Mike's Discovery

[Ouadeepi]

Part 1

Mike had been a junior reporter at the Daily Planet for just over a year, still finding his footing among the seasoned pros who churned out front-page stories like clockwork. He was ambitious but quiet, often lingering late to polish his drafts under the glow of the newsroom’s fluorescent lights. The big globe atop the building was his north star, a symbol of the truth he chased—and a quiet nod to the hero he secretly admired. Superman. Mike had clipped every article about the Man of Steel, stashing them in a drawer at home, his crush a private ember he’d never dare voice.

It was a late Tuesday, the newsroom nearly deserted save for the clack of a few typewriters. Mike was heading to the supply room for more paper, his latest story—a piece on city budget cuts—still nagging at him. As he approached, he heard a muffled thud. Frowning, he nudged the door open a crack. There stood Clark Kent, the awkward, bespectacled reporter Mike had always found endearing. Clark was tugging at his tie, his movements hurried. Then, in a heartbeat, he ripped open his shirt, revealing the iconic red “S” on blue. Superman.

Mike’s breath hitched, his notepad slipping in his grip. He’d dreamed of those colors, that symbol, but seeing Clark transform—Clark, who stammered through staff meetings—sent his pulse racing. A secret crush on Superman was one thing; discovering he worked beside him was another. Clark didn’t notice him, too focused on some unseen call. The window creaked open, and with a gust that scattered loose sheets, Superman leapt into the sky, a streak of red and blue vanishing into the Metropolis night.

Mike stood frozen, heart pounding with awe and something sharper. Then, moving on impulse, he grabbed a spare bag from the shelf and gathered Clark’s discarded clothes—shirt, slacks, tie, glasses—each piece a relic of the man he’d mooned over in headlines. He couldn’t let this go unacknowledged. He scribbled a note on a scrap of paper: “I know your secret. Come to 1427 Oak Street, Apt 3B, at 8 PM tonight. —Mike.” His hand trembled as he tucked it under a stack of printer paper where the clothes had lain.

Bag in hand, Mike left the Planet, the city’s buzz a distant hum against his racing thoughts. At his small apartment, he dropped the bag by the door, too jittery to unpack it. He tidied up—stacking clippings, wiping the table—his mind replaying that glimpse of Superman’s cape. He brewed coffee, setting out two mugs, a nervous gesture to the hero he’d adored from afar. By 7:55, he perched on his couch, eyes darting between the clock and the window. At 8:00, a shadow darkened the glass, and a soft knock echoed. Mike rose, his chest tight with anticipation, ready to face the man behind the myth.

Mike’s hand hovered over the doorknob, his breath shallow as the shadow beyond the window sharpened into a familiar silhouette. He opened the door, and there stood Superman—Clark—his cape catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. Up close, without the glasses, his eyes were piercing yet uncertain, scanning Mike’s face. The note had worked; he’d come.

“Mike,” Superman said, his voice low, steady, but edged with caution. “You left this?” He held up the crumpled paper, the words I know your secret stark against the white.

Mike nodded, stepping back to let him in. “Yeah. I… I saw you. In the supply room.” His throat tightened, the weight of his crush colliding with the reality of Superman standing in his living room. He gestured to the couch, awkward. “Coffee?”

Superman hesitated, then stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “No, thanks.” He didn’t sit, just stood there, towering yet somehow human. “What do you want, Mike? Money? A story?”

“No!” Mike blurted, cheeks flushing. “Nothing like that. I just—” He faltered, glancing at the bag by the door, Clark’s clothes still inside. “I’ve followed you—Superman—for a while. Every rescue, every headline. I didn’t know it was you, Clark, but when I saw… I couldn’t pretend I didn’t.”

Superman’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the bag, then back to Mike. “You kept them.”

“Proof,” Mike said softly, then winced. “Not to use. Just… I don’t know, to hold onto something real.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the confession spilling out. “I’ve admired you forever. Not just the cape, but the way you save people. Seeing you change—it’s like I finally saw you.”

The room went quiet, the clock ticking past 8:03. Superman’s expression softened, a flicker of surprise replacing the wariness. “You’re not the first to figure it out,” he admitted, “but you’re the first to leave a note like that.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “What now, Mike? You’ve got my secret. What do you do with it?”

Mike swallowed, meeting those eyes he’d dreamed about. “I keep it. That’s it. I don’t write it, I don’t tell. I just… wanted you to know I know. And that I’m not your enemy.” His lips quirked, shy. “Maybe even a friend, if you’d let me.”

Superman studied him, long enough that Mike’s stomach twisted. Then, faintly, he smiled. “You’re a good reporter, Mike. Too good, maybe.” He glanced at the window. “I’ve got a city to check on, but… thanks. For the coffee offer. And the trust.”

Before Mike could respond, Superman crossed to the window, pausing to look back. “Keep those clothes safe. I’ll need them tomorrow.” With a nod, he stepped out, the cape flaring as he launched skyward, a blur of red and blue against the night.

Mike sank onto the couch, the empty mug still warm in his hands, staring at the open window where his hero—his Clark—had vanished once more.

Mike sat there for a long while, the quiet of his apartment settling around him like a blanket. The mug cooled in his grip, but his mind buzzed, replaying every word, every glance from Superman—Clark. He’d stood face-to-face with the Man of Steel, spilled his admiration, and hadn’t been brushed off or threatened. That smile, faint but real, lingered in his memory. And the clothes. Keep them safe. A promise tied to a secret.

He stood, crossing to the bag by the door. Carefully, he pulled out Clark’s shirt, smoothing the wrinkles with unsteady hands. It was ordinary—white cotton, a little worn at the cuffs—but it felt monumental. He hung it in his closet, tucked the slacks and tie beside it, and set the glasses on his dresser, their lenses catching the dim light. A piece of Superman, hidden in plain sight.

The next morning, Mike arrived at the Daily Planet early, the bag slung over his shoulder. The newsroom was already alive—phones ringing, reporters shouting over each other—but his eyes darted to Clark’s desk. Empty. He slipped into the supply room, heart thudding, and placed the clothes back where he’d found them, neatly folded. No note this time; the message had been delivered.

Back at his desk, he buried himself in his budget cuts story, but his focus kept drifting. Around ten, Clark shuffled in, glasses perched on his nose, hair slightly mussed. He nodded at Mike as he passed, casual as ever, but there was a glint in his eye—acknowledgment, maybe gratitude. Mike’s stomach flipped, and he ducked his head, pretending to type.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 2

Days passed, then weeks. Mike didn’t see Superman again, not up close, but he watched the skies more keenly, catching glimpses of that red streak between buildings. At work, Clark stayed the same—polite, unassuming—but sometimes, when no one else was looking, he’d toss Mike a small, knowing grin. It was enough to fuel Mike’s quiet hope, his crush deepening into something steadier, rooted in their shared secret.

One evening, as Mike locked up his desk, a shadow flickered outside the newsroom window. He froze, peering through the glass. Superman hovered there, just for a moment, cape billowing. He tapped the frame once—a signal?—then pointed upward before rocketing into the dusk. Mike’s breath caught. Grabbing his coat, he raced to the roof, the cold air hitting him as he pushed through the door.

The city sparkled below, and there, perched on the edge, was Superman, gazing out. He turned as Mike approached, his expression unreadable. “Thought you might want a closer look,” he said, nodding toward the skyline. “No story. Just… a thank-you.”

Mike stepped forward, heart pounding, and stood beside him, the wind tugging at his hair. For once, he wasn’t chasing a scoop or a fantasy—just a moment with the man he’d always admired, now a little less out of reach.

Mike stood on the rooftop, the wind tugging at his coat as Metropolis shimmered below. Superman—Clark—stood beside him, his cape fluttering gently in the breeze. The silence between them felt alive, charged with a quiet understanding. Mike shoved his hands into his pockets, sneaking a glance at the hero. Without the urgency of a crisis, Clark seemed less untouchable, his presence steady and grounded.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Mike said, his voice cutting through the cool air. “I meant it—I’m not telling anyone.”

Superman’s lips curved into that familiar, faint smile. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” He turned to face Mike fully, his blue eyes warm behind the absence of glasses. “Most people who figure it out want something—power, leverage, a headline. You didn’t. That’s rare.”

Mike shifted, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m not most people. And you’re… well, you’re you.” He winced at the clumsiness of it, but Superman’s expression didn’t mock. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Mike with quiet curiosity.

“You’re a good writer, Mike,” he said after a beat. “I’ve read your stuff. That budget piece—it’s sharp. You see things others miss.”

Mike blinked, startled. “You read my work?”

“Daily Planet’s my beat too,” Superman said, his grin widening. “Clark Kent’s got to keep up appearances.”

A laugh escaped Mike, loosening the knot in his chest. For a moment, they were just two guys on a roof, trading words like colleagues—or friends. The city hummed below, but up here, time seemed to slow. Superman stepped closer to the edge, gazing out at the skyline, and Mike followed, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

“No emergencies tonight?” Mike asked, half-teasing.

Superman chuckled, a low, easy sound. “Not yet. Even I get a breather sometimes.” He glanced at Mike. “Figured I’d spend it here. You earned that much.”

Mike’s heart thudded, but he kept his voice light. “What, a rooftop chat with Superman? I should’ve left notes sooner.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Superman shot back, playful. Then his tone softened. “Seriously, though—thanks. For keeping this quiet. It’s… nice, knowing someone’s got my back without wanting anything.”

“I’ve always had your back,” Mike admitted, quieter now. “Even before I knew it was you.” He looked out at the city, the lights blurring as his confession hung there.

Superman didn’t respond right away, but Mike felt the weight of his gaze. Then, reaching into his cape, he pulled out a small, folded piece of paper and handed it to Mike. “In case you need me. Not for a story. For you.”

Mike unfolded it—a sketch of the Planet’s globe with a frequency number beneath. A direct line. His throat tightened. “Thanks, Clark.”

Superman nodded, his smile lingering. “Anytime.” He didn’t leap away, didn’t vanish into the sky. Instead, he leaned against the ledge, settling in beside Mike. They stood there, watching the city breathe, two figures against the night—no rush, no secrets left to spill, just a quiet moment stretching out between them.

Mike stood on the rooftop, the wind rustling his coat as Metropolis glowed beneath them. Superman—Clark—leaned against the ledge beside him, his cape swaying gently, his presence calm and unguarded. The city’s hum filled the air, but up here, it felt like they were the only two people in the world. Mike’s hands fidgeted in his pockets, his pulse quickening as a nervous impulse tugged at him. He’d been carrying this secret crush for years, clipping articles, dreaming of the Man of Steel—now just inches away.

Superman gazed out at the skyline, oblivious to the storm of thoughts in Mike’s head. The quiet stretched, and Mike’s mouth went dry. He cleared his throat, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Hey, uh, Clark—can I… could I touch you? Just, you know, to see what it’s like?” His voice cracked slightly, and he winced, scrambling to cover. “I mean, you’re Superman. It’s not every day you get to stand next to someone like you.”

Superman turned, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Touch me?” He paused, then chuckled, the sound warm and easy. “Sure, Mike. Go ahead. I’m not made of glass.” He straightened, holding out an arm like it was no big deal, clearly assuming it was simple curiosity—a reporter’s instinct, not something deeper.

Mike’s heart thudded as he stepped closer, his fingers trembling slightly. He reached out, hesitating, then pressed his hand against Superman’s shoulder. The fabric of the suit was smooth, taut over muscle that felt like steel wrapped in warmth. Mike’s breath hitched, his mind racing. He’d imagined this—Superman’s strength, his solidity—but the reality was overwhelming. His hand lingered, sliding just a fraction down the arm, feeling the curve of bicep beneath the red and blue. It was innocent to Superman, but to Mike, it was electric, a secret thrill he buried deep.

“Wow,” Mike managed, forcing a grin to mask the heat creeping up his face. “You’re… solid. Guess that’s why bullets bounce off you, huh?” He pulled back quickly, shoving his hands back into his pockets, hoping his voice didn’t betray him.

Superman laughed, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Something like that. Kryptonian biology—perks of the job.” He flexed his arm slightly, a playful gesture, then leaned back against the ledge. “Glad I could satisfy your reporter’s curiosity.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Mike said, too fast, turning to stare at the city to hide his flush. His fingers tingled where they’d touched, the sensation searing into his memory. Superman had no idea—no clue about the clippings in Mike’s drawer, the quiet longing behind his question. And Mike intended to keep it that way.

