This story is actually kinda old, but I went back and looked at it and finally built up the courage to post it under this, my primary, pen name. My first "mature" fic or lemon. Big thanks to Ronnie K for the beta. Without him this would still have some unintentionally funny bits in it. Funny laugh at me, not funny laugh 'with' me. That, and it's just a bit better in general. Thanks dude.

Anyway, this is mature. And no, that's not because of excessive violence. At least not the kind you might be thinking about, ;-). Ahem. Hope you guys enjoy.


Company Man

By Mark Question


He found that he was smiling a lot more lately.

Of course, he smiled a lot to begin with so he supposed it was good thing. The reasoning went that smiling kept you young. That couldn't be bad.

He was complaining less lately, too. Which could be good or bad, because again, he generally didn't complain a lot to begin with.

But just to be clear, concise, and forthcoming, he wasn't complaining – this wasn't a complaint, it was more a notation. A complaint would be disingenuous. It was a fact, actually, that if you were to ask, he wouldn't be able to think of a single one.

It was true though, even his work productivity had increased, and believe it or not that was the most peculiar part of it all. It was the singular question that escaped explanation; the oddity that defied the consideration of better things.

A movement above him captured his attention, and his thoughts began to drift free of the grasp of coherency, to scatter and reorganize themselves like marbles on a broken table, wherein coherent thought fled the stables. The Kryptonian let out a slow breath. It wasn't for the reasons that would be supposed, or, maybe it was. His thoughts were straying though, frayed and tapered like old forgotten cloth and he refocused to find his point...

The point... what was that again Clark wondered? Work productivity. No, that hadn't been it, but he was getting to it, whatever 'it' was.

Apparently he was 'setting the pace' as Perry had put it. The comment had caught him off guard for a few reasons, one such being that he by way of his very manner tended to just ... be. Clark simply, sort of, well, blended in. So perfect was his camouflage, so intricate was the disguise that the plainness could not be pinpointed and quantified as only one thing.

The glasses, their lenses unnecessarily oversized; frames excessively thick as to be uncomfortable by sight alone. The slight hunch. The fumbling. The tendency to propose as much as state. Superman could stand tall – Clark, Clark was invisible, or rather visible just enough to make Superman invisible. It was all just unfortunate because it was a wonder sometimes, he often thought, that he even managed to notice himself.

The very fact that what he was doing – whatever that was – was achieving the exact opposite and drawing curious glances, was grounds enough to pause.

But mainly, it was because it hinted at what evidently was an unconscious change. There was no other explanation. From then on, he'd made a conscious effort to slow it down, if only because he hadn't been aware he'd been going very fast to begin with.

At the time, Perry had patted him on the back as one would a son, voice aged with sympathy and an undercurrent of wariness: "Poor bastard, you need a woman."

Clark had coughed – in what was actually an effort not to chuckle.

"Thanks Perry, you're probably right."

It was all an oddity to him because despite all the data to the contrary, the comments about the increased efficiency, and the extra hop to his step he kept hearing mentioned that made him want to put his foot to the ground a little more solidly, he felt more tired lately.

More fatigued.

Clark thought maybe it had something to do with her.

With Diana.


An open window of his 8th story apartment invited comforting city air, and through it – warmed by the hustle and bustle of the city itself; of busy cars and winding asphalt – blew a gentle wind.

A sheet of black as wide as it was dark covered him. The veil of night. It touched, lingered but did not warm, obscured but did not make invisible. Walls and corners kept silent as though by its command. The order of business seemed to be quiet, and their silence they did keep. But it was – their covenant – broken by the sound of a gasp. It was split a moment after, by the sound of a moan. He wasn't alone.

A shift of sheets, a soft grunt tumbling into a suppressed gasp – the friction of flesh against flesh and whispers intimate shared. The only discernible sounds were of their lovemaking.

It would never be argued that he was a playboy, not as his persona as Metropolise's hero, and most certainly never as the mild mannered newspaperman that worked on the 19th floor, five doors down and to the right at the Daily Planet. But he'd had his share of lovers, and he had his share of loss. It would be unfair to measure her against them, in his mind, right there and then, so he didn't. Clark figured it would be wrong, and in the back of his mind, he did anyway.

He could tell you that she was quiet. There was no fanfare, only whispers and slow gasps like any other woman, and that he nearly lost it the first time she'd told him to fuck her like he meant it. That hadn't been very Wonder Woman-like at all.

Diana, he'd noted, liked to be on top. Really, very much, enjoyed being on top. She liked to ride him, and by that, he meant that she was emphatic about it, exultant and maybe even a little triumphant. That what she lacked in pomp and pageantry she more than made up in with her legs, and her pace, and the way her entire body danced when she was above him.

She rode him like she meant it.

Eyes tracking upwards from the dip of her waist, he looked at the woman above him. His own body rising and falling with the pull of hers, like a satellite, like a beetle fastened along the polymer of a web.

