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cat-got-your-tongue · 14 days ago

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REBEL YELL | clark kent

Late nights, flirty bullshit, and a tension sweeter than Lois’ coffee. Still, you’re both too stubborn to call what it is. When the Red Kryptonite tears through that rhythm, it flips him inside out.

Now he’s at your door—less Clark, more danger, more electric. He's different, but God, you want him more.

⤿ rebel yell | [READ ON AO3 ]

18+ fem!reader, incorporated details from other supermans (sue me), pining, Clark Kent is a dork, yearning, smut, oral (f receiving), red kryptonite clark, unprotected sex, creampie, dick descriptions, body worship, pussy worship, intimacy idk, plot heavy, lmk if I missed anything! [ 15.3k words ]

The newsroom breathes like a living beast—overhead lights flicker in defiance, casting halos over hunched shoulders and half-empty coffee cups. Phones wail like distant sirens. Printers cough paper like dying animals. Somewhere, someone’s swearing into a phone like the person on the other end owes them money (they probably do), and the whole place thrums with the jittery rhythm of too much ambition and not enough sleep.

It’s chaos, yes—but it’s coordinated. Kinda.

You’re hunched at your desk—half-eaten croissant and a stale coffee to your left, a sticky note graveyard to your right, and a cursor blinking mockingly in the middle of your half-finished headline.

Your coffee went lukewarm around 3 hours ago at 12:24. It’s 3:51 PM and you’ve been editing the same paragraph for twenty minutes. It’s safe to say that you’re distracted.

—but it’s not because of the noise or chatter or Perry’s obnoxious shouting. It’s because of him.

You're stuck mid-rant in a particularly damning op-ed when a blur of navy blue and flustered charm breezes in the direction of your desk.

Clark Kent barrels in from the elevators, all tousled hair and boy scout panic. His tie’s crooked. One shirt button is undone. His cheeks are just slightly flushed, like he’s either sprinted back from “lunch” or had a brush with death. Knowing him, possibly both.

Definitely both.

You don’t even look up at first, still typing like there’s a bomb strapped to your back and you’re hacking away at the wires with every semi-colon and comma.

Then, deadpan and dry as sunburn, you murmur just loud enough for his super-hearing:

“So, farmboy... What’s it this time? Kitten in a tree or—you know—secret alien summit with the big boys?”

He falters mid-step alongside your desk, blinking once. You glance up just in time to catch the tug at the corner of his mouth—the one he doesn’t let anyone else see. It’s the smile, the you-know-me-too-well-and-it’s-a-problem smile. Disarming in all capacities.

—slightly dangerous, if you let it be.

Your cursor blinks impatiently. So do you.

He offers a soft murmur only you can hear, like a shared secret tucked in the folds of this big, loud city:

“Actually, it was a pigeon… In a sewer drain,” he starts, “then it was this fire breathing dinosaur looking thing… Well it wasn’t a dinosaur but it had spikes… like one… Anyway, Uh.”

You huff a genuine laugh at his ramble before returning to your screen. He lingers and adjusts his glasses for a second before continuing past.

You’ve been playing this game for months. Trading barbs, watching each other from across the room, stolen glances over styrofoam coffee cups, toeing the line between flirtation and something too spark-y to name.

He disappears behind the glass of Perry’s office and you can’t help but bite your lip to swallow down a smile.

You always knew Super-Clark was hiding something. You just didn’t expect him to be so bad at hiding it from you.

—but it hadn’t always been this way.

You and Clark Kent have been journalists at the Daily Planet for years now. Long enough to know the elevator stalls between floors 7 and 8, that the good coffee machine only works when you slam it twice, and that Perry White’s neck veins visibly pulse when someone misses a deadline.

For the longest time, you were just coworkers in the loosest sense—desks on opposite ends of the room, your beats orbiting different corners of Metropolis. He covered charity galas and rooftop rescues—the occasional Superman interview.

—the only one who got Superman interviews, by the way.

You chased zoning board corruption and bureaucratic malpractice with a vengeance. He was all sunshine and bylines. You were ink-stained fingers and three cups of coffee before 10 a.m.

He always brought you your first though.

Every morning, without fail, he’d drop a paper cup on your desk alongside everyone else’s. Always with a polite smile and your name scribbled on the side with a smiley face, never expecting anything in return. You didn’t even realize he knew your order until you noticed it was always right. And you were too proud to ask he found out

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the room. Briefly. Accidental, at first. The kind of eye contact that felt like being caught doing something you shouldn’t. You’d both look away too fast, cheeks a little warmer, hearts a little louder.

That all changed four months, twelve days, and—yeah, alright—six hours ago.

—not that you're counting. That’d be crazy…

Perry White fired Janine Hardcastle for libel.

Perry had stormed into the greater office area and waved the termination notice like it was an Olympic torch. Full-on public execution, guillotined and blacklisted right under the spinning Globe. Her desk was cleared before lunch. You didn’t even like her all that much, but the office still buzzed like a hornet nest.

Then he turned to you. And Clark.

“Congratulations,” he deadpanned, “You’re my new local politics column. I want city hall leaks, transit disasters, gerrymandering—shit, I want blood if it bleeds. You two?” Cigar smoldering between his fingers, he pointed at you and Clark, “You’re married now. Move your desks, figure it out.”

Cue countless nights shoved into professional proximity; Staked out in the newsroom long after the lights dimmed and the janitors arrived. Empty pizza boxes, cold takeout cartons, whiteboards littered with names and connections. Heated arguments about tone. Cackling over typo disasters. A shared Google Doc titled “thé grind… and clark” because you refused to let him name it “Notes on News.”

It was just business. Until it wasn’t.

The glances across the room turned into glances across directly parallel desks. Your knees brushing under the table, his tie catching your sleeve, his eyes flicking down to your mouth mid-sentence before snapping back up like he hadn’t been caught red-handed. (He had. Repeatedly.)

He thinks he’s suave, that you don’t notice. You absolutely do.

He stutters more when you’re this close now, when your voice dips or you lean in to point at something on his screen. He blushes, ears pink, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think about the way you say “farmboy” with that lilt in your voice.

You slowly stopped pretending not to know the way he tugged at his tie when he was nervous.

He slowly stopped pretending he didn’t look at you like you were the only other person in the building.

Naturally, you tease him for it. Relentlessly.

“You always look like you’ve got something to say, Kent,” you murmur one late night, spinning in your office chair as he visibly scrambles to form a sentence.

“I—I do,” he stutters. “I mean, I might.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, lazily popping a pen cap between your teeth. “Well, when you figure it out, maybe you’ll use your mouth instead of staring at mine.”

His face goes scarlet.

Sweet, sweet victory.

As the months progressed being—as he would call it— “Partners in Politics,” you get even closer. Soon, there’s music shared through airpods while Lois is lamenting about a case via whiteboard-presentation, playlists labeled things like “Angry typing” and “Crying over sad dogs.” Half-finished articles delayed because you’re deep in a debate over Batman’s moral code. (He thinks Gotham needs him. You think Gotham needs therapy. Or to be nuked, just to settle the score.)

It becomes routine. Natural, like breathing.

And you’re both aware of the line you're toeing. Of how far you've leaned into each other. Of how close you've let yourselves get. Neither of you mention it. Neither of you dare.

But Clark knows you’re looking.

You know he’s looking, too.

And deep down, you're starting to think it’s only a matter of time.

—but you’re probably wondering how you stumbled on Clark’s identity. How you know about the totally not-dinosaur aliens and the secret alien summits?

To be frank, how you found out was completely accidental.

No dramatic rooftop reveal. Not catching him duck into a phone booth mid extraterrestrial terrorist attack. No city-wide peril or explosive confession.

Just a Tuesday, about a week after you both got paired up together, the first night you both stayed after hours.

It started with a trip to the break room at 5:31 PM. Everyone else cleared out like a fire drill the moment the clock struck five—half the staff didn’t even close their tabs, just booked it, coats half on, keyboards still warm. You stood back to work on you and Clark’s first assignment, an implicatory LexCorp exposé—Lord knows you wouldn’t get it done at home. Your feet were already killing you in those new kitten heels, and you were craving one of those Swedish chocolates Lois thinks she hides so well in the top left cabinet.

(Newsflash: putting them behind two Daily Planet mugs isn’t stealthy. It’s an invitation, Lois.)

You headed down the marble hallway, aggressively typing out a text to a source at LexCorp’s PR team who were being cagey about a then-recent “construction incident”—which probably meant an explosion, structural collapse, or moral bankruptcy.

Your heels clicked quietly down the corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights your only company. You had eased the break room door open—

and there he was, like trouble in a pressed shirt.

Clark Kent. 6’5, broad as a barn door, tousled hair still windswept from a “lunch run” across the street—and stood perpendicular to you, sleeves pushed to the elbow. Hands cupped around a mug. Eyes narrowed and focused—

—and a thin red beam, coming from his eyes.

Laser. Beaming. His coffee. Right next to the microwave.

You gasped. Audibly.