Superman nudged him with an elbow, casual. “You’re alright, Mike. Not many people get this close and stay this calm.”

Mike nodded, swallowing hard. “Just taking it in,” he said, and they settled back into watching the night, the secret of his crush tucked safely out of sight.

Mike shivered as a gust of wind swept across the rooftop, cutting through his thin coat. Superman—Clark—stood beside him, unfazed by the chill, his cape rippling like a steady flame. The city lights twinkled below, but the cold was starting to bite, and Mike’s nerves, already frayed from touching Superman’s shoulder, pushed him to speak. His crush thrummed beneath the surface, a secret heat he kept locked tight, but the moment felt too fragile to let slip away.

“Uh, Clark,” Mike started, rubbing his arms as his breath puffed out in small clouds. “I’m not exactly dressed for this. It’s freezing up here.” He forced a shaky laugh, glancing at Superman. “Would you… maybe want to come down to my place for a bit? Warm up, I mean. Or, well, I’d warm up. You probably don’t need to.” His words tripped over each other, and he cringed, hoping it sounded casual.

Superman turned, his expression softening with a hint of amusement. “Noticed you shivering,” he said, his voice kind, oblivious to the deeper current in Mike’s offer. “Sure, I’ll come down. No point in you turning into an icicle up here.” He stepped back from the ledge, gesturing toward the roof door. “Lead the way.”

Mike’s heart leapt, but he played it cool, nodding quickly. “Great. Yeah, this way.” They descended the stairs, Mike hyper-aware of Superman’s steady footsteps behind him. At his apartment door, he fumbled with the keys, the faint tremor in his hands only partly from the cold. He pushed it open, stepping aside. “It’s not much, but it’s warmer than the roof.”

Superman ducked in, his cape brushing the frame, and glanced around the small space—the sagging couch, the stack of newspapers, the two mugs still on the table from the night before. “Cozy,” he said, smiling. “Beats a windswept rooftop.”

Mike shrugged off his coat, tossing it over a chair. “Coffee? I’ve got some left from earlier.” He moved to the kitchenette, needing something to do with his hands, his mind racing. Superman, his Superman, was here, in his apartment, and he had to keep it together.

“Sounds good,” Superman said, settling onto the couch, the furniture creaking slightly under his weight. He looked relaxed, at ease, no trace of suspicion about Mike’s motives. “Nice to sit somewhere that doesn’t involve a crisis for once.”

Mike poured the coffee, stealing a glance at him—broad shoulders, easy posture, that impossible mix of strength and calm. His crush flared, a quiet ache he buried as he handed over a mug. “No crises here. Just me and some lukewarm coffee.”

Superman took it, his fingers brushing Mike’s briefly, sending a jolt through him. “Good company’s worth more than you think,” he said, sipping, still blissfully unaware of the way Mike’s pulse spiked. They sat, the warmth of the room wrapping around them, and Mike clung to the moment, his secret safe for now.

Mike carried the mugs over, his steps deliberate as he crossed the small room. The couch wasn’t big—barely enough for two—but he sat down beside Superman anyway, the cushions dipping under their combined weight. His heart hammered, a mix of nerves and exhilaration, as he handed Clark the coffee. Superman took it with a murmured “thanks,” his broad frame filling the space, his cape draped over the armrest like a royal banner. Mike clutched his own mug, the warmth grounding him as he tried to act normal, like having Superman on his couch was no big deal.

They sipped in companionable silence for a moment, the faint hum of the radiator filling the air. Then Superman shifted, stretching his legs out a bit, and his knee brushed against Mike’s. The contact was casual, unintentional, but Mike’s breath caught as Superman’s leg settled there, resting lightly against his own. The heat of it seeped through his slacks, electric and overwhelming, and Mike’s mind spun. He’d spent years idolizing this man from afar, and now here he was, close enough to feel the solid reality of him. His crush roared to life, a secret thrill he fought to keep hidden.

Superman didn’t seem to notice, his gaze drifting to the stack of newspapers on the coffee table. “You keep up with everything, huh?” he said, nodding toward the pile, his tone easy. “Guess that’s the reporter in you.”

Mike forced a grin, shifting his mug to his other hand to steady himself. “Yeah, can’t help it. Habit.” He prayed his voice didn’t waver, that the flush creeping up his neck stayed below his collar. Superman’s leg stayed pressed against his, a steady weight, and Mike’s pulse raced faster. He wanted to lean into it, to savor the closeness, but he held still, terrified of giving himself away.

Superman took another sip, then glanced at him, his blue eyes warm and unguarded. “This is nice, Mike. Quiet. I don’t get much of that.” He stretched slightly, the movement pressing their legs together a fraction more, and Mike nearly fumbled his mug.

“Glad you’re here,” Mike managed, the words slipping out softer than he meant. “I mean, uh, it’s cool to hang out. No rooftops, no wind.” He laughed, too loud, and took a quick gulp of coffee to cover it.

Superman smiled, oblivious to the storm inside Mike. “Yeah, no wind’s a win. And the company’s not bad either.” He settled back, relaxed, his leg still resting against Mike’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mike stared into his mug, his excitement a tight knot in his chest. Superman had no idea what this meant to him—no clue about the clippings, the daydreams, the way this fleeting touch felt like a victory. For now, he’d take it, this quiet moment on a too-small couch, and keep his secret locked tight.

Mike’s hands had always been part of his language, fluttering like birds when he got going, especially when he was excited or nervous—and right now, he was both. Sitting on the cramped couch, Superman’s leg warm against his own, Mike felt the buzz of adrenaline as they talked. The conversation flowed easily, slipping from the quirks of the Daily Planet to the chaos of Metropolis, Superman’s deep voice a steady anchor to Mike’s quick, animated replies.

“So, Lois—she’s relentless, right?” Mike said, his hands waving as he leaned forward slightly. “Last week, she’s grilling the mayor, and I’m just trying to keep up with my notes.” His left hand sliced the air for emphasis, while his right gestured toward the imaginary scene. Superman nodded, chuckling, his mug balanced casually in his grip.

“She’s a force,” Superman agreed, his tone fond. “Keeps us all on our toes.”

Mike grinned, diving deeper into the story. “Yeah, and then Perry’s yelling about deadlines, and I’m scrambling—” His hands danced, punctuating each beat, until his right hand swung a little too wide and landed, almost by accident, on Superman’s thigh. He froze mid-sentence, fingers splayed across the blue fabric, the muscle beneath firm and warm. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull back right away, letting it linger as if it were part of his natural chatter.

Superman didn’t flinch, didn’t tense—just glanced down briefly, then back up at Mike with a small, amused smile. “You’re a storyteller, huh? Hands and all.” He seemed to take it as part of Mike’s usual flair, no hint of suspicion in his eyes, oblivious to the way Mike’s pulse skyrocketed.

Mike swallowed, forcing a laugh as he kept his hand there a beat longer than necessary, savoring the contact. “Yeah, uh, guilty. Can’t talk without ‘em.” He finally slid his hand back, curling it around his mug, but the thrill of it burned through him. His crush—his secret obsession with the man beside him—felt dangerously close to the surface, but Superman’s easy demeanor kept it safe.

“Never noticed it at the Planet,” Superman said, shifting slightly, his leg still pressed against Mike’s. “But it suits you. Makes the stories livelier.”

Mike nodded, his grin a little shaky. “Gotta keep things interesting.” His mind replayed the feel of Superman’s thigh under his palm—solid, real, a quiet victory he’d tuck away with the clippings and daydreams. For now, he leaned into the conversation, hands moving again, careful not to push his luck, while Superman remained blissfully unaware of the longing tucked behind Mike’s every word.

Mike’s grin steadied as Superman’s words hung in the air, the casual warmth of the moment wrapping around them. “Gotta keep things interesting,” he’d said, and Superman’s reply—“It suits you. Makes the stories livelier”—settled into Mike like a spark. His hands, still restless from the storytelling, twitched with the urge to move again, driven by the quiet thrill of their closeness.

“I guess it does,” Mike said, his voice softer now, a little steadier. As the words left him, his right hand shifted, almost on instinct, and settled back onto Superman’s thigh. The motion was smooth, disguised as part of his usual animated chatter, but deliberate this time. His fingers rested lightly against the blue fabric, the heat and firmness beneath sending a jolt up his arm. His heart pounded, but he kept his expression easy, tilting his head as if he hadn’t just crossed a line he’d been toeing all night.

Superman didn’t pull away. He glanced down at Mike’s hand for a split second, then back up, his smile unwavering, still tinged with that same relaxed amusement. “You’re full of energy tonight,” he said, his tone light, clearly interpreting it as more of Mike’s expressive quirks. He shifted slightly, the movement pressing his leg a fraction closer, but there was no hint he sensed anything beyond friendly camaraderie.

Mike’s breath caught, but he forced a casual nod, letting his hand stay where it was. “Yeah, well, hard not to be when you’re sitting here,” he said, tossing in a quick laugh to mask the truth in his words. The feel of Superman’s thigh under his palm—unyielding yet warm—fed the secret crush he’d nurtured for years, a rush he couldn’t quite believe he was getting away with. His fingers flexed slightly, testing the boundary, before resting still again.

Superman took a sip of his coffee, unfazed. “Glad I’m not boring you,” he teased, settling back into the couch, his posture open and at ease. “Most people just want the headlines, not the downtime.”

Mike’s pulse raced, but he kept his cool, his hand a quiet anchor on Superman’s leg. “Downtime’s the best part,” he said, meeting Clark’s eyes for a moment before looking away, feigning interest in his mug. Superman had no idea—no clue about the clippings, the fantasies, the way this simple touch was everything to Mike. And as they sat there, the small couch holding them close, Mike let himself savor it, his secret safe in the space between them.

Mike’s hand rested on Superman’s thigh, the warmth of the contact grounding him even as his nerves danced. The small couch held them close, the radiator’s hum blending with the easy rhythm of their conversation. Superman’s relaxed demeanor—his oblivious smile, the way he sipped his coffee—kept Mike’s secret crush tucked safely out of sight. But the thrill of it, the quiet audacity of his touch, stirred something bolder in him. His heart thudded as he weighed his next move, the words forming before he could second-guess them.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 3

“Hey, Clark,” Mike said, his voice dipping slightly, cautious but edged with a nervous energy. He shifted, his hand still on Superman’s thigh, fingers brushing the fabric as he spoke. “What if we, uh… made the evening a little more interesting?” He kept his tone light, almost playful, but his eyes flicked to Superman’s face, searching for a reaction.

Superman raised an eyebrow, lowering his mug to rest on his knee. “More interesting?” he echoed, a hint of curiosity in his voice. His smile lingered, warm and unguarded, no trace of suspicion. “What’ve you got in mind, Mike? I’m not exactly the card game type.” He chuckled, clearly expecting something simple, still blissfully unaware of the undercurrent in Mike’s question.

Mike’s throat tightened, his mind racing. He hadn’t planned this far—just let the impulse carry him, fueled by years of quiet longing. His hand flexed slightly on Superman’s leg, a subconscious move, before he caught himself and eased off the pressure. “I don’t know,” he said, forcing a grin to keep it casual. “Just thought… maybe something different. Hanging out’s great, but—” He trailed off, shrugging, leaving it open-ended to test the waters.

Superman tilted his head, studying him for a moment, his expression thoughtful but still easygoing. “Different, huh? Well, I’m game. No emergencies tonight, so you’ve got my attention.” He leaned back, stretching one arm along the couch, the motion brushing his shoulder against Mike’s. “What’s your pitch?”

Mike’s pulse spiked, the casual contact and Superman’s openness sending a rush through him. He hadn’t expected this—Clark’s willingness, his trust. His crush pulsed beneath the surface, urging him forward, but he kept it reined in, playing it safe for now. “Maybe… we just talk about something real,” he said, his voice steadying. “Not headlines or budgets. You. Off the record.” It wasn’t the full leap he’d imagined, but it was close—close enough to feel daring, close enough to keep his secret intact.

Superman’s smile softened, and he nodded. “Alright, Mike. Real it is.” He set his mug on the table, turning slightly to face him, his leg still pressed against Mike’s. “What do you want to know?”

