheek lightly with his wet length. “How are you feeling, baby?”
“So good,” you sob, voice shattered.
Dick’s smile is soft, almost proud. “Atta girl. You’re taking everything so beautifully.”
Jason’s laugh is dark, edged with reverence. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done breaking you.” He flips you onto your back with brute efficiency.
Dick shifts to straddle your chest, cock gliding between your breasts. He presses them together, gentle at first, then firm, fucking the slick channel, the head bumping your chin with each thrust.
“These perfect tits,” he murmurs, condescension dripping off his tone. “Made to be played with. So sweet, letting me use you like this.”
Jason’s mouth returns to your cunt, but now it’s merciless: teeth grazing your clit, suction hard enough to bruise. His fingers plunge back in, four deep, thumb grinding your clit in brutal loops. Your hips buck; Jason pins them with one forearm across your pelvis, the pressure a delicious restraint.
“Stay still, slut,” he snarls, but his free hand strokes your thigh in tender circles. “You don’t move until I say. This cunt is mine tonight.”
Dick leans down, spits on your nipples, then pinches them hard, twisting until you cry out. The pain arrows straight to your core; Jason feels the clench and laughs into your folds.
“She likes it rough. Dirty to her core. But you’re our dirty girl, aren’t you, baby?” Jason’s voice softens on the end, the contrast making you whimper.
Your first orgasm crashes without warning, your back arching, a flood soaking Jason’s chin and the sheets. He doesn’t relent. He laps the mess, fingers pumping. Dick’s cock returns to your mouth, muffling your screams as Jason wrings a second climax from you from plunging his thick fingers back into your fluttering cunt. Your thighs tremble; tears streak your temples.
Jason surfaces, face gleaming. “Look at this sloppy cunt. Squirting like a fountain.” He slaps your clit, sharp, wet, and you jerk with a shattered whine.
Dick’s hand circles your throat, not squeezing, just promising.
“Breathe,” he says softly. “Count to five. Good girl.” You do, one, two, three, four, and on the exhale his grip firms, cutting air just enough to spark the edges of your vision. “There we go. Just like that. You’re so perfect.”
Jason’s fingers shift to your ass, two thick and slick with your slick and his spit, stretching you with slow, insistent pressure. The burn is divine; you clench, and he spanks your clit in rebuke. “Relax, baby,” he growls, but his other hand soothes your hip in slow, grounding circles. “Gonna take such good care of this tight little hole. Make it beg for me.”
Dick’s thumb traces your pulse under his palm, anchoring you as your head swims. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Opening up so pretty for us. Look at you, taking everything we give.”
He releases your throat with a final, gentle squeeze and steps back, guiding you down to your knees on the rug. The fibers bite into your skin, but you barely feel it. Dick’s cock is in front of you again, flushed, curved, already slick from your saliva and his precum, and he threads his fingers through your hair, tilting your face up.
“Open,” he murmurs, voice velvet and command.
You do, mouth stretching wide as he slides in once more, slow and deliberate, until the head nudges the back of your throat. He doesn’t thrust; he feeds you, letting you feel every inch, every throb, until your jaw aches and tears prick your eyes.
“Good girl,” he praises, hips rolling in shallow, controlled glides. “Take it all. Just like that.”
Behind you, Jason keeps working your ass, three fingers now, scissoring, stretching, the burn blooming into a dark, liquid heat that makes your thighs tremble. You moan around Dick’s cock, the vibration drawing a low groan from him.
“That’s it,” Dick croons, thumb stroking your cheek even as he fucks your throat. “Let Jason feel how much you want this.”
Jason’s free hand slides between your legs, two fingers plunging into your cunt, curling viciously against your front wall. The dual stretch, fingers in your ass, fingers in your cunt, Dick’s cock in your mouth, tips you over once more. You come with a muffled scream, walls fluttering wildly, a gush of wetness soaking Jason’s hand. He doesn’t stop; he works you through it, fingers relentless, until you’re sobbing around Dick’s cock, tears streaming, body shaking.