His head snapped to you like you’d shouted, the glow in his eyes flickering off so fast you thought you imagined it. The mug hissed and streamed as he set it down on the counter. He slowly stepped toward you with both hands raised like he was trying to soothe a startled animal.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…Did you just microwave your coffee with your face?”

There’s a long pause.

Then he smiled, sheepish. Caught with his glasses off, his cape down.

—well actually not the cape. Not yet, at least.

“I, uh… yeah. Kinda.”

And you grinned, leaning against the doorframe and letting the door close, like this was the most entertaining part of your week (aside from Jimmy face planting in front of Perry, it was).

“Don’t suppose that’s FDA approved.”

He continued staring like he expected you to freak out, to bolt, to demand answers or scream or tragically collapse. But instead, you walked further into the room, reached past him on your tip toes, reached past Lois’s dumb mug forcefield, and popped a chocolate in your mouth like this was just—whatever. Because it was.

It was still Clark. Still trips over his own feet and files his stories three minutes before the deadline.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That’s what you said before turning to leave, chewing, smiling to yourself.

He was dumbfounded. Completely, utterly dumbfounded.

He forgot his piping hot coffee on the breakroom counter and drifted back to his desk. You were already parked across the way and pretending to type at your own, watching him like you always do when you think he isn’t looking. Then, with a grin he didn’t see, you casually rolled your chair over to his.

At first, it was quiet—the low hum of the city slipping in through the blinds, the occasional mechanical groan of the copy machine down the hall. Clark trying to ignore your proximity and make himself look busy by searching up “wikihow how to be a better journalist.”

You leaned back in your chair, eyes on his screen but voice casual. “So… you ever drop anyone?”

Clark blinked, caught mid-sip of a 4 hour old cup of coffee. “What?”

You turned just enough to look at him, resting your chin in your hand, leaning on his desk. “While flying. Ever fumble the bag?” A smirk tugged at your mouth. “Literally.”

He huffed a surprised laugh, setting his cup down. “No. I’m—uh—I’m very good with my hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, letting it hang there just long enough before you had tilted your head, expression softening. “What’s it like?”

He didn’t ask what you meant. Didn’t need to. He leaned back in his chair, neck craning toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the tiles.

“It’s… loud,” he said finally. “Like hearing every TV in the world on at once. But you can… tune in, tune out. Most of the time.”

Your brows drew together.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His gaze didn’t move from the ceiling. Didn’t lower. But his voice did.

“Yeah,” he said. “When I don’t make it in time.”

You studied him. He hadn’t bothered to put his glasses back on and before you was just Superman in a 3-piece suit. Except it’s not. It’s just Clark. And there was something in his face that you’ll never forget—like the truth wears heavier than he lets on.

“Do you ever stop hearing people in pain?”

His jaw ticked, just slightly. A muscle moved like he was trying to bite back the truth. Then, quieter this time, almost like it hurt to say out loud:

“No. I just get better at knowing when I can help.”

The air held still after that. Like it was listening too. You studied him, chin perched on your hand, your gaze softer now.

“And what about when you can’t?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just kept looking straight ahead for a beat too long—until the glow of his monitor caught in his eyes, bright and blue and heartbreakingly human.

Then he looked at you. A flicker of that crooked smile returning to his face, trying to cut through the weight of it all.

“You always ask this many questions after hours?”

You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling as you leaned back in your chair, spinning it slightly like you had all the time in the world.

“Oh y’know, only when my… Partner in Politics might be—well, is—an alien.”

He laughed under his breath, but there was something tender in it.

No one had ever got to ask him things like this. Not as Clark. Not even as Superman. Not without an MO.

And then—when the air started to feel heavy with truth and warmth—you offered up your own secret in exchange.

“To be fair, I’ve been lying too.”

You said it lightly, but it hung there. He turned toward you, slow, brow furrowed, head cocked just a little like he was trying to read you beyond your words. “What do you mean?”

You had let out a sigh and leaned back in your chair, dragging a palm down your face, fingers catching at your cheek. “I lied on my résumé.”

Clark blinked.

You exhaled, a dry, self-deprecating huff, “Said I graduated summa cum laude from Met U…”

Clark turned slightly, brows knitting You kept going.

“I didn’t. Dropped out a semester early. Had to lie to get in the door. Perry still doesn’t know.” You gave a sharp little shake of your head. “If he finds out, I’m toast.”

He blinked once, like the thought had to settle. You hadn’t needed to offer up a secret of your own, but the fact that you were thoughtful enough to at least try to even the playing field melted his heart. His features softened, gaze catching on yours in a way that felt… careful. Kind.

“You’re one of the best writers here,” he said assuredly. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

You had given him a slow shrug, eyes flitting to your shoes just to avoid how intently he was looking at you. “I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, with a curve of his head and the faintest edge of a smile twinging his mouth—

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

From that night to all the nights that will inevitably follow, there is always something hanging between you—like static. Like heat.

Like the kind of silence that’s hungry, just waiting for the chance to take a bite.

Presently, work ended hours ago. Right now, you’re dangling upside down by a single ankle from what appears to be a fraying electrical cord inside the hollowed-out ribcage of a now-dilapidated high-rise.

Your heel (singular—its twin is somewhere down below, probably impaled in a taxi roof) glints under the flicker of a dying overhead light. The other end of the cord is still sparking like it’s deciding whether or not to electrocute you. Charming.

You don’t scream. Mostly because of pride. Also because your blouse is riding up and the last thing you need is this going viral with an undignified noise attached to it.

You’re not even sure how you got here. One moment you were at your grandma’s—mint tea, The Price Is Right reruns, the faint perfume of tiger lilies and Vicks VapoRub. You blinked and Green Lantern and his atrocious bowl cut were bulldozing his entire glowstick ass through the side of the building, chasing something enormous and slobbering and very uninvited. Structural integrity be damned.

Now here you are. Swinging upside down and 24 stories above Metropolis with a solid breeze up—well down—your skirt and a bruised shin that’s definitely swelling. Below, people are scattering, screaming, phones held skyward to film your impending death. You look down—well, up—at your watch. 7:36 PM. Alien invasion hour. Right on schedule.

—figures. After work. No hazard pay.

You mouth “fuck you” to the sky.

And then—whoosh.

A low sonic boom thuds through your bones like the drop in a bassline. You barely register the motion before your feet are on the ground, gently, and a pair of arms are anchoring you. The scent hits you first—something crisp and ozone-swept, like lightning in a cornfield. You look up, but you already know.

Superman.

Clark.

He looks rattled. Not from the rescue, he could do this all day. From you and the way you’re seeing through him right now.

Like the crash of it all just caught up to him—like he forgot you knew who he was, and now here you are, pressed close, reminding him without a word. Like you just saved him.

His arms are still around you, solid and anchored around your body. One hand still splayed protectively between your shoulder blades, like he hasn’t registered the danger’s passed. You’re nose to nose, breath mingling in the air between you—what little space remains is thick with heat, adrenaline, and something that should not happen on a public street.

And when you speak, your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to.

“Took you long enough.”

His mouth parts slightly with a ghost of a laugh

He's still looking at you like you've stepped out of a dream; Or worse, like you've put him back in one. Like you're some half-remembered thing that doesn’t belong in the real world, and now he’s struggling to tell the difference.

You reach up on instinct, fingertips grazing the dark curl at his temple.

There’s dust in his hair—concrete, ash, god knows what else—and when you brush it away, the debris falls in slow motion. Tiny flecks catch the light like crushed glass, like glitter from a fairytale.

—or a Shakespearean tragedy. Time will tell.

“Got somethin’ right here, hero.”

He falters—just barely. A flicker of tension pulls at his jaw before smoothing out again. His eyes drop to your mouth, linger for a breath too long. He almost leans in.

But then they’re back on yours, mentally chiding himself: Time and place, idiot.

He won’t. He can’t. Not yet.

One fuck up—just a single misstep—and the whole fragile thing would come crashing down like glass underfoot. He knows the sound of ruin too well, has worn the weight of his own wreckage like a second skin his entire life. Every failure, every fracture, etched into him like fault lines just waiting to split again.

—so instead, he pulls you in.

The hug comes without warning—full-bodied, two-armed, all-in. It feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.

You fold into it without thinking, your fingers curling in the fabric of his cape, your jaw tucking instinctively into the warm swell of his chest. Subliminally telling him that it’s okay, it’s not your fault. For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heartbeats and held breath.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whisper, barely audible above the pounding in both your chests.

And then—right on cue—a guttural roar echoes from somewhere deep in the city, monstrous and pissed off.

Clark tenses. You barely have time to blink before he pulls back, eyes flicking toward the sound.

“Duty calls,” he murmurs, almost apologetic.

And he’s gone.

It takes a while to gather your bearings. A medic checks you over, offers you a blanket and a juice box. You lie and say you’re fine. Your ankle’s tender, your skirt is smeared with concrete debris, and your phone has a bunch of cracks through the screen. You limp on one shoe for two blocks before realizing you’re still holding the juice box.

Most streetlights continue to flick on as the sun sinks lower. Sirens scream in the distance. You take the long way home.