Clark ignored the creak of the bed – his second for the month, by the way – and the vague, almost non-existent complaint of his muscles.

If you were to look – and he was – it was as though she was sitting at a desk, performing the mundane. Across her face little showed, and mostly, she wore no expression at all. Dark lashes framed her cheeks, eyes closed, her face painted a portrait of feint, barely perceptible concentration. The picture of serenity. Her hips though, they were treacherous, they begged to practice a slow wind, one she did not seem inclined to hasten.

A little to the right, a play of the light and the edges of her lips curved. All the while he was in chaos. The Kryptonian was anything but relaxed. He found that his eyes couldn't help but roam; in the low light, they ceased to be his own and became an extension of skin and pores, her bodies own, finding their likeness through his gaze. They traveled the length of her.

The V of her thighs, slender and toned, soft, trimmed black curls thickened at the center, trailing to where they joined. Mouth dry, Clark swallowed, tongue running over his lips. His brain, evolved for a sun so far away, was telling him he was thirsty. Curly black hair, wavy and flowing to the small of her back – a contradiction he knew, but somehow it seemed to him to be both at the same time – was matted with sweat, clinging to her neck like a newborn.

He noted that her pace had increased, her eyes still closed, lips now parted just so. Midnight blue brows curving. A curtain of sweat now blanketed her flesh like a second skin – alabaster diluted with silver. Her breasts, pliable heavy, shifted with her movement and he felt the sudden urge to weigh them with his hands, to kiss her until she was breathless.

Clark liked the details. He was a journalist. He reveled in them.

In the dark, above him, she broke the night and became a work of light and shadow. In the dark, the night made play with her features, casting them in opposite but equal roles of gentle and severe.

A needful sound breathed as a quieted gasp – a whine – escaped her. Her hips rolled in tune to his thrusts, thighs slick. Warm, they wrapped around him like a silken glove and dear god he had to close his eyes, if only to stay sane.

"Don't do that."

It was her voice that gave her away – the desperate undercurrent, barely controlled and about to spring. She was close. He knew it by the way her expression had fallen away to be replaced by an almost tortured, pleasurable desperation. Her breathing had ceased to be stilled and controlled, she was beginning to take shallow, uneven breaths now.

At the difficulties he was having responding just then, he laughed. It was a disingenuous sound, "Don't do what? he questioned, "You're going to have to be more specific, there're a fair amount of things I'm doing-" he grimaced, "-or trying not do, at the moment."

"Don't be obtuse-" her voice was reproachful even as she moaned. Her hips moved in a swirl, muscles seizing him within her, admonishing him, "-about this." she finished, her teeth flashing almost unkindly.

"Keep your eyes on me. Watch me," she said, her eyes opened and her voice, he thought, matched the cool, dark air around them, "I want you watching me when I finish, Kal."

Clark's mouthed opened, working silently as he made to respond, but she worked her hips around him and with a groan, he ended up speaking her name in a slur. In the drowning dark, he thought he saw her smile.

The rhythm maintained was Diana's own. Slow then moderate, brisk turned fast, then slow again to start again, she rode him long and hard. Form serpentine and undulating in a slow, unending grind. It was north to south, soft gyrations and easy rolls. His breath quickened and his jaw tightened.

"I'm watching." he grit out.

He wished sometimes, that she wouldn't call him that. Of course, it wouldn't matter what she called him – Clark – Kal – whatever, it was just the way she said it, when she whispered it like that, it made him lose control.

This time, when her fingers moved from his chest; ran the length of her thighs, trembling, a shudder running through her, when one unpainted digit made its way to his jaw, pushed its way past his lips and then between his teeth, only to trail back up her body to her chest, twisting and pleasuring...

... after all this he let his hands move; ran them up the length of her thighs, thumbs tickling; the muted rule broken. She gasped, whether in pleasure or surprise, he didn't know. They found her stomach and her teeth clenched. She was shaking, and it was his turn to smile. He moved them to her breasts, round and full, let the soft skin fill his hands, fingers ghosting knowingly over the peaks of her arousal, and she swallowed, movements faltering. His fingers began to knead and she whimpered.



"I-" she broke off, pronounced lines creasing the smooth skin of her brow as she searched for recall, "Hera... that feels good... wait ... "

But he couldn't wait.

Not being able to resist, he climbed the length of her body and having no reason to fight the thrumming compulsion he felt then, he kissed her; deep and long. He heard her laugh; a quiet, delighted whisper in between a gasp and sob and with a smile, he planted warm lips to her throat, the hollow of it, and then the dip of her breasts, teasing her for only a moment before following the insistence of the fingers at the back of his neck.

The sounds she made, his heat fogged mind found delightful, her back arched, head thrown back and hair cascading behind her like a waterfall of black.

A sudden, not so weak shove surprised him, sending him back where he'd started, back against the bed, the feel of the sheet uncomfortably cool with his sweat, like a spray of autumn hail in spring.

