you buy a "pheromone" perfume you saw off of tiktok. you didn't think it'd work, considering most reviewers are paid to be positive. didn't think of telling simon either because you wanted to secretly record his reaction when you ask him to "smell your new perfume."
simon knew the whole time. didn't understand why at first; but he didn't bother thinking too much about it. not when it gives him the perfect excuse to obsess over his wife and show her just how much he loves her.
the package arrived a few weeks later. when simon was out at the store buying a car part for his old truck, you were left to your own devices. so you opened the package, rolled on the perfume, set up the phone, and waited.
5 minutes later, simon walks in. his footsteps are similar to a heartbeat, solid and firm thuds on the hardwood floor.
"love?" he hummed, eyeing you and the way you were standing in the kitchen with an expectant smile on your face. he spotted the phone propped up poorly covered with canned foods and misplaced paper towels too; you must've gotten the package.
"got a package si, a new perfume. wanna smell it?" you stepped closer, gesturing to your neck.
he observed you, eyes trailing from your neck up to your face in that quiet fashion that always flustered you. he never just looked at you, he studied you. his stare reached under your ribs and to your thudding heart, fluttering inconsistently like a jumping doe.
all you could do was flush while he continued staring, dropping your hand to your side.
he then nodded, approaching you and sliding his hands along your waist. you want attention, love? you'll get it.
John Price never indulged in mundane things that could lead him into having weaknesses
After years of being the captain of the 141, faced endless deaths of soldiers, piles of paperwork waiting for him after every mission, the uncertainty if there’s going to be a “next mission”, hell even a tomorrow seemed far from today, and the heavy burden of countless soldier deaths that weighed more and more with each passing day, he never seemed to cared about his own personal life besides work. The consequences of his job would haunt him until his death; he knew this since the day he accepted the responsibility of being a Captain of not of other but a special force. Death came along the job, and at the time it felt like it was calling him day and night waiting for him to make one wrong move.
After months of disagreements and abruptly ended phone calls with Laswell, John finally decided that retiring was the best option for his mental health, on his own words “his mental health was something that he couldn’t care less about” but Kate knew that John was on a tightrope that could cost his own life and the entire team, well-being in the years to come.
Needless to say, the first months felt wrong. Out of place in simple terms he couldn’t explain. The constant feeling that Laswell was going to reach out for his team and him to be shipped into a battlefield or a mission far away, the feeling didn’t go away immediately. He caught himself looking at this phone often, waiting for the call, but the phone never rang— or not with the call that he was expecting to get.
The situation was infatuating. Each passing day he felt like there was no purpose to anything he did anymore. The routine, one that accommodated to his new lifestyle, did not feel right to him; wake up at 6 a.m. sharp, take a shower, brush his teeth, make a cup of coffee while reading the newspaper, sit in front of the tv waiting for the clock to strike 12 to start thinking about lunch, wash some laundry, clean the stove—
It was killing him alive.
John never imagined himself longing to be a soldier, sensing the smell of gunpowder in his hands and clothes, and having to sleep standing in unknown places where his team and him would kill terrorist. He thought once he could finally live the normal civilian life he dreamed of time to time the memories of the battlefield would be shoved in the back of his consciousness, far life behind that didn’t belong to him anymore.
So, he moved to the countryside to solve his overthinking problem.
Quiet.
The previous owners of the farm warned him about some hybrids around the area, not all of them being dangerous but the caution was meant to be held by the surrounding residents. He remembered years ago, the government did many messed up experiment with humans and animals of all kinds, which the result being hybrid of part humans part animals. John never got to meet a hybrid face to face, not that he could really tell or paid any attention to it if he had in the past, but he knew they were all around the world— some of them embracing their wild side hidden in the shadows and nature protected by their respective government, some of them embracing their human part and deciding to live in peace around humankind. Price didn’t think much of it, the couple told him they had never seen a hybrid abrupt their property or other farmers around the area, so he let the information go away as soon as it came.
He never imagined himself as a farmer, having to take care of animals, which, as a joke on him, he just had to take care of animals who were so-called his team, keeping his little garden in a beautiful and healthy state with different vegetables, fruits, and plants. The surroundings of the farm were way quieter than his old, raggedy department in the urban area he had just moved to live. He swore the buzzing of the bees, and the movement of the far-away river were louder, and with time the feeling of adrenaline of a new mission went away. Jus for long enough, and he knew it. His routine now was filled with many task around his house and little farm through the day, almost living him with no time to think about his now old lifestyle.
After some months of being settled in his new home, he started to notice his garden less and less fruitful— something or someone was having a feast in his garden, leaving with a full stomach and coming for more the next days. He didn’t like it very much. While he knew many animals around the area were a must when living in the rural side, this was the first time since moving that he found himself having a problem with the unknown animal.
The rifle under his bed seemed to finally have a use after months of dusting.
He learned the animal schedule, but it seems he could never catch it on the act of stealing from his precious, now ruined into pieces, garden that he worked oh so hard on it. Every time he would wait on the porch of his house, waiting for the right time holding his rifle in his lap to shoot death the animal that was having the audacity to steal from John Price itself. His patient was running low with the animal each passing day, until one day he heard the careful but timid steps of something. He tried to approach as quickly and quietly as he could.
It was now or never to send to hell this animal he thought to himself.
Without second thought he pointed his rifle to the animal not expecting the sight in-front of him in a million years. A little doe hybrid standing in his garden with stuffed cheeks of his raspberries and hands standing still looking directly at him in utterly fear of the human in-front of her with big doe eyes basically pleading him to not kill her. The gripped on his rifle eased, his eyes softened when he got to see your trembling legs barely making the work of keeping you standing- he swore that even the gentle breeze of the afternoon could knock you over. With one handle hand he let his rifle on the ground to then put both in the air to show you how he didn’t have any more weapons on him.
“Hey there, pretty little doe,” he tried to sound gentle but his raspy and rough voice didn’t help at all “I am not going to hurt you. I was just trying to see who’s being eating all my garden.” He tried to explain not knowing if you could understand anything he was saying or if you could speak at all. He could see how your gaze wander from the bottom, from where his rifle that laid, to top where your gaze and his connected.
You shocked your head in disagreement, a slow but confused movement. Your throat bob when you swallow the little raspberries on your mouth, while trying to hide your hands behind your back with the other portion of raspberries.
He chuckles to himself. So, you do understand what he is saying to some degree ”I know, little doe, I’m not going to use it if that’s what you are worried about,” his gazed dropped to the rifle, “you must be so hungry, am I right? You have eaten all my garden in the last months.” He could see you nodding in agreement, still a light tremble in your body and oh those big doe eyes not leaving him for a second.
John Price never indulged in mundane things that could lead him into having weaknesses, but just for now you may be the exception of his own rules.
Hi, guys, this is my first ever post in Tumblr for my little writings I have. Thank you so much if you got to the end of this little idea I've for a little while.
Please follow me and feel free to leave any comments, questions, feedback in the comments or in my ask section! English is not my first language so I know mistakes have been made in this post. Enjoy!
your cute coworker clark overhears your conversation with lois, and takes it upon himself to get you some of your favourite things. requested here !
clark kent x fem!reader, 1k words (not proofread oops)
Clark likes watching you.
Not in a creepy way, mind you. It’s just, you’re really pretty, and he likes the way you talk with your hands, and how you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re concentrating. You’re always wearing the loveliest outfits, soft cardigans and pretty jewellery, and your hair is such a nice colour, and not to mention, your desk is situated right near the window, so for an hour or two a day, your features are bathed in golden sunlight, and you look even more like an angel than usual.
He supposes it is a bit creepy of him. But it’s not like he can help it. You’re totally mesmerising. Besides, his own desk is all the way on the other side of the room — it shouldn’t be humanly possible for him to see all the details of you so clearly, but he’s Superman. He can see and hear everything you do, even from this far away. He’s glad for it, too, otherwise you’d have called out his staring problem months ago.
“Sunflowers are too yellow,” you’re saying to Lois, passionate in your discussion about flowers and which kind is the best to receive. Clark’s been listening in, for research purposes. “And roses are too red.”
Lois laughs, “You can get roses in other colours, you know.”
“I know,” you say defensively, sticking your chin out at her. “But I’ve only ever gotten red. They’re so boring.”
“Well, what flowers do you like?” Lois asks, sounding amused, and Clark perks up.
“Hmm,” you tap your chin thoughtfully. Then, after a moment of thought, “I like lilies. The pink ones are so pretty.”