Everything feels louder. Crisper, in the wake of your brush with death. Your heartbeat keeps mistiming with your footsteps. You pass a storefront where the display TV’s in the window replay news footage. There’s your leg, dangling helplessly, your press pass flapping like a flag. You wince. The chyron reads: “DAILY PLANET REPORTER NEARLY KILLED DURING BATTLE.” Underneath: “SUPERMAN SAVES HER LIFE.”

You stare at it for a beat too long, the abundance of colors dancing across your face before you pull yourself away and hauling home.

Your overpriced shoe-box (or extremely humble abode) is quiet when you finally get in. You shed your clothes one item at a time—leaving the one ruined heel by the door, peeling your dust-caked clothes off your body and tossing it straight into the washer.

A long shower helps, but only slightly.

You sit on your bed in a bathrobe, hair damp, staring out the window. You can still feel him. The heat of his hands at your back. The look on his face like you were the only person in the city worth saving.

You hate that it shook you. That he shook you.

He always has.

You lie back, dragging the covers up to your chin like armor, even though the room’s too warm for it. The spinning fan hums above you, but it’s useless. You toss, turn, flip your pillow, try breathing in for 7 and exhaling for 10.

But every time your eyes shut, your mind becomes a kaleidoscope—fractured colors and sharp edges tumbling into one another. You’re dangling in the air by your ankle again, the world spinning below, and he’s there—right there—close enough to taste, nose grazing yours, pupils blown wide. A constellation you almost touched, still burning just out of reach.

And it just won’t leave you alone.

You wonder what he would’ve done if you leaned in first.

You wonder if he’s wondering the same.

knock knock.

Two soft, almost polite knocks slip into the quiet—so gentle they barely disturb the air, yet they ripple straight through you. You’re still thinking of his lips when they land. You sit up fast, heart vaulting into your throat. That definitely wasn’t the door. That was your damn window.

You grab your phone in one hand (in case this is how you die) and pad over barefoot. When you yank open the curtain and pull open the window, wind tugs at your robe. You peek your head out, blinking.

It’s Clark—well, Superman.

Hovering twelve floors up like it's nothing.

“Hi,” he says, sheepish, boyish, like he’s just shown up at your dorm room with a six-string and a bouquet of roses.

“Hi,” you echo, smiling in spite of yourself, leaning your elbows on the sill like you’re Juliet and he’s the dumbest, dorkiest, hottest Romeo to ever grace your fine-worthy, prehistoric fire escape.

“How’s the ankle?” His eyes flick over you, sharp and steady, like he’s still taking inventory of every bruise and scrape.

“Sore,” you admit, wincing a little. “But intact. Thanks to yo— wait, how’d you know my ankle was fucked?”

He rubs the back of his neck, a bit awkward. “Oh—uh, I can see through things. And, uh, it looked a little inflamed…” He trails off, realizing how weird that sounds.

“Dork,” You jest softly, voice quieting as you continue, “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” After a pause, he adds, low and genuine, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause—soft, sweet, slightly stupid. You both just grin at each other like teenagers outside a school dance.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, reaching behind his back. “I, uh—think this is yours.”

He pulls out your missing heel, the strap singed and the buckle bent slightly.

Your jaw drops. Where could’ve even kept that? Does he have void pockets in his trunks? In spandex? “You saved my shoe?”

He shrugs, but his eyes sparkle with pride. “Figured you might want it. Looked expensive.”

You take it from him like it’s fragile glass. “It was on sale. But thanks, Prince Charming.” You pause, setting the heel carefully on your windowsill. “You didn’t have to come all the way back just to bring me this, you know.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lingers there, the breeze tossing his hair.

“I wanted to,” he says finally.

“My glass slipper…” you mumble, the words tumbling out half a quip, half a daze, your gaze flicking between the shoe in his hand and the man that had been holding it.

“Didn’t want you hobbling into work tomorrow,” he says with a sheepish grin, voice still a little hoarse. There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, but it’s gentled by concern.

You laugh and bite your lip. The moment hangs there; It stretches like it’s waiting for one of you to finally do something about it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits after a beat. “Kept thinking about today... About you.”

Your breath catches and you mentally pray for the willpower to not gasp.

You glance over your shoulder at the dark hush of your apartment, then back at him—his silhouette cut in sharp relief against the spill of city lights, like the skyline itself decided to take human shape.

“Well,” you say, voice husky with sleep you haven’t gotten, leaning just a fraction closer to him, “I’m awake now.”

Clark huffs a soft breath that could almost be a laugh. He’s close. Closer than he should be. His presence fills the foot-long space between you like warmth seeping in through the cracks.

You lift your hand slowly, without much thought, and brush a curl from his brow. It’s soft, out of place—curling stubbornly like it always does after flight. He doesn’t move. Just watches you with those eyes like storm clouds full of patience and pull.

Then he reaches up, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before it drops, not to stop you, not to move you, just… to feel. To hold. As if your hand might dissolve into smoke if he doesn’t hold it close.

He brings it to his cheek. Presses into your palm like it means something.

Your skin burns against the warmth of him. His stubble is rougher than you expected. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, the furrow in his brow slowly smoothing out. Like your touch is the only thing that’s let him breathe all day.

He turns his head slightly, and his lips find the inside of your wrist—feather-light, reverent. It’s not rushed, not a tease, but something slower, weightier, like he’s tasting a secret. Heat blooms where his mouth lingers, and your stomach knots tight, your throat drying as if the air between you has thickened.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

He opens his eyes and looks at you again, still holding your hand in his own.

Your foreheads could meet with the barest tilt, the smallest surrender. He’s so close you can feel the pull of him, that quiet, electric hum threading through the air—like static tangled in the night breeze, like a storm trapped in your ribs. Neither of you moves, suspended in that fragile, dangerous inch.

“I…” he starts, voice scraped thin, frayed with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

But it dies in his throat.

Whatever it is—whatever he wants—it ghosts through his eyes before he buries it again. Pushes it down where it can’t surface. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s full. Heavy. Like the space between lightning and thunder.

His hand lingers at your wrist a beat longer, then slips away—fingers trailing down the length of yours in a slow, reluctant glide, each touch a quiet imprint. It’s not just letting go; it’s an act of remembering, he’s committing the shape of you to muscle memory.

You think that’s it. That he’s about to disappear into the night again.

You brace for the goodbye. The loss of it. The empty window.

But he stays. You see it in his mouth first—words pressing at the seam of his lips, fragile things he’s afraid will shatter if they come out wrong.

“I think about you,” he says, barely above the hum of the city outside.

You blink, the sound of it loud in your own ears.

He swallows. “When I’m up there. Or fighting. Or when it’s too quiet. Or when I’m moving so fast the world’s just a blur… I still think about you.”

Your robe flutters against your legs, a soft betrayal of the wind—and suddenly you feel bare in more ways than one. Seen all the way through.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice almost breaking into a whisper. “But I know I don’t want to stay away from it.”

Your breath catches, sharp and telling. His eyes flicker—he heard it.

“Then don’t,” you breathe.

His eyes soften, and something shifts in his whole body—like the tension he wears like armor suddenly gives way. His shoulders drop. His breath stutters.

Then he’s moving closer. Tangibly, undeniably closer. His knee bumps the wall beneath your window. His hand comes up, and this time it doesn’t hesitate.

His knuckles drag along your jaw, warm and calloused, grazing the curve just beneath your ear. The touch is solid. It makes your spine go rigid, then melt. Makes your lips part on reflex.

He lingers, thumb tracing the fine arc of your cheekbone like he’s mapping constellations only he can see. His palm hovers—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from it—like he could cup your face, draw you in, and kiss you senseless… but instead, he just looks.

Really looks.

It’s the kind of gaze that strips you bare without a single touch. That makes every inch of you feel claimed, cherished, and dangerously alive. The ember in your belly doesn’t just smolder now—it ignites, a wildfire licking up your ribs.

And then, as if he’s the one who might burn, he draws back.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, voice a soft weight in the space between you. “Long day.”

You nod, small and hesitant, afraid your voice might crack if you try to use it. Your palm still tingles where he touched you, and you fold your arms like the gesture might hold you together.

He lingers at the window, caught between staying and leaving, his presence hovering like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. You feel the faint pinch of disappointment, but you won’t tug him closer if he’s not ready.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s something raw in it, that pulls low and deep in your chest.

Your lips curve, gentle. “Yeah… tomorrow.”

He dips his head once, as if sealing a promise, before the night starts to reclaim him.

“Goodnight,” he says, backing into the sky, “Cinderella.”

Then he’s gone—swallowed by the clouds, like a wish you never thought to make until it was too late.

For the first time in hours, your heartbeat begins to loosen its frantic grip. You set the heel gently on your dresser, shut the window, and turn the latch until the wind outside is only a memory. The city hums far below. Your room exhales into stillness.

You stay there, fingers resting on the cool pane where his warmth just was, as if you could trap it a little longer.

Slowly, you bring your wrist to your lips. It still tastes faintly of him—heat and stubble and something unnameable—like proof that he’d been here at all.

It still feels like him.

