everyone adores you (at least i do)
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. itās not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging peopleās caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says āgollyā unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here! word count: 10.2k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist
It starts with a spill.
Whichāof course it does. Itās not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. Itās just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy.Ā
The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasnāt fixed the bar towels situation, even though youāve asked twice. Politely.
(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)
Itās 10:37 AM, and youāre officially in the danger window.Ā
The Daily Planetās early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasnāt started yet, but thereās always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, coughāSteve Lombardācough, are actually just hungover.Ā
And then thereās him.
Clark Kent.
Youāre not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesnāt belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in aāyou are clearly from a much, much better plane of existenceĀ than all of these other assholesĀ kind of way. Youāre used to people who donāt make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clarkās different.
He holds doors open. Says thank you like itās a full sentence. He apologizes when heās the one getting bumped into.
And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.
Today, itās a soft āhi,ā with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like heās embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tieās crooked, and heās got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need.Ā
But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like itās some sort of a security blanket. Or heās worried someone will think heās lying about working here.
āMorning,ā he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.
āMorning,ā you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because youāre wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if heād implode. āLet me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.ā
That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. āNo guilt,ā he says. āJust... maybe sincerity.ā
āOh,ā you say, eyes wide. āEven worse.ā
And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. Itās different. Itās like he wasnāt expecting to be teased. Or wasnāt sure he deserved to be.
āWell⦠uh⦠I like your pin,ā he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. Itās a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says āRIBBIT AND RIP IT.ā
You arch a brow. āDo you?ā
He hesitates. āYes?ā
āYou sound unsure.ā
āWell, IāI meant it. Itās cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.ā
āOh no,ā you say gravely. āYou canāt just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.ā
Clark stammers. Stammers. āIāI wasnāt trying toāā
Youāre already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: āFROGTITUDEā¢ļøā under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.
He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.
āI like your tie,ā you say casually. āVery, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.ā
He blinks. Looks down at it. Itās navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.
āWow,ā he says, adjusting it self-consciously. āI, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.ā
āOf course she did.ā
Youāre trying not to enjoy this too much, but itās hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. Heās not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, heās awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasnāt realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.
(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)
āItās... nice in here today,ā he says, gesturing vaguely at the cafĆ©. āI meanāIāI like the energy.ā
You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos.Ā
The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama.Ā
The sticky note on the register that says NO āEXTRA HOTā LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.
āSure,ā you say. āIf youāre into⦠all that.ā
Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. Thatās yours now.
āYouāre funny,ā he says, and itās so genuine it actually throws you for a second.
āWell, yeah,ā you reply, recovering. āWhat else am I gonna do down here? Iām not allowed to unionize.ā
Thereās another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe youāve done something brave just by speaking.
You drum your fingers on the counter. āYouāre not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?ā
He panics. āNo! I meanādo you want me to? I canāā
āClark,ā you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. āIām just messing with you.ā
āOh,ā he says. And then, small: āRight. Of course.ā
Thereās a pause. He fumbles his change, and youāre so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if heād faint.
But you donāt. Not yet. Youāve got time. Heās clearly coming back.
Instead, you lean on the counter and say, āSame time tomorrow?ā
And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. āIāyeah. Yes. Definitely.ā
You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like itās the elixir of life, like you didnāt just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ādad-coded.ā He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.
Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag:Ā
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T!Ā
And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the āclean me or Iāll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cupsā sign. Grin. Tomorrow, youāll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.
.
When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because youāre not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember theyāre out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner oneās closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.
You actually like that a lot about it.
The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but itās doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and āforgotā to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.
The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels⦠personal.Ā
The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says youāve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.
You grab a basket and beeline for the produceābecause, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity.Ā
You will not acknowledge that youāre really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels youāll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again.Ā
Not yet.
Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someoneās arm after theyāve fainted. Uh⦠not encouraging.
āThree seventy-nine a pound,ā you mutter. āFucking recession indicator.ā
You donāt mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.
The scent hits firstātoo sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.
You shouldnāt even be here. You hate this aisle.
Youāve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peetās I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."
But.
You're the opener tomorrow.
And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. Youāre the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesnāt spit hot water directly into someoneās shoe again.
So you double back. Casually. Like maybe youāre here forāwhat? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?
Your gaze snags on a familiar name.
