I seriously don’t think Ilya bringing up women has anything to do with him trying to pretend to be nonchalant.
That’s not what the tuna melt scene is. Ilya desperately wants to connect to Shane and he’s at a point now where he’s really trying to.
Him talking about fucking women is his clumsy pre-amble into trying to get Shane to admit his sexuality, or at least to take a step towards that. He also uses it as an excuse to talk a little about Svetlana- his closest friend, whom he wants to be able to tell about Shane and vice versa.
Again, Ilya is not being a dismissive asshole. Neither of them know how to navigate each other outside of sex and they’re trying so hard and fumbling so hard.
riding CLARK KENT would be an absolute trip. he’s just so big, your hips hurt from being so spread out for him.
truth be told, you were more excited than nervous when he asked you to get on top. he’s always so afraid to fit his full cock inside you, always settling for halfway, worried you might break if he fucks you with his full strength.
now, with his leaking tip aching against your cervix, you can get a full sense of his size.
and god, is he massive.
your thighs shake on either side of his hips, chills racking your frame as your hole throbs around him, stretching around his length.
he pulls one arm out from under his head to rest a supporting hand on your hip, thumb rubbing gentle circles on your tan lines. he juts out his bottom lip pitifully as you begin to rock back and forth. he’s always been self conscious about his size, he can’t help but feel sorry for you.
you were eager to start bouncing when you first started to sink down on him, but now he’s so deep you can hardly breathe. clark urges you to go slow, to take your time, and most importantly to not hurt yourself.
“I can take it,” you pant, blinking away the tears from your eyes.
soft grunts slip past your lips as you grind on him, trying your best to stretch yourself out.
then, without warning, clark plants both his heels into the bed and thrusts up into you, hard. it rips a scream from your throat when you bounce up, eyes crossing when you land on his lap again, burying him to the hilt inside you and making your back arch.
“can you?” he taunts, raising an eyebrow at you.
you glare at him.
“that’s not fair,” you pout.
you try to collect yourself, but you can already feel your composure slipping away. you do your best to keep control, even trying to speed up the adjustment process some more by digging your knees into the mattress. you can only lift yourself a couple inches above him at a time, but it’s enough for some relief from the pressure between your hips. you told your head back and sigh pleasurably, setting a steady rhythm of shallow bounces.
but clark prefers to see you ruined.
he does it again.
“clark!” you cry out, body falling limp on top of him.
you bury your face in the crook of his neck and whimper. two hands come down to grip the fat of your hips, ready to fuck up into you again at any second. finally, you crack.
“please—just f-fuck me, please,”
gladly, he begins moving you up and down on his cock, setting an unforgiving pace that fills the room with the sound of skin slapping. in seconds, you’re dumb, helplessly drooling against his chest.
“look at you,” he grunts, “already gone stupid, huh? is it that good?”
you can’t even find the words to respond, eyes rolled back as soft uh, uh, uh’s fall from your slack jaw. he can’t help but smile at your whines.
David!Clark Kent X Female Nurse/Best Friend!Reader
Tags: ALCOHOL USE, TONS OF SEXUAL TENSION, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Reader Knows Clark Kent is Superman, Lois Lane Knows Clark Kent is Superman, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Superman Played by David Corenswet, Clark Kent is a Ray of Sunshine, Married Life, Slice of Life, Eventually Follows Plot of Movie
"Are you here with anyone?"
Clark’s posture shifted immediately. Not obvious — not to most people — but you felt it. The stillness in his spine. The way his arm along the back of your chair tensed. The way his knee stopped bouncing. The way the conversation around the table slowed just slightly, like everyone had clocked it at once.
Three and a half months since the start of weekly dinners and movies, learning each other again.
One month since you broke down in front of Clark, telling him the words you hadn’t even wanted to admit to yourself.
He hadn’t pulled away.
If anything, he was more present than ever — determined to prove you were not a phase in his life.
On top of frequent dinners and movies, he started showing up at your apartment with bags of oranges when he heard you sniffling, texted to check in during long shifts or grueling gym sessions, knocked on your window as Superman when he passed by during patrol, just to wave.
In return, you had a steaming mug of hot chocolate waiting for him, watched the news uninterrupted when Superman swooped in to save the day, saved his Planet articles in a box with much pride.
You relearned why you cherished the boy with stars in his eyes and a heart as big as the galaxy.
And this thing between you that you did not yet have the courage to say it grew stronger.
.
The wind had a sharp bite to it now. Crisp and dry, sweeping in off the waterfront and through the golden-crimson leaves that skittered across the sidewalks like gossip. The city moved a little slower in mid-autumn — people tucked into coats and pulled scarves higher, clung to warm cups and each other.
You liked it best this way.
“Do we need more coffee?” Clark’s voice drifted lazily over the top of your grocery list.
We.
You didn’t look up from where you were standing at the center of the produce aisle, trying to decide if bruised apples were worth the discount.
“I think you need more coffee,” you replied, brushing your thumb over a Honeycrisp. “You’re down to one bag. That’s an emergency.”
“Didn’t realize you’d memorized my pantry.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “I haven’t memorized it. I’ve observed. Like a concerned citizen.”
Clark grinned — his face soft, sweet, and golden in the early afternoon light that streaming through the grocery store windows. He was dressed down again today: glasses, white knit sweater layered under a navy jacket, hair ruffled from the wind, eyes still a little tired from whatever late-night flight had taken him away and back again.
You dropped three apples into the bag and nudged the cart forward with your hip. “Do we still need rice?”
“We always need rice.” Clark automatically answered, casually taking over pushing the small shopping cart.
We, again.
“You’re turning into your Ma.”
Clark’s laugh shook his shoulders, low and warm. “If I start freezing casseroles, you’re allowed to intervene.”
“I will. With force.”
You moved through the aisles in your usual rhythm — the rhythm you’d somehow fallen into without even realizing it. Grocery store weekly, when your schedules aligned. Hospital rooftop meetings when you worked weekends and he was mid-patrol. Late-night calls when sleep was thin and thoughts were loud.
Clark still mentioned Lois. And Jimmy. And Cat, Steve, Ron, Perry... you've accepted that they've held a fraction of his adult life conjoined with his heroics. Especially Lois.
You didn’t feel your stomach drop or jaw tighten sitting through a "Lois story" anymore, knowing he had no intentions of failing your friendship again.
“Do you want to get that oatmeal you like?” he asked behind you as you turned into aisle six.
You paused. “You remember which one?”
“Of course I do,” Clark said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Banana nut. With the protein powder. Ugly brown box."
You stared back at him a second too long.
He noticed — cheeks tinting the faintest pink — and turned his attention back to the shelves.
It was ridiculous, how much that one sentence meant.
It wasn’t the oatmeal.
It was the fact that he’d listened. That he saw you — the mundane parts, the quiet pieces. Not just the girl who saved strangers in the street, not just the old friend who knew too much.
Just… you.
You were still standing there, a little too soft in the moment, when you got to the checkout line. The cashier was older — sweet-eyed and chatty — with a name tag that said 'Marge' and a stack of “ask me about our pie crusts!” brochures taped to her register.
You and Clark worked in tandem unloading the cart and onto the conveyor belt, hips and arms brushing against each other.
She smiled as she scanned your things. “Date night in, huh?”
You immediately stammered, “Oh—we’re not—”
“Just groceries,” Clark said at the same time. He was smiling, polite as always, but his voice had that little nervous lilt he always got when people looked.
Marge waved her hand. “No, really? You could’ve fooled me! Been here over twenty years, seen it all. You two move like you’ve been married ten years.”
Your heart skipped.
Clark let out a breathy laugh, eyes dropping to the magazine stand next to the register like it was suddenly fascinating.
You gave a half-smile. “Just old friends.”
She shrugged, unconvinced, and whispered to you conspiratorially while scanning the last of your items, “Oh hon, some friendships turn into the best marriages. The way he looks at you? That’s not just friendship.”
You didn’t respond. You were one-hundred-percent sure Clark heard her. He at least had the grace to not react. But you felt the silence— stretched tight between you like the draw of breath before something important.
You paid quietly, not asking about any pie crusts, and shared one final awkward smile with Marge before Clark loaded your cart and pushed toward the exit.
Outside, the wind tugged at your coat. Clark collected all the bags in his hands without a word. A leaf landed on his shoulder, snagging on the material of his jacket. You reached up with your free hand without thinking, brushing it away.
His eyes stayed on you.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
You exhaled slowly. “We should—get back. Before the milk warms up.”
“Yeah,” Clark said, voice low.
But as you walked back to your apartment— your steps falling into rhythm — you could feel something shifting in the silence.
.
It started with a notification.
Tuesday night, post-shift. You were folding laundry, your washed hair tied in a messy bun with a silk scrunchi and your knee propped up on a throw pillow — the leftover scrape from the falafel incident one month ago was finally fading. Your phone buzzed again, then again, and again.
You unlocked your phone with curiosity, and found an interesting Instagram notification.
Cat Grant: Hey, I hope this isn’t weird —
Cat Grant: Found your name from Clark's article. You have good taste in shoes!
Then:
Cat Grant: Anyway, we didn’t get to really meet last month and I want a do-over.
Cat Grant: The Planet crew’s going out Friday night. This upscale bar that's in right now. Just drinks, have fun. You should come if you’re free.
And before you could even process that— Another Instagram message popped up.
Jimmy Olsen: hey! Just saw Cat messaged you so I’m jumping in too
Jimmy Olsen: that whole lunch last month was a mess and I don’t think we properly got a chance to say sorry.
Jimmy Olsen: uhhh but you were super cool and handled it like a pro
Jimmy Olsen: so… drinks? With the gang. Friday?
You blinked at your phone.