That’s how Clark ends up late to work the next day, a big bouquet of pink and white lilies clutched in his hand, their stalks strangled in his nervous grip. The cellophane crinkles against his suit as he weaves through bustling colleagues towards his desk. In his other hand is a brown paper bag, still warm, smelling of sugar and almonds.
Clark’s surprised, and a bit alarmed, to find you already standing at his desk, poring over your notebook. His heart suddenly picks up speed, and he considers turning tail and running the other way, but you look up as he approaches. Too late.
“Oh, Clark, you’re here. I just wanted to ask you about—“ You stop short as your gaze lands on the flowers cradled to his chest. You raise a brow, “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Clark feels suddenly really nervous. He wishes he could wipe his sweaty palms on his suit jacket, but his hands are full. He swallows.
“Um,” He starts lamely. His glasses start to slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with the hand holding the flowers. “You?”
You blink at him, looking understandably confused. “Huh?”
Clark flounders for a long moment. This is not going how he’d hoped it would.
“Uh.” He clears his throat and steels his nerves. “They’re… they’re for you, honey.”
He offers the flowers to you. Your features are still screwed up in skepticism, and Clark is immensely grateful when you take them from him, your fingers brushing his as you go.
“Oh.” You gaze down at the flowers, then back up at Clark, blinking rapidly. Clark wonders if you’re as nervous as he feels. He doubts it. “What for?”
Clark’s not really sure himself. He doesn’t know why he got them, he just knows that he likes you, and you like lilies, and maybe the logic got a bit lost in the process, but sue him for thinking you deserve nice things.
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. No reason, really,” he rubs the back of his neck with a warm hand. “I just thought you’d like them. Do you?”
You nod vehemently. “I love them, Clark. They’re so pretty, how’d you know lilies are my favourite?”
Clark hesitates. He’s not about to tell you he’s been listening in on your conversations. One, it’s definitely borderline creepy, and two, Clark Kent isn’t supposed to have super hearing.
He just grins, sheepish. “Dunno,” he says. “Just a lucky guess. I got you this, as well.”
He holds out the paper bag before he can psyche himself out. You put the flowers down on his desk, gentle as ever, and take the bag from him, opening up the top and peeking in.
“An almond croissant?” You say, sounding surprised and pleased at once.
Your shoulders start to creep towards your ears, and you bite the inside of your cheek like you’re trying not to smile too big. Clark knows almond croissants are your favourite. He heard you raving to Jimmy about the ones at the bakery down the street last week.
Before Clark can give you another lame explanation for his conveniently suitable gifts, you surge at him, throwing your arms around his neck with a pleased giggle. Clark, startled, catches you with his hands on your waist. His heartbeat goes suddenly frantic.
“Clark,” you gush, and his name sounds unbelievably sweet in your mouth. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know you skip breakfast most days,” he says, sheepish and a little bit panicked. His face feels like it’s on fire, worse when you pull back and smile at him like he’s hung the sun. “I figured you’d be hungry. I was going past the bakery, anyway. It’s no big deal.”
He’s rambling, but he can’t help it. You’re so close, and your smile is bruising.
You give him an exasperated look. “You’re downplaying it. Almond croissants are my favourite!” You steal your arms back from around his neck and hit him on the chest gently. He doesn’t feel a thing, but it’s cute anyway. “What are you, psychic?”
Worse, Clark thinks. He shrugs. “I told you. Lucky guesses.”
You squint at him, and Clark feels the heat of a million suns on his skin under your gaze. He almost spills his guts right then and there, but before he can, you break into a big smile.
“You’re cute, Kent,” you say decidedly. Before Clark can react, you push up onto your tiptoes, press a hand to his chest, and kiss his check sweetly. “Thank you.”
Clark goes a bit blind. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was steam gushing out of his ears right now. He’s gotta do this more often if you’re gonna react like that.
Thoughts on a dragon!price in a world where dragons on scarce, never seeing dragons except for his own family, and then dragon!reader joins the team?
He doesnt realize what you are at first, and you would like to keep it that way. Most dragons have large wings, curling horns, sharp teeth and claws that could kill. Each one so distinct it would be impossible to be mistaken for a human.
So of course he doesnt suspect you to be a dragon. You make sure there's nothing to give you away. Wings that a far smaller than they should be at your age are folded and bound tight to your spine, claws filed down and the stumps hidden behind gloves. Your short tail can be tucked into pants easily enough. Oddly, you never have to struggle with horns, because yours never grow. The stumps are hidden behind your hair, and you wear a face mask for the teeth.
You act like a human, for the most part. But youve never been around another dragon before, and what you had thought were normal behaviors are getting you odd looks. Like whenever price tries to put a hand on your shoulder or nape, and you flinch away.
Or at breakfast, when you get your own food. Everyone else waits for price to serve them, and he makes a huff of smoke when he sees you already have a plate. Kyle has to pull you aside one day and explain "dude, youve got to stop brushing prices instincts off. Its fine if you don't want to be a part of his hoard but at least let him coddle you a bit."
....so all of those things price did that made your instincts buzz was him trying to treat you like hoard. Hm. Tentatively, you allow it to happen and push down any instincts it causes for you. You dont purr when a wind wraps around you, and you dont puff a thanks when he gets you food. You are so good at being human.
Until you aren't.
Until you and price get ambushed on an op. Weapons are taken and hands bound. They put a muzzle over prices face to stop him from breathing fire. They didnt give one to you.
Two gaurds are in front of you, one is behind price with a gun to his temple. You inhale deeply, let it roll around in your lungs. The sound is so subtle the humans miss it, but you know price doesnt when his step falters for half a second.
With a great exhale, you engulf the first gaurd in flames. Compared to other dragons, the flames are laughable, but its still strong as a flame thrower and more than effective. The second you do, price jerks and knocks the gaurd behind him out with his horns. The second you two are secure and the soldiers are dead, price is turning to you with a furious look.
"What the bloody hell was that?" He voice was low, dangerous as he back you against a tree "because to me, it looked like you just breathed fire. But youre not a dragon, aye? Unless youve been lying, so what was that?"
For the first time, you feel a bit scared of price.
You push further into the tree, had your wings been unbound thet would have tucked close to your back. "...I am one. A dragon, that is."
Price curses, slames a fist into the try close to your head then backs away to pace. His tail lashes back and forth over dead leaves in agitation. "You dont have horns. Or wings. Hell, I would have noticed if you had claws or a tail too."
Hes talking to himself, but you still respond. There's no need to lie when its so obvious now. "I do, captain. My wings are uh- bound currently. Horns never grew in."
Prices head whips around to stare at you, and when he exhales its with a cloud of black smoke. Of god hes pissed. Price grabs his com, doesnt stop staring at you. "Watcher-1 this is Bravo six requesting immediate exfil. Its an emergency."
He leaves it at that, waits for laswell to reply before grabbing you by the forearm and dragging you through the trees. You stumble along, mind lagging at the sudden urgency in prices movements. "Exfil? Captain- what? Why-?"
The next puff of smoke has you shutting up. "You're horns havent grown in. Your wings are bound. That pathetic spark you threw earlier. Youre fuckin' deathly sick, kid. We're getting you to medical to find out what the hell you fucked up."
Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.
Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼
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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.
A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.
“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.
He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.
Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.
“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”
He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.
“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”
He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.
“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.
He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.
God, if only you knew.
“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.
“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“
He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.
“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”
Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.
“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“
“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.
You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.
But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.
“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.
He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.
“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.
You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.
Because of you.
You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.
You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.
“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”
He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.
“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”
You want him. God you always want him.
The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.
“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”
It’s over.
The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.
His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.
His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.
“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”
He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.
“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”
He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.
Right now he is just muscle in front of you.
His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.
You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.
“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”
He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.
You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.
He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”
He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.
One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.
You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.
Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.
“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”
His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.
And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.
“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”
You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.
He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.
Still fucking you.
Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.
So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.
And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.
“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“
“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”
Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.
He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.
“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“
“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.
He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.
He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.
Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
“…Are you okay?”
You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.
But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.
You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.
Still needing you.
“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”
“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.
But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?
He melts.
You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.
He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.
He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.
“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”
You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.
None of you cares.
“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”
He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.
You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.
You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.
It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.
Your head starts spinning.
“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”
His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.
You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.
“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.
His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.
“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.
He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.
And you like it, god you love it.
“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”
“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.
He picks up the pace.
“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“
“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”
You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.
And he does.
He fucks you like you’re his last breath.
Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.
You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.
All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”
Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.
Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…
You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.
“Fuck me harder.”
You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.
And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”
You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.
You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.
By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.
Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.
You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.
You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.
Worth it.
Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.
Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.
“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.
“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”
You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”
⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆
I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman
Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
Hiya! David!clark with prompt 2 from your list pretty please w the juiciest cherry on top! SMOOCHES TO YOUUU
Smooches to you as well, anon!! This was such a cute drabble request!
Pairing: David!Clark Kent x F!Reader
Word Count: 532
Rating: Gen. This is pure fluff with the prompt, Wait a minute. Are you jealous?
A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca for looking this over!
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist
“And, anyway,” Clark continues, fumbling with the stack of papers in his hands. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to meet him alone. Someone should come with you. Just for safety, you know? You can never be too careful.”
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a date, Clark. Not some shady source for a story. You’re acting like I’m meeting a criminal kingpin.”
He frowns, pushing his glasses back up his nose in a familiar gesture you’ve seen him do a hundred times. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m just saying, you don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. He could be an axe murderer, for all we know.”
It’s only the worried crease between his brow and the genuine concern you see in his eyes that keep you from laughing at how seriously he’s taking this.
“He’s friends with Jimmy,” you remind him, giving his very firm, muscly shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“How well does Jimmy actually know this guy?” Clark questions. “Are they actual friends, or more like ‘a friend of a friend’ kind of situation?”
“I think they play pickleball together?” you say, though you can’t fully remember. Jimmy tended to ramble a lot and well, truth be told, sometimes you tuned him out. “Or maybe it was D&D? I’m not sure which one it is, but he’s definitely not some random weirdo. Just a nerd.”
“I should talk to Jimmy,” Clark says with a nod like he hasn’t even heard you.
Before he can walk past, you stop him with a firm hand on his chest, your fingertips grazing the crisp, starchy white shirt he’s wearing.
“Wait a minute. What’s going on?” You question.
Clark may have had the reputation of the office big brother, always looking out for everyone, but this was something else. It felt different. It felt like he liked you.
No.
That couldn’t be right. He was so wildly out of your league and that thought sounded insane, even to your own ears. But as you study his face, you catch the way his eyes flick away from yours for just a beat too long, the briefest hesitation, and how his hand tightens around the stack of papers, his knuckles whitening.
“Are you jealous?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You wince, wishing you could swallow them back up when you see the tips of Clark’s ears turn red. He opens his mouth, then closes it, before tugging on his collar.
“Oh,” you whisper.
“Is that a good oh?” Clark asks you, looking almost nervous.
“Oh,” you say again like an idiot as your brain tries to catch up with the sharp left turn this conversation has taken. Clark Kent liked you. Like actually liked you.
"I do," Clark murmurs, and it takes a second to realize you must have said that last part out loud.
“Well, I should probably cancel that date then,” you tell him.
“And I should probably ask you out,” he replies, glancing around the bullpen before stepping closer.
“Yeah,” you agree, getting a little lost in how blue his eyes are.
summary: you decide to spend your summer between jobs back in your hometown, smallville. it comes to a surprise to both you and your childhood best friend, clark kent, that you're both visiting at the same time. there's nothing quite like the summertime air to help old memories resurface – and maybe stir some old feelings back to life.
wc: 7.1k
genre/tags: fluff, smut (they fuck in his childhood bedroom), childhood friends to lovers, a little inspired by the show smallville, p in v sex, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), size kink, slight praise kink, p w plot, protected sex (reader on bc), creampie.
smallville smells like childhood.
the kind of sticky warmth that clings to your skin and hums with the buzz of cicadas. you'd almost forgotten the sound – how different it was from the constant beeping of hospital monitors or the rush of sirens outside your apartment window.
here, everything is slower. simpler.
you shield your eyes against the sun as you step off the porch, a basket of wet laundry tucked against your hip. martha had insisted you didn't have to help and that you were a guest, but sitting around all day felt like a punishment. after three years in the er, even your burnout had a work ethic.
your sneakers crunch against the gavel path as you head to the clothesline held together by two wooden posts. the kent farm hasn't changed since high school. same creaky porch swing, the same barn, the same fresh-smelling grass. you half-expect to see clark come around the corner, tossing a football in the air, eyes too kind for his own good.
instead, it's the front door that creaks open behind you.
you don't turn around right away. the sound barely registers to you, not until martha calls out from the doorway, warm and surprised.
"clark, honey! we didn't expect you 'til lunch!"
you freeze.
clark kent.
you haven't heard his name out loud in... gosh, years. not since graduation. you've kept tabs of course. who hadn't? he's kind of famous now – a reporter for one of metropolis' biggest papers. the same one that always seems to get the exclusive with superman.
when you turn around, basket still perched on your hip, there he is.
and his eyes catch yours.
something in your chest does a funny thing.
he's broader now. older obviously, but it's more than that. he moves with quiet deliberate ease as he walks up the driveway, like he's always measuring his steps. he's wearing a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing strong forearms,.
he pauses when he sees you. and for a second neither of you say a word.
"y/n?" he says finally, voice warm but uncertain.
martha's voice breaks out before you have a chance to respond. "clark, didn't i tell you we had some help with the farm this summer?"
clark slowly nods, remembering a vague phone call or two when martha gushed about the extra pair of hands helping out around the house. then an amused smile lifts his cheeks for a reason you don't quite understand.
"you never mentioned a name, ma," clark answers when he reaches her, voice low like the rumble of a car engine but still so sweet like honey. you watch him bend to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.
"oh, no? hm, must've slipped my mind," she muses, clearly pleased with herself as she pats his chest lovingly. you've spent enough time with martha to know when she was up to something.
you clear your throat, shifting the basket on your hip, and finally step forward, closer to the porch.
"hi, clark," you say, steady despite the flutter in your chest. "it's been a while."
his eyes soften, and for a moment, the years melt away. it's like you're both still those awkward teenagers from years ago.
clark sets his bag down on the porch, still glancing back at you like he's trying to make sense of something. you wonder if he's just surprised or if he also feels the shift in the air that you feel.
"i'll get lunch started," martha chirps, clearly thrilled. "clark, sweetie, help y/n hang that laundry before it wrinkles."
he huffs a soft laugh. "alright, ma."
you glance at him as he approaches, stepping down from the porch and feet crushes the grass beneath his feet. you hold out a clothespin. he takes it, pinching the wood between his fingers, but not before engulfing you in a warm hug. despite not having hugged him since you both graduated, it feels achingly familiar. his arms wrap around you with an ease that makes your breath catch, the scent of fresh soap and sun clinging to him.
"you got taller," you murmur against his chest.
he chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your ear. "you got shorter."
you pull back with a mock glare. "that's not how that works."
he grins, eyes crinkling at the corners and deep dimples showing. "still fits though."
you try not to read into it – the way he says it, the way his hands linger at your arms before he lets go.
"my ma got you roped into doing chores around here?" he asks, amusement in his tone as he pulls his arms away and takes a step back to start helping you.
"your mom didn't want me lifting a finger as soon as she saw me walking up the drive. i had to practically beg her to do work," you answer kindly, smile on your face.
"i'm surprised she let you," he hums to himself, sunlight hitting his dark curls.
"she's stubborn," you agree. "just like someone else i know."
that gets a quiet laugh out of him, low and familiar. the kind that used to echo across the bleachers during football games or between rows of corn on late summer nights.
for a while, neither of you say anything. you just fold laundry from a prior load you did while clark helps clip the rest to the line, working in sync like its muscle memory. at some point, he starts handing you clothespins without being asked.
"so," he says after a beat, "er nurse, huh?"
you nod, but don't question how he knows that. "yeah. burnt out enough that i ran away to the countryside for the summer. i needed it, especially considering i'll be in metropolis in september."
his demeanor shifts at that, shoulders straightening at your words. "metropolis, huh?"
"yeah," you reply, sliding a pillowcase onto the line. "got a position at the hospital downtown. figured i could use the summer to recharge before diving back in."
clark nods to himself, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a small smile. "that's... great. didn't know you were thinking of moving. you seemed pretty set on central city when you left."
you shrug, eyes flicking to his. "wasn't planning on it until a few months ago. it just felt like the right time. change of pace, y'know?"
he hums in acknowledgment, nodding again.
"you'll like metropolis," he says. "it's fast, sure, but there's something kind of special about it. the skyline. the way the city never sleeps." you watch the way he talks about it. you notice the way his eyes flicker, like he's picturing it already.
"i always thought you belonged in a big city," he continues softly, almost like he doesn't realize he's saying it out loud. "you were always bright. restless."
you blink, heart tugging in your chest slightly. "you used to say i was bossy," you point out.