Dick’s hips stutter. “Fuck, gonna come,” he warns, voice rough. “You have to swallow, baby. Every drop.”
He thrusts once, twice, then holds deep, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow convulsively, eyes burning, the taste of him flooding your mouth, salt and heat and Dick, until he’s spent. He pulls out slowly, thumb smearing the last drop across your lower lip, eyes dark with reverence.
“Yeah baby, just like that,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, the salt of your tears.
Jason withdraws his fingers from your ass and cunt with a wet sound, leaving you empty and aching. He rises, cock thick and flushed, dragging it through your folds once, twice, coating himself in your slick.
“Up,” he growls, voice raw. “On the bed. Now.”
Dick helps you stand, legs trembling, and guides you to the mattress. Jason lies back, drawing you astride his hips. His cock is immense, thicker than Dick’s, but not quite as long. The head is weeping, and he drags it through your folds, teasing, then notches at your entrance.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, restraint cracking his voice. “That’s what you do to me. Gonna ruin this pussy.”
Dick kneels behind you, slick fingers pressing into your ass, slow, careful, stretching you open anew. Jason’s cock nudges in, just the tip, before pulling out and rubbing against your folds again, an unforgiving tease. The dual stretch overwhelms; you whimper, high and fractured, still tasting Dick on your tongue.
Dick’s voice is gentle against your spine. “Breathe, baby. Push back. Good girl. You’re so close to taking us both. Just a little more.”
Jason’s hand finds your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles. Dick’s fingers grip your hips, steadying.
Jason groans, “You’re gonna take us so well, aren’t you, princess?”
Dick’s teeth nip your shoulder, soft and teasing. “Prepping your perfect little holes. Gonna make you so full you’ll feel us for days. But only if you’re good.”
They keep you teetering, Jason’s cock gliding through your folds, pressing the tip in before repeating his teasing strokes, Dick’s fingers stretching your ass, both murmuring filthy praise and sharp taunts. Your body is electric, every nerve alight, every touch shoving you toward the abyss.
Jason’s hand cups your jaw, thumb smearing your tears of frustration. “Look at me,” he growls, rough with awe. “You’re gonna take us both, and you’re gonna cry so pretty doing it.” His other hand pinches your clit, rolling slow and cruel. You sob, hips jerking, and Dick’s free hand presses your belly, pinning you.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Dick murmurs against your ear, lips grazing. “We’ve got you.” His voice is honey over edges, gentle and mocking. He crooks his fingers in your ass, the burn flaring hot before melting to dark pleasure that curls your toes.
Jason’s cock claims you in one inexorable push, splitting your cunt around his girth. The stretch is profane, a burn verging on too much, and you cry out, the sound swallowed by Dick’s mouth as he leans to kiss you. His tongue dances with yours, soft and coaxing, tasting your tears.
Jason bottoms out with a curse, hips flush, the fullness staggering: his cock thick in your cunt, Dick’s fingers still in your ass.
“Fuck,” Jason hisses, head tipping back. “So tight. Like a vice. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take us.” His hands bruise your hips, lifting you an inch before slamming you down. The wet slap echoes, loud and indecent.
Dick withdraws his fingers slowly, replacing with his cock’s blunt head. Lube (you’re too far gone to wonder where he got it from) drips cold; he presses in, the burn renewing. You whimper into his mouth, and he swallows it with a low chuckle.
“Shh, baby. You’re doing so well. Can’t wait to fill you.” Inch by inch, he sinks his long cock in until you’re impossibly full, split on them, quaking between.
They hold still. Jason’s hand returns to your clit, rubbing merciless circles. Dick’s fingers tug your hair, scalp stinging, neck arching.
“Oh fuck, she’s clenching tighter. You like that, don’t you, baby?” Jason growls. “Both our cocks stuffing you.”
Dick’s teeth graze your shoulder. “Oh fuck me,” he pants as you rock back.