Then you laughed — out loud, just a little — because of course Cat slid into your DMs like she was booking a client. And Jimmy had a way to disarm and make anyone feel at ease.
Your fingers hovered above your screen, heart thudding a little harder than it should have.
You’d kept your distance since that day. Not out of resentment — just caution and some embarrassment. Letting things breathe, hoping they forgot about you. Giving yourself time. Your circle wasn’t exactly wide in Metropolis, and it wasnt wide back in Star City. You’d grown used to that. Self-sufficiency made a good shield.
But you didn’t want to be on the outside anymore.
Not when it came to Clark - who listened and made every effort to make you feel seen.
You respond to Cat first.
You: Thanks for reaching out. I’m off Friday. Where should I meet you?
Cat responded within seconds.
Cat Grant: YES.
Cat Grant: I booked us a table at @ohanleys. 7 PM. More upscale bar. We’ll have drinks and mercilessly interrogate Clark about his middle school haircut.
Cat Grant: Don’t tell him you’re coming. Let’s surprise him!!
You laughed again, a small buzz of nerves fluttering in your chest.
You then respond to Jimmy.
You: Hey! Don't be sorry. I messaged Cat. I'll see you at O'Hanley's.
You: Don't tell Clark.
Jimmy and Cat both message their number to you, and you respond with yours.
You hadn’t planned to run into the Planet team again so soon — and certainly not on purpose. But this time felt different. Not ambushed. Not judged.
An actual invitation.
You clicked on the O'Hanley's Instagram handle from Cat, your interest piqued taking in dark hardwood floors, emerald velvet curtains, leather seats, antique gold accents. The drinks menu, while pricey, got good reviews.
You glanced toward your small closet down the hall and started mentally assembling an outfit.
Maybe this time, with a real smile and your chin lifted, you’d get to introduce yourself the way you wanted to be seen — not the girl knocked down, literally and metaphorically, but you.
Capable. Confident. Still healing — but here.
You closed the messages and turned back to your laundry, that small flutter of anticipation humming in your chest like a secret you couldn’t wait to share.
Let them be surprised.
Let him be surprised.
For once, you were stepping into his world — on your terms.
And you were ready.
.
Wednesday night, you were on Clark's couch again.
Feet tucked under your legs, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table next to a bowl of homemade beef stew Clark flew in from Ma. The TV murmured in the background — some old reruns of a police procedural show you liked, though neither of you were really paying attention. The lighting was soft. The silence between you even softer.
Clark sat beside you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the flow of this laptop casting pale light over his face as he scrolled through a few work emails. His glasses were tucked away in his dress shirt pocket, the crease between his brows deepened every time he frowned at the screen.
It was a routine you were falling into lately.
Domestic. Easy. Dangerous, in how much it already felt like yours.
You were giddy with what you were keeping tucked in your back pocket — Friday night, Cat’s surprise. You weren’t hiding it from Clark, exactly. Just saving it. One small win for yourself. Something lighthearted in a season where most things had felt heavy.
“Big day tomorrow?” you asked, sipping your tea.
Clark hummed in response, not looking up yet. “Not too bad. Lois has a lead she’s chasing, and Perry’s breathing down my neck about the sanitation strike follow-up. I’ll probably be home late.”
You gave a nod, already knowing your own shift tomorrow was going to be a twelve-hour marathon. The hospital was short again. You felt it Monday and yesterday. Thursdays always seemed to stretch, not quite the weekend but early enough. Your thoughts lingered back to the warmth radiating from Clark's thigh beside you.
Then, a pause.
Clark glanced up. “Oh, uh...and the team’s going out Friday.”
You blinked once — just enough to keep it natural. “Out?”
“Yeah,” he said, stretching a little. “O’Hanley’s. Some upscale bar. Jimmy’s idea, I think, but it’s probably more of a Cat Grant operation. She’s been on some kind of social tear lately.” He smiled faintly, but didn’t look particularly thrilled.
“That’s nice,” you said, keeping your tone light. “You going?”
Clark hesitated. “I… was thinking of skipping.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I dunno. Just—” he scratched the back of his neck, a tell he had even as a child, “—we’ve been so busy. I kind of wanted to just stay in this weekend. With you.”
Your stomach flipped a little, and you loved how sweet that sounded.
You gave a small, playful scoff. “Clark Kent, are you bailing on your own coworkers because you want a night in with me?”
“Maybe,” he said, sheepish. “But in my defense, that sounds better than watching Jimmy try to beatbox after three whiskey sours.”
You grinned, nudging his leg with your socked foot, but froze when he caught your ankle and rested it along his lap. “It’s just one night. Go. It's not a crime to have a little fun.”
He grimaced, gaze flicking to your mouth before he looked away. "Sounds like my version of fun is different from your version."
You chuckled and leaned tour head against the couch, watching him. “Come on, you can’t give Cat the satisfaction of thinking you’ve gone reclusive.”
“I am reclusive," he said dryly.
“Not with me.”
His gaze lingered on you, quiet and warm, and for a second you almost lost your nerve. You wanted to tell him that you’d be there. That you were nervous and excited and so ready to belong in more parts of his life.
But then he smiled softly, thumb brushing over your ankle again like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and said, “I guess I’ll go.”
“Good,” you said, heart skipping.
He turned back to his laptop, but his hand stayed where it was, fingers resting lightly against your skin. You didn’t move, didn't breathe too loudly, afraid the moment would vanish if you did.
.
Thursday had come and gone, your shifts done and the weekend was yours. You had your time with Clark when he wasn't patrolling or working, and you had to reassure him again and again that you were 'fine' and for him to 'have fun' and that you'll see him over the weekend.
Now, you had no business overthinking this.
It was just a night out.
Invited by Cat and Jimmy who wanted a do-over first meeting, and the rest of the Daily Planet crew who had probably already Googled you, stalked your LinkedIn, and decided exactly what kind of person you were based on your Instagram bio. And sure — Clark would be there too, blissfully unaware that you were about to crash his coworker hangout with perfectly executed surprise and a dress that absolutely was not about him.
Definitely not.
You stood in front of your closet, towel-drying your dark hair with one hand, staring at your options.
Too casual. Too corporate. Too “nurse off duty and doesn’t know how to have fun.”
Your gaze fell on it.
A black dress. The black dress.
Form-fitting, thigh-hugging, off-the-shoulder, with a neckline that walked a careful line between classy and oh. An impulsive birthday buy years ago, it still had the tag on, like it had been waiting
You bit your lip, held it up, and gave it a long, hard look.
“Okay,” you muttered. “We’re doing this.”
It clung in all the right places. Made your legs look longer. Your collarbones more prominent. The slight dip at your chest demanded just enough attention to make someone look twice — maybe three times.
You added small gold hoops. Applied a full face of make up- mascara, liner, blush, matte lipstick- spritz one of your favorite perfume.
You told yourself, again, that this wasn’t about Clark.
You were dressing for you. You were reclaiming that unfortunate lunch day.
Your mouth curled into a quiet, satisfied smirk as you gave yourself one final look in the mirror, smoothing the dress over your hips, admiring how plump your ass looked.
“Just a fun night out,” you said to your reflection, voice cool, practiced, lying through your teeth.
You grabbed your jacket, your small purse, and your phone — ordering a rideshare and reading a text from Jimmy that said they've arrived and saved a seat for you next to Clark.
You rolled your eyes — but smiled.
Tonight, you were going to walk into his world — not as a tagalong, not as a what-if, not as a memory — but as a woman who knew exactly what she brought to the table.
And that woman?
She looked good.
.
By the time you arrived at O’Hanley’s, the upscale bar was buzzing — lowlights, music pulsing at the edges of conversation, the air rich with warmth and perfume, tables full of laughter and end-of-week energy.
You hesitated just past the coat check, eyes scanning the crowd, breath catching slightly. The soft lightening painted everything gold and amber, and for a second you almost turned back.
Then you saw them. The Planet crew in the back corner near the windows — most already a few drinks in.
Ron was telling a story too loudly.
Jimmy was in hysterics, head on the table.
And Clark...
He was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting along the back of it, navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His tie was still knotted but loose, and he was mid-laugh, eyes crinkling, glasses slightly fogged from the warmth.
He looked unfairly handsome. For a second, you forgot how to move.
You forced yourself to walk toward them, careful and casual.
Cat spotted you first. Her lips parted with a pleased little “ohhh.”
Jimmy’s head snapped up then.
“You’re kidding me,” he whispered, eyes wide, a grin spreading like sunrise. He launched out of his chair and jogged over, already holding out his arms and guiding you to the table.
“You came! I was betting five bucks you’d ghost.”
“Only five?” you grinned, hugging him briefly. “I’m worth more than that.”
“Clearly,” Cat popped up beside Jimmy, welcoming you with her own hug and eyes raking over your outfit. “Wow. You clean up dangerously well.”
You flushed, “I just—wanted a proper meeting.”
You turned to empty spot next to Clark. He was frozen.
Literally. Just—stopped. Mid-movement. The impossible kind of full-bodied stillness only he could pull off without it looking awkward. Eyes wide behind his glasses. Thrown, completely and thoroughly.
You saw it: recognition, disbelief, warmth, and something deeper. Hunger, maybe? All of it flickering across his face in a second, and it made your skin prickle.
“Hey everyone," you said, tucking hair behind your ear. Your eyes swept the rest of the table in greeting, ending back at Clark.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out at first.
Cat giggled behind her cocktail glass, back at her seat, "Don't worry, we didnt tell him!"
“Hi,” he blinked, his voice lower than usual, breath catching a little. “You—you're here.”
“I am," you said lightly, finally sitting next to him. "Surprise!"
He leaned in close, the scent of his cologne hitting you. His voice dipped low, closer to a whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me?"
You tilted your head, lips curving, "Spoil the surprise? You already tried bailing. I figured this would be more fun.”