"that, too," he says with a sheepish grin. "but in a good way."
you roll your eyes, but your smile stays planted on your face. you fall into a steady silence, the summer wind bristling against you as you continue hanging bedding up until the basket is empty.
the rest of the day passes in a rhythm that feels both productive and strangely peaceful. you and clark move from chore to chore (sweeping out the barn, scrubbing the porch chairs, picking tomatoes from the garden) while trading light conversations and shared glances as the hours pass you by. it's easy, falling back into step with him as if seven years hadn't gone by.
later that evening, martha's voice floats across the yard: "dinner's ready!"
inside, on the table, there are platters of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and fresh veggies from the garden that makes your stomach rumble.
you take your old spot across from clark – the same one you used to fill during sleepovers and sunday night dinners. jonathan is in his usual chair, nodding at you both with a smile.
during dinner, jonathan launches into stories clark’s probably heard a thousand times but you’re genuinely laughing and clark finds himself watching you instead of eating.
he catches your gaze once from across the table when martha asks him how work's been. his knee bumps yours from under the table and neither of you move away nor say a word about it.
after dinner, the sky turns a dull blue and martha announces that she and jonathan are heading to the neighbors' for a card game.
"we'll probably be back late," she adds casually, as if she hasn't orchestrated the perfect opportunity for the two of you to be alone.
and once they're gone, the house settles into a new quiet.
you lean against the kitchen counter, finishing your glass of fresh lemonade while clark rinses dishes, fingers slick with soap.
"i can dry," you offer.
with a toothless smile, clark tosses you a dish towel without looking. "you're only saying that because you hate washing."
"always have," you confirm simply, catching it.
he chuckles and for a moment, it really does feel like no time has passed. you think of the countless times you'd argued over which chores to do when you stayed over as teens.
after the last plate is stacked and the light over the sink is flicked off, leaving the kitchen in a soft glow from the outdoor lamp shining through the screen door, there's a beat of hesitation between you.
you're not quite ready to call it a night – and apparently, neither is he.
"you wanna..." clark scratches the back of his neck. "go up to my room? catch up?"
you nod.
he leads the way, up the same creaky stairs you've walked hundred times before. but it feels different now. his figure ahead of you is broader. his steps are heavier. you're not kids anymore.
on the contrary, his room still looks like it belongs to a teenage boy: high school trophies lined up on the dresser, old comics books stacked beside a nightstand, band posters lined up on the wall. everything is preserved like it's a time capsule.
you sit cross-legged on the floor, the smooth hardwood cool beneath your legs as clark pulls down an old dusty box from his closet. he flips it open with a small grunt, and inside are relics from his childhood.
you look into the box, smiling softly as flashes of memories happen behind your eyes. a faded baseball glove, a polaroid of him and pete at the county fair, and a bunch of old high school notebooks of his; one has ALGEBRA 2 scrawled in his handwriting on the front marble cover.
"can't believe you kept all of this," you muse softly.
"ma said she couldn't bear to throw it out." he shrugs. "i haven't seen this stuff since i left."
"really?" you ask, somewhat surprised at the thought. you can see the layer of dust along the surfaces of his dresser and desk, evidence that it'd been left untouched for a while, but you didn't expect he hadn't been home at all.
"yeah," he murmurs, trailing a finger over a dusty trophy as if reading your mind. he rubs the dust particles between his fingers before flicking it off. "just... went straight to college and then the internship at the planet and then... before i knew it i was just settled in metropolis."
"my mom would've killed me had i not visited," you chuckle to yourself.
"well, you know my ma," he says softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "she said as long as i called every sunday, she'd let it slide."
you glance up at him, the warm overhead light catching on the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. he's older, now, clearly, but in the soft light like this, his hair tousled and in an old flannel that no doubt had to be his father's, it's easy to remember the boy he used to be.
"how come you never came back?" you ask, head tilting aside.
his smile fades a little, not all the way, but enough for you to notice. he moves to sink down on the edge of his bed. he doesn't answer right away. he just sits there for a beat, fingers laced loosely between his knees.
"life's been..." he trails off, looking at a bulletin board above his desk – faded snapshots pinned beside old movie ticket stubs and postcards, tiny remnants of a simpler time. his eyes linger on a photo of the two of you from years ago, blurry from motion but unmistakably happy. he exhales slowly, like the weight of everything is pressing down on his shoulders.
you wait.
"complicated," he finishes softly, hands clasped over his knees as he leans forward, elbows resting there.
you hum noncommittally, taking another glance around his bedroom before standing from the floor and settling down beside him, the springs of his twin bed creaking under your weight.
"because you're superman," you muse softly, nodding to yourself. your tone is so casual, it's as if you're mumbling about something as demure as the weather.
"yeah," clark trails off with faraway look in his eyes before it's as if the words register and he whips his head aside to face you. "wait–"
you only meet his gaze with a small smile, a calm knowing gleam in your eyes.
"how long have you–" he starts, voice low.
"known?" you tip your head, pretending to think. "mm... years. i suspected something off about you in high school but couldn't name it. and then when i saw clark kent was the sole interviewer for the new superhero in metropolis, i put two and two together. that, and you've never worn glasses 'til you left smallville."
his brows knit together like he's thinking hard, then his expression softens. "you never said anything."
you shrug. "figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. didn't seem like my secret to name."
clark exhales a quiet laugh, something incredulous and fond all at once. "you're kind of amazing, you know that?"
you smile softly, a soft flush painting your cheeks. "you're literally a superhero and you're calling me amazing?"
"well..." he tilts his his, eyes lingering on you in that way that always made you chest feel too full, even when you were teenagers. "you saw through me. and never said a word. that's... rare."
you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of how close you're sitting. his bed isn't that bed, and the two of you, perched side by side with knees almost touching. it feels heavier now. warmer.
"wasn't hard to figure out," you murmur. "you always ran off when danger came around. and it was always toward the danger."
he winces, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "i wasn't exactly subtle, was i?"
you huff a laugh, leaning back on your palms as you gaze up at the ceiling. "not really. but i didn't care. i figured there had to be a good reason. and there was."
he watches you for a beat. there's something different in his eyes now. it's something soft. something quiet.
"i should've told you," he says softly.
you shrug again, playing it cool even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
a pause.
"was it lonely?" you ask, voice quiet.
"in the beginning, yeah." he nods solemnly. his voice is low, like he's afraid to say it too loud. "i was figuring it all out in real time – what i could do, what i should do. and it felt like if i let anyone in... it'd all fall apart."
you turn your head, eyes finding his.
"i would've kept your secret," you say, steady and sure.
"i know," he replies, like he's known it for years. like it's the one thing he's always been sure of. "but you didn't deserve the sort of danger it'd put you in."
"you didn't give me a chance to decide if it was a risk i wanted to take."
"i thought keeping you out of it was the way to protect you," he says after a moment.
you understand his way of thinking, truly. clark is nothing but selfless – always carrying the weight of the world like it's second nature. like it's his burden alone to bear.
but beneath, that strength, there's always been a vulnerability you've glimpsed only in rare moments. a question lingering just beneath the surface.
"does it scare you?" he asks, voice low. "knowing what i am?"
your gaze flickers to him and you don't hesitate.
"you could never scare me, clark," you murmur softly, your voice steady. "you've always been just... you. maybe with broader shoulders and a ridiculous jawline now, but you're still the same guy who used to sneak out at night to watch the stars with me on my roof."
clark lets out a breath, barely audible but you feel it more than you hear it. the kind of exhale someone release when they're holding too much in.
despite having his own telescope in the barn, he was always adamant on watching the stars on your rooftop.
"i liked the view better from there," he says, a little shy, a little teasing.
you smile, eyes looking up at the ceiling. "the stars?"
"you," he admits, and it’s barely more than a whisper. "it's why i kissed you the last night before i left for metropolis u."
your breath catches in your throat. it would be so easy to laugh it off, to make a joke, to deflect like you always used to. but you don’t. you turn your head slowly instead, and you find him already looking at you.
his eyes are so blue. painfully blue. they always were. but there’s something raw in them now. older. deeper.
"i thought maybe you forgot about that," you say softly.
