dovelike | [AU] SV Futureverse

Entry tags:

au,
clark kent

[AU] SV Futureverse

Metropolis Children's Hospital

Days like today are what keep Eirene coming back to this small hospital in the middle of Kansas. Watching a thirteen year old with once-inoperable pancreatic cancer walk down the hallway to her parents, who are standing with the resident cancer specialist and trying to figure out what happened.

Eirene knows and she glances down at her hands with a faint smile.Miracles. One 'twenty year old' volunteer can do more in the weekend mornings she volunteers than the vicious decease still trying to kill a host of other kids on this floor. If she's lucky, she can save another life today, but her energy reserves haven't been replenished by rest in the last few days.

She's settled into a booth at the corner diner not half an hour later, sipping an herbal tea and flipping through the Planet for anything out of the ordinary. For the curious: she looks like any other college student; a Met U sweater, jeans and Birkenstocks.

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"Problem?" He glances down at her, genuinely perplexed. It seems the pop culture reference has gone right over his head, although there may be a small part of his brain that files it away as one that is, apparently, still in use.

"What problem?" Clark sees (nor feels) no problem.

"You're wearing a shirt." There's a long suffering sigh. "Sadly, I cannot continue to kiss further than your neck. I am grieved."

Really, she is. There are goddess puppy eyes involved!

Oh. That problem.

He quirks an eyebrow at her and then pushes away from the couch, settling them a few inches away, keeping her in his lap, but a bit further down on his thighs. "That help any?"

"It does. I have a considerate boyfriend. Should probably thank him with a kiss." She does. Of course, it's not a lingering kiss, because there is the shirt to contend with. After three whole seconds of careful study, Eirene tries something ... new.

She reaches out, grasps material securely in both hands, and shreds his shirt into enough pieces to just slide off.

"There."

The goddess dips her head after a moment to flick her tongue just below his collarbone.

Yeah, Clark's just going to stare at her a little speechless for a good few minutes.

And then the feel of her tongue on his skin will at least startle him back to breathing again. Enough to manage to say, "You still have yours."

Eirene flashes an entirely too innocent smile up at him, and pretends to consider his not-quite request for a few moments, during which she continues to lavish well-deserved attention on the warm skin about four inches below his neck.

When she hears his breathing begin to stagger, the blonde takes a little pity on him (but not too much) and leans back with her arms moving away from his sides. "Have at it, then."

It's not like he hasn't seen her with a tank top before.

Clark will just tilt his head back and enjoy this for a minute or two, until she pulls back and he refocusses his attention on her. As much as he can, anyway.

Have at? Oh, right. Her shirt. Clark will be courteous, however, and simply pull it up over her her body leaving it in one piece. After all, she doesn't live here and there's no way he's sending her back to some Motel 6 ... whenever she leaves shirtless.

And yes, he's seen her in a tank top. But not int he last five years, so again, she'll have to forgive him for staring, and running his hands up her arms and along her shoulders.

That expression, the one that every man coming out of the wilderness gives at his first sight of civilization, or a starving man offers to a table laden with a feast; that's the sort of look he's giving her and it's enough to suffuse her skin with a pink glow, though her cheeks are darker than the rest.

It just about stops her breath too, fun makeout playtime evolving into something else completely with the heat flaring in her gut. It takes a whole minute for her to remember how to speak. "I -- I could take this one off, too." Clark's never seen what's underneath it. That wasn't in a bikini top, anyway.

That's about what this feels like to Clark. It's something he's been deprived of for so long that being faced with actually getting it is taking it's time to sink in. Which is why he's taking his time tracing his fingers over what skin of hers is now exposed and then gets a little more daring to lean down and press a kiss at the hollow of her throat.

If he hears what she's said, there's no immediate response; his mouth just continues trailing along her collar bone toward her shoulder. And then slowly, he reaches a hand up and starts to slide one strap of the tank top down her arm.

Any further comment she might have had dies on her lips when Eirene really looks at Clark's expression. The word scorching comes to mind, though luckily not literally, and sets her to tingling in places that haven't for five years. Her head tilts to the side, to give him greater access to whatever his mouth wants to touch, and fingers curl around his elbows to keep herself from tumbling backwards.

While her brain is on a short circuiting loop, the goddess vaguely wonders where her vaunted patience gleaned over tens of thousands of years went. And her wits, too, because her suddenly barred shoulder scatters them to the four winds.

"....Clark, oh..."

One strap down, one to go. While he does that, he'll trail kisses along the arm now free of the tank tops, tracing the journey of the scrap of fabric that just brushed down it.

He then does the same when her other arm is free, ending with a kiss pressed into her palm, his hands moving to the hem of the tank top, tugging it upwards.

One of these days she'll remember what breathing feels like, or what her name is. Or the name of the city she's currently in. Really, all she can remember right now is Clark, and the fact that his mouth is -- everywhere. Isn't it?

Her hands slide up his arms to his shoulders, fingers pressing against his flesh, soft gasps trailing every careful placement of his lips.

Might even be a gasp towards the end.