You wake sore—ankle stiff and puffy, ribs aching like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed all the way. There’s a tightness curled inside you, coiled and buzzing, like sleep only paused the adrenaline, not chased it off. It lives in your joints, your muscles, your marrow.

In the shower, you tilt your face to the stream and let the water burn. You stand there longer than necessary, until the mirror fogs, until your skin prickles. You scrub until you’re pink, but it doesn’t erase the feeling of him—his voice, his eyes, the way he said “I wanted to” like it meant more than a shoe and a quiet midnight visit.

When you close your eyes, he’s still there. On the other side of the glass. Wind in his hair. That look on his face—soft, stunned, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You towel off slowly. Everything aches in new, interesting ways, like your body just realized it’s not built for being manhandled and dangled off a skyscraper like a ragdoll in a soap opera. You wrap your ankle with some old gauze from when you broke your arm 3 years ago. You slide on straight-leg trousers, a cute poplin top. You opt out of heels today and settle for some clean sneakers.

Your fingers hesitate at your messy vanity, brushing over lip gloss before settling on concealer. Practical. Unsentimental. But when you catch your reflection, you pause because your hair’s a little messy, falling over your shoulder the exact same way it had that one late night at The Planet when Clark had looked at you like you were doing it on purpose.

"You are… Dangerously distracting," he had muttered, glasses slipping down his nose all cutely.

You groan. “Jesus,” you mutter to your reflection. “Get a grip.”

Because you’re running late and smiling like a lovesick teenager over a man who floats.

Perry’s probably going to rip you a new one for showing at half 10, but considering you're front-page news today—with a headline that might as well read DAMSEL IN DISTRESS SAVED BY SUPERMAN—you figure you’ve earned a buffer.

Your trip to The Planet is uneventful. You walk in at 10:32 on the dot, tote bag slung lazily over your shoulder. Your ankle twinges with every step. The newsroom buzzes as usual—phones ringing, keys clacking, too much caffeine and not enough grace. Eventually, you get to your desk.

Your coffee's already there.

Slightly cooled from where Clark probably dropped it off at half 9.

You look up, and there he is. Across from you, leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie already a little loose. Clark Kent. Looking at you like he already knows how you slept. Like he never stopped thinking about last night either.

God he’s gorgeous

He opens his mouth, “How’re you fe—”

“KENT!!”

Perry’s bark slices through the room. Clark flinches slightly, offers you a sheepish, apologetic smile, then jogs off toward Perry’s office, one hand holding his notepad.

You sink into your seat and wrap both hands around the lukewarm cup. It’s stupid, but it feels warm anyway.

Plus, he got it for you.

The rest of the morning passes in a haze of near-misses and stolen glances. The newsroom buzzes around you, but you’re somewhere else entirely—half-lost in the static charge that builds every time your eyes meet.

It starts innocently enough: your foot nudges his under the table. He’s on the phone and freezes mid-sentence, barely blinking. You don’t look up—just keep talking into the phone, your voice steady as the tip of your shoe trails up the sharp line of his shin. His breath hitches. You feel it more than you hear it.

Your calf brushes his, heat sparking where skin meets through the thin fabric. You leave it there, the connection thrumming like a live wire. He shifts in his chair—a small, betrayed movement, like his body’s giving him away before he can hide it.

His eyes find yours. Dark. Wide. A silent plea wrapped in restraint.

You only smile, saccharine and knowing, fingertips still dancing over the keys as if you’re blissfully unaware. Your composure stays even, but there’s a thread of velvet in it he can’t miss.

Underneath the desks is a different story. A secret strung taut between two pairs of tangled legs. A private little war

—no casualties, of course.

You tease him again at 12:12:

“Mind reheating my coffee?”

He immediately stands up in that classic chivalrous farm-boy way, pushing up his sleeves, ready to get his hands dirty. He starts around his desk toward yours, reaching for your cup, always the gentleman, but you stop him. Hand to his abdomen. Not exactly trying to cop a feel… but also, you're just a girl.

He stills.

You look up at him, all big framed and baffled expression. His tie’s askew. The corner of his glasses catch the light.

“Not with the microwave,” you murmur.

His brows pinch, then—oh. He catches on. His hand lifts instinctively, thumb brushing the frames of his glasses like a tell.

He quirks a brow. “Really?”

You nod, sweet and slow.

“Right here?” he asks, hushed. “Right now?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your shit-eating smirk gives it away.

“You trying to get me outed,” he mutters, a glint in his eye, “or are you just desperate for hot coffee?”

“Both,” you say, lips twitching into a grin. “But mostly the coffee.”

His laugh is low and a little dangerous. Lopsided smile. One damning dimple cocked at full power.

He takes the cup from your hand like it’s an excuse to touch you, even if it’s not. His fingers brush yours and linger. You hum a little thank-you under your breath as he turns to leave.

He doesn’t answer—but you know he heard it.

Instead, he moves with a measured stride and slips through the work room like a shadow. By the time you look up again, he’s vanished past the breakroom door, nerves almost visibly trailing behind him.

Twelve minutes later, at 12:24, the building shakes.

You feel it first in the soles of your feet—then the windows rattle, and someone screams. Every head turns toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

The street is utter chaos.

Cars flipped. Civilians scattering. Smoke is already curling in ribbons through the avenue. And then it appears again—towering, grotesque. The Slobbering-Giant-Extraterrestrial (Lois’s exact words in the morning write-up) returns with a vengeance, fists slamming into pavement, claws scraping metal and bone.

The newsroom freezes.

Reporters crowd at the window. Phones recording. Mouths gaping. Perry swears. Lois grabs Jimmy by the collar and starts dictating captions.

You whirl to find Clark.

Still not back.

You spin back to the window—and sure enough, he’s there.

Superman.

You swear the air leaves the room. At least for you.

He crashes into the monster at full speed, and they go tumbling through a glass façade across the street. Brick and dust cloud the air. Then—WHAM—he’s thrown back hard into the side of a bus. The metal groans and collapses under his weight. The thing lunges again. Heat vision scorches its hand off. It shrieks.

But it’s not enough.

The decapitated hand hits the pavement with a sickening slap. Within seconds, the monster's stump begins to ripple, bubble—something festering just beneath the surface. Then, with a wet, splitting crack, the first spike bursts through. It tears the skin like overripe fruit, and more follow, small, but still jagged and glistening, jutting out in violent succession.

Gnarly, mucousy sounds echo even through the sealed glass. You can hear it all—the slick gurgle of tissue giving way, the crunch of bone fracturing.

You finally unglue your feet from the floor and run up to the floor-to-ceiling window with everyone else.

[scene inspo]

The largest spike glows an acrid, seething green, like poison given shape. The alien roars, a guttural, reverberating snarl that rattles the air.

Then it strikes. The crystalline spike punches clean through Clark’s abdomen, shattering skin and muscle like glass. There’s a wet crunch, a series of screams, and the hiss of burning as the (what you could only assume is) Kryptonite laces into him. His body jolts and for a terrible second, his eyes go wide with something close to fear.

You let out a noise you don’t recognize. Someone else in the office screams. Probably Cat.

He falters, knees buckling in the air, arms limp. The spike pulses green, the protruding tip stained red with the blood of a God.

You feel your heart drop into your stomach. He’s stuck on the spike like a human—alien—shish kabob.

Then—something changes.

The green begins to shift. Burn.

An enchanting red hue replaces the green, radiating outward from the spike, bleeding into the veins of his chest and arms, like poison, like fire. His skin flushes with it—veins all illuminated like live wires. He looks…wrong. Strained. Consumed.

The creature’s monstrous grip rips him through the air like a ragdoll, slamming him with brutal force into the towering glass wall of the Daily Planet. The impact reverberates through the building—a shattering collision that sends tremors underfoot and cracks spiderwebbing across the gleaming surface.

You all scream and back away from the splintering glass. Dust rains from the ceiling. The impact leaves a massive crack right between you and him, and for one breathless second—he’s right there, mere feet away, his hand splayed against the glass, blood on his lip, eyes half-lidded, glowing red like his veins.

Then the creature tries to shake him off, flinging him away, like swatting a pesky fly away from your dinner.

Silence swallows the chaos as Clark’s body arcs through the sky, carried miles away by brutal force. The building creaks and groans, its steel bones protesting. Lois clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. Jimmy stands rooted, breath caught in his throat. Even Perry, usually unshakable, is frozen, momentarily stripped of command.

Your knees feel weak.

Then, finally—seconds later—the Justice League arrives. Flash, Wonder Woman, Batman—the works. They descend like angels and tear the monster apart with the kind of precision you’d expect from living weapons.

People cheer. The room erupts in whistles and applause.

But not you.

You can’t celebrate. Not with the ringing in your ears. Not with the sight of him being ripped apart still burning in your mind. Sure Superman has gotten the shit kicked out of him before, but nothing like this. Never like this.

Your vision blurs. Your hands shake because he’s not here, no one even knows if he’s still alive.

Because you’ve never wanted to run to someone so badly in your life.

Clark doesn’t come back into work after the monster is hauled off.