Mike’s heart pounded as Superman leaned back, agreeing to talk, his leg still resting against Mike’s on the cramped couch. The air between them felt charged, the radiator’s hum a faint backdrop to the rush in Mike’s ears. His hand, still lingering near Superman’s thigh from his earlier gestures, trembled with the weight of his unspoken crush. The casual openness in Clark’s demeanor—his trust, his ease—pushed Mike past caution, past the safe boundaries he’d clung to. Years of quiet longing surged forward, and he let them guide him.

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding from Superman’s thigh to rest gently on the bulge of his red briefs. The fabric was smooth, taut over the contours beneath, and Mike’s breath hitched as his fingers settled there, light but unmistakable. He leaned in, closing the small gap between them, his voice a shaky whisper against Superman’s ear. “I want to know… if I can kiss you.”

Time seemed to freeze. Superman tensed, his body going still under Mike’s touch. His head turned sharply, eyes widening as they locked onto Mike’s, the easy smile replaced by a flicker of shock. For a moment, neither moved—Mike’s hand lingered, his face inches from Clark’s, the air thick with the weight of what he’d just done. Superman’s jaw tightened, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable.

“Mike,” he said, his voice low, firm, but not angry. He shifted back slightly, breaking the closeness, though he didn’t pull away entirely. “I didn’t… I didn’t see that coming.” His hand moved to Mike’s wrist, gently but decisively lifting it from his briefs and setting it back on the couch. There was no harshness in the gesture, just a quiet boundary drawn.

Mike’s face burned, his stomach twisting with a mix of panic and regret. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, pulling back, his hands retreating to his lap. “I didn’t mean to—I just—” He couldn’t finish, the words tangling as his secret spilled out, raw and exposed.

Superman exhaled, running a hand through his hair, his gaze softening as he studied Mike. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, his tone steady, kind. “You don’t have to apologize. I just… I’m not—that’s not something I was expecting.” He paused, searching for words, still oblivious to the depth of Mike’s crush but clearly sensing more than he’d realized. “You’re a good guy, Mike. I like you. But this—” He gestured vaguely between them, “—it’s not where I’m at.”

Mike nodded quickly, staring at his hands, humiliation warring with the relief of Superman’s gentleness. “Yeah, no, I get it. I shouldn’t have—” He forced a weak laugh, trying to salvage the moment. “Guess I got carried away.”

Superman’s smile returned, small but genuine. “Happens to the best of us.” He clapped a hand on Mike’s shoulder, a friendly gesture, then stood, stretching. “Still friends, right? No harm done.”

“Still friends,” Mike echoed, managing a nod as he rose too, his chest tight. Superman stepped toward the door, cape swishing, and Mike followed, his secret laid bare but not shattered—just quietly tucked back into the shadows where it belonged.

Mike’s hand had settled on the bulge of Superman’s red briefs, his whispered question—“I want to know… if I can kiss you”—hanging in the air like a fragile thread. The small couch held them close, the radiator’s hum a distant murmur beneath the thud of Mike’s racing heart. His fingers rested there, tentative but bold, driven by years of secret longing he’d never dared voice. The moment stretched, taut and electric.

Superman froze, his body tensing under Mike’s touch. His head snapped toward him, eyes wide with surprise, the easy smile vanishing as shock flickered across his face. Mike’s breath caught, his hand still in place, the warmth beneath the fabric sending a jolt through him. For a heartbeat, neither moved—then something shifted. Superman’s jaw tightened, but his gaze didn’t harden. Instead, a flush crept up his neck, faint but unmistakable, and his breath hitched, barely audible. Mike’s touch, unexpected and daring, had stirred something in him he hadn’t anticipated.

“Mike,” Superman said, his voice low, a mix of caution and something else—something unsteady. He didn’t pull away immediately, his hand hovering near Mike’s wrist but not gripping it yet. “I didn’t see that coming.” His tone was measured, but his eyes betrayed him, darting down to where Mike’s hand rested, then back up, a flicker of confusion mingling with curiosity. He was caught off guard—not just by the move, but by the faint, surprising heat it sparked in him.

Mike’s face burned, his nerves teetering on the edge of panic. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, starting to pull back, but Superman’s hand closed gently around his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. Not to push him away, but to hold him there, just for a second longer.

“Wait,” Superman said, quieter now, his brow furrowing as he processed the moment. He let go of Mike’s wrist, but didn’t retreat, his leg still pressed against Mike’s on the couch. “I’m not… mad. Just surprised.” He paused, exhaling slowly, and Mike caught the slightest shift in his posture—less rigid, more open. Superman’s mind raced, unexpected arousal tugging at him, a sensation he hadn’t braced for. He’d always been in control, unshakeable, but this—this was new. And part of him, to his own shock, wanted to see where it might lead.

Mike blinked, uncertainty warring with hope. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” he said, his voice shaky, his hand hovering near Superman’s thigh, not daring to return yet.

Superman’s lips quirked, a faint, almost self-conscious smile breaking through. “You did. But… I don’t know. Maybe I don’t mind as much as I thought.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady on Mike, testing the waters. “What were you thinking, asking that?”

Mike swallowed, emboldened by the lack of rejection. “Just… you. Being here. I’ve always—” He stopped, biting back the full confession, then took a breath. “I wanted to know what it’d be like.”

Superman tilted his head, considering him, the air between them thick with unspoken possibilities. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice soft but decisive. “Show me, then. Let’s see how this plays out.” He didn’t move, didn’t push—just waited, his own surprise mingling with a cautious, curious willingness to let Mike take the lead.

Mike’s breath caught in his throat, Superman’s words—“Show me, then. Let’s see how this plays out”—echoing in the small space between them. The couch creaked faintly as they sat, legs still pressed together, the air thick with a tension that felt both fragile and alive. Superman’s gaze held steady, a mix of curiosity and something warmer flickering in his blue eyes, his body relaxed but attentive. Mike’s hand hovered near Superman’s thigh, trembling slightly, the weight of this moment sinking in. He’d dreamed of this, but never thought it’d be real—never thought Superman would let him try.

“Okay,” Mike whispered, barely audible, more to himself than to Clark. His hand moved, tentative at first, brushing back to Superman’s thigh, then higher, resting again on the red briefs. The fabric was smooth under his fingers, the firmness beneath sending a shiver through him. He glanced up, searching Superman’s face for any sign to stop, but found none—just that same steady look, tinged with a trace of surprise at his own reaction.

Superman shifted slightly, not pulling away, his breath deepening as Mike’s touch lingered. The faint arousal he’d felt before flickered again, stronger now, catching him off guard. He’d never considered this—not with Mike, not with anyone in this quiet, human way—but the sensation wasn’t unwelcome. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice low, encouraging, though there was a hint of wonder in it, like he was discovering something about himself too.

Mike leaned in, heart pounding, his free hand rising to rest lightly on Superman’s chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath the “S.” The closeness was dizzying—Clark’s warmth, his scent, the reality of him. “I’ve wanted this for a while,” Mike admitted, his voice trembling but honest, as he closed the gap. His lips brushed Superman’s, soft at first, testing, a question wrapped in a kiss.

Superman didn’t pull back. His lips parted slightly, meeting Mike’s with a cautious but growing response, a hand lifting to rest on Mike’s shoulder, anchoring them. The kiss deepened, slow and exploratory, Superman’s initial surprise giving way to something more deliberate. He tilted his head, pressing back, a quiet hum escaping him as he let himself feel it—Mike’s eagerness, the unexpected spark it lit in him.

Mike’s hand tightened on Superman’s briefs, emboldened, his other hand sliding up to cup Clark’s jaw. The kiss broke for a moment, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. “Is this okay?” Mike asked, voice ragged, needing to be sure.

Superman nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. More than okay.” His hand moved from Mike’s shoulder to the back of his neck, pulling him in again, this time with less hesitation. The couch creaked as they shifted closer, Mike’s boldness met with Superman’s quiet willingness, the night stretching out before them, uncharted and alive.

Mike’s lips pressed against his, tentative yet bold, and Superman—Clark—felt the world tilt in a way he hadn’t expected. The small couch held them close, Mike’s hand firm on his briefs, the other cradling his jaw, and the kiss deepened with a slow, mutual pull. Clark’s hand rested on Mike’s neck, guiding him back in after that brief pause, his own response surprising him with its ease. The radiator hummed, the apartment a quiet cocoon, but inside Clark, a storm of confusion and curiosity churned.

He’d always seen himself as heterosexual, his mind often drifting to women—Lois’s sharp wit and sharper smile, Lana’s softness from years past, even fleeting thoughts of strangers he’d saved. Those fantasies had fueled restless nights, but he’d never acted on them. The risk was too great—his strength, his secret identity, the fear of losing control. Intimacy meant vulnerability, and Clark Kent, Superman, had built walls to protect both halves of himself. Sex had stayed a distant, untested dream.

Now, here was Mike—earnest, nervous Mike, a man—stirring something in him. The press of Mike’s hand on his briefs sent a jolt through him, undeniable and warm, and the kiss sparked a heat he hadn’t braced for. Clark’s breath quickened, his body responding in ways that clashed with how he’d always defined himself. He wasn’t repelled—far from it. The sensation was confusing, a tangle of newness and instinct, but not unpleasant. It was… intriguing, like a door he’d never noticed swinging open.

Mike pulled back slightly, their foreheads still touching, his voice rough. “Is this okay?”

Clark’s mind raced, but his body answered first—a nod, a small smile. “Yeah. More than okay.” He leaned in again, kissing Mike with less hesitation, letting himself explore the feeling. Mike’s touch tightened, his excitement palpable, and Clark felt that heat flare again, a quiet arousal he couldn’t dismiss. He’d never imagined this—not with a man, not with anyone so close to his world—but Mike’s boldness, his unguarded want, cracked something open in him.

His hand slid from Mike’s neck to his shoulder, steadying them as the kiss lingered. Clark’s thoughts spun—I’m not supposed to feel this. Am I?—but the physical pull drowned out the doubt. He’d spent years suppressing desire to safeguard his secret, but Mike knew it already, and that knowledge loosened a knot Clark hadn’t realized he’d tied. This wasn’t the fantasy he’d scripted, but it was real, raw, and stirring him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Mike’s hand shifted, brushing higher, and Clark’s breath hitched, a faint sound escaping him. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Mike’s, eyes half-closed. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he admitted, voice low, honest. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Mike’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and hope flickering there. “You sure?”

Clark nodded, a wry smile tugging at him. “Not sure of much right now. Just… keep going.” He leaned back slightly, giving Mike room, his own confusion mingling with a growing willingness to see where this unexpected night might lead.

Mike’s heart raced as Superman’s words—“Just… keep going”—settled between them, a quiet permission that felt like a key turning in a lock. The small couch creaked as he shifted, his hands trembling with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. He pressed gently against Superman’s chest, guiding him back until Clark reclined against the cushions, his broad frame stretching out beneath him. Mike hesitated only a moment, then leaned forward, lowering himself onto Superman, their bodies aligning in a way that sent a shiver through him. The solid warmth of Clark beneath him was overwhelming, a fantasy made flesh.

Superman didn’t resist, his hands resting lightly on Mike’s hips, steady but not directing—just there, present, letting it happen. His eyes, still tinged with that mix of confusion and curiosity, followed Mike’s every move. Mike’s hands began to explore, tentative at first, tracing the contours of Superman’s chest over the iconic “S.” The suit was smooth under his palms, the muscle beneath unyielding yet warm, a paradox of strength and vulnerability that made Mike’s breath catch.

He leaned in, kissing Superman again, soft and deliberate, savoring the give of Clark’s lips against his own. Superman responded, his mouth parting slightly, a quiet reciprocation that fueled Mike’s courage. The kiss lingered, slow and deep, before Mike pulled back just enough to shift his focus. His lips brushed along Superman’s jaw, then lower, trailing a sensual path down the side of his neck. He pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the pulse beneath Clark’s skin—steady, strong, but quickening under his touch.

Superman’s breath hitched, a faint sound that sent a thrill through Mike. His hands tightened briefly on Mike’s hips, then relaxed, as if he were still grappling with the sensation. Clark had spent years imagining intimacy with women, locking those desires away to protect his secret, but this—Mike’s weight on him, the slow kisses igniting his skin—was unraveling something new. It wasn’t what he’d expected of himself, but the arousal stirring in him was real, confusing yet undeniable. He tilted his head slightly, giving Mike more access, a silent invitation born of curiosity and a growing, tentative want.