The thin shirt is slowly pulled up over her head to join her sweatshirt (and the ripped remnants of his own t-shirt) on the floor beside them. And suddenly, there's nothing awkward about sitting in the middle of his sparsely furnished apartment with a topless woman in his lap. Especially not one he's in love with.

If training all these years has done anything for Clark, it's get him to the point where he's completely comfortable with who - and what - he is. He's not the blush-at-the-drop-of-a-hat nineteen year old boy she met, nor is he the slightly matured but still shy twenty-two year old who left her behind.

And for right now, the man he's become is going to brush her hair off her shoulders and trail his hands lightly up and down the sides of her body, before drawing her closer to kiss her again, skin pressed against skin.

It is, oddly enough, Eirene's turn to be nervous. The frantic beating of her heart against it's ribcage, pulse fluttering wildly at her throat, is reminiscent of the first few times they kissed. When she wasn't sure a big, kind farmboy was going to want to have anything to do with a naive goddess.

First contact of flesh, her soft curves against his muscled chest is a shock, her moan tumbling into his mouth instinctively. Fingers tighten against his shouders before sliding down across the expanse of his back.

Then, a hesitant withdrawal of barriers, ones she has only dropped once before, the most notable sign of which is the subtle aroma of roses and raindrops.

The scent is duly noted, though again, there's no outward appearance that he's noticed. Clark seems content to just keep kissing her and exploring her upper body with this hands, eventually ending up at her breasts, palming them gently and running his thumbs over the rosy peaks in experimentation.

Comfortable doesn't necessarily mean experienced.

She's content with this too, his hands nudging responses from her body despite the lack of experience, each bud beginning to harden around the third or fourth swipe.

Eirene's tongue is occupied fencing with Clark's, and she suitably distracted enough for the arousal to creep across her so subtly it's not until her arm brushes against his, and the sparks unravel into her bloodstream that she realizes he's gotten to do all the touching for the last little while.

"Clark," she murmurs during the next oxygen break, "I love you, and I need to touch you right now." At least, that's mostly what the whisper sounds like.

"I love you, too." That sounds just a little strange to say, even if he means it. He's only told her that once - right before he left - and, well, he might as well get used to it.

He pulls back a little, rubbing her nose with his own, and looks at her with a mildly playful glint in his eyes (comfortable doesn't mean completely serious, either).

"I'm not stopping you."

There's a grin, curious mixture of shy and salacious, spreading slowly across her mouth now. She doesn't actually move for a moment or two, absorbing his verbal response first.

That thar expression is of a woman in love, and loved in return. At least until she finally lifts her hands away from his shoulders and begin tracing down across his ribs, with her lips in pursuit, re-learning the taste of his chest.

Clark's eyes drift shut again when she starts her exploration. There's little tensing this time around and what there is hardly lasts. She's been pressed up against him enough that he's getting used to the contact, but the variances of pressure she's using catch him off guard now and then.

Not that he wants her to stop or hold back. Far from it. His hands stroke along her back in encouragement and occasionally, there's a soft moan when she hits a particularly sensitive spot.

Fingers still across his stomach when she feels the tensing, waiting long enough for his muscles to relax before continuing. Her mouth traces against the outline of each rib and all the way down to his navel, tongue flicking out to dip into the recess before Eirene begins the slow journey back towards his mouth.

There are, naturally, stops along the way to revisit favorite areas, and she tarries for quite a while on the tiny nubs of flesh that mirror her own, tongue and teeth aiding in the efforts.

Fair is fair.

Not entirely fair. There's touching, which is what he did, and then there's touching, which is what Eirene's doing falls into. At least as far as Clark's concerned.

Or would be if he could think clearly.

"Eirene." It's barely a whisper and at this point, there isn't much sentiment behind it other than acknowledgment that in the here and now, she's what's on his mind.

Hands tremble minutely by the time they come to rest on his shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh as if they are ten small anchors to keep their mistress from flying away.

They don't stay there long, proving too restless and obviously blessed with Eirene's own wanderlust, for they ghost across the column of his throat -- heralds for her approaching lips, who brush against the spot where his pulse beats wildly.

Then, between heartbeats, her mouth is nuzzling his.

Her name is whispered once more right before his lips claim hers and he settles her back flush against him in his lap. They've touched and they've explored and this kiss now speaks of yet another level of things being taken to.

If there was ever a time to stop this, it's now. But stopping is about the furthest thing from Clark's mind.

Sparks? Did the narration mention sparks at some point? Forget the sparks. The Fourth of July is being celebrated in her blood, liquid fire uncoiling from her center and spreading like lightning down her limbs.

This, to no one's surprise, causes squirming, because Clark makes her want to move. So there are hip rotations to accompany his name groaned into his mouth, and nails dragging themselves lightly down each side of his spine.

Of course, all that squirming against bare flesh (and jeans) is hardly conducive to the 'let's stop and discuss this' mindset.

It's probably a good thing no one seems to be saying that. In fact, with the way she's moving and the way his hands are doing nothing but encouraging it, there's something else Clark has on his mind to say.

"Bedroom," he manages to get out between kisses. He's gentleman enough that he's not going to expect they go any further on a living room floor covered in paper.

It's important paper.

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