He laughed, soft and helpless, then flushed. A beautiful, visible flush. You saw Lois’s eyes narrow ever so slightly at that.
His eyes traced your face, lingering longer on your lips than they probably should have. “It’s more than okay. You look… really nice.”
Before you could think of what to say, Jimmy liped up, waggling his brows across the table. “Dude, you mean she looks insanely nice.”
“Alright, Jim, reel it in,” Ron drawled, taking a sip of his beer, "before Perry hears you three boroughs away."
Clark bumped your shoulder gently with his. “They’re like this all the time. I’m sorry in advance.”
But you weren’t sorry at all. It was oddly comforting — chaotic, yes, but welcoming. You weren’t just Clark’s plus-one tonight. You were…part of it. Orbiting a little closer to his world than before.
He leaned in once more, voice soft enough only for you, "You really surprised me."
"Good, that was the point."
.
The conversation picked up quickly— stories from the newsroom, wild source mishaps, Jimmy's impressions of city council members. They were a tight-knit bunch, but they never once made you feel like an outsider tonight.
You chimed in with your own ridiculous ER stories and oddest requests. Cat kept slipping you conspiratorial glances. Ron asked your opinions about headlines. Steve tried to guess your favorite beer based on “vibe alone".
It was light, mess, alive.
Eventually, Lois leaned over the table toward you, snatching a couple of fries from the shared basket. “Wanna get some air?”
You blinked. “Now?”
“Now,” she said around a mouthful, already rising. “Come on, I don’t bite.”
She turned to the rest of the group, mumbling that you two were going to the restroom. No one question it, except for Clark, whose fingers brushed yours as you got up. A small, wordless question. You smiled in reassurance before following Lois out through the back and out the side door.
The autumn air was cool qnd crisp against your arms. You crossed them over your chest, leaning against the brick wall of the empty side patio. The muffled pulse of music and laughter bled through the door beside you.
“I don’t do this with most people,” she said, voice casual, eyes on the street. “Pull them aside. Talk like this.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”
“It’s a disclaimer.” She stared at you, calculating, “You like him.”
It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t respond at first — just looked out over the street, where headlights glowed on wet asphalt and distant laughter echoed from inside.
"That obvious?"
"To a reporter like me? Yeah. Mr. Clueless, not so much," Lois said dryly.
“Clark’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. Doesn’t always make him easy to understand. He’s private. He’s… burdened, in ways people don’t see.”
Your fingers tightened over your arms.
“I know. Believe me, I know,” you said quietly.
She glanced sideways at you, curiostiy sparking. “You’ve known him a long time.”
“Since we were kids."
"So you know about him?" She stressed the last word, eyeing you.
You tapped the center of your sternum and drew a small "S", "Yes."
Lois only nodded, her shoulders somehow sagging with relief.
“You’re not like the people he’s met as an adult,” she said. “You don’t look at him like he owes you something. You don’t pull. You don’t chase. You… see him. It messes with him a little.”
You swallowed, heartbeat thudding in your throat. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” she said. “It’s a rare thing. He talks about you. Not a lot. But enough that I started wondering if you were the real reason he looked like someone punched him in the heart months ago. ”
You felt heat rise in your cheeks.
Lois smiled faintly, tapping her chin, “I like you, for what it’s worth. You’re grounded. Observant. Smart. And it’s pretty clear you care about him.”
“I do,” you said softly, playing with one of your gold hoop earrings, a nervous habit. “I just don’t want to mess it up. Or…” You hesitated. “Be something temporary.”
Lois studied you for a long moment, then exhaled with a genuine, unguarded smile.
“You're not temporary." She gently placed a hand on yours and squeezed, "I’ve known Clark a long time. We’re ride-or-die. But he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”
The words settled in your chest like a spark you didn't knwo what to do with. She let go and turned back to the door.
Before she got farther, you placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Wait!" You took a deep breath, "Thank you, Lois. I... This means a lot to me. I hope...we can be friends."
Lois looked at you over her shoulder and failed to hide her grin. She slung an arm around your shoulder, her taller frame leaning against you.
“God, you and him... C'mon, let's go back in. I think Jimmy ordered lemon shots and it's about to get messy.”
You laughed, breath catching a little. "Oh, I don't want to miss this."
You followed her in with a lighter heart and easier steps.
When you both sat down again, Clark draped an arm against the back of your chair without missing a beat in his conversation with Jimmy. His fingers brushed the fabric of your dress once, like he needed to make sure you were here.
The night stretched on in golden fragments.
Drinks and food arrived by the round — beers for Steve and Ron; cocktails for you, Cat, Lois; one outrageous flaming shot that Jimmy nearly set his sleeve on fire with.
Trays of heavy carbs - fries, pretzels, chips and dip scattered along the table.
Cat snapped selfies of the group and herself sipping her cocktail or other candid shots of the busy bar to use for a future review.
Lois, with dry humor, rated every drink in front of her like it was a wine tasting in Bordeaux.
And Clark — Clark was still stealing glances.
At you.
He never really recovered from your entrance. He laughed when the group laughed, nodded when Ron shared a story, but every few minutes his gaze would wander, soft and heavy-lidded, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were here.
You, who looked like sin in that black dress.
You, who once shared peanut butter crackers with him in the third grade and patched up his scraped palms with your mom’s Hello Kitty band-aids.
Now your knees brushed under the table, and it was so easy, so dangerously easy, to pretend this was your life already.
.
“You’re going down, Olsen.”
Jimmy grinned like a man with something to prove as he rolled up his sleeve, planting his elbow dramatically onto the polished bar table.
Across from him, Ron cracked his knuckles like a seasoned veteran of bar sports. “You forget I used to wrestle in high school?”
“Wrestle what?” Cat chimed, raising a brow. “Excuses?”
Lois cackled. You laughed too — a little freer now, the warmth of the bar’s low lights and the start of your third drink stretching everything soft and slow.
You weren’t drunk. Just pleasantly fuzzy.
Even Clark looked like he was relaxing more — though you knew it wasn’t alcohol. Tonight he only sipped something citrusy and politely non-alcoholic. Still, the slight flush in his ears and his bright-eyed, dimpled smile told you he was very affected by something.
You hoped, irrationally and selfishly, that it was because of you.
“Okay, okay,” Jimmy huffed, shaking out his hand. “One, two, three—”
The team exploded in cheers and heckling as Ron immediately slammed Jimmy’s arm to the table with a loud, satisfying thunk, earning a few head-turns from other patrons enjoying their Friday night out.
“Rematch!” Jimmy yelled, already nursing his bruised ego.
“Only if I get a turn,” Lois teased, finishing the last of her drink.
“Pfft. I could take you both,” Cat declared, reaching for a pretzel.
You were still laughing when someone said it — you weren’t sure who, maybe Steve.
“Bet she could beat half the table.”
And suddenly, all eyes turned to you.
You blinked. “Wait, me?”
“You’re a nurse,” Lois said, reaching over to extend your arm and forced it in a flexed positioned, “You probably have, like, super grip strength from dragging defibrillators and fighting back drunk people on nights like this."
You snorted, brushing Lois off, “You're not entirely wrong—”
“Come on, miss nurse,” Cat coaxed. “Flex on us.”
Jimmy was already clearing the table, looking way too eager. “I believe in you. Do it for science. And the underdogs.”
Clark leaned in close, smile soft. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” you turned smiling up at him. You stretched your arms and flexed them with a smirk. “But I want to.”
The cheer that went up from the table was ridiculous. More patrons turned their heads to your table. Clark's lips parted like he might say something but you were already rolling your shoulders and settling in.
The seat across you became vacant, ready for challengers.
You squared off against Jimmy first — and to everyone’s surprise, won. He immediately declared it was because he was “still recovering from his loss to Ron.” Then Cat hastily shoved Jimmy out of the seat and challenged you, lost quickly, and insisted your nails were a secret weapon.
“You’re lucky I’m not wearing rings,” you teased, flexing your fingers.
But it wasn’t until Ron offered you a good-natured shrug and motioned to the table again that someone else intervened.
“Wait, wait,” Lois said suddenly, grinning. “Let’s up the stakes.”
Her eyes sparkled, unmistakably gleeful, as they landed next to you, on Clark.
“You’re next.”
Clark, bless him, looked like someone had just dared him to play strip poker in a church. “What?”
“Oh, this is too good,” Cat egged on. “You’ve been sitting there smiling at her like a golden retriever in a tie all night. Time to show us what our Kansas farmboy can do.”
Ron laughed. “Yeah! Let’s see those country muscles, big guy.”
“I’m not—” Clark scratched his neck, avoiding your eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Are you scared of losing?” you teased, lifting a brow.
His gaze snapped to yours — and the world went quiet. That soft playful look from earlier was gone. Replaced with heat, that flicker behind the glasses, the weight of his attention sliding down your spine.
“No,” he said, soft but firm. “I’m scared of you losing.”
“Damn” Jimmy whispered. “That was kind of hot.”
The table burst out laughing again, but you held out your hand, steady and smug. “Come on, Clark. Let’s give them a show.”
Clark stared at your hand, sighed like a man walking into temptation itself, and finally relented — he got up and sat across from you, resting his much larger palm in yours.
Something clicked.
His skin was warm. Calloused, but gentle. He moved his thumb along your knuckles and your breath stuttered.
“Three,” Ron counted.
You met Clark’s eyes. He smiled lopsided, deep dimples and apologetic.
“Two.”
You pressed forward, the neckline of your dress dipping, your breath catching. His gaze flicked down before he caught himself. You saw it, you felt it.
“One.”
It was like pushing against a brick wall made of velvet. No resistance, just… solid.
Clark didn’t budge. Not even a twitch.
Neither did you — not immediately — but you felt it, that gentle shift in pressure like he was testing just how far you’d go. He wasn’t even trying.