Mike’s hands roamed higher, sliding up to Superman’s shoulders, then down his arms, mapping the strength he’d admired from afar. His lips lingered on Clark’s neck, kissing softly, then with a hint of pressure, tasting the warmth there. “You’re incredible,” he murmured against Superman’s skin, voice low and raw, his crush spilling out in the intimacy of the moment.

Superman exhaled, a shaky sound, his hands shifting to rest more firmly on Mike’s back. “You’re… making it hard to think,” he admitted, a wry edge to his tone, but there was no pushback—just an openness, a willingness to let this unfold. His body responded, a subtle tension building beneath Mike’s touch, as he navigated the strange, stirring pull of feelings he hadn’t known he could have.

Mike’s hands trembled as they roamed Superman’s body, the heat and solidity of Clark beneath him fueling a heady mix of awe and desire. The couch creaked under their weight, Superman reclining against the cushions, his neck still tingling from Mike’s slow, sensual kisses. Emboldened by Clark’s quiet encouragement—the way his hands rested on Mike’s back, the shaky exhale that betrayed his own stirring feelings—Mike let his exploration drift lower. His fingers hesitated as they brushed the edge of Superman’s red briefs, then, with a surge of nervous courage, he wrapped his hand around the bulge there.

The sensation hit him like a wave. The fabric was sleek and taut, stretched over a firmness that felt both powerful and alive under his grip. It was warm—warmer than he’d expected—radiating through the thin material, a stark reminder of the man beneath the myth. Mike’s breath caught, his palm pressing gently as he felt the subtle swell, the undeniable evidence of Superman’s arousal responding to his touch. It was solid yet yielding, a paradox that mirrored Clark himself—unbreakable strength wrapped in something human, vulnerable, real.

His heart pounded, a wild rhythm in his chest, as his fingers curled instinctively, tracing the shape through the briefs. The texture was smooth but textured with the faint outline of what lay beneath, and the heat of it seeped into his skin, electric and overwhelming. Mike’s mind spun—this is Superman, this is Clark—the hero he’d idolized, the man he’d secretly longed for, now tangible in a way he’d never dared imagine. A rush of exhilaration flooded him, laced with a quiet disbelief that he was here, touching him like this, feeling the Man of Steel respond.

The bulge shifted slightly under his hand, a faint twitch that sent a jolt through Mike’s core. It was alive, pulsing with Clark’s quickening breath, and the realization that he was causing this—stirring Superman in a way no headline ever could—ignited a thrill deep in his gut. His grip tightened for a moment, savoring the weight, the power, the intimacy of it, before easing off, his fingers lingering as he fought to steady his own ragged breathing. Every nerve in his hand tingled, hyper-aware of the connection, the secret he held in his palm.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 4

Mike’s hand lingered on the bulge in Superman’s red briefs, the heat and subtle pulse beneath his fingers sending a current through him that left his chest tight and his mind reeling. The couch held them close, Superman’s broad frame stretched beneath him, his neck still flushed from Mike’s kisses. Clark’s hands rested on Mike’s back, firm but not guiding, his breath uneven as he navigated the unfamiliar pull of arousal Mike had sparked. The air between them crackled, heavy with the weight of what was unfolding.

Mike lifted his gaze, meeting Superman’s eyes—blue and searching, clouded with a mix of surprise and something deeper. Clark’s lips parted, a faint sound escaping as Mike’s hand shifted, brushing gently over the briefs again. The touch drew a shudder from Superman, slight but unmistakable, and Mike’s heart leapt. He leaned in, pressing his lips to Clark’s once more, the kiss slower this time, deliberate, tasting the quiet surrender in Superman’s response. Clark kissed back, his hand sliding up to tangle in Mike’s hair, grounding them both in the moment.

The sensation of Superman beneath him—solid, warm, alive—drove Mike’s hands to explore further. His fingers traced the edge of the briefs, then slipped higher, brushing the taut plane of Clark’s stomach where the suit met skin. Superman tensed, a sharp inhale breaking the kiss, and Mike paused, pulling back just enough to check. “Still okay?” he whispered, voice rough with want and caution.

Clark nodded, his expression a tangle of wonder and uncertainty. “Yeah,” he breathed, his hand tightening briefly in Mike’s hair before relaxing. “It’s… a lot. But I’m good.” His voice carried a raw honesty, admitting the confusion of feelings he’d never expected—feelings a man like Mike had stirred, challenging everything he’d thought about himself. He’d locked intimacy away to protect his secret, but here, with Mike already in on it, the walls felt less necessary.

Emboldened, Mike shifted his weight, pressing himself closer as his hand returned to the briefs, cupping the bulge again with a firmer grip. The heat pulsed against his palm, and Superman’s hips twitched, a reflexive move that sent a thrill through Mike. He kissed Clark’s neck again, slow and lingering, then trailed lower, lips brushing the hollow of his throat. Clark’s head tipped back, a low hum escaping him, his hands sliding down Mike’s back to rest at his waist, tentative but encouraging.

Mike’s other hand roamed, slipping under the edge of the cape to feel the breadth of Superman’s shoulders, the power there humming beneath his touch. Every sensation—the give of Clark’s lips, the warmth of his skin, the growing tension in his body—fed Mike’s longing, years of quiet fantasies crashing into this vivid reality. Superman, the untouchable hero, was here, letting him in, and the thought alone made Mike’s pulse race faster.

Clark’s hand moved, brushing Mike’s cheek, guiding him back up for another kiss. This one was hungrier, less restrained, as if he’d decided to lean into the confusion, to see where it led. “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured against Mike’s lips, a faint smile breaking through. His body shifted beneath Mike, pressing up slightly, a silent signal he was in this—curious, aroused, and willing to let it play out.

The couch creaked beneath them as Mike pressed himself closer, his hand still cupping the bulge in Superman’s red briefs, feeling the heat and subtle pulse that confirmed Clark’s growing arousal. Their lips met again, hungrier this time, Superman’s hand on Mike’s cheek guiding the kiss with a newfound intensity. The words—“You’re full of surprises”—lingered between them, laced with a smile that softened the raw edge of Clark’s voice. Mike’s chest tightened, exhilaration and disbelief warring within him as Superman’s body shifted, pressing up into his touch, a quiet invitation to keep going.

Mike’s kisses trailed back to Clark’s neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below his jaw, then lower, tasting the faint salt of exertion. Superman’s breath hitched, a low sound rumbling in his throat as his head tipped back against the cushions, exposing more of his neck to Mike’s exploration. Mike’s hand tightened briefly on the briefs, then slid upward, fingers grazing the hard lines of Clark’s abdomen where the suit hugged his frame. The fabric was sleek, almost a second skin, and beneath it, the muscle flexed under Mike’s touch, a living testament to the power he’d idolized for so long.

Clark’s hands roamed too, less tentative now—one sliding down Mike’s spine, the other resting at his hip, pulling him closer. The contact sent a shiver through Mike, the weight of Superman’s grip grounding him even as it fueled his desire. He’d dreamed of this closeness, but the reality—the warmth of Clark’s breath, the subtle give of his body—was beyond anything he’d imagined. His hand returned to the briefs, tracing the outline with a bolder stroke, and Clark’s hips shifted again, a faint shudder running through him.

“You’re… really into this,” Mike murmured against Clark’s neck, his voice thick with awe and a trace of nerves. He pulled back just enough to meet Superman’s gaze, needing to see him, to anchor himself in this moment.

Clark’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice rough, almost surprised at himself. “Didn’t think I would be—not like this.” He swallowed, his hand tightening on Mike’s hip. He’d always pictured intimacy with women, locked those thoughts away to shield his identity, but Mike’s touch—unexpected, earnest—had unraveled that certainty. The arousal wasn’t just physical; it was the trust, the vulnerability of being known, that stirred him in ways he couldn’t fully grasp.

Mike leaned in again, kissing him deeply, his hand pressing more firmly against the briefs, feeling the heat and tension build beneath his palm. Superman groaned softly into the kiss, a sound that sent a jolt through Mike, emboldening him further. His other hand slid up Clark’s chest, fingers brushing the edge of the “S,” then higher, tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. Clark’s response was immediate—his lips parted, kissing back with a hunger that matched Mike’s, his body arching slightly under the weight pressing him into the couch.

The air grew heavy, charged with the rhythm of their breaths and the quiet sounds of fabric shifting. Mike’s lips moved back to Clark’s neck, then lower, kissing along the line of his collarbone where the suit met skin. Clark’s hand slid up Mike’s back, gripping his shoulder, a silent encouragement as his hips pressed up again, seeking more. “Mike,” he breathed, the name slipping out like a confession, raw and unguarded.

Mike paused, lifting his head to look at him, his hand still resting on the briefs, feeling the pulse beneath. “Yeah?” he asked, voice shaky but steady enough, his heart hammering as he waited.

Superman’s smile was faint, almost shy, but his eyes burned with something new. “Don’t stop,” he said, simple and sure, letting go of the last thread of hesitation. Mike nodded, a grin breaking through, and leaned back in, ready to lose himself in the night they were building together.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 5

Mike’s lips lingered on Superman’s collarbone, the taste of warm skin mingling with the faint musk of the suit as their breaths synced in the close air of the apartment. The couch groaned under their shifting weight, Clark’s body arching slightly beneath him, his hands firm on Mike’s back and hip, urging him closer. The heat between them built, a quiet crescendo of touch and response, and Mike’s hand on the red briefs felt the undeniable tension pulsing there. But as his other hand roamed higher, tracing the broad expanse of Superman’s shoulders, his fingers brushed something unexpected—a faint ridge, a seam, and then the cool metal of a zipper nestled between Clark’s shoulder blades.

Mike paused, his lips still pressed to Clark’s skin, his breath catching as he registered it. A zipper. Hidden beneath the cape, subtle enough to escape notice unless you were this close, this intimate. His heart thudded, a mix of curiosity and daring surging through him. He pulled back slightly, meeting Superman’s gaze—Clark’s eyes were dark, hazy with arousal, but sharp enough to catch the shift in Mike’s attention.

“What?” Clark asked, voice rough, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he sensed Mike’s distraction.

Mike’s fingers lingered on the zipper, brushing it lightly. “Found something,” he murmured, a grin flickering through his nerves. He didn’t wait for permission—didn’t need to, with Clark’s earlier “Don’t stop” still ringing in his ears. Slowly, he slid the zipper down, the soft rasp of metal teeth parting the suit a stark contrast to the heavy quiet of their breathing. The fabric parted inch by inch, revealing the smooth, golden skin of Superman’s upper back, taut over muscle that shifted as Clark inhaled sharply.

Superman tensed for a moment, the sensation of exposure hitting him—a vulnerability he hadn’t planned for. He’d kept this part of himself locked away, the suit a shield as much as a symbol, but Mike’s hands were gentle, reverent, and the cool air against his skin sent a shiver through him that wasn’t entirely from the chill. “Careful,” he said, half-teasing, half-serious, his voice low as he adjusted to the feeling. But his hands didn’t push Mike away—they stayed, one gripping Mike’s hip, the other sliding up to his shoulder, holding him close.

Mike’s grin widened, his fingers tracing the newly bared skin, marveling at the warmth, the humanity beneath the icon. “Never thought I’d get this far,” he admitted, his tone soft but laced with awe. He leaned in, kissing Clark again, deeper this time, as his hand continued its slow descent, unzipping further until the suit loosened across Superman’s shoulders. The fabric parted wider, exposing more of Clark’s back, and Mike’s other hand slipped from the briefs to help ease the suit down, peeling it just enough to feel the shift of muscle beneath.

Clark’s breath hitched, a quiet groan escaping as Mike’s hands explored the newly uncovered skin. The arousal he’d felt before flared hotter, tinged with the strangeness of this intimacy—Mike, a man, undoing him in ways he’d never let anyone try. He’d fantasized about women, kept those desires at arm’s length to protect his secret, but this was different, raw, and the confusion only sharpened the want. His hips pressed up again, instinctive, seeking Mike’s touch as his own hands tightened, pulling Mike closer.

Mike’s lips returned to Clark’s neck, kissing the exposed line where suit met skin, then lower, trailing along the edge of the opened zipper. His hands roamed—one sliding down Clark’s back, the other returning to the briefs, pressing firmly against the bulge. “You’re still incredible,” he whispered against Superman’s skin, voice ragged with the thrill of it all, as he pushed the moment further, lost in the man beneath him.