The first thrust is Jason’s: shallow, probing. Then Dick’s, deeper. They sync, alternating, one retreating as the other claims. The slide is slick, obscene, the room thick with skin-slap and your fractured moans. Jason’s hand tightens on your throat, pulsing air in rhythm with their thrusts. Dick’s twists in your hair, pulling tears.
You come without mercy: a clench milking both, a gush soaking Jason’s lap. The sound fractures you; Dick’s hand slides to spank your clit, sharp, wet, and you jerk with a whine.
“That’s it,” Jason hisses. “Scream for us. Let the manor hear what a cockdrunk slut you are.”
Jason’s hips snap brutal; Dick’s turn punishing. Another orgasm builds, sharper. Jason’s thumb grinds your clit, Dick’s hand squeezes your throat until spots dance. You shatter, sobbing, convulsing. Jason follows with a curse, spilling hot in your cunt. Dick pulls out, painting your back and ass, marking.
They don’t let you fall.
Jason’s hands guide you face-down with effortless strength. Sheets cool and slick beneath your cheek, soaked with lube, cum, your ruin. He spreads your cheeks, thumbs bruising, watching his cum leak. His hand smooths your folds, pressing it back in. You jerk, a broken sound, but Dick kneels ahead, cock flushed and glistening.
“Open, baby,” he murmurs, fingers in your hair. You do, tasting salt, lube, the faint tang of musk. Dick’s hips roll controlled, feeding you until your nose meets his base again.
“Good girl. Clean me up. Taste how we wrecked you.”
Behind, Jason’s tongue spears your cunt, scooping his spend in thick strokes. He groans, vibration through your clit, come dripping your thighs as he cleans. When he shifts higher, circling your rim, you sob around Dick’s cock, tears fresh.
Jason’s stubble scrapes; his breath scalds. “Fuck, princess,” he rasps, raw with reverence. “Dripping with me. Gonna lick every drop from this pretty hole.”
Dick’s fingers tighten, guiding your rhythm. “Sweetheart,” he croons, thumb wiping tears as he fucks your throat. “You love this, don’t you?”
He withdraws for your wrecked “oh yes,” then slides back, gagging the word.
Jason’s tongue leaves with a kiss to your clit, then he shifts. Mattress dips; he lifts your hips to your knees. Dick pulls out with a pop, saliva stringing, lies against the headboard, cock curving, leaking.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Dick says, gentle-edged condescension. He lies back on the ruined sheets, cock jutting up, flushed and curved, still glistening from your mouth. He guides you astride him, back to his chest, thighs quaking, holes slick and gaping. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing soothing circles as he nudges your ass with the blunt head of his cock, pressing the tender rim.
“Relax. You took us so well once already. Now let me in again.”
You sink slow, the stretch sharper this time, his curved cock dragging against your tight walls, vision blurring white. You whimper; Dick’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding, even as he bottoms out with a low, reverent groan.
“There we go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Good girl. Look at you, opening so pretty for me.”
Jason climbs over the two of you like a storm rolling in, knees bracketing Dick’s thighs, heat branding your front. His cock, thick, flushed, slick your mess, glides through your folds, coating, then notches back at your cunt.
“Relax, baby,” he growls, but his hands are gentle as they hook under your knees, lifting your legs up and folding you nearly in half, ankles by your ears, utterly exposed. Dick’s arms wrap around your hips, fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh, holding you steady for what’s coming.
Jason thrusts in brutally, bottoming with a wet slap that echoes off the walls. The fullness is overwhelming, angle new: Dick’s curve pressing your front wall through your ass, Jason’s girth splitting your cunt wide. You sob, tears spilling fresh; Jason’s hand fists your hair, arching your neck gently so your throat is bared to the ceiling.
You know they said they have never shared anyone like this before… but they move so in sync with you that you can’t help but feel an ugly, possessive voice in your mind whisper that maybe they lied. Maybe they do this often and you’re just another pretty thing for them to claim.