Automatically his hands moved to steady her hips, to slow the grind of her waist, but apparently she was having none of it because she caught them, dragged them up to rest on either side of his head.

The woman known to the world at large as Wonder Woman grunted. "Better." was all she said.

The Amazon hovered over him peremptorily, arms unsteady even as she leaned her weight against him, strong fingers moving from the grip they held on his wrists to twine their fingers together. It appeared that every breath she expelled was more so an excuse to moan than to breathe. Her hips dipped urgently to meet his, to impale herself on every bit of him that she could take.

It happened very fast. It was as though, very suddenly, she'd lost the strength to better the pull of gravity, because she fell forward, broken cries accompanying her in crumbling steps, until her hair pooled against his chest, and she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder; gasping. He felt her stiffen, muscles gripping and flexing spasmodically around him so that he had to grind his teeth. He found himself holding her to him to take control of the rhythm even as she began to crest.

Clark was vaguely aware that he was gasping, spine burning, but he didn't care. He was more preoccupied with the beautiful Amazon slowly coming apart in his arms. Clark couldn't – didn't dare – peel his eyes from her. She writhed above him, tremors pelting her body with the aftershocks of her pleasure. Face close to hers, his lips captured hers, molding against them, tongue tasting her, swallowing her cries. He devoured her, and as she slowly came down, in turn, set to the task of undoing him.

Face matted with sweat, blue eyes came to watch him. Hard, possessive, and just a little unfocused. She blew a stray strand of hair away from her lips. Wet them with her tongue. He was dangerously close to needing to kiss her again.

"Let go."

He grunted. He had – he was. He didn't hold back, not with her. Never with her. Didn't she know that? Clark ground his teeth, biting back a gasp. He failed. She should've known that. But then she was moving – traveling, laying her lips sloppily down against his, neck dipping, lips and tongue blazing a trail of sensation over his jaw, then his throat, breath light and like the sun against his ear. One hand at the base of his neck, the thicket of hair, the other trying for purchase against the headboard – pulling herself down onto him, more of him into her. Further. Deeper. Harder.

"Let go, Kal."

And he did – he was. With a final, decisive, thrust, he followed where she tread, finding his own completion. Gasping. Shaking. She collapsed unceremoniously on top of him. A mess of tangled limbs curling round one another.

They both lay together, her chest pressed to his chest, sweat traveling a path shared with his hand along the small of her back, he listened intimately to her slowly try to catch her breath. For long minutes they were silent, simply enjoying the others presence – the rise and fall with each exhaled breath. He felt her leg curl around his calf lazily, and so he was slightly surprised when – her voice breathless and content, face uncharacteristically mischievous – she whispered one word:


He took his time in responding, "As much as I'd like to," he looked at the clock, it read in a glowing green that held the dark at bay: 12:48. "No, not if I want to get to work at any decent time. Perry's expecting me at six, and I've got an interview at eight. Besides, ten, I think, is a record for us."

"Can you cancel?" she inquired huskily.

"No. Technically yes, I could, but – wait, don't you have that meeting with the Asian delegate?" he asked.

From her position, head against his chest, she favored him with a punishing gaze; as though the suggestion, the inclusion of that minor detail was an infraction against some larger, unspoken treaty.

He thought the way her hair fell across her face, like quicksilver in the low light, made it less than convincing.

"I do. They can wait until tomorrow." she stated unsympathetically. "Aphrodite knows they've done all they could do for the last two months to put off meeting with me. It would serve them right to receive some of their own medicine."

He could almost feel her frown. He sighed, "I can't, and neither should you."

She raised a brow, sighed, "You're right. I suppose. I'm being selfish."

The good natured smile emerged, "Only a little." It was to his credit that as she reached for a pillow, he ducked in what had to be record time.

They settled into a comfortable silence, and it would have been all that was said, except she added by way of what was apparently a correction: "It was nine, by the way." At his silence, she raised herself on one elbow and explained: "It was nine times – almost ten, in fact, nine."


That seemed to matter to him because he glanced at the clock, back to her; frowning. He wouldn't have monitor duty, not until the day after. "We could-" he began.

"I think we should." she finished.

"Let me-"

She was above him very quickly, very nimbly, expression a quiet smile, reaching for him, finding him for a tenth and an eleventh.

His hands made port at her waist, over the smooth skin, and venus perfect curves. Where her eyes made contact with his flesh – impermeable and nigh invulnerable – there was a spark, it seemed to heat, to burn. Forward and a little bit up on the backstroke, she rode him. Again and again. Like an ember, a slow burning flame, Clark thought, she was burning him alive.

Somewhere amidst it all, he concluded that he was going to be late, and as it turned out he didn't make it in to work at all, that day. Midtown traffic was just that thick he'd later explain to to his Editor in Chief – 'unrelenting, almost inexhaustible, and exceedingly distracting'.

He supposed that raise Perry had mentioned in passing might be a little later rather than sooner in coming. Not that he minded. Clark supposed he wasn't quite cut out to be a company man anyway.