No texts. No calls. Just utter, agonizing silence.

Lois is already calling the alien freak Doomsday in the drafts column. You’re still at your desk, half-heartedly tapping out captions, biting your nails and lips raw, checking your phone every five seconds, texting him relentlessly—

>> where are u? are u alive >> just please say ur okay >> clark, answer me >> please

—until a faint buzzing catches your ear.

You glance over and your stomach twists:

His phone is still on his desk.

You glance at his desk for the twentieth time. It lit up once when you called, then dark again. Your heart drops, each minute drawing out like molasses.

You try not to panic and remember who you’re dealing with.

You try to have hope.

The shift limps on.

You answer emails. You scribble on your notepad. You stare blankly at the same paragraph for hours.

You don’t remember shutting down your computer, don’t remember slinging your overstuffed bag over your shoulder. Just the soft click of the office lights dimming overhead. The elevator ride that feels like it’s someway, somehow taunting you.

The city hums as you step outside. The worst rain you’ve had all year colors the concrete pavement with neon colors from reflections of old storefronts. Cabs blur past in streaks of yellow. Somewhere, a siren wails, calling for Superman’s attention.

Your coat collar digs into your neck as you step out into the cold, a poor match for the churn in your gut that won’t quit. Not anxiety. Not quite grief. Just something that feels a lot like waiting.

—the commute is … Ugh

The monster—Doomsday, you hate how fast that name’s catching on—tore a path straight through the L line, leaving half the city snared in chaos. Your train stalls two stops in, the whole subway path is rubble. No buses, no cabs this way either. You walk the rest of the way, forty minutes to home in the pouring rain.

Every block feels heavier than the last. By the time you reach your apartment, your shoes squish, your fingers are stiff, and your clothes stick to you like wet paper. The cold creeps into your bones. It’s dark now—Metropolis is never dark per se, but tonight it feels dimmer without your Man of Steel keeping watch.

And you’re shivering from the cold, from that hollow, gnawing pit in your stomach that just wants him home.

You jam your key into the lock, shoulder the door open, and shut it behind you with a soft thud. The chain slides into place with a practiced flick. Keys drop in the bowl by the door.

Dense quiet swells in the apartment immediately.

You don’t move—just stand there, dripping like a soggy mess, and wondering how the hell this became your new normal.

Your hair sticks to your cheeks, water tracing lazy rivers down your spine and puddling around your feet.

Then, with zero grace but all the determination, you start peeling off the wet mess.

Shoes, jacket, shirt, pants.

They hit the floor with a wet, pathetic plop. Like they’re laughing at you, mocking all that hope. You gather them in your arms and shove them into the washer with more force than necessary, water slapping the sides as you slam the lid shut.

You stand there for a second, blinking at nothing.

Having your clothes ruined is becoming a habit, you think bitterly.

It’s 9:45 PM when you finally drag yourself into the shower.

You don’t bother with the water temperature—you just turn the knobs and let the spray hit you, scalding at first, then lukewarm, then cool again. You stand under it until your skin starts to prickle, until the day starts to melt off you in clumps: soot, sweat, rain, fear. You press your forehead to the tile and exhale, eyes shut, mouth set. The ache in your chest hasn’t budged. If anything, the silence makes it louder.

You go through the motions.

Dry off. Moisturize. Pull your hair back. Brush your teeth. Wipe the fog from the mirror like you’re expecting to see something different.

—you don’t.

You pull on the old Mighty Crabjoys tee you’ve had since high school—the one with the faded logo and holes in the collar and frayed hems—and a plain pair of underwear. You’re not going anywhere. No one’s coming over. No one’s—

No.

You wander to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a bowl of cereal with shaky hands . The milk sloshes over the rim, but you barely notice. You don’t even sit at the counter. Just trudge to the couch, slump down, and flick on the TV like maybe it’ll tell you something you don’t already fear.

It lands on the news.

Of course it does.

The anchorwoman’s voice is soft, trembling but composed. You can tell she’s holding back something—maybe tears, maybe rage. You watch her mouth move. You don’t even process most of it. Just flashes and chaos. Unidentified alien entity, unknown casualties, structural collapse, missing persons, emergency protocols.

And then the chyron changes.

SUPERMAN DEAD?

The words stretch across the bottom of the screen in red like they’re bleeding.

Your thumb hits the power button before your brain does.

The TV cuts to black.

You sit there staring at the reflection of your slouched frame, tired eyes back at you in the dark screen. A single tear slips breaks free, scorching your cheek like a match to porcelain. It catches you off guard—so sudden and so stupid. You wipe it away like it offends you. Because it does.

You curl into yourself.

Press your knees to your chest, the fabric of your tee pressed against the tops of your thighs. The bowl of cereal shakes slightly on the coffee table when you set it down—milk rippling against ceramic. You don’t even want it anymore.

You hate yourself for caring this much.

You should’ve known—

— actually, you did know.

This comes with the territory, doesn’t it? He was never yours to keep.

Still, you run through every possible scenario. Every maybe. Every what-if. He’s unconscious. He’s in hiding. He’s recovering. He’s with someone who knows what to do. He got out, he escaped, he had to’ve.

You shake your head, lips already trembling, and bury your face in your arms.

Death is not an option.

After Potential Reality™ No. 34—where he was dismembered in orbit or black-holed into oblivion or swallowed by some godless alien thing or turned into dust at the snap of some purple alien’s fingers—you finally start to accept that you might never know what happened to him, that you might never find out. Your brain aches. Your stomach's in knots. You’ve curled in and out of fetal position so many times your couch has a dent shaped like you.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

It’s rhythmic. Almost sing-songy in nature and wholly too bright for the emotions you’re feeling right now.

It startles you.

Your head lifts like a deer’s. Nobody knocks like that. No one has knocked like that in your entire life—except maybe your parents, and even they don’t show up without texting first. You're frozen for a second, unsure if it's real or part of the mental spiral.

Then it comes again.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

You drag yourself off the couch, wiping your face with the hem of your Mighty Crabjoys tee, your body moving before your brain catches up. Every step to the door feels heavier, loaded with dread, like walking through molasses.

You keep the chain on—because you’re alone, and a girl, and maybe not—gee I dunno—stupid. You crack the door open as far as the chain allows, not even meeting the other person's eyes through the gap. They don’t need to see your puffy eyes and red face.

“I don’t want whatever boof-ass bible study program you’re offerin—”

You look up with an air of indignation and time just… bends.

—it slows like honey down a cold spoon.

Because there he is.

Clark Kent in the flesh.

—maybe steel. You’re sure you’ll find out soon enough

Leaning in the hallway, broad-shouldered and still with a hand at the top of your door frame like he owns the very idea of time. Like clocks tick for him and not the other way around.

He’s drenched to the bone. Ash grey shirt soaked and clinging to his chest like second skin, jeans dark and heavy with rain. Muscles pulled tight like wire beneath it all. Hair dripping and wild and curly. There’s a smirk on his face—lazy, cocky, and utterly misplaced—and his eyes… God, his eyes are burning into you like you’re a star he’s been staring at for centuries, even without the glasses.

Everything about him is just utterly different. Too confident. Too smug. Even for his superhero counterpart.

You stare.

He raises his brows like well?

The chain rattles, loud and frantic, as your fingers claw at it—slipping, fumbling, cursing because it’s taking too damn long. Your pulse is a war drum in your ears, breath ragged, hands shaking so hard you nearly miss the latch entirely.

The second it’s free, you rip the door open so fast it bangs against the wall, and then you’re on him—launching yourself forward like gravity’s been cheating you all this time and he’s the only thing that can hold you down.

He catches you without so much as a stumble, the impact barely rocking him. A breathless chuckle rumbles through his chest—half amused, half relieved—like he’d been expecting you to launch yourself at him the second he knocked.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words trembling against his shirt, voice splintering in the middle. “I thought you—”

His arms cinch tighter, closing around you like he’s trying to press you into himself. One broad palm spans your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, his fingers threading into your damp hair, keeping you close.

“I’m very much alive,” he says, and even his voice is different. Lower, rougher. Like it’s been dragged through ash and rubble and whiskey and whatever else the universe chewed him up with before spitting him back out. Though, Clark doesn’t even drink.

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands go to his face, checking him for cuts like a startled parent, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, palm pressing to his jaw, fingers skimming through his soaked hair. You want proof. You want touch. You just want him.

His hands catch yours. Still warm despite the rain. He pulls them away from his face and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and then, without warning, crushes his mouth to yours.

It’s not sweet, no, it’s more like a stolen drag of a cigarette, Eve biting the apple. Definitely not how you’d expect a kiss from Clark Kent to be.

You gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, slipping in his tongue with a low, needy groan that shoots straight to your core. Your fingers can’t help but tangle in his wet hair, tugging slightly, and he moans as he starts walking you backward into your house.

You don’t even notice he’s moving you both until he kicks the front door shut behind him.

His hands are on your waist, pulling you flush to him, lips still devouring yours as the thud from the door echoes through the apartment.

That sound snaps you out of it.

You tear your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, palm flattening against his chest—hot, slick, muscles jumping beneath your touch with every sharp breath he drags in.