Mike’s lips moved with reverent hunger, kissing along the newly exposed line of Superman’s neck and shoulders where the unzipped suit had parted. The air in the small apartment felt charged, thick with the heat of their closeness and the soft creak of the couch beneath them. Clark’s hands gripped Mike’s shoulders and hip, his breath uneven, a quiet encouragement that spurred Mike on. The zipper’s rasp had opened a door—literal and figurative—and Mike’s hands, trembling with a mix of awe and desire, followed the path it carved.

He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes locking with Clark’s for a moment—dark, stormy blue meeting his own, a flicker of trust amid the haze of arousal. Mike’s fingers slid along the edges of the loosened suit, tugging gently but deliberately, easing it lower. “Let me see you,” he murmured, voice low and raw, as he worked the fabric down Superman’s shoulders. Clark shifted, helping just enough—lifting an arm, then the other—allowing Mike to extract them from the sleeves. The suit slipped further, pooling around Clark’s waist, revealing the bare expanse of his torso.

Mike’s breath caught. Superman’s chest was a marvel—broad and sculpted, golden skin stretched over muscle that rippled faintly with each breath. The iconic “S” was gone, replaced by the reality of Clark Kent, vulnerable and human in a way no headline could capture. Mike’s hands hesitated, then pressed against Clark’s chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath the warm, smooth surface. It was firm, unyielding, yet alive—power tempered by the softness of skin that prickled under his touch.

Clark exhaled sharply, a shiver running through him as the cool air hit his bare torso. His hands tightened on Mike, one sliding to the small of his back, the other resting on his arm, grounding himself. He’d never let anyone this close—never shed the suit, the shield, for intimacy—and the exposure sparked a strange mix of nerves and heat. Mike’s touch, his kisses, stirred feelings he’d locked away, and the sight of a man unraveling him like this twisted his sense of self. But it wasn’t wrong—it was intense, confusing, and undeniably good.

Mike leaned in, kissing Clark’s chest now, his lips brushing the ridge of a collarbone, then lower, tracing the line between muscle. His hands roamed—one sliding up to cup Clark’s shoulder, the other drifting down to the taut plane of his stomach, fingers splaying over the skin just above where the suit bunched. He kissed slower, sensual and deliberate, tasting the warmth, the faint salt of exertion, as he worked his way across Clark’s torso. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered against the skin, the words slipping out unfiltered, his crush laid bare in the reverence of his touch.

Superman’s head tipped back, a low groan escaping as Mike’s lips and hands explored him. His hips shifted, pressing up slightly, the arousal in his briefs evident even through the fabric still clinging there. “Mike,” he breathed, the name rough with want, his hand sliding up to tangle in Mike’s hair again. He didn’t know what this made him—heterosexual lines blurring in the heat of the moment—but he didn’t care. Not now. Not with Mike pulling him apart so gently, so completely.

Mike’s hand returned to the briefs, brushing the bulge as his lips kissed lower, nearing the edge of the suit’s waistband. He paused, glancing up at Clark, checking. “Still with me?” he asked, voice husky but steady, needing that thread of consent to keep going.

Clark nodded, his chest rising and falling faster. “Yeah,” he said, a faint smile breaking through the haze. “Don’t stop.” His hand tightened in Mike’s hair, urging him on, surrendering to the night and the man who’d cracked open his guarded world.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 6

Mike’s hands rested on Superman’s bare torso, the suit bunched around Clark’s waist, exposing the expanse of his chest and stomach to the dim light of the apartment. He paused, drinking in the sight, his breath shallow with wonder. Clark’s skin was smooth—almost impossibly so, a golden sheen unbroken by hair, save for the faintest trail starting just below his navel, leading down to where the suit clung. The lack of hair only accentuated the sculpted lines of his body, every muscle defined yet soft under the surface, a testament to his otherworldly strength and human warmth. Mike’s fingers traced the contours, marveling at the flawless texture, the way it felt both powerful and vulnerable beneath his touch.

He leaned in, his lips brushing Clark’s chest again, starting high near the collarbone and moving lower with slow, deliberate kisses. The skin was warm, faintly salty, and Mike’s pulse quickened as he reached the firm swell of Superman’s pecs. His tongue darted out, teasing one nipple—a small, taut bud against the smooth expanse. It hardened under the flick of his tongue, and Clark’s breath hitched, a soft shudder running through him. Mike lingered there, circling gently, then moved to the other, drawing a quiet groan from Superman as his hands tightened in Mike’s hair.

Emboldened by the sound, Mike’s hands slid lower, tracing the planes of Clark’s stomach, feeling the subtle flex of muscle beneath. His fingers brushed the waistband of the briefs, then slipped beneath, tentative but determined, moving past the fabric to touch Superman’s most private parts. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. His hand closed around Clark’s erection—hot, rigid, and pulsing with a life that made Mike’s own breath catch. The skin was velvet-smooth, a stark contrast to the hardness beneath, and it throbbed faintly under his grip, thick and heavy in his palm.

Mike felt the warmth radiating from it, an intense heat that seemed to echo Clark’s strength, his vitality. The texture was a mix of silk and steel—soft to the touch yet unyielding, the veins subtle but palpable as his fingers explored. It twitched slightly in his hand, responding to his slow, careful strokes, and Mike’s chest tightened with a rush of awe and desire. This was Superman—Clark—laid bare in a way no one else had seen, and the intimacy of it, the trust, sent a shiver through him. His thumb brushed the tip, finding a slickness there, warm and wet, a sign of Clark’s arousal that made Mike’s own body ache in response.

Clark’s hips shifted, pressing into Mike’s hand, a low, ragged sound escaping him as his head tipped back against the couch. His smooth torso glistened faintly with a sheen of sweat, the muscles tensing under Mike’s kisses and touch. Mike’s lips stayed on Clark’s chest, teasing a nipple again as his hand moved with growing confidence, feeling every pulse, every subtle reaction, lost in the raw, electric connection between them.

Mike’s hand moved slowly beneath Superman’s briefs, the heat and pulse of Clark’s arousal filling his palm with a thrilling weight, while his lips teased the smooth, hairless expanse of Clark’s chest. The faint sheen of sweat glistened under the dim light, and Clark’s low groans spurred Mike on, his tongue flicking against a nipple as the intimacy deepened. The couch creaked beneath them, their bodies pressed close, the air thick with shared heat and unspoken surrender.

Clark’s hands, until now gripping Mike’s hair and hip, shifted with a sudden purpose. His fingers slid up Mike’s sides, brushing the fabric of his shirt, and then, with a gentle but firm tug, he pulled it upward. “Your turn,” he murmured, voice rough with a mix of arousal and newfound resolve, his breath uneven from Mike’s touch. Mike paused, lifting his arms instinctively as Clark peeled the shirt over his head, the cotton catching briefly before slipping free. It landed in a heap beside the couch, leaving Mike’s torso bare, his skin prickling in the cool air of the apartment.

Clark’s eyes flickered over him, taking in the sight—Mike’s lean frame, less sculpted than his own but taut with the energy of the moment, a faint scattering of dark hair across his chest narrowing into a line down his stomach. His hands followed his gaze, resting on Mike’s shoulders, then sliding down to his chest, fingers splaying over the warmth of his skin. The touch was tentative at first, exploring, then steadier, as if Clark were testing this new territory—touching a man, letting himself feel the pull that had caught him off guard.

Mike shivered under the contact, his own arousal spiking as Clark’s hands roamed, firm yet careful, tracing the lines of his ribs. “You’re… doing alright over there?” he asked, a shaky grin breaking through, his hand still wrapped around Clark beneath the briefs, feeling the pulse quicken.

Clark’s lips quirked, a flush creeping up his smooth chest to his neck. “Better than alright,” he admitted, his voice low, honest. His hands settled at Mike’s waist, pulling him closer until their bare torsos pressed together, skin against skin. The sensation was electric—Clark’s smooth, warm chest against Mike’s slightly hairier one, the contrast igniting a fresh wave of heat between them. Clark leaned in, kissing Mike again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing Mike’s with a hunger that belied his earlier hesitation.

Mike’s free hand slid up Clark’s bare back, fingers digging into the muscle as their kiss intensified, while his other hand kept its slow rhythm beneath the briefs. Clark’s hips rocked faintly, responding, and his hands tightened on Mike’s waist, grounding them as the boundaries of his self-defined heterosexuality blurred further into something raw and real. The shirtless closeness, the mutual vulnerability, only fueled the fire they’d stumbled into, and neither pulled back from it now.

Mike’s bare torso pressed against Clark’s, the warmth of their skin-to-skin contact sending a shiver through him as their kiss broke, leaving both breathless. Clark’s hands lingered on Mike’s waist, his smooth chest rising and falling faster, a flush spreading across his golden skin. Mike’s hand still rested beneath the briefs, feeling the steady pulse of Clark’s arousal, but the moment felt ripe for more—something bolder, a step further into the uncharted territory they’d stumbled into. He shifted, pulling himself up slightly, his knees bracketing Clark’s hips as he looked down at Superman sprawled beneath him on the couch.

Clark’s eyes met his, dark and hazy with desire, but there was a flicker of curiosity there too, watching Mike’s next move. His bare torso gleamed in the low light—smooth, hairless, every muscle taut yet relaxed, the suit peeled back to his waist like a half-shed shell. Mike’s breath hitched at the sight—Superman, the untouchable hero, laid out and open, trusting him in a way that made his chest ache with a mix of awe and want. His hands moved to the gathered fabric of the suit at Clark’s waist, fingers curling around the edges where it clung to his hips.

With a slow, deliberate tug, Mike pulled the suit downward. The fabric resisted at first, snug against Clark’s form, but it gave way as he worked it past his hips, sliding the red briefs along with it. Clark lifted his hips slightly, an unspoken assent, his breath catching as the suit slipped lower, exposing the faint trail of dark hair below his navel, then the full reality of his arousal—freed now, hard and flushed against his stomach. Mike kept pulling, the suit gliding down Clark’s powerful thighs, past his knees, until it bunched around his ankles, leaving him nearly bare except for the tangle of blue and red fabric at his feet.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 7

Clark’s chest heaved, his hands flexing at Mike’s waist as he adjusted to the exposure. “You’re… thorough,” he said, voice rough with a mix of amusement and heat, his eyes locked on Mike’s. The arousal was undeniable, stirring feelings he’d never explored, and though it clashed with the heterosexual lens he’d always worn, he didn’t pull back. The trust, the intimacy of Mike peeling away his shield, only deepened the pull.

Mike grinned, shaky but bold, his hands sliding up Clark’s thighs, feeling the smooth, warm skin under his palms. “Couldn’t help it,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss Clark again, softer this time, a brush of lips as his hands roamed higher, brushing the edge of what he’d uncovered. “You’re something else, Clark.” The suit at Superman’s ankles stayed there, a tether to who he was, but right now, it was just them—raw, close, and teetering on the edge of more.

Clark lay bare beneath him, the dim light of the apartment casting soft shadows across his exposed form. Mike’s hands rested on Clark’s thighs, his gaze inevitably drawn to the newly revealed parts of Superman—his dick and balls, now freed from the confines of the iconic red briefs. The sight was as striking as the rest of him, a blend of human and extraordinary that made Mike’s pulse race.

Superman’s dick stood erect against his smooth stomach, a testament to the arousal Mike had ignited. It was impressive—larger than average, likely around eight inches in length, with a girth that matched its imposing presence. The shaft was thick, straight, and perfectly proportioned, the skin a slightly darker flush than the rest of his golden body, smooth and unmarred by veins save for a subtle ridge along its length. The head was broader, glistening faintly with a bead of precum at the tip, a rich pink that deepened under Mike’s gaze. It pulsed faintly, alive with Clark’s quickening breath, a blend of power and vulnerability that mirrored the man himself.

Below, his balls hung heavy and full, nestled close to his body, each roughly the size of a large walnut. The sac was smooth, the skin taut and hairless, a soft curve that complemented the rest of his sculpted form. They shifted slightly as Clark adjusted, a quiet sign of the tension building in him, their weight adding to the raw masculinity laid bare on the couch. The lack of hair here was striking—Clark’s groin was almost entirely smooth, save for a modest patch of pubic hair just above the base of his dick.