“Don’t you dare think of anyone else,” Jason snarls, possession raw, hips already snapping, like he knew exactly what was on your mind. “This, us inside you, wrecking you, it’s only you. Never shared like this. Never will. Fucking meant it.”
Dick’s laugh is soft, fond, rumbling against your spine; his fingers slide from your hips to rub your clit in tight, teasing circles as Jason thrusts in and out of you. “He’s right, baby. You’re the only one who gets us like this. The only one who ever will.”
The words, only you, never anyone, sink like anchors, the last coherent thread snapping. Jason buried in your cunt, Dick in your ass, the world narrows to wet drag, hip-slap, squelch.
Mouth slack, drool threading to the sheets beneath Dick’s shoulder, eyes glassy, rolled back, fluttering with every thrust like a broken thing. Your breasts bounce between the mens thrusts and Jason leans over, pressing sloppy kisses to your ankle.
“Think you need a pretty little chain here,” he pants, “With my initial. Would you wear that, princess? Let me mark you as my pretty little slut?”
No words leave your mouth, just moans, just “ah-ah-ah” in time with Jason’s brutality and Dick’s slow, grinding roll.
Jason fists your hair tighter, yanking so your neck aches, arching you like a bow strung between them.
“Look at you baby,” he snarls, degradation laced with worship. “My sharp girl, fucked so stupid she can’t close her mouth. Can’t think. Can’t beg. Just a dumb cockdrunk whore, huh? Brain gone.” He spanks, crack, the sound wet, your body jerking, fresh slick squirting around him. Jason laughs filthy. “That’s it. Such a leaky mess. Can’t control your cunt anymore.”
Dick’s laugh is soft, razored. His fingers find one of your nipples, swollen red, and pinch, hard, twisting until you scream. Pain and pleasure shoots to your core; Jason feels you clench around his cock and laughs against your calf.
“There they are,” Dick murmurs, delight syrupy. “Those pretty tears. Hurting so good for us, aren’t you, baby? Overstimulated and begging for more.” He licks a tear from your cheek and groans.
Your body feels like a puppet, jerked by hands, cocks, wills. Jason’s hand is on your throat, squeezing you to tunnel vision, stars bursting in your periphery.
Dick hand is on your clit again, rubbing relentlessly as you sob. “Now, now,” he murmurs, soft but cruel. “You have to take it like a good girl. Take us.” He leans, kisses slack mouth, licks drool. “Beautiful like this. Ours.”
You try speaking. Your lips move, trying to form words. “P-ple…guh,” Jason thrusts and your voice shatters to scream.
“That’s it,” Jason whispers, arousal trembling. “So fucking perfect.”
“How are you doing, baby?” Dick asks, gentle but eyes hunger-dark.
You try answering. Your mouth opens but all that comes out is a high whine. Jason laughs again.
“She can’t talk. Look, Dickie, she’s a dumb, cockdrunk mess. Bet she couldn’t spell her name.” Both men thrust harder and your back arches, orgasm ripping through you, violent, messy, squirting across the men’s thighs, coating the sheets. Your body convulses, walls milking both men despite their rhythmic thrusts.
Jason’s laugh breaks into a moan, reverent. “Fuck. Can’t last when you’re fucking milking me like that.” He spanks the undersides of your thigh with one hand, the other still gripping your ankle. “Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re our dumb whore.”
You try. “D-dumb… I’m…” Dick thrusts just right and your voice screams.
“It’s alright, baby. No words. No thoughts. Just take.” Kisses slack mouth, licks drool. “So fucking good at it.”
Jason comes roaring, hips snapping forward one last time, spilling hot, thick ropes into your cunt. The fullness is obscene, a burn that tips into hurt, and your vision edges black in the aftershock, body convulsing around him. He stays buried for a heartbeat, two, breath ragged against your throat, then pulls out slow, a wet drag that leaves you clenching on emptiness.
He doesn’t let you fall.