Itās a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to āguy who unironically wears a beanie in July.ā But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesnāt taste like ash.
The bag is $17. You stare at it like itās winking at you.
No one would have to know.
You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like itās the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.
You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round andāGod, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.
You glance around. No oneās watching you.
The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.
You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor.Ā
Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesnāt do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.
Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.
.
The next morning, Clarkās late. Again.
Youāre not watching the door.
Youāre not. Youāre definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the worldās gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that itās 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means heās either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dogās groceries.Ā
Which is honestly more likely.
Youāre behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast youāll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comesājacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.
āSorryāsorry,ā he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. āSomeone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevatorāwell, it made a noise I didnāt love.ā
You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.
Clark stares back.
And then, because it is Clark, he adds, āI think itās probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.ā
You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like itās a weapon.
āOhio,ā you say, slowly, ādo you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?ā
He shrugs, smiling like youāve just asked if he takes sugar. āI mean, it is an old building.ā
āClark.ā
āIām sure itās nothing.ā
You sigh, but itās mostly for show. āMedium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.ā
āRight,ā he says, blushing already. āYou always remember.ā
You donāt answer. You just pour.
You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If youāre gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.
You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.
Clark doesnāt grab it right away. Just stands there, allĀ soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.
āHey,ā he says, awkward but sincere. āMeant to tell youāI liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.ā
You blink. āYou remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"
Clark laughs, but itās almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. āThat. That wasāit made me smile all day.ā
You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.
āYouāve got low standards, Iowa.ā
āI donāt know about that,ā he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.
And pauses.
And blinks.
And then blinks again.
āOh my gosh,ā he whispers.
Itās not performative. He says it like heās just witnessed the birth of a star.
You fight down a grin. Hard.
āSomething wrong?ā you ask, innocent. Not innocent.
He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like itās betrayed every expectation heās ever had. āNo, itās justāI meanāI donāt think this is the usual blend?ā
You raise an eyebrow. āPreeeeetty sure it is.ā
He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.
He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if heās trying to confirm that he wasnāt hallucinating. āThis is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.ā
You stare at him. āDo you write poetry on the side?ā
Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. āSorry! I justāI think Iām having a moment.ā
āNo, please, go on. Iād love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.ā
He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. āSeriously, this is incredible. Did youādid someone special roast it?ā
āSure,ā you say, casually wiping the bar down. āWeāve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.ā
Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.
āIām kidding,ā you say, grabbing him a napkin. āNo tears. Just some good taste.ā
He takes the napkin with both hands. āI donāt know how Iām going to go back to regular coffee after this.ā
āYou wonāt,ā you say. āThatās the point. Iām ruining you on purpose.ā
Clark looks up, startled.
You donāt look away.
Just raise your eyebrows. āI mean, the house blendās a crime against humanity, and Iām tired of pretending itās not.ā
Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of himācrouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.
Success. He does blush all the way down.
āWell,ā he says softly, āI appreciate the sabotage.ā
āAnytime.ā
You say it offhand, because youāve been trying it out in your head and it fitsāsomewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like heās not sure if youāre being mean or just... noticing.
You are noticing. You always have.
He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. āHey, uh... if I brought in some cookiesālike, homemadeāwould that be weird?ā
You blink. āFor who?ā
āFor you,ā he says. āI mean, and your coworkers. Butāmostly you.ā
It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.
āI like baking,ā he adds quickly. āItās relaxing.ā
You try not to show your reaction. Fail. āYou bake?ā
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. āChocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?ā
You raise a hand. āOkay, now youāre just bragging.ā
Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.
The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watchācalculator-confirmedāthen back up at you.
āSee you tomorrow?ā he asks.
You tip your head. āYou bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?ā
His grin could power the city.
āDeal.ā
When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-Lā
"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."
.
A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.
Theyāre in a Tupperware container that looks like itās survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. Thereās a sticky note on the lid that just says: āMade these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didnāt measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CKā with a little cartoon of a cookie saying āHi :)ā.
Theyāre oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customersāsays something like, āHope theyāre edible,ā and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser.Ā
You take one while heās still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, āThis is offensively good.ā
Clarkāsweet, flustered Clarkābeams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.
.
Now itās Thursday, mid-morning, and youāre on break for once.