The pubic hair was sparse but neatly defined, a small, dark triangle of curls that stood out against his otherwise hairless skin. It was jet black, like the hair on his head, soft and fine rather than coarse, trimmed naturally by whatever Kryptonian biology kept the rest of him so pristine. The patch was minimal, barely an inch wide, tapering off quickly into the smooth expanse of his lower abdomen and thighs, framing his erection without overwhelming it. It was a subtle contrast to his flawless skin, a hint of earthiness in an otherwise otherworldly figure.

Mike’s hands hovered near Clark’s thighs, his breath shallow as he took it all in—the size, the smoothness, the quiet power radiating from every inch. Clark’s dick twitched under his scrutiny, and a faint flush crept up Superman’s chest, his hands tightening on Mike’s waist. “See something you like?” Clark asked, his voice low and teasing, though the roughness betrayed his own arousal, the unexpected intimacy of being so exposed fueling the heat between them.

Mike’s gaze lingered on Clark’s exposed form, the sight of Superman’s dick—eight inches of thick, smooth power—and the heavy, hairless balls beneath it etching itself into his mind. The sparse triangle of dark pubic hair framed it all, a quiet contrast to the golden skin stretched over Clark’s flawless body. The couch creaked faintly as Mike shifted, his hands trembling with a mix of reverence and desire. Clark’s teasing words—“See something you like?”—hung in the air, rough with arousal, and Mike’s lips quirked into a shaky grin.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand moved first, sliding up Clark’s thigh until his fingers wrapped around Superman’s dick. The heat hit him immediately—scorching and alive, the skin velvet-smooth over the rigid core. It filled his palm, thick and heavy, pulsing faintly as he gave it a gentle stroke. The shaft responded, hardening further under his touch, the head glistening as a fresh bead of precum formed. Mike’s thumb brushed over it, spreading the slickness, and Clark’s breath hitched, his hips shifting slightly into the motion.

Mike’s other hand drifted lower, cupping Clark’s balls, feeling their weight settle into his palm. They were warm and firm, each one a solid, smooth mass that rolled gently under his caress. The sac tightened faintly as he explored, the heft of them grounding him in the reality of what he was doing—touching Superman, feeling him in a way no one else had. The contrast of their size and softness against the hardness above sent a thrill through Mike, his own arousal spiking as he marveled at the trust Clark was giving him.

Clark’s hands tightened on Mike’s waist, a low groan rumbling from his chest as Mike’s strokes grew steadier, his caress more confident. “Mike,” he murmured, the name rough with need, his smooth torso flexing under the sensation. The sound spurred Mike on, and he leaned down, his lips hovering just above the tip of Clark’s dick for a heartbeat—close enough to feel the heat radiating off it—before wrapping them around the head.

The taste hit him first—salty, warm, a faint musk that was pure Clark. His mouth stretched to take him in, the girth challenging but exhilarating as he slid lower, lips gliding over the smooth skin. The head pressed against his tongue, slick and firm, and Mike hollowed his cheeks, sucking gently as he took more. Clark’s dick throbbed in his mouth, the pulse strong and steady, filling him with a heady mix of power and intimacy. He couldn’t take it all—not yet—but he worked what he could, his hand stroking the base in rhythm with his lips.

Clark’s groan deepened, his head tipping back against the couch, one hand sliding up to tangle in Mike’s hair again. “God, Mike,” he rasped, hips twitching upward, a reflex he couldn’t quite control. The suit bunched around his ankles shifted faintly, the boots still trapped in the fabric, but it didn’t matter—every ounce of focus was here, in the heat of Mike’s mouth, the caress of his hands. The arousal Mike stirred was raw, overwhelming, and Clark let it wash over him, the lines of his self-defined heterosexuality fading under the weight of this moment.

Mike’s lips slid over Clark’s dick, the heat and weight of it filling his mouth as he found a rhythm, his hand stroking the base in sync with each slow, deliberate pull. The taste—salty, warm, uniquely Clark—flooded his senses, and the faint throb against his tongue sent a shiver through him. His other hand caressed Clark’s balls, rolling their firm, smooth weight gently, feeling them tighten under his touch. The couch creaked beneath them, a quiet underscore to the sounds filling the apartment—Clark’s ragged breaths, the soft, wet glide of Mike’s mouth, the low hum of arousal building between them.

Clark’s hand tightened in Mike’s hair, fingers threading through the strands with a grip that was firm but not forceful, guiding without demanding. His head rested back against the cushions, smooth torso glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, muscles flexing as his hips shifted upward in small, instinctive thrusts. “Mike,” he groaned again, voice deeper now, raw with a need he hadn’t expected to feel—not like this, not with a man. The suit pooled around his ankles, boots still tangled in the fabric, left him exposed in a way that was both vulnerable and electrifying, and he surrendered to it, letting the sensation overtake his guarded control.

Mike pulled back slightly, lips lingering at the tip, swirling his tongue around the head and tasting the slickness there. Clark’s dick twitched in his hand, thick and pulsing, and Mike glanced up, catching the sight of Superman undone—eyes half-lidded, chest heaving, a flush creeping up his neck. The image burned into him, fueling his own arousal, and he leaned down again, taking Clark deeper this time, his throat relaxing to accommodate the girth. His hand kept stroking, slick with spit and precum, while his other fingers teased the sensitive skin just behind Clark’s balls, drawing a sharper groan from him.

Clark’s free hand slid down Mike’s bare back, nails grazing lightly as he gripped Mike’s shoulder, anchoring himself. “That’s… damn,” he rasped, words breaking apart as the pleasure built, coiling tight in his core. He’d locked intimacy away for years, protecting his secret identity, but Mike had slipped past those walls—knew him, saw him—and the freedom of that trust mingled with the physical heat, pushing him closer to the edge. His hips rocked more deliberately now, meeting Mike’s rhythm, the confusion of his feelings drowned out by the raw, undeniable want.

Mike hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt through Clark, whose groan turned into a stifled curse. He pulled off for a moment, catching his breath, his hand still working Clark’s length as he kissed the smooth skin of his inner thigh, then lower, brushing his lips against the taut sac of Clark’s balls. The weight of them against his mouth was intoxicating, and he lingered there, sucking gently before returning to the shaft, taking it back in with renewed focus. His own arousal pressed against his pants, ignored for now, every ounce of his attention poured into the man beneath him.

Clark’s grip in Mike’s hair tightened, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Mike—I’m…” he started, voice strained, a warning laced with awe. His body tensed, smooth muscles rippling under the golden skin, teetering on the brink as Mike’s mouth and hands drove him further, unraveling the Man of Steel in a way neither had anticipated.

Mike’s mouth worked Clark’s dick with steady focus, lips sliding over the thick, pulsing length as his hand kept a rhythmic stroke at the base. The taste and heat enveloped him, Clark’s groans spurring him on as the couch creaked beneath their shifting weight. His other hand, still caressing Clark’s balls, felt their tightening warmth, the smooth sac heavy in his palm. But as he explored further, drawn by the intimacy of the moment, Mike’s fingers drifted lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind Clark’s balls—the perineum—before extending slowly, tentatively, to circle the even more sensitive area around Superman’s hole.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 8

The touch was light, a gentle graze at first, his fingertips tracing the tight, warm ring with a cautious reverence. The skin there was smooth, like the rest of Clark, but softer, more delicate, a contrast to the unyielding strength everywhere else. It quivered faintly under Mike’s touch, responding to the subtle pressure as he circled slowly, feeling the heat and the faintest pulse of Clark’s body. The sensation was electric for Mike—intimate, forbidden, a boundary he hadn’t expected to cross, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal through him, tightening his grip on Clark’s shaft.

Clark’s reaction was immediate. His groan deepened into something ragged, his hips jerking upward as a shudder ran through his frame. “Mike—fuck,” he gasped, the curse slipping out unfiltered, raw with surprise and pleasure. His hand in Mike’s hair clenched, the other digging into Mike’s shoulder, nails biting into skin. The sensation was new—intense, overwhelming—and it hit him harder than he’d braced for, a jolt that rippled through his already coiled arousal. He’d never let anyone this close, never imagined this kind of touch, and the vulnerability of it clashed with the heat building in his core.

Mike pulled off Clark’s dick for a moment, lips wet and breath heavy, glancing up to gauge the response. Clark’s smooth torso glistened, chest heaving, his face flushed with a mix of shock and need—eyes dark, lips parted. “Too much?” Mike asked, voice husky, his fingers pausing their gentle circling but not retreating, still brushing the sensitive rim.

Clark swallowed hard, his head tipping back as he caught his breath. “No,” he managed, voice rough, almost a growl. “Just… didn’t expect that.” His hips shifted, pressing faintly into Mike’s touch, a silent signal to keep going. The confusion of his feelings—heterosexual lines blurring under Mike’s hands—faded against the raw pleasure, the trust he’d already given. “Keep… keep doing it,” he added, quieter, a plea wrapped in command.

Mike’s grin flickered, emboldened, and he leaned back in, wrapping his lips around Clark’s dick again, sucking with renewed intensity. His hand resumed its stroking, slick and steady, while his other fingers circled more deliberately now, applying a soft, rhythmic pressure around Clark’s asshole. The muscle tensed then relaxed under his touch, warm and responsive, and Clark’s groans turned sharper, his body trembling on the edge. The suit bunched at his ankles shifted as his legs flexed, boots still trapped, but all focus was here—Mike unraveling him, piece by piece, in a way that felt as powerful as it did tender.

Mike’s lips enveloped Clark’s dick, the wet heat of his mouth driving rhythmic waves of pleasure as his hand stroked the base, slick and unrelenting. His fingers circled the sensitive ring around Clark’s asshole, teasing with gentle pressure, each touch sending a jolt through Superman’s trembling frame. Clark’s groans filled the small apartment, raw and unrestrained, his smooth torso glistening with sweat as his hips rocked faintly into Mike’s ministrations. The suit bunched at his ankles, the couch creaking beneath them, faded into the background—every nerve was alight, his arousal sharpened by the unexpected intimacy of Mike’s exploration.

But as the heat coiled tighter in Clark’s core, a spark of curiosity flared alongside it. Mike had unraveled him, peeled back his defenses in ways he’d never allowed, and now Clark’s hands—guided by instinct and a burgeoning need to reciprocate—began to roam. His fingers, still gripping Mike’s shoulder and hair, slid down with purpose, tracing the lean lines of Mike’s bare torso. The faint scattering of chest hair under his palms, the warmth of Mike’s skin, felt new yet inviting, a contrast to the smooth expanse of his own body. His hands moved lower, drawn to the bulge straining against Mike’s pants, a mirror to his own arousal.

Clark’s touch was tentative at first, his palm brushing over the fabric, feeling the hard outline of Mike’s erection pressing against the seam. It was firm, thick, pulsing faintly under his hand, and the sensation stirred something in him—surprise, yes, but also a flicker of excitement. He pressed more firmly, cupping the bulge, his fingers curling to explore its shape through the pants. Mike’s breath hitched around Clark’s dick, a muffled sound of pleasure vibrating through him, and Clark’s lips quirked into a faint, unsteady smile. The power of giving back, of feeling Mike respond, fueled his curiosity further.

His other hand slid around Mike’s waist, dipping lower to grip his ass. The muscle there was taut, rounded, flexing slightly as Mike shifted under the touch. Clark squeezed gently, feeling the give beneath the fabric of Mike’s pants, the warmth seeping through to his palm. It was different—firmer than he’d imagined in his locked-away fantasies of women—but not unwelcome. His fingers traced the curve, then slipped lower, brushing the seam between Mike’s cheeks, mirroring the daring intimacy Mike had shown him. Mike’s hips jerked faintly, a sign of his own mounting need, and Clark’s arousal spiked at the thought that he could stir this too.

Mike pulled off Clark’s dick for a moment, gasping softly, his hand still stroking as he glanced up. “Clark…” he murmured, voice thick, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and want. His fingers kept circling Clark’s sensitive rim, but his focus wavered under the new attention.

Clark’s hand tightened on Mike’s bulge, stroking through the fabric with growing confidence, while his other kneaded Mike’s ass, pulling him closer. “Fair’s fair,” he rasped, voice rough with need and a hint of playfulness, his own hips twitching as Mike’s touch pushed him closer to the edge. The confusion of his heterosexual identity blurred further, overtaken by the raw curiosity and heat of this exchange—touching Mike, feeling him, wanting to see where it led. “Keep going,” he urged, his hands exploring with a boldness he hadn’t known he possessed, lost in the shared unraveling of the night.