And still, your arm trembled.
You narrowed your eyes, taunting him, “You’re holding back.”
He leaned in, voice so low only you could hear. “You’re incredible.”
Your froze, just long enough for your wrist to drop and your arm to give out.
Your hand hit the table with a soft thud, and the table broke into cheers, arguments, and chants of “rematch, rematch!”
Clark barely looked up. He was still watching you.
“I told you,” he said quietly, a little breathless. “Wouldn’t be fair.”
You stared at him — at the shy smile, the heat in his gaze. "Maybe next time."
He tilted his head, eyes glinting behind his glasses. "Are you planning a rematch?"
"Maybe," you sang, your knee brushing his under the table. "If you play nice."
He chuckled, dimples and warmth, and shot you that heated look again. Oh God, you were in so much trouble.
.
The drinks had hit you in a slow, golden ripple.
You weren’t drunk, you swear — just soft around the edges. Light-limbed and giggly. You chewed on fries from the refilled basket every now and then.
The low bar lights glinted off half-empty glasses, and Jimmy was halfway into a story about getting stuck in an elevator with Bruce Wayne (it was mostly just screaming and awkward silence, according to him).
You leaned a little against Clark, who returned to his seat, his shoulder solid next to yours, radiating heat like a furnace — you tried not to think about how good he smelled this close, how his laugh did something warm and curling in your chest and between your legs every time he aimed it your way.
Then, a tap on your shoulder. A stranger hovering at your side. Mid-thirties. Decent build. Dressed like a finance bro. A little too confident.
“Hey,” Finance Bro said, leaning a little closer than necessary and his green eyes dropping — clearly admiring the way your dress clung to your chest and thighs, "I'm Jason."
“Congratulations.” You deadpanned.
Lois snorted into Jimmy's shoulder, doing a poor job muffling her cackles.
Jason grinned, undeterred. "Are you here with anyone?"
Clark’s posture shifted immediately. Not obvious — not to most people — but you felt it. The stillness in his spine. The way the muscle in his jaw flexed once before settling. The way his arm along the back of your chair tensed. The way his knee stopped bouncing. The way the conversation around the table slowed just slightly, like everyone had clocked it at once.
"I'm not interested," you said flatly.
“Come on,” Jason coaxed in a sly voice. "Have a drink with me? It'll make it a good time."
Obviously he didn't take the hint.
You blinked, trying to recalibrate and not respond with anger. His voice was too smooth. Smile too practiced. He didn’t look at your eyes when he spoke. You were caught in that cusp of disbelief and tispy boldness that made some ideas fun. You could feel Clark beside you, solid, steady, radiating restrained tension, and something reckless bloomed in your chest.
Before anyone could speak — before Clark could even rise — your hand slid smoothly across Clark’s thigh, slow and deliberate, until it rested over the hard plane of his chest.
Then you shifted, twisting in your chair and settling right into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His breath hitched.
You leaned in close, chest pressed against his, and played with his hair, peering up at him beneath your lashes in a voice dripping into a sultry, dramatic whisper that sent shivers down your own spine.
“Baaaabe” you drawled into the crook of his neck in an airy voice, “Make the bad man go away…”
Clark went very still. His hands hovered, uncertain, one finding the curve of your waist but not quite gripping. He tensed as the bridge of your nose tickled the line of his jaw, more probounced when you shifted closer, practically straddling one of his thighs.
The table went silent.
Your fingers brushed along his shirt collar, then toyed with his tie, the movement so instinctive it surprised even you — but the warmth of him was grounding, and that mischievous bubble in your chest expanded when you felt the tremor in his breath.
Clark swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, voice low. “You sure?”
“Mmhmm,” you murmured, you gave your best puppy eyes, “He’s giving ‘talks over women in meetings’ energy. I'd rather sit right here all night.”
Lois and Cat nearly choked on their drinks.
Jason blinked, confused. “Wait, is this your—?”
“Yes,” Clark said immediately, recovering his composure — almost. He straightened just enough to have presence without being aggressive, and his smile was tight-lipped. “She’s with me.”
Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, man. Message received.”
You didn’t miss the way Clark’s hand settled more firmly on your hip as the stranger walked off, his thumb tracing an absent-minded circle against your dress as if he couldn't quite help himself.
Or the way Cat leaned toward Ron and muttered, “Holy shit, that was hot."
Steve shook his head solemnly, "What did I say? Mild-mannered my ass."
Jimmy, wide-eyed, whispered, “Did she just purr at him?”
You felt Clark's his body heat seep into your skin, making your pulse jump when you smelled his cologne. You whispered before you could stop yourself, "you're warm" before peeling yourself off him slowly, cheeks flushed
"You're trouble," he murmured back. His eyes roamed your face, dropping briefly to your mouth, and then lower, lingering a beat too long where your dress dipped just above your cleavage. When he looked back up, he seemed… wrecked. In that boyish, sweet, utterly undone way that made you feel suddenly sober.
You could hear the others starting up another round of teasing and stories, but none of it touched the quiet space that formed between you and Clark.
His knees brushed yours again. Once, then deliberate this time.
“Sorry,” you whispered, biting your lip. “Was that too much?”
He shook his head, voice rough. “No! No, I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
“Not mad, right?”
“Mad?” he huffed a laugh, then leaned closer. “You could’ve said ‘please carry me out of here like a princess,’ and I would’ve apologized to that guy for the inconvenience.”
You laughed, higher and lighter, spilling out before you could stop it. You caught Lois's smirk across the table.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when you were halfway through another round of fries, that Clark leaned in again, unhurried timbre of his voice soft in your ear, making your skin prickle.
“For the record,” he murmured, “I’d make the bad man go away anytime you asked.”
Your breath caught.
“Even if I wasn’t tipsy?” you asked, quieter this time.
He tilted his head, eyes locking to yours, soft, blue, burning. “Especially then.”
He pulled back with that earnest, crooked smile that you’d never quite recovered from — not when you were kids, and especially not now.
Not ever.
.
The rest of the night blurred, laughter and glasses clinking and conversations that meandered - Jimmy challenging Steve to a round of darts, Steve stealing someone’s leftover pretzels, Cat glued to her phone, editing the night's photos for a future Instagram post.
But the heat between you and Clark never faded.
Not after that.
And when the check came and you all stood to leave, Clark was already collecting your jacket from coat check and gently helping you slip into it. His hands lingered at your shoulders a little longer than necessary.
You didn’t say anything about it.
You didn’t have to.
The street outside the bar was quiet, save for the fading thrum of music through brick walls and the rustling of leaves overhead. The city felt softer at night — blurred edges, quieter footsteps, the low hum of Metropolis breathing.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Cat said, tossing a teasing wink your way as she clutched her purse and ordered a rideshare for her and Lois, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Jimmy snorted next to Steve. “That’s not exactly a limit, Cat.”
“Exactly.”
Lois pulled her coat tighter, eyeing you kindly like a protective sister, as she leaned into Clark. “Take care of her, Smallville.”
Clark chuckled, one hand already resting lightly at your lower back. “Always."
You said your goodbyes to them all, earning hugs from Cat, Jimmy, and surprisngly Steve, feeling all sorts of giddy with a successful "do-over".
They peeled away into the night in their respective directions, leaving you and Clark alone under a streetlamp just outside of the bar.
You turned to him, your cheeks still warm from drinks and something else entirely. His hand hadn’t moved.
“I can catch a ride home, you know,” you murmured.
“I know you can,” he said, softer. “But I’d feel better flying you.”
You studied his face - tousled hair, jawline that could cut glass, and behind the glasses, icy blue eyes.
Your heart tremored.
“Alright, Kent. But if I puke midair, you’re doing my laundry.”
His lips curved into a grin. “Deal.”
Without another word, he stepped in close — hands steady at your waist as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. The motion was familiar. Done countless times the past almost four months. Your breath caught as his chest brushed yours, and you felt the solid thrum of him, warm and steady beneath your fingertips.
Then, with barely a shift in the air — you were off the ground.
.
TBC!
(her apartment or his... 👀)
Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list. Reblogs are always welcome!
golden retriever bf!Clark Kent x black cat gf!reader
chapter 6 to "sharp edges and warm hands"
word count (chapter 6): 6k
synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can’t help but wonder if he’s keeping secrets from you.
rating (chapter 6): E (Explicit) ***18+ only. Minors DNI or you will be blocked
content (chapter 6): fluff, angst, a little fluff, a lotta smut, cursing, unprotected sex, overstimulation kink, light humiliation kink, use of sex toys, tooth achingly sweet fluff to finish it all off eeee
author’s note: Please enjoy this 6th and final chapter of Sharp Edges and Warm Hands! I'm so sorry it took so many months for me to get this out (I got really busy with work and grad school and travel) but thank you all for toughing it out with me and for hyping me up to finish this so strong! I'm eternally grateful for any and all of you who have taken the time to read my silly little fanfic! Your comments, asks, and reblogs make me smile so much. I know this is the last chapter of this series, but if you enjoy this and want to see more of my writing, please send me an ask to let me know and i’ll gladly add you to a general writing taglist! ((And please comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!))
previous chapter(s): chapter 1 ("sharp edges and warm hands"); chapter 2 ("the edge of tenderness"); chapter 3 ("jealousy in technicolor"); chapter 4 ("the violet hour"); chapter 5 ("a fool for you")
✧⋆.˚ ⟡˚.⋆✧
The longer you have to process the fact that Clark Kent is in fact Superman, the more you begin to accept that this was a perfectly acceptable reason for him to have ghosted you.
After all, he’d been saving people. Even though he knew it might cost him his girlfriend.
But honestly? This little secret he’s been keeping for all these months explains so damn much.