His hands hook under your knees, still folded high, and he folds himself over you, chest to your chest, weight heavy and grounding. The shift presses you deeper into Dick’s lap; Dick’s cock, still hard and slick, pulls out of your ass with a wet pop. Groaning, he slides it along your folds once, twice, teasing you. Jason’s mouth finds yours, sloppy and open, tongue licking into you. The kiss is gentle despite the snarl still echoing in his throat, all teeth and reverence, stubble scraping your chin.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your lips, voice cracked. “But yours too.”
Dick’s hands tighten on your hips, thumbs tracing the bruises Jason left. “My turn, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet and hunger. He lines up, the blunt head of his cock pressing to your cunt, still pulsing, still dripping Jason’s come, and slides in slow, deliberate, claiming the space Jason just vacated. The stretch is different, Dick’s long curve dragging against your walls in a way that makes your eyes roll back, a broken sound spilling into Jason’s mouth.
Jason swallows it, kissing you deeper, weight pinning you open and safe while Dick bottoms out with a low, reverent groan. “Fuck,” Dick breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So warm. So full of him. And now you’re gonna be full of me.”
They hold you there, Jason’s weight, Dick’s cock, the wet heat of Jason’s come mixing with Dick’s first slow thrusts. Jason’s hands slide from your knees to cradle your face, thumbs smearing tears and drool.
“Feel that?” Jason rasps, voice raw. “Only ever yours, princess.”
Dick’s hips roll, gentle at first, savoring the slick heat of you, the way Jason’s come eases his path. Then deeper, harder, the curve of him dragging relentless against your front wall until every thrust punches a broken sound from your throat. Jason kisses you through it, sloppy and desperate, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of you split open between them. His weight pins you, chest to chest, breath hot against your cheek, stubble scraping your jaw as he swallows every moan Dick wrings from you.
Dick’s hands slide from your hips to your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, spreading you wider, folding you tighter against Jason’s bulk. The angle shifts; his cock drives deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, obscene and perfect. Your cunt clenches around him, oversensitive, fluttering, and Dick groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your spine.
“Fuck, baby,” Dick pants, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight. So perfect. Gonna fill you up, gonna…”
His rhythm stutters, hips snapping forward once, twice, then grinding deep as he comes. Hot, thick pulses flood your cunt, mixing with Jason’s, the sensation so overwhelming your vision whites out. Your body seizes, walls milking him in violent, rhythmic spasms, a final, messy gush squirting around his cock and soaking the sheets beneath. The pleasure is too sharp, too much; your lungs forget how to work, your heart stutters, and the world tunnels to black.
Jason’s mouth is still on yours when the dark swallows you. His kiss is the last thing you feel, soft, grounding, a tether, before everything goes quiet.
The world filters back in slow, syrupy pulses: the low thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears, the slick heat of Dick still buried inside you, pulsing with the last tremors of his release. Your limbs are liquid, boneless, draped over Jason’s chest like a blanket too heavy to move. The air smells of sex and cedar and the faint, metallic bite of the storm still rattling the windows. Somewhere, a clock ticks, 4:52 a.m., but time feels like a suggestion now, something you’ll worry about later.
Jason’s hand is in your hair, fingers carding through the damp strands with a gentleness that doesn’t match the man who just roared your name into the dark. He’s murmuring something, low and rough, the words half-lost in the haze.
“...got you, princess. You’re here. You’re safe.”
Dick shifts behind you, slow and careful, easing out of your cunt with a wet sound that makes you whimper. The emptiness is sharp, but he’s already moving, pressing soft kisses along your spine, your shoulder blades, the nape of your neck. His hands are everywhere, gentle, reverent, tracing the bruises on your hips, the faint red marks from Jason’s teeth, the slick mess between your thighs.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “We’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You try. Your lungs feel too small, your throat raw from screaming, but the air comes in shaky sips. Jason’s thumb strokes your cheek, smearing the salt of your tears, and he kisses your forehead, once, twice, lingering like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops.