Clark’s hands roamed Mike’s body with a growing boldness, one palm stroking the bulge in Mike’s pants while the other kneaded his ass, the fabric a thin barrier to the warmth beneath. Mike’s lips hovered near Clark’s dick, his breath ragged as he stroked and teased, fingers still circling the sensitive rim of Clark’s asshole. The couch groaned under their shifting weight, the air thick with heat and the mingled sounds of their arousal—Clark’s low groans, Mike’s stifled gasps. The suit bunched at Clark’s ankles felt like a relic now, a final tether to be shed as the night deepened.

Mike pulled back slightly, his hand still wrapped around Clark’s erection, meeting Clark’s gaze. The hunger in those blue eyes—darkened with need and curiosity—mirrored his own, and a silent agreement passed between them. “Let’s… even this up,” Mike murmured, voice husky, a grin tugging at his lips. He shifted, sitting up just enough to tug at the waistband of his own pants, fumbling with the button as Clark’s hands joined him, eager and less tentative now.

Clark’s fingers worked the zipper down, peeling Mike’s pants open to reveal the strained outline of his briefs beneath. Together, they shoved the pants lower, Mike kicking them off until they slid to the floor, landing in a heap beside the couch. Clark’s hands didn’t stop—sliding up Mike’s thighs, they hooked into the briefs, pulling them down with a slow, deliberate motion. Mike lifted his hips, helping, and soon the briefs joined the pile, leaving him entirely naked—his erection springing free, thick and flushed, a scattering of dark hair framing it against his lean frame.

 

[Ouadeepi]

Part 9

Mike grinned, breathless, and turned his attention back to Clark. The suit still clung to Superman’s ankles, the boots trapped in the tangle of blue and red. He leaned down, hands gripping the fabric, and with a tug, pulled it free—first one leg, then the other, the boots slipping off with a soft thud. The suit, cape and all, fell to the floor, mixing with Mike’s clothes in a chaotic pile of cotton, spandex, and leather. Clark was bare now, his smooth, golden body stretched out beneath Mike—eight inches of arousal standing proud, balls heavy and smooth, the sparse triangle of black pubic hair the only mark on his otherwise flawless skin.

Clark exhaled, a shaky laugh breaking through as he took in Mike’s naked form above him—lean muscle, a dusting of chest hair, the hard length of him pressing against Clark’s thigh. His hands slid up Mike’s sides, feeling the warmth, the give of skin, then pulled him down until their bare bodies pressed together fully—chest to chest, hips to hips, arousal brushing arousal. The sensation was raw, electric, skin on skin with nothing left between them. Clark’s hands roamed Mike’s back, then lower, gripping his ass again, firmer now, while Mike’s hands traced Clark’s smooth torso, fingers brushing the taut plane of his stomach.

“Guess we’re past the point of no return,” Clark rasped, voice thick with arousal and a trace of wonder, his hips shifting to press himself closer. The pile of clothes on the floor—his suit tangled with Mike’s shirt and pants—marked the shedding of more than just fabric, and the heat of their nakedness fueled a shared urgency, pulling them deeper into the night.

The pile of clothes—Clark’s suit tangled with Mike’s shirt, pants, and briefs—lay discarded on the floor, a testament to the barriers they’d shed. Now fully naked, their bodies pressed together on the creaking couch, skin against skin in a tangle of heat and want. Mike lay atop Clark, their chests flush, the faint scratch of Mike’s chest hair brushing against Clark’s smooth torso. Their kisses deepened, lips parting as tongues met, a hungry edge to each movement, while their hands roamed—Clark’s gripping Mike’s ass, Mike’s tracing the sculpted lines of Clark’s shoulders and stomach.

Their naked forms melded, sweat-slick skin fusing as kisses swelled, tongues clashing with raw need. The couch creaked, bodies shifting—Clark’s hands kneading Mike’s ass, Mike’s tracing Clark’s smooth torso. His dick—thick, flushed—slid against Clark’s thigh, then settled between his legs, tip nudging the tight warmth of Clark’s hole, slick with sweat and leaking want.

The touch was searing—hot, quivering under pressure. Mike groaned into the kiss, hips rocking, feeling the give and fight. Clark’s hands clenched, pulling him closer, a low rumble vibrating as his thighs parted, grinding Mike harder against him. The sensation sparked new nerves, his own erection twitching against Mike’s stomach. Inside, turmoil churned—he’d always chased women in his mind, Lois’s edge, Lana’s grace, desires caged by his secret. This—this—was alien, a man’s heat, a man’s hunger, unraveling him. Yet it felt… right, a pull he couldn’t shake.

Mike broke the kiss, panting, forehead pressed to Clark’s as he rocked again. “God, Clark,” he rasped, hands gripping Clark’s hips. The slick heat was dizzying, pleasure pulsing with each shift—Superman beneath him, real, his.

Clark’s eyes flickered open, dark, stormy. “Mike…” he murmured, rough with need, kneading Mike’s ass to prod him on. Curiosity burned into want, turmoil wrestling with surrender—his hips tilted, pressing back, a shaky groan breaking free. “Feels… good,” he confessed, raw, trembling, the clash of self fading against the heat.

Mike kissed him again, slow, savoring, hands roaming Clark’s chest as his dick rocked—then pushed, deliberate, the tip breaching Clark’s hole. The grip was fierce—tight, pulsing, clamping around him with a hot, slick hold that ripped a groan from Mike’s throat. It was Superman’s ass—impossibly strong yet yielding, a paradox of power and give. His breath hitched, disbelief crashing in—he was fucking Superman, the hero he’d idolized, now split open beneath him, flesh and heat and real.

Clark tensed hard, a sharp gasp tearing from his lips, muffled against Mike’s. His hands dug into Mike’s ass, nails biting, thighs quaking as they spread wider. The stretch stung—sharp, deep—mingling with a fuller, alien pleasure that blindsided him. His hole clenched, fluttering around Mike’s tip, and a flush blazed up his chest, breath ragged. A man inside me, he thought, panic flaring—years of locked-away wants, all women, now this. But the heat, the trust, drowned it—Mike knew him, saw him, and that loosed a knot he’d never named.

Mike froze, tip held just inside, feeling the tight pulse. He pulled back from the kiss, forehead to Clark’s, eyes searching. “You okay?” he whispered, voice strained with effort and awe, hands cradling Clark’s sides. He was inside Superman—the myth made flesh, quivering under him—and it hit like a thunderbolt.

Clark swallowed, eyes locking Mike’s, hazy but firm. “Yeah,” he breathed, nodding faint, hands easing to rub circles on Mike’s ass. “Just… slow.” His hips rocked, taking Mike a fraction deeper, and a low groan rumbled as sting bled into warmth. Turmoil churned—I’m not this, am I?—but the want won, raw and fierce. He kissed Mike, a silent plea to push on.

Mike exhaled, awe and need flooding him, and rocked—slow, careful—sliding deeper, the tight heat dragging him in. The friction was exquisite, every inch a fight of clench and yield, and he groaned against Clark’s lips, lost in it. Clark’s ass gripped him—hot, slick, impossibly tight—muscle flexing as he pushed further, half his length now buried. Mike’s mind spun—he was fucking Superman, splitting him open, the Man of Steel’s golden thighs trembling around him, his eight-inch dick leaking against Mike’s stomach. It was beyond fantasy, a marvel of power submitting to him, and the thrill seared every nerve.

Clark’s groan deepened, hands sliding up Mike’s back, gripping shoulders as his body adjusted. The stretch burned, but the fullness—the pressure—lit something wild, a pleasure he’d never fathomed. His hips tilted, taking more, and he gasped, “Mike—fuck,” the curse raw, unguarded. He’d caged desire to guard his secret, but Mike had it—had him—and that freedom, that breach, drove him to the edge. His hole clenched, then eased, sucking Mike deeper, and he surrendered, turmoil melting into the act—let him fuck me, he thought, and the want roared.

Mike thrust slow, deeper, burying himself fully, balls brushing Clark’s skin. The heat enveloped him—tight, pulsing, alive—and he groaned, “Clark—you’re… incredible.” He was fucking Superman, every inch a conquest, the hero’s ass yielding to him, quaking with each move. His hands gripped Clark’s hips, steadying as he pulled back, then thrust again, slow, deliberate, marveling at the sight—Clark’s smooth chest heaving, flush spreading, eyes dark with need.

Clark’s head tipped back, a ragged moan breaking as Mike filled him, the rhythm stoking a fire he couldn’t name. It hurt—sharp, deep—but the pleasure swallowed it, raw and consuming. His hands clawed Mike’s back, urging him, legs wrapping loose around Mike’s waist. I’m letting this happen, he thought, turmoil spiking—a man, fucking me—but the heat, the trust, anchored him. “Don’t stop,” he rasped, voice wrecked, surrendering fully, his own dick throbbing against Mike’s stomach, slick with want.

Mike’s pace quickened, thrusts deep and steady, each one a marvel—Superman’s ass taking him, clenching, yielding, the impossible made flesh beneath him. He kissed Clark’s neck, lips tracing the pulse, tasting salt and heat, lost in the act—fucking the Man of Steel, his crush a roaring reality. Clark’s moans grew sharper, hips rocking to meet him, the tight heat coiling tighter around Mike’s dick. The pressure built, a wildfire in his gut—he was fucking Superman to the edge, and it was glorious.

Clark’s hands gripped harder, nails biting Mike’s shoulders, his breath hitching in short, desperate bursts. The fullness—the relentless thrust—shattered his guard, pleasure surging past pain, past doubt. I’m going to—, he thought, turmoil drowned by the rising tide, his dick pulsing against Mike’s stomach, slick and straining. “Mike—I’m—” he gasped, voice breaking, body tensing as the wave crested.

Mike felt it—Clark’s ass clenching tighter, a vice around him, the tremble in those golden thighs—and thrust harder, once, twice, chasing it. Clark’s moan turned raw, a guttural cry as he came, hot streaks spilling across Mike’s stomach, his hole spasming around Mike’s dick. The sight—Superman unraveling, climaxing beneath him—snapped Mike’s restraint. He groaned, “Clark—fuck,” and buried himself deep, release exploding through him, filling Clark’s ass with heat, pulse after pulse, the thrill of it—I’m coming inside Superman—blinding him with awe.

Their breaths ragged, they stilled, sweat-slick bodies pressed tight, the couch creaking beneath. Mike’s forehead rested against Clark’s, both panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and surrender. Clark’s hands loosened on Mike’s shoulders, sliding down his arms, a shaky exhale escaping him. Mike pulled back slightly, meeting Clark’s eyes—dark, dazed, but soft with something new.

“Wow,” Mike breathed, voice rough, a grin tugging through the haze. “That was… you’re unbelievable.” He was still inside Clark, softening, the reality sinking in—he’d fucked Superman, made him come, and it was beyond anything he’d dreamed.

Clark’s lips quirked, a faint, unsteady smile. “Yeah,” he rasped, chest heaving. “Didn’t expect… that.” His hand brushed Mike’s cheek, lingering, turmoil quiet now, replaced by a raw, tender calm. “You’re something else, Mike.”

Mike chuckled, shifting to ease out, a shiver running through them both. “Me? You’re the Man of Steel.” He settled beside Clark, their naked bodies close, the pile of clothes a testament to the night. “You okay?”

Clark nodded, slow, eyes tracing Mike’s face. “Yeah. More than okay.” He paused, then added, softer, “Think I’ll stay. Here. Tonight.” His hand found Mike’s, fingers lacing loose. “If that’s alright.”

Mike’s heart skipped, awe flaring anew. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing Clark’s hand, voice thick. “Stay.” Superman—his Superman—staying the night, after all that. It was more than he’d dared hope, a quiet promise in the afterglow, their bond forged in heat and trust.

Mike slumped back on the couch, sweat cooling on his skin, Clark’s frequency note crumpled in his fist. The apartment was still, radiator humming soft, the pile of clothes—suit tangled with his shirt—sprawled on the floor, a testament to their unraveling. His body buzzed where he’d been inside Clark, the memory searing—Superman’s ass, tight and hot, taking him whole. Clark had left at dawn, a quiet “See you at the Planet” and a loaded glance, cape flaring as he leapt out.