Like the dog you’d heard from Clark’s apartment on the first day you’d met him. (He’d said, “Krypto’s my cousin’s. I really was just fostering.”)
And the tennis ball hitting the wall thing you’d been so annoyed about. (He’d said, “Oh that? Yeah, he does like to play wall ball. We just play it really fast.”)
And the mysterious way he’d fixed your stove that one day. (He’d said, “...I was getting so frustrated trying to fix it at normal speed. I sent you next door as a distraction so I could work faster.”)
And the mysterious things that kept happening in bed. Like the headboard. And the levitating-off-the-bed thing. (He’d said, “Sometimes my powers come out when I… lose control. If you know what I mean.”)
You couldn’t make this shit up if you tried.
Dating Superman certainly has its cons. Like the fact that he was frequently off fighting evil and saving the city. And of course, there’s the emotional strain of dating someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. But that’s a topic for another time.
There were, of course, the pros. For one, he’ll quite literally fly across the city to save you from a collapsed fire escape. There’s also the superstrength; you’ve always wanted a boyfriend who could pick you up and fling you around (or onto a bed) like it’s nothing, and, well, now, here you have it. Though that one has a catch; sometimes, he’s too strong for his own good. Like when he loses control in bed and bruises your hips (hot) or breaks his own headboard (even hotter).
Some characteristics have both pros and cons. You're still getting used to the uncanny way his face changes when he takes off the glasses—hypno-glasses, he calls them. There's also the topic of his inhumanly heightened senses. It’s like he’s perfectly attuned to every microscopic part of you, all the time. The subtlest of changes to your facial expressions. The fluctuations of your heart in response to his nearness. He could even sense when you fall sick with a cold before you even realize it yourself.
And you realize he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he could smell when you were turned on for him.
His super-hearing was the most perturbing. You’ve become keenly aware of just how many things he might have heard through the paper thin walls since you’d moved in next door to him all those months ago. After all, your bedroom does share a wall with his own. Which means he’d probably heard… well…
You confront him about this one evening. You’re over at his apartment, which tends to get better heat than yours next door, now that it’s early November and getting cold outside. You’re brushing your teeth together over his sink, and you spit and rinse before he does.
“You know,” you say, “the whole super-hearing thing is kind of a red flag.”
He quirks an eyebrow at you as he continues to brush. You go on.
“‘Cause if you could hear me crying out for help from all the way across the city, you’re probably hearing plenty of things you shouldn’t be hearing,” you explain, scowling.
He doesn’t immediately catch your meaning. “I can just drown out the noises I don’t wanna hear,” he mumbles around his toothbrush, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“But that means you can, like, zone in on something you do want to hear?” you pry, pointedly.
He nods, clueless. “Pretty much, yeah.”
You make a frustrated sound. “So, if you heard strange sounds from, say, your girlfriend living next door, you’d be able to hear them, wouldn’t you.”
He snorts. “I don’t care if you fart, sunshine, we all do it—”
“Not that,” you seethe. Because what you’re really talking about is even more humiliating to you. You can already feel blossoms of warmth blooming on your cheeks, which you’re trying to hide with a veil of ire.
Clark notices. Whether it’s the subtle acceleration of your heart, or the rising heat in your face, he notices. His eyes go wide as he realizes what you’re getting at.
And nearly chokes on his toothpaste.
Then he’s grinning to himself and spitting out the toothpaste in the sink so he can talk to you properly. “Oh,” he says lightly, averting his eyes. “That.”
“So you have heard it,” you say hotly, crossing your arms.
“No,” he says too quickly, and then backtracks. “I mean—well, yes, at first, I notice, but I try to zone it out to give you your priva—wait—”
You’re already stomping away from him in anger and humiliation. He chases after you, trying to reach for your hand, but you avoid his grasp and reach for your overnight bag. He’s smiling, snickering about all of this. You’re not.
“Come on, babe.”
“Goodnight,” you say, monotone, and turn on your heel to start heading for the door. But he beats you to it and blocks it off with his massive frame.
“No, no, don’t leave.”
You sigh and cross your arms. He grins, evidently sensing you aren’t truly angry, not really.
“Don’t be mad at me,” he says, nearly laughing.
You shoot daggers with your eyes. “It’s an invasion of my privacy, Kent.”
He throws his hands up in defense. “It’s not something I can help!”
“Well, you should,” you shoot back, unreasonably.
“I can’t control my hearing. I was born like this.”
“But you shouldn’t be listening to that.” You know you’re being completely unreasonable now, but you can’t help it. Your ears are flaming with embarrassment at the idea that, for fuck knows how many nights, he might have heard you touching yourself, or god forbid, using your vibe…
Fuck. It’s mortifying.
Your boyfriend gives you a level look and places his hands on your shoulders. “You’re right. That’s why I zone it out, right? Everyone does it. It’s normal. That’s your time for yourself, not for anyone else. You deserve your right to privacy. Don’t think anything of it, okay?”
The way he wields those sweet words chips away at your flustered fury like an ice pick. “Okay, fine,” you mumble, giving way to his reason.
And then his smile turns into a little smirk as he lights the fire again.
“Well, in my defense, you do tend to be a bit… loud…”
You groan in crimson indignation and try to push past him to leave. He blocks you again, laughing fully this time. “Get out of my way, Kent.”
“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. But you just look so cute when you are. And you sound cute when you—”
“Don’t finish that.”
“I won’t. You’ll be the one finishing later.”
“Go fuck yourself, Kent.”
He must be guessing—correctly—that you’re only acting mad because you’re embarrassed, because he continues to egg you on. “So vulgar,” he says with a tsk. “I can think of a better use for that pretty little mouth.”
Your core flutters at that. You always react this way when he switches up, turns up the charm, says things to provoke you. You understand now what he’s doing. He’s riling you up on purpose. Pushing your buttons to see what you’ll do back. He’s playing a game.
Well, fine. If he wants you to play, you’ll fucking play.
“I bet you can,” you shoot back. “You’re such a perv. Listening in on women masturbating, imagining what their mouths do. It’s pitiful.”
“Not women,” he corrects you. “Just you. My woman.”
“Ugh, gross,” you groan, even though your disgust is forced. You’re secretly loving this. A clandestine smile breaks through your lips before you force your expression back into pretend anger.
He looks you up and down, studying your face with a smirk. “I’m not joking.” He leans closer, almost conspiratorially, and drops his voice to a lethal murmur. “Your voice. Your hands touching yourself. That’s what gets me off, baby.”
Though his words make your heart leap and your eyelids flutter (things he definitely picks up on), you feign aloofness. “I bet it does,” you coo at him. “You’re really that obsessed with me, aren’t you.”
“I am.” He says this with full sincerity, before smirking again and adding, “but by the sound of it, you’re pretty obsessed with me too. Heard you say my name a few times while you fucked yourself with your—”
“Fuck. Off.”
He smirks bigger, seemingly satisfied with your response to these buttons he’s pushing. “You seem pretty frustrated, sunshine,” he drawls, his voice dripping with playful condescension. “Maybe you should go relieve those frustrations somehow.”
“Maybe I will,” you seethe.
He steps aside, giving you a clear path to the door, gesturing dramatically. “Go ahead. Or, you can save yourself the trouble and take care of it right here.”
He quirks his chin at the couch, where you and he had just been snuggling and watching a movie together all evening.
“Not a chance.”
“Why not? Gives me the visuals to go with the sounds.”
You don’t even entertain this. You just hmph and open the door to storm off to your own apartment while Clark’s laughter grows.
“Goodnight, babe.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Try not to stay up too late,” he quips, “or you’ll be late for work tomorrow.”
You shut his front door rather loudly. But you’re smiling the whole five steps back to your own.
~~~
Later, when you’re finally getting into bed to go to sleep, you get a few texts from him:
CLARK: I promise I won’t listen in on you
CLARK: But if you ever want me to, just knock twice on the wall. Otherwise, I’ll always zone you out and give you your privacy. I give you my word. Deal?
You don’t reply. Not yet. He’s being honest about this promise. You know it because he might be the most honest man you’ve ever met. And knowing he’ll be true to his word makes you all the more interested in his offer.
Just knock twice on the wall.
As humiliated as you’ve been about it, the idea of Clark listening in on you while you get yourself off has been twisting your insides with desire all night. The thought that he might have been hearing you, might have been touching himself too, for all these months…
You roll your eyes in defeat, giving into your own lust as you spread your legs beneath the blankets. You bring a tentative finger to your pussy. Fucking soaked, as expected. You’d been able to feel yourself growing wetter and wetter that whole conversation with Clark.
You drag a finger through that wetness, circling yourself, spreading your slick so everything is slippery beneath the pads of your fingers. Pressing your finger into yourself slowly and curling up toward your belly button, you gasp, barely audible.
Your attention shifts to the wall behind your head where you know Clark lays. You can’t hear a single sound from behind it. You’re being as quiet as a mouse yourself; but if he could hear your voice from miles away, couldn’t he hear this, too?
With your nondominant hand, you cup your own breast, pinching the nipple lightly. Imagine it’s Clark’s teeth. You bite down on your lip and continue to curl that finger into yourself, over and over. Feel your wetness seeping past your hand, dribbling down your ass and into the sheets.
Is he so attuned to the scent of your desire that he might smell it, now, through the barrier of the wall?
Another thought. He’d told you he could “see” through things, too, if he wants. Like an x-ray, he’d described. Could he see through this wall right now? See you sprawled out on your bed, back arched, brows furrowed, one hand on your nipple while the other has fingers buried inside your pussy?
No. He could. But he said he wouldn’t.
And you believe him.
But do you want him to? To hear you, to see you?
You debate this as you withdraw your finger and bring it to your already swollen clit. Rub yourself in deliberate, uniform circles. As your arousal builds and builds, unspooling itself in your core, you become more and more interested in the notion of Clark seeing you like this. In the simple, almost degrading act of being watched.
