Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
In the shower
Steam rises around him like an early-morning summer fog. Her fingers caress their way down his chest and back, following the droplets of hot water trailing down his overheated skin, and he throws his head back, arching his spine, letting the water wet his hair.
Her hands are everywhere, and then her mouth is on his chest, and he hears himself moaning, feels the hungry pulsing of his erection. He's desperate to be touched there. He can't wait.
She doesn't make him wait. Her fingers encircle him, lightly but firmly, and she begins to caress up and down in a steady rhythm, while her lips caress the sensitive bud of his nipple.
He knows he's crying out her name, but he can't stop himself. His hips move urgently, thrusting his cock into her wet, slick hand harder and faster, and a long, strangled wail rises from his chest, all but drowned out by the rush of water and the roaring in his ears.
The heat of the shower seems to spread over his skin, into his muscles and nerves and veins and bones. He surrenders to it, sobbing her name, as long, unbearably hot spasms shake him to his core.
And when it's over and he opens his eyes, he finds himself alone.
Just like always.
In the yard
The stars glitter in the sky, bright and beautiful, seeming so close he can almost imagine he could touch them. You can't see anything like this in Metropolis, he thinks with an odd mixture of appreciation and melancholy. He knows he won't be living on the farm much longer, and although it's past time for him to move on, to accept that his life is in the city now, he knows he's going to miss the flat, open land where he grew up.
He feels very small, very irrelevant, a tiny speck lost in the vast, grand sweep of the universe that spreads out over his head. But at least he isn't alone, because she's with him.
He's sprawled on the grass of his back yard, his jeans shoved down, his bare ass resting on the dew-dampened lawn, and she's leaning over him, entirely naked. He can feel how wet her thighs are as she straddles him.
"Clark," she whispers.
His eyelids flutter shut. He likes the sound of his name on her lips. He likes the feel of her body against his. He moves, just a bit, and she shifts, and he slides right into the warm wet softness of her body.
She fits him perfectly, surrounding him with heat and moisture, her muscles squeezing him in a loving caress. He moans as he slips all the way into her.
She rises up on her knees and begins sliding up and down, and he bites his tongue, trying to force back a cry of pleasure, because he's outside. But he's on a hundred-acre farm, and he knows no one will hear. Before long his voice is raised in irrepressible cries of pleasure.
She moves harder, driving him higher and higher, and then he's climaxing inside her, his come spurting into her body, while he shudders helplessly beneath her.
And then he falls back against the grass, gasping, and she collapses forward onto his chest, and he reaches up to hold her.
But his arms are empty.
Just like always.
At the Daily Planet
Her arms slide around him in the supply closet, holding him from behind, and he trembles. He's been sitting across from her all day, watching her, looking at the intense concentration on her face, seeing the way she chews her lip when she's thinking, the way she runs her fingers through her hair...
He hasn't been able to stop thinking about her running her fingers through his hair. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about that slightly swollen lower lip, or stop imagining her mouth on his skin, caressing him.
That's why he came to this closet, this dark, private space. Because after a morning of watching her, he was ready to explode.
And now her hands are on him, her fingers stroking his hair, then sliding down over the broadcloth of his shirt, across the taut muscles of his abdomen, and then caressing the hard flesh of his cock, right through his slacks, while she kisses his back through the fabric of his shirt.
He sucks in a breath. He's going to have to superspeed home and change these slacks after this, but he doesn't really give a fuck. This is worth it. Anything to get rid of the desperate longing, the relentless ache of need that won't go away, no matter how many times he shifts in his chair...
Her hand squeezes him, exploring the length and breadth of him, and he pushes up eagerly against her palm. She takes the hint, and stops teasing.
Her hand moves fast and hard, and he's so full of his thoughts of her, so filled to overflowing with desire, that he comes just like that, his cock throbbing hard, jerking against her palm. He throws his head back and grits his teeth, strangling back an anguished cry.
And when he can think again, he's standing in the dark, empty closet alone.
Just like always.
In the truck
He's staking out Senator Hudgin's house, but nothing is happening, and he's bored out of his mind. And bored is a bad thing, because nowadays any void in his thoughts is inevitably filled with images of her.