"i think about it all the time."
the memory slips between you like smoke: the two of you sat side by side on the slabs of your roof, your knees pulled up and a blanket slung lazily over your shoulders. the stars were faint that night but clark stayed anyway, quiet and still, like he was trying to memorize everything. you'd been talking about school, about packing, about how weird it felt to leave.
and then, when the silence stretched long and uncertain, he stood to climb down the way he'd come, but he hesitated. you didn't have a chance to question what was wrong until he climbed back up, leaned in and kissed you. it was gentle and trembling and far too short, like it hurt him not to do it but it hurt more not to.
you hadn't talked about it after. neither of you knew what to say. you were leaving for different schools, different cities, different lives. it felt like the kind of kiss meant to stay tucked away in a quiet corner of the past.
but now he's here. and you're here. and that kiss doesn't feel like an ending anymore.
your voice is barely a whisper. "i tried not to read into it. figured it was just a goodbye thing."
"it wasn't," he says, so firmly it makes your chest ache. "not for me."
you sit up slowly, and he mirrors you, knees now brushing.
"clark," you say, almost like a question.
"i never stopped thinking about you," he answers. "even when we lost touch. even when i tried not to."
your heart beats like a drum in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. "i never stopped, either," you whisper.
he leans in like gravity’s pulling him. slow enough to stop. slow enough to make sure. but you don't stop him. you tilt forward, and when his lips touch yours, it feels like memory and future all at once.
it’s soft at first. tentative. like you’re both relearning the shape of each other, grown-up versions of the people who used to share secrets.
but then his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it gently, and the kiss deepens. you shift closer, thighs pressing against his, and the heat that simmers between you spikes.
he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in the front of his flannel. he’s so solid beneath it — broad chest, firm shoulders, heat radiating off of him in waves.
clark kisses with fervor, like he's starved for this – for you. his mouth hovers yours with a kind of ardor, but there's something hungry beneath it, too. like something years in the making.
his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he pulls you into his lap. you gasp a little at the feel of him beneath you, hard already and straining against his jeans, and it makes something warm pool low in your belly.
you pull back just barely, lips swollen and breath shallow. "we’re really about to do this in your childhood bedroom?"
his grin is boyish, a flush rising to his cheeks. "i mean… unless you have a better idea."
you laugh breathlessly and tug him back into another kiss.
"you sure?" he asks, open-mouthed kisses trailing downward against your throat, voice hoarse, before his lips brush just under your ear.
"so sure," you whisper, rocking against him. "been sure since i was sixteen."
his groan is ragged as he flips you gently onto your back, slotting himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your head spin. he shrugs off the red flannel, tossing it behind him and leaving him in a white t-shirt.
"then let me make up for lost time." his hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing delicate paths beneath your ribs. the room is quiet except for the soft, uneven breaths you both share.
your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you tug it upward before he gets the hint and finishes yanking it off, throwing it somewhere behind him. your palms pressed to the hard planes of his chest and abs. his skin is warm under touch, as if a fire wakes following every trail of your fingers.
clark's lips find your neck, slow and devoted, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your pulse flutter. you tilt your head back, exposing more, shivering at the contact.
his hands travel lower, slipping beneath your shirt to feel the smooth skin of your waist. your shirt is already halfway off when he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it over your head with a breathless laugh. you giggle as it gets momentarily caught on your elbow, but he helps, pulling it off and tossing it aside.
then his gaze drops.
you're in your bra, the soft cotton modest, but the way his eyes darken makes your skin prickle. the look in his eye could suggest you're wearing something far sexier than a polka dot bra.
his voice is low when he asks, "can i?"
you nod, humming in confirmation because your throat can't find the words. "mhm."
clark leans in, kissing down the slope of your shoulder before trailing slowly to the swell of your breast. his big hands come up to cup you through the fabric first, thumbs brushing lightly until your back arches. with unhurried fingers, he unclasps your bra and lets it slides down your arms.
"wow," he murmurs, looking at you with utter admiration. "you're... you're perfect."
you flush under the praise and you smile shyly, but it doesn't stop the way your body reacts when he touches you again.
his hands are everywhere; they're gentle on your ribs, firm on your hips, grounding you as he kisses down your chest, reverent kisses trailing around the slope of your breasts. he kisses you like he's been waiting years to do this, a pent up passion restrained behind his actions.
his mouth wraps around your nipple, hot and wet, and you gasp at the feeling. your fingers thread through his curls, tugging just a little when his teeth scrape lightly before he soothes the ache with his tongue.
"clark," you whisper, body arching against him and thighs already shifting restlessly beneath him.
he lifts his head, lips slick and pupils blown. "yeah?"
you meet his eyes, your breath shivering out of you. "need more," you manage, hips bucking upward for emphasis.
something tenses in him at your words. a quiet, almost disbelieving sound leaves his throat, like he still can't believe this is real. it's like he's spent years imagining this exact moment.
"okay," he murmurs, nodding to himself. "yeah, 've got you."
his hands trail down to the denim of your shorts, fingers brushing against the brass metal button. his eyes flit to yours, searching for any hesitance in your eyes but you only meet his gaze with a steady stare and a nod of your head.
he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. with deft fingers, he unhooks the button from your shorts and pulls down the zipper. you swear his breath hitches at the sliver of the sight of what you would call your most mundane pair of panties – baby blue cotton with simple white lace hemmed across each edge.
you lift your hips when, with trembling hands, he pulls down the denim of your shorts, sliding them down your thighs as you lift your hips up to help. once they're down to your ankles, he throws them aside.
his hands are reverent as they glide up the skin of your legs, starting from your calves before meeting the flesh of your thighs. his hands settle there, gently nudging them open.
you shift instinctively, legs parting for him but the flush settled over your cheeks tells him how vulnerable your feel. he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee first, and then your thigh, being slow and steady. by the time he reaches the soft fabric of your underwear, you're practically shaking.
he presses his mouth over the damp spot, inhaling softly before groaning into your heat.
you whimper, hips twitching. the sound you make is soft and needy, and clark eats it up like it's the only thing he'd ever wanted to hear. his thumbs brush along the creases of your thighs as he settles between them.
his voice is low and ragged when he murmurs, "you're so wet, sweetheart."
your whole body flushes at the pet name and you feel the ache of need build in your gut. he presses a kiss just over the fabric, then another, and then another. you're gasping and it's not from the pressure. you're gasping from how slow he's going, how reverent he's being.
his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging gently. "can i take these off?"
"please," you whisper.
clark doesn't make you beg again. his hands curl under your thighs and he hooks your panties down slow, watching every inch of you being revealed with a heavy-lidded gaze. when the fabric peels away, he lets out a shaky exhale.
"gosh," he mutters, almost to himself. his hands spread along your thighs as he looks down at your pussy, glistening, soft and aching for him. "you're... wow."
you blush but your thighs fall open for him anyway shamelessly.
he dips down, but instead of diving in, he places one soft kiss to your inner thigh. he presses another kiss, a little closer. and then he presses another, right beside your folds. it's close enough to feel his breath fan your core but it's not enough.
your hips lift off the mattress, springs creaking beneath your form.
"clark," you pant, almost scolding. "don't tease."
he laughs, but there's a tension in it now. his restraint is evidently thinning. "'m sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "just... been thinking about this for years. i wanna take my time."
clark leans in finally, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your folds. the first sweep of his tongue is slow, almost experimental, like he's savoring the taste of you. like he's imprinting the taste into his memory.
you gasp, fingers shooting down to thread through his hair, hips twitching helplessly under him.
he groans against you when he feels your reactions, the sound sending a buzz within you. his hands flex on your thighs to keep you spread open as he licks a broad, slow stripe form your entrance to your clit. you feel everything. you feel the heat of his mouth, the plush of his lips, the movement of his tongue, it all makes you see stars.
"god," you breathe, tugging on his hair instinctively. "clark."
"mmhmm," he hums against you, and the vibration go straight through you again. he's easing in now, more confident as he figures out exactly what makes you moan and sigh. his tongue circles your clit gently with a particular precision before pressing flat against it, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around his head.
you're already dizzy when you feel the first touch of his fingers. they're big and warm, trailing up your thigh before they ghost along your slick entrance.
"you're so wet," he murmurs again, lifting his head for just a second to look up at you. his mouth is glistening, eyes dark with desire.
his fingers trail down until the pads are gliding through your slick folds. his ministrations are careful, almost curious, but you know damn well clark isn't naive. this is about intention. this is him wanting to feel every inch of you, to truly learn what your body responds to.
his thumb brushes up, just barely circling your clit. you shiver, hips trembling.
and then one finger begins to press inside your velvet walls.
he's careful. so careful. and thank god he is, because even one of his fingers stretches you more than any man ever has before. your walls flutter helplessly around the intrusion, slick and wanting. your breath hitches and he sinks it in slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch.