He’d given you the choice. It only makes you more turned on.
You remove the hand that’s on your breast and reach back and above your headboard. Knock on it with two raps, certain and undeniable.
There’s no immediate change. The wall stays silent, as silent to you as it had been this whole time. But you can only imagine what he’s thinking, what he’s doing, now that you’ve given him full permission to be a part of your private moment. You wish you could see him, could hear him, could talk to him. You could say something. But you don’t. You just continue to go about as you had been, touching yourself, biting back moans. Knowing he’s listening now. Is he watching, too, with his peculiar vision?
Your breathing speeds up, becomes shallower. Your breath hitches in your throat now, every time you exhale. You know he can pick up on this, on all the subtle changes you’re experiencing as your arousal grows hotter and hotter. Is he touching himself, too? You lose yourself in the thought of his massive hand wrapped around himself, pumping, his perfect tip red and weeping for you, his head fallen back against the pillow, his mouth ajar—
You can’t take it, the mystery. You need to know he’s there.
“Clark,” you call out, your voice raspy as it resonates through the quiet room. “Talk to me. Clark.”
No response.
But then your phone rings on the bedside table.
You reach over and pick up as fast as you can. Tuck the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “Clark?” you gasp out, too loud.
“Quiet,” he purrs, his smirking voice caressing you like velvet, “or you’ll have everyone on the third floor knowing what you’re doing too.”
“Clark,” you breathe out. He’s called you for your benefit, you know. He can hear you perfectly well through the wall, but your own hearing is but a fraction of his. He’s called you so you could hear him just as well as he hears you.
“I’m here.” His own voice sounds strained.
“Fuck, Clark. Fuck.”
“Listen to you,” he tsks. “So needy. Touching yourself so good, I know it.”
“Can you see me right now?”
“Only if you ask.”
“I want you to,” you tell him. Well, what you really want is for him to come over and finish what you’d started. But this is too fun. You want him to see you through the wall, want him to see you sprawled out on your bed, hair mussed, nipples puckered, legs splayed, hand between them moving fast and desperate.
You hear a sharp inhale, and you know he’s seeing you now. “Fuck, you look so good. So fucking needy for me.”
“Are you touching yourself?” you breathe.
His responding chuckle is so throaty, so deep, it makes your core clench. “I’ve been touching myself since you left my apartment, sunshine.”
Fuck. That had been half an hour ago. Had he been going for multiple rounds now—including the one you’d shared with him earlier that day on his couch? Or was he edging himself now? You didn’t know. Fuck, half an hour?
“You promised you wouldn’t be listening until I knocked, right?” you say, the words spilling out so fast they’re nearly incoherent as you continue to touch yourself.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “I promised you. But I never said I wouldn’t be touching myself to the idea of it.”
“Fuck, Clark, fuck.” You’re getting closer to the edge, so close now that’s becoming all you can think about.
“You’re so desperate,” he says in a near growl. “Got me so hard.”
“I need you so bad, Clark,” you moan. “Please. Come over.”
“We’re not done here.”
“Fuck.”
“I want you to come for me first. Then I’ll come over.”
Well, that was going to be easy. You were teetering the edge already. You splay your legs wider, your back arching up into your own touch. You’re using the pressure of four fingers now, rubbing yourself hard and quick. The feeling of trickling, spreading warmth emulates from your core.
“Wanna hear you use that vibrator you have,” Clark murmurs. “Want you to come all over that for me.”
The vibe? Fuck, you and he haven’t used toys together like that before. You’re hit with a wave of sheepishness through the pleasure. “I don’t know where it is.”
“Don’t lie to me. It’s in your bedside table drawer. I can see it.”
Of course he can.
Doesn’t matter anyway. Your finger’s been circling your clit this whole time, and now it’s too late. You’re tumbling over the edge.
“Clark, I’m… oh god, I’m coming…” you moan, and your mouth stays open, your eyes beginning to roll back in pleasure. You can just make out his grunts of satisfaction as you climax for him, hard, your inhale coming in throaty hitches, your whole body tensing and convulsing and pulsing beneath your fingertips.
“That’s my girl,” he growls through your phone. “Come for me. So hot. So fucking pretty.”
Your core clenches even tighter at the gravelly sound of his masculine voice through your phone. Your thighs squeeze together and you pull your hand away, resting both hands lavishly on your breasts. You let the rest of your orgasm roll across your muscles like ocean waves washing over sand. Clark sounds dangerously, pitifully desperate on the phone now, his throaty grunts becoming low and frequent. You can only imagine how he’s touching himself to the show you’d just given him.
You breathe out his name and sink into your mattress, longing for his touch. “Come over,” you plea.
The call abruptly ends, just as feel a rush of air as your bedroom door opens. Faster than light, he’d come in through your front door.
And now he’s here, standing in the doorframe.
Moving fast but not inhumanly fast, he wastes no time crossing the room to you and climbing on top of you to kiss you deeply. You sigh contentedly and wrap your arms around him. Let his tongue slip into your mouth, claiming you.
You’re struck by the beauty of his body. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but his gray sweats. Hadn’t he been touching himself? Had he thrown these on before coming over?
“Take these off,” you command, your voice weakened by your orgasm.
“Not yet,” he murmurs in your ear. Nibbles the lobe. An aftershock rolls through you, and he hums against your skin. “I haven’t gotten to see that vibrator yet.”
You lean back enough to give him a level look. “I won’t be able to handle that.”
He grins wolfishly. “Exactly.”
“No, Clark.”
“Yes—”
You cut him off by kissing him and reaching a hand for his crotch. He’s rock solid, and he halts and tenses from your touch, but quickly melts into you as you dip your hand into his pants and grasp him fully.
“It’s your turn,” you say, grinning devilishly at him.
He must have been edging, because his resolve melts away in the palm of your hand as you gently push him to the mattress. You kiss his mouth messily before trailing all the way down to his pants. Straddling his knees, you wrench the hem of them down to his thighs. His cock pops out, angry and red.
“That’s the look of a cock that’s pleading for a mouth to be wrapped around it,” you tell him.
His mouth falls open, taken aback by your bluntness. Your own mouth grows wet with saliva in anticipation. You absolutely cannot wait to taste him. And so you do. Dipping down to lick a bead of pleasure that’s emerged from his tip, you revel in the sounds he makes. And hum in satisfaction yourself.
Your tongue becomes your mouth, wrapped widely around his girth, moving up and down in deliberately slow strokes. Your mouth is met with your hand below it, gripping him hard and tight, working him just the way you know he likes it.
And fuck is he liking it. At the torturous stimulation of your hand and mouth, he’s twitching and writhing and moaning beneath you.
You’re so hell-bent on making Clark unravel for you that you don’t notice the warning signs before he wrenches free of you, throws you onto the bed beside him, and hoists himself on top of you. A pent-up, wicked grin stretches over his handsome face.
“My turn,” he says.
He had been so close to coming in your mouth, just like you had intended. “But I wanted you to—”
“Nuh uh.” A soul-crushing kiss. “There’s something else I want more.”
With complete certainty, he reaches into your bedside table drawer and withdraws the little vibrator. Clicks it on. It’s the size of a large rifle bullet, but it packs a punch. Clark quirks an eyebrow at you and his smirk deepens.
“Let’s see you use this on yourself.”
You shake your head. “No way. Not tonight.”
“Alright, then, I’ll just have to use it on you.”
“No. Way.”
“Why not?”
“I’m overstimulated at just the fucking thought, Clark.”
He dips his chin and gives you a knowing look through dark lashes. As if to say, exactly the point.
You shake your head, a coquettish smile breaking across your face. You back away from him, back yourself up against the headboard, pulling the covers up to your chin. He stalks toward you, pulling them down, lowering his head to kiss a peaked nipple. You yelp, and he laughs, teeth brushing against the skin there. He holds the buzzing vibe right over your other breast, hovering it right above. Not quite touching you, not yet.
Because as always, he’s waiting for you.
“I’ll stop right now. But if you want me to keep going, just say the word.”
You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, even though you’ve already made up your mind. Ages ago. This was just how your sex life worked with Clark; this coy, playful back-and-forth, this whole pretending to be angry or mad or embarrassed or nervous thing. It was all part of the game, and Clark knows it as much as you do. He knows in your body language what you want, even if it’s not overtly clear.
Even so, he always, always waits to hear the words from your mouth before he follows through.
You flutter your eyelashes at him and say, at last, “Okay. Keep going.”
He lowers the vibrator to your nipple.
You jolt like you’ve been shocked and gasp loudly. He withdraws it immediately, only to jolt the other one where his mouth had been. Meanwhile, his other hand travels down your side, across your curves, squeezing your outer thighs hard. Then your inner thighs.
When the vibrator in his hand finally finds its way to your pussy, it’s like falling into a warm bath. He presses it ever so gently to your clit, kissing your tummy just as softly. Then he presses his teeth into your skin, just as he presses the vibe deeper into your flesh.
Holy. Fuck.
“Holy fuck, Clark—fuck,” you whine, your hips thrashing about. But he’s got you pinned down, nowhere to go, no way to escape. If it felt like a warm kiss of pleasure before, this feels like an onslaught. You feel a sheen layer of sweat break out across your temples.
Before you register it, Clark’s moved again, removing the vibe. Then he’s kneeling before your hips, positioning his cock right in front of you. He grins deliciously and presses the vibrator against your clit again, stroking himself slowly with the other hand.
You cry his name out, bucking into the vibrations. “I need you, oh, please, Clark—”
“Not yet.” He grunts as he pumps himself faster. “Want you screaming my name first, sunshine. Wanna fuck you through your orgasm.”