He shifts uncomfortably on the seat, just at the thought of her. At that moment, the door on the passenger side opens, and she slides in.
"Hey," she says brightly. "I see I'm not too late."
His eyes are drawn irresistibly downward. It's summer, and she's wearing short shorts that expose a hell of a lot of leg. He's always loved her legs. Beautiful, curvaceous calves, slender ankles, soft thighs...
"Uh," he answers, gulping. "I mean, yeah."
She laughs softly, and then she's sliding along the bench seat toward him, and her hands are deftly unfastening his jeans. He's hard already, and his erection springs free eagerly. He gasps, terribly desperate for her to relieve the pressure. He hadn't realized how desperate till just a moment ago.
She pushes his t-shirt up out of the way, brushing light kisses over his abdomen, and slowly her head moves downward, until the kisses are being brushed right over his...
A long, agonized moan rises from him, and he drops his head back against the headrest. Her lips part, and he sinks into her mouth. Just the head at first, and God knows that feels good enough, but then she takes more and more of him, and she's so wet so hot and it feels so fucking incredible...
His hips are jerking hard, thrusting into her mouth, probably harder than he really should, but she doesn't seem to mind, just gives him more and more, until it's too much for him to bear, and he explodes in burst after burst, shooting his come right down her throat...
The force of his release is overpowering. But slowly, sanity returns, and he finds himself slumped to the side, half against the door, his own softening cock in his hand. He's alone.
Just like always.
On the couch
He awakens to the flickering light of the television. He'd sprawled out on the old leather couch earlier, with a pillow and blanket, just to watch Reaper, but he hadn't meant to fall asleep. But it's obvious that he did.
He's got his nose buried in the pillow, his arms around it, cradling it the way he'd hold a lover. Which figures, because heaven knows he's got nothing else to hold in his arms.
Sighing, he rolls over and looks at the ceiling, lit by the bluish light of the TV screen. The room feels very empty. The house feels empty.
It's lonely here, he thinks moodily. This creaky old house is filled with the ghosts of his past. It's time for him to rent the place out to someone who actually has time to do the work, and to get himself an apartment in Metropolis. A nice little one-bedroom apartment, a place that takes dogs so he can keep Shelby but be closer to work and friends and everything that matters to him...
But even if he moves there, there's no guarantee she'll want to be with him.
He sees her every day. They're partners, after all. And yet they've settled into a sort of routine, and there's a distance between them. She keeps a very firm barrier up between them nowadays, a barrier that's marked just friends in large black letters.
He stares at her across the desk all the time, longing for her, and he knows she knows how he feels... but he also knows she's not ready. Not yet.
In his darker moments, he wonders if she'll ever be ready.
She's coming off a terrible year. He knows that. He respects that. Possession by an alien supercomputer, a marriage she hadn't wanted, a divorce, abduction by a bone-spike-covered monster-- well, she's had a hard time of it. He understands why she isn't ready to risk her emotions again right now. She's been battered right down to the soul over the past year.
But even though he understands her need for barriers, he longs for her constantly. He wants her, aches for her, with a need that's so great he can hardly seem to concentrate on anything else anymore.
Just the thought of her is enough to make his cock swell in his boxers. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He's tired of fantasies, damn it. Tired of the endless dreaming about her. Tired of the solitary jacking off.
But there's nothing he can do about it. She's just not ready. He knows too well what she's been through, and how badly it's scarred her. As much as he wants to go to her, to tell her how he feels, how much he wants her, how much he loves her... he can't.
His cock pulses hungrily, and he sighs, because he knows his hard-on won't go away on its own. Just the thought of her, the fleeting mental image of her bright golden hair or her happy smile, is enough to keep him hard for a day.
He heaves another sigh, and slides his hand down his bare stomach, toward the ache.
And then he hears the door creak open.
Just another fantasy, he thinks glumly. Lately, he's been so hot for her, so desperate to make love to her, that he can hardly find the line between fantasy and reality any more, at least while he's jerking off.
But there's the sound of footsteps on the floor, and his eyes pop open, because that's not a fantasy. It's very real.
And he knows those footsteps.