"you're already gripping me so tight, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, "y'have to relax for me."
you nod with a shaky breath, attempting to relax your tense walls.
clark helps, too. his mouth returns to your clit, tongue moving slowly and circling your center with intent. the combination of his tongue and finger has your head falling back against the pillow.
"there you go," he coos softly against your skin. "let me in."
you gasp when his finger crooks inside you, rubbing against your gummy walls. you moan softly, hands curling into the sheets as your hips rolls up instinctively against his touch. your walls flutter around him, wet and hot, clenching down as he starts a slow rhythm.
his finger is so thick. your body pulse around it, already stretched in a way that makes you whimper with anticipation.
"i want more," you whisper.
clark's brows lift slightly, concern flickering across his face even through the haze of arousal. "you sure?"
you nod eagerly. "mhm, wanna get used to you."
he understands what you mean. you want to get used to his fingers so that inevitably you could take the throbbing length straining against his jeans. he groans softly, slowly nodding his head.
his free hand slides up your thigh again, holding you open as he slowly adds a second finger. it's a stretch – a delicious, burning ache that has your thighs twitching – but he keeps his mouth on your clit the whole time, tongue soothing and lips gentle.
you do your best to relax. you try to breathe through it, focusing on the way his mouth works in tandem with his fingers, now curling and scissoring inside you to aid opening you up. your walls flutter around him, wet a needy, dripping onto his hand with every stroke.
you feel full. so full.
and he's not even inside you yet.
"fuck, clark... feels so good," you gasp, hips grinding down against his fingers.
"you're doing great, sweetheart," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "you're taking my fingers so well."
you whimper, head thrown back, sweat prickling along your skin. your fingers find his hair again and they tighten around the locks, making him groan into your heat. it's as if he loves the way you react to him, like every moan and sigh a reward in of itself.
his two fingers continue to thrust deeper, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that has your legs shaking.
"clark," you murmur, need thick in your voice. "please."
he groans softly, gently withdrawing his fingers. you whine at the lose, but the sound dies in your throat when you watch him lean back on his knees and reach for the button of his jeans.
"want you so bad," you murmur softly.
his gaze is heavy when it meets yours, blue eyes dark and pupils blown out. "yeah?"
you nod, biting your bottom lip.
he unbuttons his jeans slowly, like he's still making sure you have time to change your mind. but you don't. you won't. not when he pulls them down along with his boxers and his cock springs free, flushed and thick and massive.
his cock stands proud and heavy in front of you, a hot pulse throbbing at the tip, flushed pink beneath the dim light of his childhood room. you swallow hard, eyes tracing every inch of him, breath hitching at the sheer intensity of the moment you're sharing.
clark reaches for you, hands warm as they glide up your thighs, steadying you as he positions himself at your entrance. his gaze flickers to yours, seeking permission.
you nod, breathless but sure. so sure.
he presses the head of his cock, already slick from pre-cum, between your folds, mixing your essence with his as he rubs himself up and down your slit to gather more slick.
you shudder when he presses against your entrance, slowly pushing inside you. the stretch is delicious, the head of his cock squeezing between the velvet walls of your pussy.
he doesn't rush. instead, he waits, holding still and giving you a moment to adjust. your fingers clutch at the sheets.
then, he nudges in, barely another inch, ensuring to be careful. you shiver at the stretch, the fullness you already feel, and the overwhelming heat pooling in your lower belly.
clark's breath is ragged and his voice strained as he looks into your eyes. "you okay?" he asks.
you nod, voice shaky. "yeah, y'can keep going."
with an agonizing slowness, he sinks deeper, inch by inch, each movement measured so intently. your walls stretch and open around him, tightening and relaxing as they try to accommodate his size.
he's big – you figured he was big from his massive frame but this... this is far bigger than you expected.
he pauses again when he's halfway in, savoring the moment as his hips still. "almost there," he breathes, his tone needy and full of awe.
you reach for him, fingers tangling in his curls to bring him closer, silently urging him on. he follows you, taking his hands from your thighs and placing them on either side of your head, head now just above yours, meeting your eyes. the eye contact is electric – raw and intense. your breaths mingle, shallow and fast and it's as if the world around you shrinks and it's just you two.
he groans, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as he eases in deeper. "you're so tight," he grits out. "been thinking about this forever."
your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he inches further, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, trying to pull his closer even as your body adjusts to his size. he still hasn't bottomed, and yet he feels impossibly deep already.
"clark," you whimper, your voice wrecked. "you're not even all the way–"
"i know, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, "i know."
he withdraws a little, then rocks forward again. he's gentle, patient, coaxing you open with shallow rolls of his hips. each motion sinks him just a bit more. your walls flutter around him, trying to take more as your body clenches with every subtle thrust.
by the time his hips finally meet yours, you're trembling beneath him – panting, sweat-slick, overwhelmed and so full you don't know where he ends and you begin. he stills inside you, burying his face in your neck as you both gasp for breath.
"hah," he huffs against you. "you feel... gosh, you feel like heaven."
your fingers tighten in his curls, pulling him up to your lips for a desperate kiss that tastes like relief.
slowly, he begins to move – gentle, deliberate thrusts that build from tender to urgent. you gasp as his hands move back down to grip your hips, anchoring himself as he sets a steady rhythm.
the heat between you grows immensely and you arch up into him, meeting ever push of his hips against you, your walls fluttering around him as if they were made to fit only him.
and in this moment, you think they were.
"clark," you breathe, your voice a breathy moan.
he hums lowly in response, eyes dark and glazed over, completely and utter lost in you.
time blurs. you don't know if it's been hours or minutes. all you feel is him inside you, your bodies moving in perfect sync and the weight of everything unsaid over the course of the past seven years that's not being spoken in gasps and touches.
your dig your nails into his shoulders as his thrusts grow more insistent and you feel the pressure build deep inside you.
clark's breath hitches, ragged and uneven against your throat. his hands squeeze your hips like he never wants to let go, grounding himself as he drives in deeper, harder. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet room, with exception to your mingling pants and groans.
"you're incredible," he groans, voice thick with need and his lips brushing your ear. "so beautiful... so perfect."
you shiver under the praise, the heat pooling low and rising fast as your body responds to him. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.
he kisses down you neck again, teeth grazing your earlobe lightly as he whisper, "you feel so good... god, i missed you."
your heart stutters in your chest. "i missed you, too. more than i ever admitted to myself."
his hips stutter and then pick up, thrusting with growing urgency. your vision gets hazy as the pleasure coil tight in your belly. you lose yourself to the way he moves, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for it.
his voice breaks as he nears his own release, the tension building between you to an unbearable peak.
"cum for me," he rasps, eyes burning into yours.
you cry out, voice trembling with the force of your own climax, muscles clenching around him in waves. you feel him begin to pull away but that makes your legs tighten around his waist.
"sweetheart, i'm about to–" he stammers, brows pinching in restraint.
"i know... want it inside," you murmur, eyes boring into his.
that makes his eyes widen to saucers but you can't deny the heat brimming behind his eyes.
"i'm on birth control," you say, barely above a whisper.
"are you sure?" he asks, hid voice low and already breathless. "because i'm trying really hard to hold back right now.
you don't hesitate. "i don't want you to."
that's all it takes.
clark starts thrusting again – deeper, more urgent now, the rhythm stuttering as he chases his high. it's only a matter of moments before his pace falters. he lets out a strangled groan, burying himself to the hilt one final time and you gasp at the feeling.
his cock twitches as he spills inside you, thick ropes of white filling you up until you swear you can feel it dripping out around the base of him. you croon at the sensation, you arms wrapped tight around his back, holding him close through it.
clark groans into your neck again, like he's falling apart in the safety of your arms. you feel him press kisses into your skin, humming softly against you.
"you don't know how long i've wanted that," he murmurs, voice slightly ragged.
you're still catching your breath, but you manage a soft laugh, your voice thick with affection. "worth the wait?"
he lifts his head just long enough to look at you, his eyes slightly crinkled as he smiles down at you. "more than you'll ever know."
you smile, your hand brushing damp curls from his forehead. he's so close like this – still inside you, panting softly against your skin. the air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat and something sweeter.
you tilt your head, lips brushing against his jaw. "we really just had sex in your childhood bedroom," you whisper, teasing but breathless.
he chuckles, low and rough, his nose brushing yours. "yes, we did."