Which means youāre sitting in the corner booth in the cafĆ©ās far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. Youāre sipping your own coffee for onceāyour actual coffee, the not-house-blend blendāand listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. Itās pretty great.
And then the bell over the door rings.
You donāt look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the momentāthe horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.
Sure enough, when you glance up, itās him.
Clark walks in like a gust of airārumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And youāyou pretend not to see him.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.
He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano.Ā
One of your coworkersāDevāmakes his coffee. Devās in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.
And then Clark... doesnāt leave.
No, he glances over his shoulder.
At you.
And thenāGod help youāhe comes over.
You watch him cross the cafĆ© with the awkward but determined gait of someone whoās trying not to overthink walking.
āHey,ā he says, standing beside your booth.
You sip your coffee. āYouāre lingering, Nebraska.ā
He flushes. āWell. I just... Iāve never seen you on break.ā
āYou mean sitting down like a human person?ā
āYeah,ā he says, then realizes how that sounds. āNo! I justāI meanālike, not behind the bar. Itās new.ā
You raise a brow again. āNew enough to investigate?ā
Clark hesitates. He looks like heās going to retreat. But thenāhe doesnāt.
āCan I sit?ā he asks.
And for the sheer novelty of itāhe, whoās never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks youāve known him, not even when there were pastries involvedāyou nod slowly and say, āSure. Knock yourself out.ā
Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasnāt built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like heās worried it might be offended.
āYouāve never sat down down here before,ā you say.
He clears his throat. āUsually I donāt because of, um... the lighting. Itāsāuhāaggressively fluorescent.ā
āMm. Not because of the draft or the, I donāt know, weird linoleum tiles?ā
āThose too,ā he says solemnly. āAlso the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.ā
You snort into your sleeve. āWow. Big talk from someone whoās been down here religiously for weeks.ā
He ducks his head, grinning. āIām a complicated man.ā
āNo, youāre a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.ā
He raises his cup in salute. āGuilty.ā
Thereās a brief pause where you both sip. Youāre not sure what he expected, but the fact that heās now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.
āSo,ā you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. āWhatās the angle, Illinois?ā
āNo angle,ā he says quickly. āJust... thought itād be nice. To talk.ā
You raise an eyebrow. āTalk. Like people. Who talk.ā
āExactly,ā he says, determined now. āI meanāweāve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.ā
āThatās my love language.ā
He laughs. āGood to know.ā
You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. āSo. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?ā
His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.
āActually, yes.ā
You sip your coffee. āI was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.ā
āAh. A classic heroās journey.ā
āMore of a Greek tragedy. Thereās no escape and everyone dies a little inside.ā
He lets out a soft, real laughāhead tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.
āSo what about you?ā you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. āWhatās your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?ā
āClose,ā he says, beaming. āI wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.ā
You blink. āThat is... deeply wholesome.ā
He shrugs. āI peaked early.ā
A silence settles again, but itās not awkward. Itās... comfortable. Warm.
And heās got his sleeves rolled up.
You hadnāt noticed before, not really. But nowānow that heās sitting still, now that heās not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explodeāyou can see it.
Clark has arms.
Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasnāt a journalist, heād be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that youāre not saying youāve read. Orā
Anyway.
Youāre not that fixated on them. Youāre not. Youāre justānot blind.
Itās a new kind of hell. Because heās sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.
āYou okay?ā he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didnāt just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesnāt know that his sleeves are a war crime and youāre the sole surviving witness.
āYup,ā you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast.Ā
He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. āJust thinking.ā
Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, āAbout?ā
You look at him. Really look.
Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe youāre upset, or tired, orāGod help youābored. He shifts in the booth like heās about to apologize for existing.
And you canāt help it.
You reach outācalmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didnāt just short-circuit at the sight of his forearmsāand pluck the pen from behind his ear.
Clark stills immediately.
āOhāuhāā he stammers, straightening up a little, like heās done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. āDid youādo you need to write something down?ā
āDonāt move,ā you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.
His mouth opens like heās about to ask something else, but you donāt give him the chance.
Instead, you reach for his left armāfingertips brushing warm, tan skināand gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.
And he lets you.
He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the otherāsteady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isnāt the first time youāve touched him. Like itās not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.
His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.
You feel the tremor run through himānot dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.
And then you see it.
Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like heās standing in a cold wind even though the cafĆ© is very much decidedly not cold.