Just that had you spiraling toward this aforementioned demise. You moan and writhe, trying and failing to slow the tendrils of pleasure overtaking your limbs.
At the anticipatory press of his head against your entrance, you fall apart.
“Clark,” you moan, over and over again. The tendrils of desire constrict and contract, writhe and slither from your core down to your toes. And at the peak of your high, Clark braces himself against you and thrusts so hard into you that your whole body scoots up the bed several inches.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he’s saying. And then he’s moving, fucking you hot and heavy through your climax. You’ve never felt anything like it. Crying out, you wrench his hand with the vibrator away before you start actually screaming. He grins and allows this, too concentrated now on fucking you properly to focus on that particular method of overstimulative torture.
And properly he does fuck you. It’s loud and lewd and wet and messy, and you fucking love it. He grunts with each thrust like something feral has overtaken him, pushing into you so hard and deep every time that you see stars.
Just when you think you can’t handle it anymore, he brings that wretched vibrator back to your clit with a nefarious glint in those blue eyes. Your eyes roll into the back of your head. Within seconds you’re coming again, your walls clenching around him, milking him as he grips into you and fucks and fucks and—
Burning. Something is burning.
Your eyes fly open. Your vision is swimming with stars. Something bright and red distorts the darkness. “Clark, what—”
Above you, Clark is crumbling before your eyes, releasing himself deep inside of you with a low moan. As he writhes and collapses atop you, you jerk your head up toward the sight and smell of something on fire.
The wall above your headboard.
“Clark,” you say, more urgently now. His eyes fly open at last. Things move in a blur. One moment he’s inside you, his cock pumping you full as he comes… and the next, with a burst of wind, he’s pulled you to your feet at the foot of the bed and flies to the kitchen to retrieve a fire extinguisher to tackle the small fire above your bed.
You cough violently as the powdery dust and smoke settles. When you finally stop coughing enough to register what’s happened, you can’t believe your eyes. Two perfect holes, still red hot and singed at the edges, have been burned into your bedroom wall.
Shocked into silence, both you and Clark slowly approach the holes, peering through them. Through the drywall and insulation, you can see straight through to Clark’s own bedroom.
“Clark,” you say, deliberate and slow, still staring through the holes.
He exhales. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
The drywall sizzles.
“Clark,” you say again.
He rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’m sorry about that.”
Slowly, unblinkingly, you turn your head to stare at him. “You mean to tell me you did this…?”
He grimaces. “Kind of. I mean, um, yeah.”
“With your…?” Your gaze flits between both his blue eyes. Crystal, icy blue. Giving no indication whatsoever that they are the source of the burning holes bored through your bedroom wall.
“Yeah.” He grimaces.
It takes you a moment to process this. Several long moments. You finally speak. “Do me a favor, Clark,” you say, as neutrally and calmly as possible, “and next time we have sex, make sure you aren’t staring right at me when you come.”
A beat. Clark gulps. Then you’re losing your goddamn mind with laughter. Laughter that racks your body so hard you have to sit down.
Clark, seemingly as charmed by your giggling and snorting as he is relieved by your lack of anger at the situation, sits beside you and starts laughing, too. He pulls you against his body, hugging you tight, and you laugh and laugh together as the singed edges of the holes in your wall continue to fade away.
~~~
Life goes on. It plays out in snapshots, a series of happy moments, and Clark is in every one of them. He’s there, laughing and rolling his eyes at himself as he helps to repair the holes he’d inflicted in your bedroom wall. He’s there, walking hand-in-hand with you to work each day, ignoring your jokes of protest at the public display of affection. He’s there, nursing you through a cold, not a complaint from his mouth at your ice cold toes against his shins under the covers. He’s there, showing up for you after a presentation you have to give at work, celebrating you with a romantic dinner at your favorite restaurant.
He’s there, in the airplane next to you en route to Kansas, trying in that endearingly nerdy sort of way to perfectly sync up the same movie on his phone and your phone so you can watch at the same time. He’s there, on Thanksgiving Day, an arm slung casually over your shoulders as he proudly introduces yourself to his parents. (You love them as much as they love you.)
And now, he’s there, a month later, sitting on your couch back in Metropolis, the lights from the Christmas tree in your living room casting him in a perfect silhouette as he walks in from the kitchen.
“Here,” he says, handing you a mug of hot cocoa.
You accept it. “No glass of dry red wine with a side of disdain this time?”
“Mmm, I think this drink holds more emotional sentimentality for us, don’t you think?”
You smile, thinking back to the night of your first kiss with Clark on the roof. “I agree.” Before taking a sip, you place the mug on the coffee table and withdraw a gift from behind your throw pillow. Hand it to him.
He quirks an eyebrow. He’d already given his gift to you—or gifts, you should say. A bajillion different sweet, thoughtful gifts you knew you could never top. You only hoped this one from you would be enough.
“Here,” you say, “this is for you.”
“Thought you didn’t do gifts,” he jokes, studying the wrapped item in his hands.
“Not usually, but I’ve been known to make an exception or two.”
It’s endearing how excited he looks as he tears apart the meticulously wrapped gift. It’s the kind of look that almost makes you want to get him gifts all the damn time. Cheesiness be damned.
He unwraps the small photo album. It’s not much, but… you find yourself biting your lip in anticipation as he opens it, flips through all the pages.
It’s a photo album, but it’s also a collage. There’s all the little snapshots of life with him, all the little moments together. You’d tried your hardest to remember to take more photos the minute you’d thought of the gift. There’s your first selfie together, taken in the courtyard outside the Planet. There’s a group photo from work, with all of your friends there too. There’s a mirror photo of you and him together wearing nothing but blankets. Then there’s the more recent ones. There’s one of him laughing next to the burned-through holes in your wall last month. One of your hands intertwined, walking through the snow. One of his family at Thanksgiving. Another where they’d insisted you hop in the group photo too, insisting that you were now family, too.
Interspersed in the spaces and the margins between all these photos are your words. So many words, written in your handwriting, all the things you always want to say to him but don’t usually find the words to speak. You’d spent hours and hours writing all your thoughts in this album. Writing about memories together, the things you’d thought and felt in all those little moments. The way you’d all but hated him the first time you met him, and how bit by bit, he’d chiseled away at your resolve until all the sudden you’d found yourself falling for him, hard.
And now he’s here, flipping through all these little snapshots, his eyes glistening in the light of the Christmas tree.
“I know it’s not much,” you’re saying. He looks up at you with an expression of bewilderment.
“Are you kidding?” he exclaims, his eyes glossing over with emotion.
“Now, don’t go getting all emo sad boy on me, Kent.”
He says nothing, just pulls you in for a tight hug. Soon enough, he’s got you with tears in your own eyes. At the sound of your sniffle, he pulls back, gripping you by the shoulders, peering into your eyes.
“Not you, too?” he says.
“What, you’ve never seen a girl cry?” you whisper, a tear falling onto your cheek.
He brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, as tender as can be. “Not you. You never cry.”
“You’re ruining my reputation,” you mumble.
He shakes his head, smiling, and pulls you into his chest. “Good. I like you better like this. At least, every once and a while. This is amazing,” he says, gesturing to the photo album. “Thank you, sunshine. For this. For everything.”
"Clark," you whisper, holding his hands. "Thank you."
He holds you for what seems like a small eternity. Between your body and his, a little universe forms, one so full of infinite possibility and wonder and hope that you never want to leave, not ever again. For all your worrying that this wouldn’t work, that you’d ruin things with him, that you weren’t good enough for him… you see it clearly now. See him clearly. See yourself clearly. The fog has lifted. He’s yours, and you are his. There’s nothing else that matters.
Outside the window, far below, the city hums. A city that’s worth saving. There’s still so much to be done, so much to fight for. But this, this quiet little universe you’ve built together, is enough for now.
~~~
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A/N: ........ 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 It's over!!! Waaah!!!! I sincerely hope this is a satisfying payoff for the wait and for the emotional roller coaster... it was certainly very satisfying for me to finish writing! I'm also historically SO BAD at finishing series I write so I'm really really proud of myself for finally following through with a strong finish for this one!!! ❤︎ Thank you all so, so, SO much for being here with me, especially those of you who were here from the beginning!!
Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!
Much love ❤︎ from Juniper
about me || masterlist | AO3 || ask me anything!Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation.
taglist (I went ahead and added users who interacted with prev parts, but if you'd like to be added or removed just lmk, and no hard feelings!):
golden retriever bf!Clark Kent x black cat gf!reader
chapter 4 to "sharp edges and warm hands"
word count (chapter 4): 6.4k omfg
series: chapter 4 to my series "sharp edges and warm hands"
synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can’t help but wonder if he’s keeping secrets from you.
rating (chapter 4): E (Explicit) ***18+ only. Minors DNI or you will be blocked
content (chapter 4): fluff, smut, oral sex (female receiving), cursing, unprotected sex, mild degradation, mild humiliation, overstimulation, spanking, edging, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms
author’s note: This is chapter 4 to my series "soft edges and warm hands" and could probably be read as a standalone butttt we are starting to get a ~cohesive plot~ to this series lol! I apologize for the delay in getting this one out! It was a busy week and I made some changes to my originally-written story. But I hope you love this!! ❤︎ If you enjoy this and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i’ll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!))
previous chapter(s): chapter 1 ("sharp edges and warm hands"); chapter 2 ("the edge of tenderness"); chapter 3 ("jealousy in technicolor")
✧⋆.˚ ⟡˚.⋆✧
Clark Kent is so fucking sweet it hurts.
He’s the kind of guy who sticks out like a sore thumb in a city like Metropolis. The people here are perpetually busy, impatient, curt. But when Clark walks through the city, he doesn’t hesitate to stop to smell the roses (literally), to help the elderly across crosswalks, to greet the world with a smile.
