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Informed Consent

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Clark Kent had pants like Fort Knox, and Lois was getting impatient with his continued refusal to allow her access to his strategic dick reserve. For reasons he would not explain, he would not have sex with her. He was waiting. For something. And he wouldn't even tell her what it was so she could get it out of the way. She knew for a fact that he wanted to have sex with her, and sometimes he came very close to abandoning whatever it was that had a metaphorical padlock on his literal belt. He just came to his senses entirely too quickly when she'd finished kissing him senseless.

(She hadn't met someone who liked kissing so much since she was a teenager. He didn't even let his hands wander. It was utterly, unspeakably baffling.)

But she had a clever plan. Which was why she was straddling his lap while she kissed him. He had not yet made any attempt to escape her couch, which was a good sign. She had slowly been collecting a list of little things that unfailingly made his breath catch. Running her fingers up behind his ears to scratch her nails along his scalp; pressing her knees against his waist like she was trying to use them to hold him there; making a tiny sound, the tinier the better, one that never really left her throat; holding his face and straightening her back and rising up enough that he needed to tilt his head back, his fingers all splayed out on her hips.

He really liked that last one. Maybe having to look down at people all the time had given him a thing for looking up.

That had delightful implications.

He groaned, a little rumble of want against her tongue. Exactly what she'd been waiting for, and her hand slid down between them without warning to grip him through his jeans.

"Mmph!" His yelp of surprise was muffled by her mouth, his hands left her hips like he'd been burned, and though he'd tensed beneath her she didn't pull her hand away. "Lois," he protested when their mouths parted, but she kissed the spot beneath his ear and stroked the shape of his cock through denim. She thought he tried to protest again, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

"It's fine," she said, doing her best to sound soothing even though it was hardly her specialty. "I just want to touch you. That's not so bad, right?"

His hands hovered, uncertain where to put them, and she kissed along his jaw and down his neck. "That's—it's still not, ah, you're, you—"

"I know you don't want to have sex," she said, patient. He was clearly short-circuiting. "But this isn't sex." She knew better and he knew better but if they both agreed to pretend then that didn't have to matter. She slid her fingers into his hair again, knew better than to try and rake through it properly; when his hair tangled, it tangled, and she'd broken a nail once. But when she ran her nails down his spine just right he shivered, and her other hand stopped touching him so she could work on his belt.

"That is a very fine distinction," he managed, which was still an acquiescence to her fundamental premise, and every time it seemed like he was about to push her away he stopped and didn't touch her at all. It was actually kind of... really... adorable? As an experiment, she moved the hand in his hair to see if he'd let her use it to pin his wrist to the couch.

Because of course he'd have to let her. Holding him down against his will would be impossible. She may have been strong, but apparently Kansas built boys like brick walls.

It turned out that he would let her, at the exact same time as her other hand slid down his pants. At which point his hips jerked as a reflex, briefly lifted them both off the couch though his arm stayed where she held it. Laughing was not the nicest response, but, really.

"Jesus, Lois," he said, breathless, which only encouraged her. Especially with his glasses fallen half down the bridge of his nose, his hair all tousled, looking like a deer in headlights. His free hand was splayed out on the couch cushions like he needed to brace himself, and Lois couldn't help kissing him again as she wrapped her fingers around his cock. He moaned onto her tongue, and she stroked him just gently enough to be frustrating, precum slick against her fingertips.

"Clark?" she asked, and her voice had gone all sweet and coaxing, something he would normally recognize as dangerous.

"Yeah?" God. He sounded terrified. But in a good way? Or maybe she was just a bad person.

No, she was definitely a bad person.

"Do you want me to keep touching you?"

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbed, he hesitated. She gave him a gentle squeeze and then stilled her hand. "Yeah," he admitted, his breath shaky.

She was being mean. She was being terribly, horribly mean. But he was just so goddamn sweet. How was she supposed to help herself? Her cheek rubbed against his as she nuzzled against his neck, listened to how ragged his breathing had gone. One hand still held his down, the other still hadn't moved. "Say please."