"guess it's convenient i've been relocated to metropolis then," you murmur softly, fingers digging into his scalp, gently scratching his skin.
he hums in response – to your words or ministrations, you can't tell – and adds, "'m pretty lucky then." he presses a kiss to your cheek. "when you get all settled in, can i take you out?"
your brow lifts and you pause your scratching. "well, i'd sure hope so since you just came inside me."
he chuckles through his nose, blinking at you. "fair point," he says, his smile crooked. "i guess we kind of skipped a few steps, huh?"
you grin, dragging your nails lightly along the hair at the back of his neck. "just a few. like... coffee. or dinner."
he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft and sincere. "seriously, i want to do this right. all of it. you and me."
something in your chest tightens at that, a bloom of warmth filling you. "good," you whisper. "because i want that, too."
he kisses you again, slower now. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him and keeping you closer, his arms still wrapped around your waist and cock slowly softening inside you. you sigh softly, settling into the warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. outside, the sounds of nature hum quietly, but here, in this small room full of memories of your past, everything feels right.
ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ
clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”
The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark—”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.”
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still—you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—
Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t—
But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
A beat.
You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.”
“Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.”
“Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.”
“I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait.
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois—”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.”
—C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The third kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But—”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark—”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark—”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again—soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”
You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.
Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts—and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that—he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”
You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.”
—C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
Hmmm afab ferret!reader complaining to ur best friend johnny about how hard it is to find a boyfriend or even a good fuck.
Sure, you meet plenty of nice guys, but they aren't really prepared to have a ferret partner. There's a common misconception about ferret hybrids just being playful and energetic, which means when you actually want to fuck you tend to scare guys away. You tell Johnny this, bemoaning the fact you cant find someone on the kinkier side.
And Johnnys quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed in that look where you know hes running a pro-con list. "...I might know someone, hes a bit awkward though, I little shy."
Thus a week later ur meeting simon in a nice little bar, the orca hybrid exactly ur type. It takes some warming up, but soon enough hes cracking jokes and laughing loudly at ur own. When he gives you a *look* and asks about taking you home, you put a hand on his shoulder and tell him outright "look. Its fine if you aren't, but I really need someone to just shove me around. Be real mean and aggressive, yeah? Its good for my instincts."
You watch as Simon's lashes flutter at ur words, a grin spreading over his face. Long story short, hes everything you needed. Scruffs you and drags u where he wants, bites and scratches at ur skin. Ur walking out of there stuffed full of cum, covered in bruises and blood. Simon's walking out of there thinking of what betrothal item to get you.
You send Johnny a very nice box of chocolates later.
They didn’t mean to hurt you — but they did.
And you started changing because of it.
Now they notice… and it’s already different.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
“Watch what you eat,” Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. He’s looking at your tray like it’s offended him.
You smile—a practiced, automatic thing—and laugh it off.
“Oh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.”
He nods. Just once.
And that’s the end of it. To him, anyway.
The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.
The day after, it’s just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.
Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smile—subtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.
By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors.
“Hey, Wakatoshi,” he says, voice too light. “You realize she’s barely eating, right?”
Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward you—sitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he can’t quite name.
That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.
He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, eyes on the rice, not you. “I just… I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.”
You don’t respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.
You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you’ve forgotten how to be hungry.
He doesn’t speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching.
There’s guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if you’ll keep going.
You finish half. It’s the most you’ve eaten all week.
He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushing—just offering.
“Please eat,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “With me.”
And you do.
For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful.
And when he finally looks at you, it’s with eyes that say he’s sorry in all the ways words can’t.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
The words slipped out of Shirabu’s mouth like a diagnosis—clinical, cold, final.
And the worst part?
You weren’t even fighting.
You had just spilled tea on your notes—weeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. “Well. That’s my sign to take a break, I guess—”
He didn’t laugh.
He stared at the papers like they’d personally offended him.
“You’re not cut out for the kind of future I want.”
You blinked.
“…Future?”
He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. “Medicine’s not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.”
You smiled, like it didn’t sting.
Laughed, like you hadn’t heard that same voice in your own head on bad days.
“Right. Of course.”
That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
You started waking up before him.
Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books.
Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive.
Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.
You didn’t complain. Didn’t cry.
Just… shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.
The version of you Shirabu fell for—the one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a joke—she was slowly fading.
At first, he liked the change.
The silence. The discipline.
The way your pens were always aligned now.
The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.
But then…
He noticed.
You never touched him just because anymore.
Never made dumb puns over dinner.
Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep.
The music in your world had gone quiet—and he hadn’t realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.
One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep.
Your glasses were still on.
Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest.
There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen.
Your lips were dry.
You looked pale—drained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.
And when he touched your hand, you didn’t even stir.
He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison.
“I didn’t mean for you to become someone else,” he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. “I just wanted you with me. I didn’t realize I was asking you to lose yourself.”
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, he cried.
Quietly.
Beside you.
Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying.
But something in you had cracked.
And he had been the one to make the first fracture.
TSUKISHIMA KEI
That was the last thing he said to you that day.
You had just finished gushing about your favorite show—something about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his).
You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.
And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:
“Are you done yet?”
You blinked.
Laughed it off. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to scrolling.
After that, you didn’t talk about your favorite shows anymore.
Stopped sending him memes.
Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.
He noticed, of course. But didn’t say anything.
Yamaguchi did.
“She doesn’t text you stuff anymore, huh?”
Tsukishima scoffed. “Didn’t realize you were tracking my notifications.”
But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat.
Scrolled through the silence.
Past the last thing you sent—a meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadn’t even reacted to it.
The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.
The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze.
In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character.
The one you wouldn’t shut up about for two whole weeks.
The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.
He bought it.
He didn’t even think. Just… did.
The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.
You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand.
“What’s this for?”
He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“So you’ll annoy me again.”
You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.
You didn’t say anything.
But that night, he got a message.
[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.
He read it three times.
Smiled. Just a little.
(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)
SUNA RINTARO
He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.
You had just sent him a selfie—your hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.
And he said:
“You look tired.”
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Then replied,
“Yeah. Been a long day.”
After that, you stopped sending selfies.
Started fixing your hair more before calls.
Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold.
Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.
One day you joked,
“Better not look tired again, right?”
But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.
Atsumu noticed it first.
“She doesn’t send you stuff anymore, huh?”
Suna didn’t answer.
“You told her she looked tired, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat.
Unread messages: none.
The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didn’t save it.
And you hadn’t sent another since.
The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.
So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture.
No filters. No angles. Just him—messy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.
He sent it with a message:
“This is how I look when I actually look tired.”
“You always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.”
You stared at the screen. Chest aching.
Then, finally:
[you]: you're still bad at words.
[suna]: yeah. but i’m trying.
And he was.
In his own way—awkward, quiet, a little late.
But trying.
(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)
OIKAWA TOORU
You didn’t mean to bother him.
You had only sent three messages.
Short ones. Thoughtful, even.
[you]: hey, u free later?
[you]: you okay? you’ve been quiet today.
[you]: let me know if you need anything. i’ll leave you be. promise.
And then it came.
His reply.
Flat. Dismissive.
Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when he’s overwhelmed.
[oikawa]: you’re really needy sometimes.
You stared at the screen for a moment too long.
Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching.
“lol sorry. my bad.”
One last message. That was all.
And then you stopped.
You stopped texting first.
Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh.
Stopped double-texting, triple-texting.
Stopped reaching out at all.
You gave him what he seemed to want.
Space.
He noticed by dinner.
By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline.
There were no new ones.
No “I miss you.”
No “Goodnight.”
Just… nothing.
He opened your chat three times that night.
Typed. Deleted.
Typed. Deleted again.
What was he even supposed to say?
Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.
“She’s not needy,” he said while they packed up. “You’re just used to being worshipped.”
That stung.
Because it was true.
Oikawa Tooru had always been admired—on the court, online, in every room he walked into.
He thought love looked like attention.
He hadn’t realized until now that he’d treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice.
Until you took it away.
Until your silence said everything.
So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.
A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in height—but in guilt.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
You opened it.
Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.
Oikawa’s voice was low. He didn’t even try to smile.
“…I miss your ‘needy,’” he said.
You blinked, lips parting slightly.
“I miss you.”
Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you weren’t sure if this was another performance or the real thing.
“I don’t want space,” he continued. “I want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.”
He looked down at his shoes.
“I want everything. Even the parts I didn’t appreciate.”
Silence.
Then he looked up, eyes raw.
“I only push away the people I care too much about,” he whispered. “And that’s you.”
It wasn’t poetic.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just honest.
For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowly—quietly—you stepped aside.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.
You closed the door behind him.
And neither of you said another word.
Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.
He came back.
And he didn’t let go.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
It was just a bad game.