She stops next to him, looking down at him in the dim light. He's frozen with shock. His hand is still resting on his stomach, thank God, but he's bare-chested, exposed to her stare, and the hungry look in her eyes startles him even as it turns him on.
"I think about this all the time," she whispers.
He can't say anything. He just stares up at her.
"I think about touching you... about kissing you... about making love to you..."
The idea that she's been lying in her bed, aching for him the way he aches for her, staggers him. If he weren't already lying down, he'd have fallen right over.
"I want you so much," she whispers, and kneels beside him. And then her mouth is brushing over the bare skin of his stomach.
Nothing has ever felt better. His fantasies don't even compare. Because this is real.
He closes his eyes and whimpers, just a little. His hands rise of their own accord, tangling in her hair, because he's afraid she'll get up and run away, and he doesn't ever want her to leave.
She doesn't leave. She keeps brushing light kisses over him, so light they almost tickle. He squirms beneath her, feeling his cock throbbing with a new ache, more desperate than ever. It's like none of the jerking off he's done lately has had any effect at all. It feels like he hasn't come in years.
She kisses him all up and down, his stomach and his chest and his shoulders, and then her mouth is against the sensitive skin of his throat, exploring gently, and he drops his head back, allowing her access. He hears himself moaning, a steady, low drone of pleasure, but he can't seem to stifle the sound.
He can't stop his body from twisting and arching and writhing, either. He's totally out of control, totally under her control, and she hasn't done anything but kiss him yet.
"Tell me you think about this," she murmurs against his throat. "Tell me I'm not just imagining it."
He utters a short laugh.
"I think about it constantly," he tells her softly. "I think about you all the time, Chloe. All the time."
"I'm glad," she whispers, and then she's brushing her lips against his, and they're kissing, a long kiss that rapidly moves from gentle to savage, from sweet to hot to scorching. His arms go around her, and then he's yanking her onto the couch, on top of him. He pulls his mouth away from hers, reluctantly, and whispers the question he has to ask.
"Chlo. Are you sure you're ready for this?"
She lifts her head and looks down into his eyes.
"Yes," she answers, softly but with certainty. "I'm ready."
She settles down against his body, fitting against him perfectly. She's wearing shorts, and he can feel her silky bare legs against his. Her body rests against his erection, cradling him, and even though there's denim in the way, it feels so good he can't help but flex a little, rubbing against her. She moves a little, too, and then their bodies are sliding together in a rhythm as old as time.
With every movement, he gasps for breath. He can feel his heart thudding wildly in his chest, can feel sweat dampening his skin, as it almost never does. He wants to come, wants to just close his eyes and let the ecstasy overtake him.
But he also wants more, so his hands slide down her back, and he begins unfastening her shorts.
And then he's shoving them off her, and her top and bra too, and she's naked on top of him. Just like his fantasies, only so much better. There's nothing between them except the flimsy barrier of his boxers, and she reaches down and shoves them down, out of the way
And then she's slowly sliding down onto him. And it's so good. Better than his most fevered imaginings. Better than anything.
He's all the way inside her, pressed deeply into her wet, soft body, and he deperately wants to start thrusting, but he manages to hold back the impulse. He slides his hands down and holds her hips, keeping her from moving, and drags his eyes open.
"I love you, Chlo," he says softly.
Her hand strokes the mole on his cheekbone, very gently. "I love you, Clark," she answers.
And that's all it takes to shatter his self-control, to destroy his restraint. He closes his eyes and lets himself move, thrusting into her violently, giving her everything he has. It's hard and it's fast and it's wild, but she doesn't seem to mind. She flings her head back and cries out, and he feels her body spasming around his in a violent orgasm.
His own climax hits, so powerful he doesn't have words for it. He grits his teeth, caught in the grip of something elemental and huge and utterly perfect. It's like he's suspended outside of time with her, so that the moment seems to go on forever, heartstoppingly beautiful in its intimacy.
But at last time starts again, and she falls forward on his chest, gasping. His arms slide around her waist, and he holds her close, loving the heat of her skin against his, the tumble of blonde hair on his shoulder, the musky scent of sex, the way her breathing slows as she relaxes into his embrace.
He's not alone. At last, he's not alone.
And he's not ever going to let her go again, because she's his.