He stares at your hand on his arm like itās some sort of a religious event. Like heās worried blinking will make it go away.
You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.
He still doesnāt move.
You glance up. Heās still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, āIām free this weekend. Saturday. After five.ā
Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Closes it. Tries again. āOkay,ā he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. āYeah. Yes. Iāgreat. Iāllāuhāyeah.ā
You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. āWords, Clark. Youāre a journalist, remember?ā
His ears go scarlet.
āIāll text you,ā he says quickly. āAnd weāll... weāll do a thing. A date. Together. If thatās okay.ā
You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.
āThatās the idea.ā
Clarkās holding his arm like itās breakable. Like the numberās written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.
And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like heās memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.
His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.
Itās ridiculous.
Itās endearing.
Itāsādangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.
You donāt. Not yet.
But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like itās some sort of secret message.
The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.
.
Itās just a date.
Just. A date.
With Clark Kent.
But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This oneās too tight. That oneās too try-hard. This one screams, āpleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.ā And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like itās not enough. Like youāre not enough. Which is⦠probably not great? Mentally? But youāre too deep in it to self-soothe now.
You glance at the time.
Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.
But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.
You dive.
CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: Iām excited. Thatās all.
You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. Heās so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.
YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earthās crust or whatever
Immediately regret it.
Too much. Youāre being too much. Youāre going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.
But thenā
CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or Iāll else I'll end up at Arbyās by mistake.
You send it. You donāt even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.
YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior š CLARK K.: See you soon!
You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.
.
When the knock comes, itās not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know itās him. Because youāre not unhinged. Just⦠cautious.
And then you open the door.
And there he is.
Standing on your doormat like he hasnāt just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.
Itās not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.
Heās got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadnāt been fully prepared to see you either.
And heās a little out of breath.
Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now heās a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.
āHi,ā he says, and itās soft, shy almost.
And youāYou blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.
He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like heās just won a prize.
āYou lookā¦ā He trails off, then clears his throat. āI mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is⦠wow.ā
You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.
āWow back,ā you mutter, because youāre a disaster.
Youāre pretty sure this man could say āmacaroni saladā and youād swoon like youāve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.
Definitely.
He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.
And for one brief moment, you think maybeāmaybeāyou wonāt survive this date. But God, what a way to go.
.
Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where itās not wet, exactly, but itās not dry either.
You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like heās about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, āI havenāt been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldnāt recommend that combo.ā
You raise your eyebrows. āThatāsāderanged.ā
āI was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.ā
You hum, flipping through the menu. āYou brought me to a trauma site.ā
āItās not a trauma site. Itāsācomfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a āpatty meltā is sexy.ā
You snort. āIt kind of is.ā
Clark chokes on his water.
And thenāit starts.
The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just⦠this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the cafĆ©, and not in the fake way people do when theyāre trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like itās funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and youāre 80% sure itās stolen by the guy who āworks remoteā in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.
Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the āonce I interviewed Supermanā stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type āI AM A NERDā no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.
āI tried to help him stretch it out,ā Clark says, ābut then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I donāt even know how. It was like a cartoon.ā
āAnd Perry still lets you write about city politics?ā
Clark grins, crooked and earnest. āWell, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention āaccountabilityā every third paragraph.ā
āDo you always laugh at your own stories this much?ā
He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. āYeah. Sorry. I justāonce I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. Itās a problem.ā
āNo, itās cute,ā you say, too fast.
He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like theyāve suddenly become very interesting.
āI mean,ā you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, āobjectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing Godās work.ā
Clark smiles, small this time, like heās trying not to spook the moment. āWell, youāre really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."
You press your foot against the floor so you donāt accidentally kick him under the table.
āYeah,ā you say. āYou too. Except for the patty melt thing. Thatās still upsetting.ā
āI stand by it. Youāve never lived until youāve had American cheese with a side of regret.ā
You roll your eyes. āHow do you not have IBS?ā
He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. āGood genes?ā
You snort. āIs that what weāre calling them now?ā
Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.
Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.
He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and youāre in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You donāt say no. You donāt really want to.
Besides, itās kind of⦠nice. The way he walks like someone whoās not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.
He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like heās afraid theyāll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something heās saying and then, as if remembering themselves, theyāre quickly shoved back in.