He whimpered. Absolutely, undeniably whimpered, it was small but it was there and she fixed the sound in her memory like a treasure. "Lois—"

"Say it, Kent."


She kissed his neck, trailed kisses upward as she stroked his cock again, this time harder. She let his wrist go, leaned back so she could see him better. He was staring at her, all awestruck lust in those stunning blue eyes, and she didn't think she'd ever enjoyed not having sex with someone so much. She also didn't think anyone had ever looked at her quite like that. "You should probably take your shirt off."

"I—okay." He leaned forward just enough that he could yank his shirt up over his head, too fast and too forcefully and she could hear stitches tearing when he did it. He very nearly pulled his glasses off, tossed his shirt aside and absently tried to fix them. She barely suppressed another laugh.

"I meant so you wouldn't make a mess," she said, fingers still moving. "Because you need to wear that shirt home?"

"Right," he agreed, a complete and total disconnect between what he was saying and what was going on in his brain. If there was anything going on in there at all. Her hand stopped for a second to see if that would help. He looked back at his shirt. "... well, shit."

This time she laughed out loud, didn't bother trying to hide it, and when he looked back at her his expression made her heart skip. She couldn't think of a single good word for a look like that, nothing that quite captured it, not need or want or affection or amusement or even just general happiness. It was a soft warm glow all wrapped up in a smile, and suddenly it was absolutely vital that she be kissing him again. His moan was a hum of happiness, another muffled groan as her hand gripped him tighter and moved faster.

The frustration was almost sweet, having him hard between her thighs and knowing it was as close as she could get. She wouldn't ask him to change his mind now; he'd only regret it later, and she didn't want him to regret her. This, just touching, she thought he could forgive them both for that. His eyes never left her face when she pulled away, didn't look down to where she was pumping his cock or where her legs were spread or anywhere at all.

Lois didn't give herself any such limitations, admired the planes of his chest and dark curls of hair and the way it rose and fell with every gasping breath he took. The way his hips rocked, clearly trying not to thrust into her hand and failing, those utterly ridiculous hipbones. She hadn't even known she could find a man's hipbones attractive. Suits hid the shape of him, the way broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and that was just a goddamn travesty. His posture always seemed to suggest that he was apologizing to the world for the room he took up in it—but not here and not now, and it made him look larger, made her want him beneath her even more. She settled for running fingertips along the valleys of his chest.

"I want to see you cum for me," she said, and he shivered. "I want to see how bad you want me. Because you really want me, don't you?"

"God yes." He was all wound up, tension in every inch of him; he shut his eyes and tilted back his head, and for a second, she let him. Then she put her hand beneath his jaw to turn his face back to her.

“Look at me, Clark. I want to see you.”

He could have at least had the decency to look less attractive when he came. Grimaced or squinted or something. Instead it was the most subtle thing in the world, a shuddering breath and a moment of helplessness. A split-second glimpse of a completely different person, younger and older all at once.

That. Whatever that was, it was exactly what he was trying to keep from her, which meant that was exactly what she wanted.

Lois had a thing about secrets.

Clark clawed a hand through his hair as he looked down at the mess he’d become. Lois rolled off his legs and made herself comfortable against one of her throw pillows, as if nothing at all had happened.

“I should not have done that,” Clark said.

“You really didn’t do much,” Lois pointed out, and he fought a smile.

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

She shrugged. “At least go take a shower before you start self-recriminating. And don’t try to just towel off, either, then I have to bring crusty towels to the laundromat.”

Clark started to laugh even as he covered his face, and it was probably bad that she thought he looked cute. “Lois, that is the worst thing anyone has ever said to me,” he told her as he rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses, “and I know you won’t believe me, but that’s really saying something.”

“You’re right,” she said as she stood. “I don’t believe you. I’m going to go wash my hands, are you coming?”

“... yeah.” He ran his fingers through his hair again, tried to clear his throat. “Yeah.”