He’d crossed a chasm—his crush exploding into reality—and Clark had met him, yielding more than his suit. That trust, the heat of their joining, lingered, a mix of triumph and ache. Clark didn’t know the clippings, the years of yearning, but he’d felt enough to give in, to let Mike fuck him—a marvel Mike couldn’t unsee.

At the Planet, Clark nodded as he passed, glasses on, steady as ever. No grin, just a flicker in his eyes—recognition, maybe promise. Mike typed, budget piece open, but his mind clung to the couch—the thrust, the moans, Clark’s turmoil melting into want beneath him. Not lovers, not just friends—something forged in heat and secrets, glowing in the shadow of Superman’s cape.

 

[michaelnola]

Part 9

Mike grinned, breathless, and turned his attention back to Clark. The suit still clung to Superman’s ankles, the boots trapped in the tangle of blue and red. He leaned down, hands gripping the fabric, and with a tug, pulled it free—first one leg, then the other, the boots slipping off with a soft thud. The suit, cape and all, fell to the floor, mixing with Mike’s clothes in a chaotic pile of cotton, spandex, and leather. Clark was bare now, his smooth, golden body stretched out beneath Mike—eight inches of arousal standing proud, balls heavy and smooth, the sparse triangle of black pubic hair the only mark on his otherwise flawless skin.

Clark exhaled, a shaky laugh breaking through as he took in Mike’s naked form above him—lean muscle, a dusting of chest hair, the hard length of him pressing against Clark’s thigh. His hands slid up Mike’s sides, feeling the warmth, the give of skin, then pulled him down until their bare bodies pressed together fully—chest to chest, hips to hips, arousal brushing arousal. The sensation was raw, electric, skin on skin with nothing left between them. Clark’s hands roamed Mike’s back, then lower, gripping his ass again, firmer now, while Mike’s hands traced Clark’s smooth torso, fingers brushing the taut plane of his stomach.

“Guess we’re past the point of no return,” Clark rasped, voice thick with arousal and a trace of wonder, his hips shifting to press himself closer. The pile of clothes on the floor—his suit tangled with Mike’s shirt and pants—marked the shedding of more than just fabric, and the heat of their nakedness fueled a shared urgency, pulling them deeper into the night.

The pile of clothes—Clark’s suit tangled with Mike’s shirt, pants, and briefs—lay discarded on the floor, a testament to the barriers they’d shed. Now fully naked, their bodies pressed together on the creaking couch, skin against skin in a tangle of heat and want. Mike lay atop Clark, their chests flush, the faint scratch of Mike’s chest hair brushing against Clark’s smooth torso. Their kisses deepened, lips parting as tongues met, a hungry edge to each movement, while their hands roamed—Clark’s gripping Mike’s ass, Mike’s tracing the sculpted lines of Clark’s shoulders and stomach.

Their naked forms melded, sweat-slick skin fusing as kisses swelled, tongues clashing with raw need. The couch creaked, bodies shifting—Clark’s hands kneading Mike’s ass, Mike’s tracing Clark’s smooth torso. His dick—thick, flushed—slid against Clark’s thigh, then settled between his legs, tip nudging the tight warmth of Clark’s hole, slick with sweat and leaking want.

The touch was searing—hot, quivering under pressure. Mike groaned into the kiss, hips rocking, feeling the give and fight. Clark’s hands clenched, pulling him closer, a low rumble vibrating as his thighs parted, grinding Mike harder against him. The sensation sparked new nerves, his own erection twitching against Mike’s stomach. Inside, turmoil churned—he’d always chased women in his mind, Lois’s edge, Lana’s grace, desires caged by his secret. This—this—was alien, a man’s heat, a man’s hunger, unraveling him. Yet it felt… right, a pull he couldn’t shake.

Mike broke the kiss, panting, forehead pressed to Clark’s as he rocked again. “God, Clark,” he rasped, hands gripping Clark’s hips. The slick heat was dizzying, pleasure pulsing with each shift—Superman beneath him, real, his.

Clark’s eyes flickered open, dark, stormy. “Mike…” he murmured, rough with need, kneading Mike’s ass to prod him on. Curiosity burned into want, turmoil wrestling with surrender—his hips tilted, pressing back, a shaky groan breaking free. “Feels… good,” he confessed, raw, trembling, the clash of self fading against the heat.

Mike kissed him again, slow, savoring, hands roaming Clark’s chest as his dick rocked—then pushed, deliberate, the tip breaching Clark’s hole. The grip was fierce—tight, pulsing, clamping around him with a hot, slick hold that ripped a groan from Mike’s throat. It was Superman’s ass—impossibly strong yet yielding, a paradox of power and give. His breath hitched, disbelief crashing in—he was fucking Superman, the hero he’d idolized, now split open beneath him, flesh and heat and real.

Clark tensed hard, a sharp gasp tearing from his lips, muffled against Mike’s. His hands dug into Mike’s ass, nails biting, thighs quaking as they spread wider. The stretch stung—sharp, deep—mingling with a fuller, alien pleasure that blindsided him. His hole clenched, fluttering around Mike’s tip, and a flush blazed up his chest, breath ragged. A man inside me, he thought, panic flaring—years of locked-away wants, all women, now this. But the heat, the trust, drowned it—Mike knew him, saw him, and that loosed a knot he’d never named.

Mike froze, tip held just inside, feeling the tight pulse. He pulled back from the kiss, forehead to Clark’s, eyes searching. “You okay?” he whispered, voice strained with effort and awe, hands cradling Clark’s sides. He was inside Superman—the myth made flesh, quivering under him—and it hit like a thunderbolt.

Clark swallowed, eyes locking Mike’s, hazy but firm. “Yeah,” he breathed, nodding faint, hands easing to rub circles on Mike’s ass. “Just… slow.” His hips rocked, taking Mike a fraction deeper, and a low groan rumbled as sting bled into warmth. Turmoil churned—I’m not this, am I?—but the want won, raw and fierce. He kissed Mike, a silent plea to push on.

Mike exhaled, awe and need flooding him, and rocked—slow, careful—sliding deeper, the tight heat dragging him in. The friction was exquisite, every inch a fight of clench and yield, and he groaned against Clark’s lips, lost in it. Clark’s ass gripped him—hot, slick, impossibly tight—muscle flexing as he pushed further, half his length now buried. Mike’s mind spun—he was fucking Superman, splitting him open, the Man of Steel’s golden thighs trembling around him, his eight-inch dick leaking against Mike’s stomach. It was beyond fantasy, a marvel of power submitting to him, and the thrill seared every nerve.

Clark’s groan deepened, hands sliding up Mike’s back, gripping shoulders as his body adjusted. The stretch burned, but the fullness—the pressure—lit something wild, a pleasure he’d never fathomed. His hips tilted, taking more, and he gasped, “Mike—fuck,” the curse raw, unguarded. He’d caged desire to guard his secret, but Mike had it—had him—and that freedom, that breach, drove him to the edge. His hole clenched, then eased, sucking Mike deeper, and he surrendered, turmoil melting into the act—let him fuck me, he thought, and the want roared.

Mike thrust slow, deeper, burying himself fully, balls brushing Clark’s skin. The heat enveloped him—tight, pulsing, alive—and he groaned, “Clark—you’re… incredible.” He was fucking Superman, every inch a conquest, the hero’s ass yielding to him, quaking with each move. His hands gripped Clark’s hips, steadying as he pulled back, then thrust again, slow, deliberate, marveling at the sight—Clark’s smooth chest heaving, flush spreading, eyes dark with need.

Clark’s head tipped back, a ragged moan breaking as Mike filled him, the rhythm stoking a fire he couldn’t name. It hurt—sharp, deep—but the pleasure swallowed it, raw and consuming. His hands clawed Mike’s back, urging him, legs wrapping loose around Mike’s waist. I’m letting this happen, he thought, turmoil spiking—a man, fucking me—but the heat, the trust, anchored him. “Don’t stop,” he rasped, voice wrecked, surrendering fully, his own dick throbbing against Mike’s stomach, slick with want.

Mike’s pace quickened, thrusts deep and steady, each one a marvel—Superman’s ass taking him, clenching, yielding, the impossible made flesh beneath him. He kissed Clark’s neck, lips tracing the pulse, tasting salt and heat, lost in the act—fucking the Man of Steel, his crush a roaring reality. Clark’s moans grew sharper, hips rocking to meet him, the tight heat coiling tighter around Mike’s dick. The pressure built, a wildfire in his gut—he was fucking Superman to the edge, and it was glorious.

Clark’s hands gripped harder, nails biting Mike’s shoulders, his breath hitching in short, desperate bursts. The fullness—the relentless thrust—shattered his guard, pleasure surging past pain, past doubt. I’m going to—, he thought, turmoil drowned by the rising tide, his dick pulsing against Mike’s stomach, slick and straining. “Mike—I’m—” he gasped, voice breaking, body tensing as the wave crested.

Mike felt it—Clark’s ass clenching tighter, a vice around him, the tremble in those golden thighs—and thrust harder, once, twice, chasing it. Clark’s moan turned raw, a guttural cry as he came, hot streaks spilling across Mike’s stomach, his hole spasming around Mike’s dick. The sight—Superman unraveling, climaxing beneath him—snapped Mike’s restraint. He groaned, “Clark—fuck,” and buried himself deep, release exploding through him, filling Clark’s ass with heat, pulse after pulse, the thrill of it—I’m coming inside Superman—blinding him with awe.

Their breaths ragged, they stilled, sweat-slick bodies pressed tight, the couch creaking beneath. Mike’s forehead rested against Clark’s, both panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and surrender. Clark’s hands loosened on Mike’s shoulders, sliding down his arms, a shaky exhale escaping him. Mike pulled back slightly, meeting Clark’s eyes—dark, dazed, but soft with something new.

“Wow,” Mike breathed, voice rough, a grin tugging through the haze. “That was… you’re unbelievable.” He was still inside Clark, softening, the reality sinking in—he’d fucked Superman, made him come, and it was beyond anything he’d dreamed.

Clark’s lips quirked, a faint, unsteady smile. “Yeah,” he rasped, chest heaving. “Didn’t expect… that.” His hand brushed Mike’s cheek, lingering, turmoil quiet now, replaced by a raw, tender calm. “You’re something else, Mike.”

Mike chuckled, shifting to ease out, a shiver running through them both. “Me? You’re the Man of Steel.” He settled beside Clark, their naked bodies close, the pile of clothes a testament to the night. “You okay?”

Clark nodded, slow, eyes tracing Mike’s face. “Yeah. More than okay.” He paused, then added, softer, “Think I’ll stay. Here. Tonight.” His hand found Mike’s, fingers lacing loose. “If that’s alright.”

Mike’s heart skipped, awe flaring anew. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing Clark’s hand, voice thick. “Stay.” Superman—his Superman—staying the night, after all that. It was more than he’d dared hope, a quiet promise in the afterglow, their bond forged in heat and trust.

Mike slumped back on the couch, sweat cooling on his skin, Clark’s frequency note crumpled in his fist. The apartment was still, radiator humming soft, the pile of clothes—suit tangled with his shirt—sprawled on the floor, a testament to their unraveling. His body buzzed where he’d been inside Clark, the memory searing—Superman’s ass, tight and hot, taking him whole. Clark had left at dawn, a quiet “See you at the Planet” and a loaded glance, cape flaring as he leapt out.

He’d crossed a chasm—his crush exploding into reality—and Clark had met him, yielding more than his suit. That trust, the heat of their joining, lingered, a mix of triumph and ache. Clark didn’t know the clippings, the years of yearning, but he’d felt enough to give in, to let Mike fuck him—a marvel Mike couldn’t unsee.

At the Planet, Clark nodded as he passed, glasses on, steady as ever. No grin, just a flicker in his eyes—recognition, maybe promise. Mike typed, budget piece open, but his mind clung to the couch—the thrust, the moans, Clark’s turmoil melting into want beneath him. Not lovers, not just friends—something forged in heat and secrets, glowing in the shadow of Superman’s cape.

I have to say that this story was very well written and surpassed any and all expectations that I could imagine.. Awesome

 

[cutiepie11]

Iinteresting twist for Superman. Exploring that side of him. I thought he'd do him with his boots on. That would have been hot.

 

[cutiepie11]

Iinteresting twist for Superman. Exploring that side of him. I thought he'd do him with his boots on. That would have been hot

 

[perrito78]