āYou know,ā you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, āfor someone whoās allegedly a professional journalist, you donāt ask a lot of prying questions.ā
Clark hums. āIāve been told my bedside manner is⦠Midwestern.ā
āThatās not a real thing.ā
āIt absolutely is. Itās like⦠nosiness with a layer of apology. Weāll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.ā
You shoot him a look. āYour poor sources.ā
āI bribe them with muffins.ā
Youāre still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying fireflyāglow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isnāt the part where the night ends.
Clark doesnāt catch the signal.
He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like heās clocking out of the shift. Like heās already back on the subway in his head.
āWell,ā he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. āThis was really nice.ā
You blink. Thatās it?
āYeah,ā you say, voice thin. āIt was.ā
Thereās a beat.
Then another.
He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isnāt quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing himātelepathically willing himāto pick up the stick.
Nothing.
You glance toward the door, then back at him. āItās, uh⦠itās not super late, if you⦠if you wanted to come up.ā
Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.
āOh.ā A pause. āI meanāI wouldnāt want to intrude.ā
āYou wouldnāt be.ā
He shifts his weight. āYou probably have to open early tomorrowā¦ā
āSo do a lot of people. Thatās not a reason not to have tea.ā
āTea?ā
You gesture vaguely in the air. āOr, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.ā
āI wouldnāt want to overstayāā
āClark,ā you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, āyou walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think weāre past overstaying.ā
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And thenāfinallyāfinallyāyou see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.
āOh,ā he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.
You laugh under your breath. āJesus Christ.ā
āIām sorry,ā he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. āIāI just didnāt want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didnāt want to turn that intoāā
āYouāre extremely noble,ā you say, climbing one step higher so heās looking up at you a little. āItās wildly inconvenient.ā
He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. āSorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Orāfriendly.ā
āI am being nice,ā you say, leaning against the doorframe, ābut I donāt usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.ā
Clarkās eyes flick up to yours. Thereās something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.
āRight,ā he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation heās now realizing happened in real time.
You reach for the door handle. āSo. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?ā
He smiles, crooked and boyish. āDepends. Do you have chamomile?ā
āI have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.ā
He climbs the steps after you. āPerfect. Thatās my favorite flavor.ā
It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like itās second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.
āMake yourself at home,ā you say, voice light, like this isnāt the most vulnerable youāve felt in weeks. āJust ignore the sink. Itās full of, uh, science experiments.ā
He grins. āIāve faced worse.ā
You scoff. āBet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.ā
But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.
You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomileāthe knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.
The kettle whistles. You make the tea.
By the time you bring the mugs over, heās perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like heās trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.
Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like heās in an interview.
You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you donāt realize how close youāve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesnāt move. Just tenses. Barely. And then⦠relaxes again.
Okay. Now or never.
āI feel like youāre waiting for a sign,ā you say, not looking at him. āLike a signal or something.ā
Clark laughs, a little too quickly. āAm I that obvious?ā
āYouāre very obvious.ā
He doesnāt defend himself. Doesnāt argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after itās been switched off.
āI donāt want toāā he starts, then stops. āI donāt want to ruin a good thing.ā
āItās tea,ā you say softly. āItās not sacred.ā
āThatās not what I mean.ā
You donāt speak.
And thenāthenāfinally, he moves.
Itās small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like heās still asking.
Heās close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.
āYouāre allowed to kiss me,ā you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.
Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before heās even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like heās not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.
It doesnāt.
It starts gentleājust the press of his mouth to yours, warm and carefulābut the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you donāt expect how good he is at this. How confident.
He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like itās trying to escape your throat.
And he kisses like someone whoās had to be careful his whole life. Like heās used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like heās used to stopping himself midwant.
But not now.
Now he touches you like heās hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like heās letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.
Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesnāt pull away.Ā
If anything, he leans in more.
And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, itās not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice.Ā
Like heās already thought it through and decided: yes. This.
You pull back, just a breath, dazed. āYou sure you donāt do this often?ā
His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.
āI never said I didnāt,ā he murmurs. āI said I didnāt want to assume.ā
Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like heās not just trying to take it off, heās trying to understand you.
āCan Iā¦?ā he asks, voice low, already hoarse.
You nod, half-dazed. āYeah.ā
He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like heās waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, āOh.ā
āYouāre staring,ā you manage, breathless.
āI know,ā he says, completely unrepentant.