Dick slips away for a moment, the mattress dipping, and you make a small, panicked sound. Jason tightens his arms around you, chest rumbling with a soothing hum.
“He’s not going far,” Jason says, voice soft. “Just getting something to clean you up. You’re a mess, baby. Our mess.”
The endearment lands warm in your chest, a small, glowing thing. You nuzzle into Jason’s neck, breathing him in. His stubble scrapes your temple, grounding you back to reality.
Dick returns with a warm cloth, the faint scent of lavender drifting from it. He kneels beside you, movements careful, like you’re something fragile and precious. The cloth is soft against your skin, wiping away the sticky evidence of them, sweat and cum and lube and your own slick, down your thighs, across your stomach, your back. He’s thorough but gentle, pressing kisses to every mark he finds: the bruise on your hip, the faint handprint on your ass, the tender skin of your inner thighs.
“Good girl,” Dick murmurs, voice thick with something like worship: “You took us so well. So proud of you.”
Jason’s hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and he brings your knuckles to his lips, kissing each one like a promise.
“You did so good,” he says, voice cracking just enough to make your heart ache. “Fuck, I-I didn’t know it could be like this.”
Dick finishes cleaning you, tosses the cloth aside, and crawls back into the bed, sandwiching you between them. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, but their bodies are warm, solid, real. Dick’s chest presses to your back, his arm banding around your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach like he’s claiming the space Jason just filled. Jason’s still in front of you, forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.
For a moment, no one speaks. The storm outside has softened to a murmur, rain tapping the windows like a lullaby. You’re floating, mind blissfully blank, body aching in the best way. Dick’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your stomach, Jason’s thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, and you feel held, not just physically, but in a way that sinks into your bones.
“You okay?” Dick asks, voice soft, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.
You nod, or try to, your head is heavy, lolling against Jason’s collarbone. “M’good,” you mumble, the words slurred with exhaustion and something softer. “So good.”
Jason huffs a laugh, the sound warm and fond. “Yeah, you are.” He kisses your temple again, lingering. “Our good girl.”
Neither of them reaches across you. Their hands stay where they are, the distance between them is only inches, but it feels deliberate, respectful. A boundary they’re both learning to read. They’re not touching each other. They’re touching you, and that’s enough. That’s everything.
You feel it in the way Dick’s fingers flex, just once, like he wants to reach further but doesn’t. In the way Jason’s thumb pauses, then resumes its slow, steady stroke, as if reminding himself where the line is. They’re not competing. They’re not merging. They’re sharing, carefully, clumsily, with the kind of reverence that comes from loving the same person so fiercely it rewrites the rules.
The realization makes your chest tight, your eyes stinging with fresh tears at just how much you love them.
“Hey,” Jason says, noticing. He cups your face, thumbs wiping the tears before they fall. “None of that. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
“We are,” Dick echoes, voice steady. “This, us, it’s real. We meant it. Slow, honest, all of it. We’re trying for you.”
You nod, the tears spilling anyway, but they’re not sad. They’re the kind that come when something too big to name finally fits into place. Jason kisses them away, one by one, while Dick presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind your ear.
“We’ve got you,” Dick whispers. “Always.”
Jason pulls the duvet up from the foot of the bed, draping it over the three of you. It’s heavy, warm, smelling faintly of lavender and them. You’re cocooned now, tangled in limbs and heartbeats, the world outside the manor a distant memory. Dick’s hand finds yours under the covers, fingers lacing tight. Jason’s arm stays around your waist, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on your skin.
“Sleep, princess,” Jason murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Dick’s lips brush your shoulder one last time. “Dream sweet, baby. We’ll be here when you wake up.”
You let your eyes drift shut, the ache in your body fading into a warm, sated hum. The last thing you feel is Jason’s heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, and Dick’s breath against your neck, soft and sure. The storm outside fades to nothing.
For the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of what comes next.