He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.
You knew how he got.
You didn’t say anything.
You just reached out—softly, gently—for his hand.
Not to fix him. Just to say I’m here.
But he pulled back like your touch burned him.
“Don’t touch me right now.”
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble.
“…Sorry.”
That was it.
You stepped back. Gave him space.
And from that day on, you stayed there.
You stopped reaching for him.
Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by.
Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead.
Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.
You hesitated now—every time.
Your hands hovered near him, never landing.
And Kiyoomi… didn’t notice.
Not at first.
But Komori did.
He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.
“You told her not to touch you,” he said, arms crossed. “And now she doesn’t. Happy?”
Kiyoomi blinked, confused.
“She flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny moment—your hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.
It was true.
You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.
That night—no, early morning—he couldn’t sleep.
He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:
[sakusa]: i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.
No typing bubbles appeared.
He didn’t expect them to.
But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.
He walked straight to you.
You looked up, cautious.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
He just reached forward—and for once, it was him who was shaking—and took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.
You looked down at the connection.
Then back at him.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“I want you close,” he said. “Even when I’m upset. Especially then.”
Your lip trembled.
He held your hand tighter.
And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.
Because sometimes, people push away what they need most.
And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.
KENMA KOZUME
You used to sit beside him.
No words. No noise.
Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.
You liked being close.
He never complained—until one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:
“You’re kind of distracting when I’m streaming.”
It wasn’t cruel.
It wasn’t sharp.
But it stuck.
You blinked. “Oh.”
And after that… you stopped.
You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won.
Stopped curling up next to him.
Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.
You stayed in your room more.
Quiet. Out of sight.
Invisible.
Kenma didn’t notice at first—too busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.
But Kuroo noticed.
Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:
“She doesn’t bug you anymore, huh?”
Kenma blinked.
“What?”
“You look kinda lonely now.”
The words landed like a delayed hit.
Kenma glanced to the side—out of instinct—at the space where you used to sit.
Empty.
Still.
He stared longer than he meant to.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didn’t move.
Later that night, he found himself in front of your door.
A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it.
He knocked once. Soft.
You opened the door, eyes tired.
Surprised.
He didn’t speak at first. Just held out the bag.
“…What’s this?” you asked quietly.
“Peace offering.”
Your brow arched. “You said I was distracting.”
He looked down, fingers flexing.
“I know,” he murmured. “I was wrong.”
You stayed quiet.
So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.
“Come sit with me?” he asked.
Then, even softer:
“I miss your noise.”
You blinked.
And for the first time in days, your lips curved—just slightly.
He held his hand out toward you.
And this time, when you took it, he didn’t let go.
Not even when the game started.
Not even when chat noticed.
Because he wasn’t playing to win anymore.
He just wanted you back beside him.
Even if you distracted him.
Especially if you did.
MIYA ATSUMU
You hadn’t meant to cry.
You didn’t even realize it was happening—until your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumu’s expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
“I’m not in the mood for your drama right now.”
It hit like a slammed door.
You blinked once. Twice.
Then you nodded.
"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.
And after that—you stopped.
You stopped venting.
Stopped opening up.
Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.
"I’m fine."
"Just tired."
"Nothing big."
You said it so much, you almost believed it.
But Atsumu didn’t.
Not at first—he was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego.
But Osamu noticed.
“You broke something, y’know,” he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumu’s head.
“You might wanna fix it before it stays broken.”
That’s what finally made him pause.
And that’s what led him here—
To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.
You didn’t notice him at first.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t flinch.
He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.
“…I’m the drama,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not you.”
You stayed quiet.
He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.
“Please don’t hide your feelings from me. Ever.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away, eyes burning, lip trembling—but still, you said nothing.
So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.
Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing it—just there.
“I was stupid,” he mumbled into your hair.
“I was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.”
His voice cracked.
“You’re not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.”
You didn’t say anything right away.
But your hands slowly—finally—gripped the back of his jersey.
And that was enough.
Because this time, he wouldn’t let go first.
KITA SHINSUKE
You were tired.
Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier.
You forgot to do something small — misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.
He didn’t yell.
He never did.
Just that calm, steady voice:
“That’s not very disciplined of you.”
No anger. Just disappointment.
And somehow, that was worse.
It clung to you for days.
You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed.
No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun.
You stopped being soft. You started being… correct.
And he noticed.
How your laugh faded.
How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.
It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon.
They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:
“She’s not blooming anymore. She’s surviving.”
“You’re so focused on raising standards… you didn’t see her lower herself.”
That night, he found you tending the garden.
The same bed you both built together.
The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.
He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.
“Discipline matters,” he started. “But so does grace. I should’ve given you more of it.”
You didn’t look at him.
Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.
So he did something rare.
He placed his hand over yours.
Soft. Still. Sure.
“You don’t need to be perfect… to be precious to me.”
Your breath hitched.
And when you finally looked up — eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek —
he smiled, just barely.
“Let’s grow softer things. Together.”
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You’d tried something new.
Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you weren’t sure about but finally had the courage to put on.
You didn’t expect a grand reaction.
But you didn’t expect that either.
“You look weird.”
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk.
Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.
You smiled like it didn’t hurt.
Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off.
Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.
But the next day, you played it safe.
No more makeup.
Neutral clothes.
You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like you’d erased something.
And he didn’t even seem to notice.
But others did.
Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:
“What happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.”
Kageyama blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled through his phone that night.
Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles.
Gone, now.
He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.
“Hey…”
You looked up. Tired. Dull.
He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.
“You’re… not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Not—bad weird. Like… your kind of weird. And I liked that.”
You didn’t respond. Just stared ahead.
So he added, softer this time:
“I’m stupid with words. But I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.”
You swallowed.
He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:
“Please don’t change for something dumb I said. I didn’t realize how much I loved… all of that. All of you.”
You turned to him.
Eyes glossy, voice small:
“Then why didn’t you say that sooner?”
He didn’t have an answer.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen — a selfie of you from a month ago.
“I saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.”
DAICHI SAWAMURA
It was something small.
You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.
Someone whistled.
A teammate teased: “Ooh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?”
He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool.
So he shrugged and muttered,
“She’s not my responsibility.”
Laughed it off.
But your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
You’d never expected him to take responsibility for you.
You weren’t asking to be saved.
But you’d thought — maybe — it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.
After that day, you stopped doing that.
You handled everything alone — even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.
No more late-night texts.
No more spontaneous hangouts.
No more quiet moments walking beside him.
You avoided everyone for a while.
Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.
“She knows she’s not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought… you gave a damn.”
That silenced him.
That night, he went up to the school rooftop — the place you always went when you needed to breathe.
You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.
He didn’t speak.
Just sat beside you.
Let the silence ache between you both.
Then finally, barely audible:
“I wanted to protect you. Not push you away.”
You didn’t look at him. You just said, hollowly:
“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
But he shook his head gently.
“No, you don’t. I didn’t say that because I didn’t care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.”
You blinked, eyes burning.
“You’re not my responsibility,” he whispered again — but this time softer, reverent.
“You’re my person. That’s… different.”
you felt simon pull your legs apart, slotting himself right between them. his face pressed against your stomach, his hands reaching for yours and putting them in his hair.
you chuckled softly, the sound filling the quiet room. your fingers ran through simons hair slowly, massaging his scalp softly. he hummed quietly, pressing his face even more into your stomach.
it wasnt long before he pushed your shirt up and pressed his warm cheek against your skin. simon loved being skin to skin, it always felt more intimate, more bonding. (he always called it bonding time)
he pressed his lips on your stomach softly, leaving a very delicate kiss on your skin. you felt his nose brush your skin when he smiled. he kissed your stomach softly, each kiss meaning more and more.
he doesnt look up until he's finished kissing all over your stomach, leaving no spot without his kiss. his eyes met yours and you can see the love he holds for you.
even though he might not say much, you know you mean the world to him. and he means the world to you too.
Imagine being from another military service from another country, you end up in London for x reasons
You start dating this really cute boi with the best puppies eyes, Kyle Garrick, and for some reasons you two never bring up your work, you prefer it that way anyway
You move in together, shares everything. Then Kyle tells you he has an emergency back home, with his mother. You don’t think much of it, and wish him good luck and to tell you to text you
Then, you get sent to another country for your work and use an excuse for Kyle, “Oh my mom fell sick too, I have to check on her.”
As you collect data from a enemy compound, you feel the barrel of a gun on your neck, you turn, hands in the air
Guess whose boyfriend is in the SAS and was so close to shoot you because he didn’t recognise you?