And then itās your turn.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like youāre trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.
āLet me?ā he offers, fingers brushing yours.
You nod. āPlease.ā
He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like heās doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.
All of him.
And goddamn.
You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like youāre cataloguing a new species.
Because this man is ripped.Ā
Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, heās absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.
āJesus,ā you whisper. āYou did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.ā
Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.āI, uhā¦ā He rubs the back of his neck. āFarm work?ā
You narrow your eyes. āThat is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.ā
You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.
He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.
āI like the way you look at me,ā he murmurs.
You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. āIām trying not to faint.ā
āYou can,ā he says, lips just barely grazing yours. āIāve got you."
You kiss him again, and itās greedy this timeāhands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though youāre already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like heās trying to memorize your shape.
Then his mouth finds your neck.
It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.
āYou smell so good,ā he mutters. āYouāre gonna ruin me.ā
And then heās on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel itānot just the ache, but the intention.
You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. āClarkāā
āSay my name again,ā he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. āIāll do anything.ā
He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know itās going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.
āClark,ā you breathe. āYouāre obsessed with my neck.ā
He smiles against your skin. āI really am.ā
āDo I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?ā
He pulls back, eyes dark. āYou might want to. But Iād rather everyone knew.ā
You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.
You like him. You like him too damn much.
He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.
āYou okay?ā he asks.
You nod. āYeah. You?ā
But then he stills.
āWaitāā he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. āDo youāI mean, I didnāt think weādāuh. I didnāt bring anything. I donāt haveā¦ā
He trails off. His ears are pink.
You blink. āYou donātā?ā
He shakes his head, mortified. āNo. I wasnāt planning onāI mean, I hoped, but I didnāt think weād... I didnāt want to assume.ā
You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. āOf course you didnāt.ā
His eyes widen. āIām sorryāI swear Iām not usuallyāwell, I am usuallyāā
āClark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. Toā¦" you cough. "Go without a condom."
Clark goes quiet.
Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippersā
"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'māyeah, that's alright."
You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.
"You'reāwow, you're justā¦. god you're beautiful."
Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."
"Yes ma'am."
The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is⦠unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.
Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Isādo you like what you see?"
You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."
He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.
You just need this man in you now.Ā
And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.
"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern.Ā
He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"
"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."
And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."
Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tellāyou can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.
Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.
When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so goodā"
Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.
He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.
"You like that?"
"God, yes. Clarkā"
You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.
It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.
Holy shit.
āLook at you,ā he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. āSo gorgeous. So good for me.ā
You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. āYouāre not what I thought youād be.ā
His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, āWhat did you think?ā
āI thought youād be gentle.ā
He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. āI am being gentle.ā
You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. āJesus.ā
āNo,ā Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. āJust me.ā
The room sounds so filthyāhim, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.
Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys.Ā
His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.
Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"
"Yesā" You whine. "God, yes, just pleaseāplease don't stop. I'll do anything, IāI'llā"
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."
It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gaspāhigh and keeningāone solid hand tangled in your hairā
"Oh, I'm gonna cumāare you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonnaāohā"
You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes.Ā
He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren'tāfeeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.
Holy shit.
The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Thenāa kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.
And then for the crescendoā
"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."
.
It starts simple. Like a āgood morning.ā Like a āstill here.ā
Youāre barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.
But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like heās afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.
His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.
āClark,ā You gaspābecause itās him, because itās too early for this, because itās already too muchāand he groans like thatās a reward.
āYou taste like heaven,ā he murmurs. āIām sorry. I canāt stop.ā Then, quieter: āCan I stay a little longer?ā
You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the roomāyour jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like itās had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everythingās a mess. Itās all a mess.
And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like heās always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morningāhair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.
You look back at him. āI mean. Youāre kind of in too deep already.ā
His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. āSo thatās a yes?ā
You reach for himl, like your heart isnāt currently doing somersaults. āThatās a yes.ā
Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like youāve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him itās his now.
And itās almost too much.Ā
The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe itās got claws, too.Ā
But you let it stay. Let him stay.
You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, āGod help me, Iām gonna have to make you breakfast, arenāt I?ā
Clark, already half off theĀ bed, perks up. āI like waffles.ā
You sigh, dramatic. āOf course you do. That tracks.ā
And thatās where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let itĀ If he stays.
(He will.)