“Wait—Clark—what the fuck is going on?” you manage, lungs still clawing for air.

But he doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around you, iron and desperate, and he dips back toward you like he’s following some invisible pull—like the only thing keeping him upright is the taste of you, and letting go would mean losing his way entirely.

“This is long overdue, baby,” he murmurs, lips tantalizingly grazing against yours.

You blink at him, at this wet, smirking stranger with Clark’s face and Superman’s body—parked in your foyer like he just got rained out of a GQ cover shoot. He’s a fever dream stitched together from heartbreak, exhaustion, and half a bottle of NyQuil… the kind that makes you wonder if you should call a doctor or just start unbuttoning something.

Your hands clutch at his like you’re afraid this is just a dream—one you’ll wake from and find yourself grasping at nothing but cold sheets. Your fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, nails biting into his skin as if you can anchor him here by sheer will alone.

“Clark, I thought—God—” your voice fractures, the words tumbling out jagged, frantic, “I thought—”

“I’m right here, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a thumb brushing over your jaw, the other settling right on your lumbar. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, and his gaze dips and scans you in a way that makes your chest ache. “Mm… you’re so cute when you’re all… worked up.”

With a pitiful whine, he finally closes the gap, his mouth sliding over yours with a fierce, aching hunger that steals your breath, and every other thought—panic, grief, reason—melts and drips away like satin sliding over bare, heated skin.

But one kiss can’t drown the storm raging inside you. The taste of him lingers, but it ultimately only fans the fire of questions clawing at your mind. The journalist in you demands more—answers you need now, before the moment unravels.

With a shaky inhale, you pull back, your fingers digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your heart pounds, your pulse screaming louder than your voice.

“Clark—wait,” you gasp, voice trembling yet fierce, eyes searching his as if trying to read the battle scars behind those storm-darkened blues. “Seriously—are you okay? Like, really? What happened out there? How are you— how did you—?”

The words burst from you, a jagged crack slicing through the fragile silence in your too-small apartment.

His eyes glaze over, distant yet unblinking, glassy but tethered to you. His hands press firmly against your waist, grounding you with a subliminal insistence. “I’m okay. Better than okay.” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile—sharp and stripped of the usual dis-ease.

“Honestly, I haven’t felt this alive in a long time.” His voice drops lower and something beneath it hums, a current you didn’t know was there. Your skin prickles, hair standing on end, as if some silent pulse is thrumming just beneath your flesh.

You lean in, eyes tracing the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint flicker of restless fire behind those baby blues. But his chest just continues to rise slow and steady. If you knew him any less, you’d think nothing was wrong. He has a good poker face—you’ll give him that.

You reach up, fingertips brushing the line of his neck, testing, teasing the heat beneath his skin. He catches your wrist, thumb sliding over your pulse, anchoring you in place.

This isn’t the Clark you knew, it’s the deluxe edition, all wild hair curling damp over his forehead, eyes too bright and almost glowing, yet somehow darker, with way more trouble and zero chill. Something you’re not sure you’re ready for—but let’s be real, you’re already hooked.

You mumble, needing something to say, something to break the strange spell he’s got you under. “I’ll go get you something dry… To uh… To wear…”

You peel yourself away from him. He lets you go, but not without a little resistance; a hand lingering on your arm until you’re fully out of reach.

Once your hand falls from his, you dart to your bedroom and dig through your drawer for the baggiest shirt you have; one of those oversized hoodies you bought three winters ago, plus a pair of plaid sleep pants you’re not sure he’ll fit into. You pad back with the bundle of clothes tight in your arms, heart hammering, only to stop short of the living room he’s standing in.

He’s already shirtless.

The wet t-shirt is discarded in a pile on your floor, and he’s standing there, bare from the waist up, each droplet carving its pilgrimage down the sculpted terrain of his torso, as if the water itself knows to worship the body it graces.

You stare.

Eh no, it’s more of a gawk.

He just smiles, that same smirk that makes you want to bite your fist and throw yourself off the nearest cliff (he’ll save you a thousand times over). “You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before.”

You haven’t, you think. Not like this. Not with so much… promiscuity.

You clear your throat, gripping the bundle of clothes to your chest like a shield. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” you say, which is stupid—he’s literally Superman, but it’s something, and it keeps him grinning like a devil.

His gaze drags down to your thighs, lingers, sinks lower before climbing back up. Each pass feels like he’s etching you into memory, committing every inch to some private archive. Or spank bank. You’re none the wiser.

“You always sleep in things like this?”

“Didn’t think I’d have company,”

He steps forward slowly, eyes roaming down your body with no attempt at subtlety. “That shirt…” His fingers lift the hem of your band tee, rolling the fabric between two fingers with a feather-light touch. “Like you planned this,” he teases.

You swallow hard and thrust the dry clothes at him in attempt to put some space between you. Your heart races, and you pray your flush goes unnoticed. “These, uh, should fit.”

You try to reset the energy in the room, to make it normal again, whatever normal even is. His eyes drop to the bundle in your hands, and he chuckles like it’s all a joke. He takes them from you, one-handed, tossing them on the slope of his bare shoulder like he’s mocking modesty.

“Thanks. You’re sweet.”

You can feel his eyes on you—burning. Following every flutter of your lashes, every twitch in your jaw, every flicker of your pulse. He’s probably x-raying you right now (he is).

“You’re staring,” you mumble, suddenly aware and insecure of how little you’re wearing.

Clark hums, then reaches out. Just two fingers—hard callouses gently brushing your neck as he trails them to your jaw tilting your head to face him. “‘Cause I like what I see.”

Your lips part slightly, and the faintest nervous smile plays at the corner of your mouth as he feels your pulse quicken. The silence between you hums, carrying the weight of all the words you’ve both holding back.

You try to look away, but it’s futile. He gleams—muscles rolling like ancient boulders beneath sunlit skin. Your eyes drift down, then dart away, only to return, drawn by quiet gravity you can’t resist. The longer you stand before him, the closer and further you get dragged to the Kent Solar System™.

He notices your apprehension, your disquiet. Of course he does.

His finger moves from your jaw and hooks beneath your chin, lifting your face until your eyes are back on his.

“It’s okay to look, honey,” he saunters closer to you, whispers, “I’m not shy.”

Your lips are a breath apart. You sense him lean into you, and you wait for the feel of his lips on yours, your eyes half lidded in anticipation.

Instead, he leans back and undoes his belt with maddening calm.

“I—Clark!” you whisper-shout in shock, scandalized, as his pants hit the floor in a heap.

He raises a brow. “What?”

“Oh my God,” you hiss, spinning on your heel, fleeing to the kitchen with heated cheeks like it's a sanctuary. Your pulse is jackhammering and your nerves are so taut they sting under your flesh. You busy your hands, filling the kettle with water, trying to focus, to breathe, to think for a second

“I’m— I’m making tea,” you stutter, trying to convince yourself more than him. “You probably need to warm up. Mhm, of course, you just walked through a storm, I’m sure you’re freezing.”

You grab the kettle and reach for a mug—hands trembling—and you turn to ask if he prefers Chamomile or Earl Grey—

You bump into his chest and nearly scream. “Jesus! Clark!”

His hands come up to settle on your hips, steadying you. “Relax,” he coos, voice low, thumbs toying with the top hem of your panties. As if he read your mind, “I like Earl Grey.”

He leans to your ear, “Reminds me of the sun.”

You exhale his name, just exhausted. “Why are you acting like… this? Whatever… this is?”

He dips his head, brushing his nose along your jaw, lips ghosting just over your skin.

“Because,” he murmurs. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t hesitate. Definitely doesn’t hold back. He just takes. Tongue and teeth dance like wild fire against your mouth, breathy groans tumbling like thunder through the storm of your skin, pushing you backward until the kitchen counter cuts into your spine—sharp as a cliff’s edge beneath a crashing sea.

You moan, high and a little startled, one hand fumbling behind you to brace against the surface, the other fisting in his damp curls. He crowds into your space, utterly unbothered by the chill still clinging to his damp boxers, the faint metallic scent of city rain steaming off his skin.

Eventually, you can’t help but melt into it, let him devour you. His hands—God, those hands—trail low from your waist, firm and greedy, until they find your ass. He squeezes, shameless, pulling you somehow further into him with a groan that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees go wobbly.

Everything after that is a blur—heat, wet fabric brushing your thighs, the sharp edge of the counter digging into your spine. He eventually lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh no more than a breath of wind, hoisting you onto the countertop with only one hand slotted at the back of your thigh.

Your back bumps a salt shaker and it clatters sideways, the faint tik-tik-tik of it spinning unnoticed. You turn your head just long enough to set it upright, heart pounding, and when you face him again—his mouth is already on your throat.

He groans like he’s been waiting millenia just to taste your skin.

He marks your neck with everything he has; Down your neck, over your collarbone, mapping you in wet, hot paths, like every suck and bite and lick will eventually lead him to his salvation. His breath is heavy as he hums, like he likes how fast your heart is going. Like he did that. Like he needs that.

Then his voice drops low, murmuring against your clothed chest. “When I got stabbed,” he says, slow and syrup-thick, “it wasn’t just green.”

Your brows knit, dazed but present enough to blink down at the top of his head. He keeps going. “There was something else, something red.” he moves feverishly, another kiss up to your jaw. Another groan. “It’s still inside me.”

Your fingers rake through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. “Clark,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a question or a plea. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He moves to nip beneath your ear, making your thighs jolt around his waist.

But still—you’re melting. Still—you’re trying to think. “Clark,” you gasp, pulling his face back to look at you. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you. If this is because of the kryptonite, if this isn’t really you—”

He cuts you off by grabbing your hand.

And placing it right on his cock.

Your eyes go wide. Your mouth parts in shock. He’s hard. So hard. Thick and hot beneath your palm, barely restrained by his boxers. You can feel every ridge and every vein as they thrum with need… God it makes your cunt flutter.

He whines at the contact, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you, still nuzzled deep into the warm crook of your neck like he can’t get close enough. His breath comes quicker now, hot and uneven against your skin, each exhale fanning over you in frantic bursts. You feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his chest presses tighter to yours, and you realize—he’s not just breathing. He’s panting. His hips give the smallest grind against your hand, a restless, involuntary push that betrays just how bad he needs you.

“Please,” he breathes.

The small rational part of your brain tells you you should say no. You know that. Your brain is screaming it somewhere far off in the distance. But the rest of you? The warm, wet, aching parts of you? Well…

… Once again, you’re just a girl.

And Clark-fucking-Kent is practically trying to eat your soul through your neck, whining so prettily in your ear.

“Okay,” you whisper.

The moment you give him your confirmation, his breath catches like a held storm breaking free. His eyes flutter shut, lashes casting delicate shadows against his high cheekbones. Then he reverently sinks to his knees, like you’re the gravity pulling him down.

His lips press a slow, heated trail of kisses along your inner thighs starting from your knees, each one an electric shock that makes your breath hitch involuntarily. His mouth moves with a fierce hunger that’s equal parts desperate and worshipful.

He won’t bow to the altar of anyone, of any God, but he’ll kneel for you. It’s all for you.

“Fuck baby, you don’t even know what you do to me… Could stay here forever.”

Your fingers tangle deeply in his damp curls as he rips off your soaked panties without a second thought, clutching as if holding on to keep from falling apart. He whines, his mouth immediately working your folds with fervor, lips and tongue revere every inch, pulling and sucking with an urgency that makes your knees buckle.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice almost a growl as his eyes meet yours, “I was gonna wait… Do this right... But after tonight you have no idea how badly I need you. Fuck, I need you… Can’t even think straight without you.”

Then he’s back, diving in with wild abandon like your skin is the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. He works your clit masterfully, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing ever so gently, each of your gasps and whispered pleas of his name stoking the blaze until you both burn brighter than before, caught in a fierce, unbreakable tempest.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where your legs meet your hips, holding you wide for his mouth. The heat of his breath against your soaked skin sends a shiver through you, your body tensing in anticipation even as he pins you in place.

He doesn’t tease. No slow, torturous licks—just a deep, desperate open-mouthed drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him alive. His lips seal around your swollen bud, sucking hard, and your back arches off the cabinet, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

“Taste so good,” His voice is wrecked, muffled against you as he laps at you with rough, messy strokes. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck just shy of too much, but he doesn’t let up, drinking you down like he’s starving. His nose bumps against your clit as he buries his face deeper, and your hips jerk, but his hands tighten, keeping you spread, trapped in the brutal rhythm of his mouth.

You can hear him—the obscene, wet sounds of his tongue working you open, the ragged breaths he takes when he pulls back just to dive in again, his low, broken moans vibrating against your cunt. His fingers flex, pressing bruises into your skin, and you already know you’ll feel the marks tomorrow.

“Baby, please— shit!”

The words tear from your throat, ragged and desperate. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—more, less, mercy—your thoughts fracturing under the relentless heat of his mouth. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. His grip shifts, fingers digging into your thighs as he literally grinds you harder against his tongue

And god, does he.

He licks into you like he’s trying to carve himself inside you, like he wants to brand every inch of you with the shape of his name. Each flick, each deep, languid stroke of his tongue in your hole drags another broken sound from your lips. Your hips jerk helplessly, torn between rocking into his mouth and twisting away from the overwhelming pleasure—but he holds you firm, refusing to let you escape.

When you finally cum, it’s with a wretched sob. Your body trembles, sweat-slick and shuddering, as pleasure crashes over you in waves. His tongue doesn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you’re gasping, until your fingers tangle in his hair—pulling, pushing, clinging—because you can’t tell if you’re trying to drag him closer or shove him away.

By the time he lets you go, you’re a dazed, breathless mess, every coherent thought obliterated. Your chest heaves, your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. And all you can manage, voice raw and wrecked, is—

“Fuck, Clark… I’m yours—all of me.”

He rasps at your surrender, a sound drenched in satisfaction and utter salacity. He stands and his lips find yours again—wholly intoxicating. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and heady, and you pull him closer by his neck, heart pounding like a drum.

He doesn’t hesitate. With one arm, he lifts you up as if you weigh nothing at all, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. His breath fans against your skin as he carries you to your small bedroom.

He lays you down gently against your unmade sheets, eyes dark with want and a vulnerability you’ve yet to see. Towering over you, he fills the cramped room, a presence too immense, too overwhelming to even fully grasp in this moment. He’s a giant here, not just in stature but in everything that hangs heavy between you. For a moment, all the wild tension between you holds still.

Clark slowly settles himself on the bed, straddling you with knees planted firmly on either side of your thighs. His strength is undeniable, but there’s a careful gentleness in the way he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours, eyes searching yours with quiet intensity.

His fingers brush a stray lock of hair back from your cheek, soft as a whisper. His voice is low and vulnerable as he murmurs, “If it ever gets to be too much… you just say the word, okay?”

You nod, your heart drumming a frantic tattoo beneath your ribs, breath snagging on the fragile thread of tenderness entwined with the warning in his gaze. His smile unfurls like dawn breaking through a bruised sky, a rebellion against the storm that churns beneath the surface.

He lowers himself with the careful weight of a tidal wave pulling back, his lips a whisper of smoke and honey, tracing a kiss that tastes like the promise of calm in a world that’s always on the brink of breaking.

His forearm presses against the mattress beside your head, grounding him, while his hand tangles gently in your hair, fingers threading through the soft strands like he’s memorizing their texture. The other hand slips under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of your ribs. The warmth of his touch contrasts deliciously with the cool air, making every nerve sing.

He kisses you deep, not with nearly as much fervor as he did before, but with unrelenting passion. His lips lock with yours and it's as if you’re breathing for the first time, as if you’re consuming his very essence like ambrosia, conferring you to stay like this with him for eternity.

His hand trails higher, fingers gently tweaking your perked nipples until you’re whining into his mouth. He greedily swallows them all before carefully hiking your shirt up and off your frame.

You let him—you lay before him completely bare and he can’t help but sit back on his haunches and take you in. Leonardo, Monet, Dalí, Kadinsky—not a single one of their works could absolutely wreck his extraterrestrial nervous system the way you are right now.

His eyes—wide, dark, and glazed with awe—lock onto yours, as if he’s caught between reverence and hunger. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

You don’t give him the chance.

Pushing up onto your elbows, you close the distance between you before he even thinks to move. The heat of his skin seeps into yours as you trail soft, open-mouthed kisses along the strong column of his throat and his pecs, tasting salt and the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. Your fingertips skate teasingly along the hem of his boxers, tracing the defined V of his hips, dipping just beneath the fabric to graze the coarse trail of hair leading lower. A silent invitation.

His breath hitches, his stomach tensing under your touch. When you glance up through your lashes, his gaze has darkened—not just with lust, but with something possessive. Understanding.

Without a word, he stands. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his thick thighs, letting them drop to the floor. The air between you crackles as your eyes drag over him, taking in the full, breathtaking sight of him.

His cock stands heavy and proud, jutting from the thatch of dark curls at his groin. Thick veins rope along the length, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum, the evidence of his need for you. It’s big—intimidatingly so—the kind of size that makes your pulse stutter, your thighs clench instinctively. The sheer girth promises a stretch that borders on painful, and yet… the thought sends a rush of heat pooling low in your belly.

Your lips part on a shaky exhale, shock flickering across your face.

He knows. Of course he does.

A low, rough chuckle escapes him as he reaches down, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. “It’ll fit, doll.” His voice is smoke and gravel, leaving no room for doubt.

You believe him.

With a slow nod, you surrender completely, your body arching toward him in silent supplication. He rewards your trust with a quick, tender kiss—soft, almost sweet—but it tastes like a promise, like a prelude to something permanent.

Then his hands slide under your thighs, lifting your legs with effortless strength. He folds you effortlessly, crossing your ankles over the solid planes of his shoulders, the position leaving you exposed, vulnerable. His thumbs press into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you wider, and the first brush of his cock against your soaked entrance wrings a whimper from your throat.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with restraint.

You obey and look at him with a stripe of anticipation in your furrowed brow. He reciprocates by fisting the length of his cock before guiding it to your sopping cunt, gently teasing the sensitive bud of your clit, your folds. A gasp tumbles from your lips at the feel of him—hot and thick in all the ways that matter.

He looks at you once more, his free hand simultaneously looping over your legs to hold them flush to his chest.

“Please, Clark, I need… Shit— I need you,” You whimper.

He responds by turning his head and placing a soft kiss to your ankle before pushing in. You immediately grasp the sheets, fisting the cotton as he stretches you wider than you’ve ever been. You can feel him pulsing inside of you, your walls responding in kind as they flutter in attempts to adjust to him.

His grip on your hips tightens as he pauses, his breath ragged. The stretch is achingly slow, every inch a sweet torment. His head lulls forward, dark lashes fluttering as he fights for control. A low, broken groan escapes him when you clench around him and his cock twitches in response.

“F-fuck—” His voice is rough, strained, like the word was dragged from his chest. “So tight, love. Gotta relax for me.” He strokes your side with trembling fingers, soothing, worshipful. “That’s it… just like that.”

You gasp when he lets go of himself to lace his fingers with yours, palm pressing warm and grounding against your own. The intimacy of it—the way his thumb brushes your knuckles—unwinds the tension coiled in your belly. He murmurs praise against your skin, lips skimming your calves as he pushes deeper, deeper, until your body yields, taking him in with a shuddering sigh.

And then he’s fully sheathed, hips flush against you, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. You hadn’t even realized you were holding yours until it rushes out of you in a trembling exhale.

The fullness is overwhelming, consuming. It’s not just the physical stretch—it’s the way your body seems to recognize his, like something inside you has slotted into place. Your fingers clutch his, anchoring yourself as pleasure hums under your skin, bright and dizzying.

“You okay?” The question is tender, almost reverent. His free hand skims up your ribs, pausing over your frantic heartbeat. “Feel so good… fucking perfect.”

You blink yourself out of your daze and meet his eyes. He looks anxious and worried, like the Clark you know. “Yeah. Fuck me, please.”

He chuckles softly, “I’m tryin to.”

“Clark, just move, please… I can feel you in my throat,” you mumble half-coherently.

Needing no further instruction, he gently eases out of you before pushing back in, and you hand help but dig your nails into his hand. He bites his lip as he moves against you, trying (but failing) to stifle the soft groans that leave his lips.

Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs in ragged gasps, his hips moving with a controlled power that reminds you that he’s holding back. A fraction of his strength, and yet you’re unraveling beneath him, reduced to a trembling mess. Each drag of his cock inside you is deliberate, the swollen head stroking your g-spot with precision, and with every pass, your mind rewrites the future: elopement, courthouse, honeymoon—how could you wait another second when he fucks you like this?

The air is thick, charged with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you in the kitchen, the way he’d ate you over the counter like an afterthought and dragged his tongue through your folds until your thighs shook and you nearly sobbed. Even now, the memory coils tight in your belly, your body clenching around him in helpless recognition.

A low, rough groan escapes him as you suffocate his cock, his grip tightening on your thighs as he unfurls them, re-wraping them around his hips and leaning over you, spreading you wider. The new angle wrings a broken, hoarse cry from your throat, his cock sinking deeper until the stretch borders on unbearable.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his breath hot against your ear. “So fuckin sensitive.”

You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth. Your fingers dig into the hard planes of his back, nails carving half-moons into his sweat-slick skin, the salt of him sharp on your tongue where your teeth are buried in the meat of his shoulder. He groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest as he rolls his hips against you in a slow, deliberate grind.

The friction is maddening. Every drag of him inside you is a study in exquisite torture—the stretch, the burn, the way your body yields and clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there forever. The tufts of hair at the base of him tease your clit with every thrust, the rough-soft contrast sending jolts of pleasure so sharp your thighs tremble.

You’re so wet it’s obscene, each time he pulls out, the air kisses your slick flesh for a split second before he’s driving back in, the filthy squelch of it echoing in the space between your ragged breaths.

And god, the way he moves like he knows exactly how to ruin you. Slow, then punishing, then slow again, his rhythm erratic just to hear you whimper. Every push and pull of his cock sends sparks up your spine, your nerves alight, your toes curling into the sheets. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he leans down to mouth at your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, his voice wrecked, “you take me so well, baby,”

You can’t even reply—just arch into him, your body singing with the need for more, more, more—

“Clark please—” the word barely even leaves your mouth, but he hears it.

His lips curl against your jugular. "Please what?" Another punishing thrust, "You gonna come again? Just from this?"

You whimper, your body betraying you with another flutter around him and he has his answer. He groans, his rhythm turning ruthless, each snap of his hips stealing your breath. The whole mattress rattles in its frame, but the sound is lost under the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin.

It’s too much, yet somehow not enough. Pleasure twists and coils beneath your skin like a live wire sparking in the dark, raw and electric. You’re unraveling and he watches with a burning intensity—his gaze a furnace that fires every piece of you down into something molten, holding you captive in the heat of the moment.

His hand reaches between you and finds your clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles in perfect sync with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is unbearable, too much, and your back arches off the bed, your chest to his, as pleasure crackles through you like live wire. Desperate for contact, you fist a hand in his hair and drag his mouth to yours, intertwining his groan with your own as your hips jerk against him. “I’m—fuck baby—I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish, the words dissolving into a whine as your orgasm slams into you, blinding and violent.

He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, his own breath hot and uneven against your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls, “take it. Feel it.” And you do: every pulse, every shockwave, until you’re boneless beneath him, trembling with aftershocks.

The night stretches on in a delicious blur—two rounds, then three, then maybe even four. Your bodies move together with an ease and urgency that’s almost intoxicating. Every touch, every whispered word, every heated kiss peels back another layer of the barriers you’d both been holding up for far too long. His hands explore like he’s memorizing you, and you match him with equal fervor—fingers tracing the sharp planes of his back, lips finding the sensitive spots on his body that make him shiver.

You lose count of how many times you both cum, a tangled mess of limbs, soft gasps, and ragged breaths filling the space between you. You think your legs might give out on you, but Clark just laughs—breathless and wild-eyed—and somehow pulls you close again, like he’s powered by something beyond just his Kryptonian physiology.

Eventually, when it cracks midnight and when you’re tearing up from overstimulation and practically begging for a noise complaint, then —and only then—is he collapsing beside you, body against yours. His eyes flutter, blinking slowly as if waking from some surreal dream.

He rolls onto his side to face you, and the faintest crease of uncertainty lines his brow. Running a hand down his face, he mutters, “T-that wasn’t how I wanted this to happen…”

You can’t help but giggle softly, your fingers brushing a damp, rebellious curl from his forehead. The simple touch seems to soften the tension around his eyes. He smiles at you then—a smile full of something deep and tender—but there’s a flicker of worry in his gaze, as if he’s silently asking if you’re really okay.

You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and lean up to press a sweet, tired kiss to his lips. He returns it gently, the softness of it melting all the raw edges of the night away for a moment. When you pull back, he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, eyes flicking down and away, cheeks flushing faintly.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t more special,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want you to think this was just some fling or—”

His voice catches. “I care about you. More than I ever thought possible.”

You smile, warmth flooding your chest, and reach up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Clark, I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you whisper. “And honestly, I’m just glad that red stuff was good for something.”

His cheeks flush deeper, and he scratches the back of his head like a bashful schoolboy. “Yeah… so… funny story. The red kryptonite actually wore off about halfway through eating you out...” He shoots you a sheepish grin. “But I was still riding that high, so… Uh, yeah… But I think everything ended up okay.”

You burst into laughter, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips, the fondness in your eyes unmistakable. “Clark Kent, you absolute dork.”

His laugh rumbles deep and warm against your skin, and you find yourself thinking, maybe after filling you like a Twinkie four times over, he’s officially your dork now.

After about another fifteen minutes of tangled pillow talk—shared secrets, lazy touches, soft laughter—he helps you up. Your legs wobble like jelly, and he doesn’t hesitate to catch you, lifting you into his arms with effortless strength. You rest your head against his chest as he carries you toward the bathroom, fetching you water and gently cleaning up the little (big) messes you both made.

When he’s done, you both settle into your bed, flicking off the lamp and settling into each other. You lay practically half your body on his, half your torso on his chest (Lord knows there’s enough real estate there), and you both sigh contentedly.

You nuzzle into the warmth of his skin and after a few silent moments, you smirk. “You’re kind of a rebel, you know that?”

Clark’s brow lifts in amused confusion. “Huh?”

You shift your weight, meeting his tired gaze with a teasing sparkle in your eyes. “Sex before marriage, Clark? Pretty non–Midwestern farmboy of you.”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Oh please. I’ve been breaking rules my whole life.”

“Yeah? Like what? Forgetting to return library books?” You tease.

A slow, smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay fine… Guess I learned how to sin.”

You snort. “And who taught you that?”

He shrugs.

“Only girl I’d go to hell for.”

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