At work, everyone likes Clark. He’s friendly, hardworking, mild-mannered. Never mind that he seems to always get exclusive interviews with Superman, which frequently leaves the other reporters miffed. He’s such a nice guy that no one really has an issue with. He’s humble, even though he’s probably one of the most hardworking and respectable of them all, sans Lois Lane.
Outside of work, he’s kind, humble, easygoing, fun. A bit shy, a little clumsy, and sort of perpetually slouching, but nevertheless enjoyable company to keep. His endearing small-town dorkiness and his uncanny ability to make everyone laugh at a well-told joke leads to most people overlooking the fact that he can be strangely private.
Clark as a boyfriend, though, is… multifaceted. On the one hand, he’s a total sweetie. So wholesome it makes your chest ache. Just a hunky dork with a heart of gold who’s not afraid to shower you with love. Dating Clark is all holding hands while sharing an ice cream cone, it’s handwritten love letters, it’s bouquets of flowers just because, it’s carving your initials in a heart on a park bench. It’s cringe, and it’s everything you half-jokingly claim to hate about other couples. But it’s secretly everything you never knew you wanted in a relationship. He’s everything you never knew you wanted.
Which leads us to the hidden facet of his personality: Clark Kent is secretly a little fucking freak in bed.
When he’s fucking you, he’s like the same Clark but with something more. Still sweet, still respectful to a fault, still totally head-over-heels and eager to please. But there’s something else there. Something dominant, possessive, obsessive. It’s like a different version of him comes out, like something gets unleashed inside him. It’s less like a switch flipping and more like he’s taking off a mask. As though he’s been hiding this side of himself all day long, like he can finally be himself when he’s in bed with you.
Your sweet, dorky golden retriever Midwestern farmboy boyfriend Clark is secretly a freak in the sheets. Who would have thought?
Like today. A lazy Saturday afternoon has turned into you draped over Clark’s lap while he has his way with your pussy.
You’re not sure how exactly you ended up in this position. Literally. You’d started out with your head resting on his lap, half-snoozing as a docuseries plays on your TV. He’d come over to your apartment today because he’d said he wanted to “bond with Ember” more. Which amounted to the elusive black cat retreating to her favorite hiding spot in the other room, only occasionally peering out the doorway to glare at the male intruder with her wary, green eyes.
Lying on Clark’s lap meant he had started playing with your hair. Your favorite, although you’d never admit it. And you hadn’t even asked him to do it. His fingers running through the roots, playing with the baby hairs at the base of your neck, felt so good that you may have started quietly moaning in total relaxation.
Which then led to Clark’s lips replacing his hands on your neck. His hands traveling down your arms, playing with your fingers, across your tummy. The gentle, contented moans emerging from your mouth taking on a whole new meaning. The docuseries faded into obsolete, unimportant background noise.
And now you’re here. Draped across his lap face-down, your hips resting on his huge thighs, your arms outstretched in front of you. And Clark’s hands all over you, exploring you, decoding you and everything that makes you squirm.
“This ass is perfect,” he murmurs. Hands running up and down the fabric of your yoga pants, stopping to squeeze the lower part of your ass.
You bite your lip, stretching luxuriatingly out on top of him across the couch. His hands feel so big and warm and perfect on your body. You wish there wasn’t that pesky thin layer of fabric. Outside your apartment window, the autumn afternoon is overcast, sleepy, cozy, matching how you feel.
Those roaming hands meander across your lower back, under the hem of your shirt, his thumbs pressing into the muscles there. Gliding back down across your ass and to your thighs, kneading and squeezing your muscles. Inching closer and closer to the place where your legs meet. When a hand finds that place, cupping your clothed heat, the other finds the back of your neck. The heat of his hands from both places sends a chill down your spine and elicits a hum of delight from your throat.
And then a yelp of surprise, as the hand on your heat becomes a spank. Quick, unexpected, yet gentle.
“Is that alright?” Clark asks.
“No,” you say. He becomes still. You finish your statement. “It was far too gentle.”
“Too gentle?” he intones.
You nod. “If you’re going to slap my ass, Kent, you better do it like you mean it.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he warns you, his voice low and throaty.
Even as you shiver in anticipation at his words, you smile to yourself. You know exactly what it is you’re asking. But whatever you’re about to say in reply dies with a sharp gasp as he slaps your ass again, hard.
The sound of the smack echoes off the walls of your living room. Your thighs squeeze together. Clark chuckles.
“Better?” he murmurs. You only manage to nod in agreement before he smacks your ass again, and you yelp. There’s a slight sting from his open palm. It makes you feel good, desired, having this kind of attention given to your ass. You can only imagine what it would feel like for him to slap your bare skin.
You don’t have to imagine for long. Clark, seemingly as desperate for and curious about this thought as you are, wastes little time in pulling your pants off your hips. He doesn’t even leave your thong on, either. He shimmies them both down your legs and pulls them off your feet. Leaving you bare from the waist down across his lap.
He says something quietly under his breath—a curse? a prayer?—and regards you in quiet reverence for a moment. Lulling you into a false sense of security before he slaps you again, no warning.
This time, your outcry is stuck in your throat, bubbling out of you heedlessly. It stings. Stings in a way that seems to travel straight to your core, morphing into something twisting and needy. Your whole body tenses, then relaxes as his hand rests gently atop the same skin he’d just struck. Then slaps you again.
It’s a cruel, addicting cycle of slaps and caresses that leaves you breathless and writhing. It’s like the wires are all crossed in your brain, mixing together this stinging pain with a deeply-rooted pleasure.
“Such a naughty girl.” Clark’s voice is husky with desire of his own as he continues. “I can tell this turns you on as much as it turns me on. Can fucking smell it.”
“I’m so turned on,” you confirm, paying no heed to the absurdity of his words—because there’s no way a man could consciously scent when a woman is aroused, could he?
Then again, it is Clark we’re talking about, and with each passing day you wonder to yourself facetiously if he’s even human. His senses just seem to work better than most, you’d noticed. One time when you’d sneezed in a private, closed-door meeting with Perry at work, Clark had texted you, “Bless you 🙂”.
But that’s not important right now.
Slap. Each time his palm claps against you, the sensation shoots straight to your throbbing pussy. You feel yourself becoming more swollen and wet by the second. The next slap is no harder than the rest, but the skin there is so sensitive that you hiss and shy away from him. Fuck. How raw is the skin there on your ass by now?
As much as you don’t want him to stop, he does, after noticing the way you’d flinched away from his blow. “Ahh—I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be,” you gasp out.
“You tell me to stop, and I’ll stop, remember?”
“I remember,” is all you say.
He hoists your hips back up with his hands, molding your back into a perfect arch again. Traces a line from your spine down between your ass, finally to your slick pussy.
He lets out a low, rumbling growl and remarks, “You’re already dripping for me.”
Confirmation of what you already know. You’re so wired with lust it’s making you lightheaded. You arch your back even more and bite down on a groan as he plays with your pussy. He draws his fingers through your soft folds, gathering the slickness there, using it to lubricate the places he wants to touch. With feather-light motions, he flicks a slippery finger over your clit, over and over again. Your mouth falls open as your abdomen clenches involuntarily at his touch.
He lingers there at your clit, whispering little words about how pretty your pussy is, how much he loves to touch you like this, all the things he wants to do to you. He rubs you in slow, sensuous circles, until you’re bucking your hips repeatedly to match the motion.
When he draws his hand away, you pout. Which is followed by another smack, this time at the base of your ass where it meets your thighs. You cry out and grip desperately at a throw pillow.
Clark, as it turns out, seems to be rather ambidextrous. As in, he can somehow aptly reach beneath your hip to find your clit again with one hand, while the other expertly toys with your entrance. He slowly pushes one long finger inside of you. It fills you, feels like white-hot pleasure as your body adjusts to the girth of his finger. Just a single goddamn finger, slowly sliding in and out of you, dragging through you with perfect friction, while he presses the pads of his other fingers into your clit in perfect circles.
There’s not much else you can do but take it. Just letting him pour himself over you, to obsess over you, to claim you in this way as you stretch out atop him. Beneath your hips, you can feel his erection growing harder and harder from underneath his sweatpants.
Clark pays close attention to your reactions as he experiments with different speeds, different rhythms, different amounts of pressure. The one combination that really gets you going is a slow curl of his finger inside you while his other hand makes quick, hard circles on your clit. As soon as he finds this out—discovers that this is the combination that’s going to make you climax on his lap—he needs no reminder to stop or change anything. Like a metronome, or a machine, he manipulates you with a consistent pace.
“Love seeing you like this,” he murmurs. “The hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You’re at a complete loss, both unaware and out of control of how your body is thrashing and squirming in response to Clark’s hands. You can feel his hardness grow and grow, can feel your slickness start to seep down your thighs, can hear Clark’s frustrated, determined grunts.
He continues to rub your clit as he withdraws his finger from inside you. Slaps your ass once, twice, three times, drawing a desperate yelp from you each time. Bends forward to plant a kiss on the top of your ass, then a half-painful bite. When he penetrates you again, this time with two fingers, you feel your body start to clench with an impending orgasm.
“Clark, I’m gonna cum,” you keen as you grip the couch’s armrest and brace yourself.
And then he stops. Withdraws his fingers from inside you.
You gasp at the sudden change, at the assault of cool air where his hands had been. Why did he stop? You twist around to gape at him in alarm. Then to glare as you realize he’s grinning down at you.
“Not yet, sunshine.” His voice is dark, full of command, yet still twinged with a hint of that playful roguishness. The drawl of that pet name from his voice was almost enough to make you teeter over the edge and climax right then. Almost, but not quite.
You seethe. You had been so close to finishing. “That’s not fair.”
“I don’t care.”
Fuck, that frustrates you. “You’re a fucking tease.”
“Am I?” he drawls. Squeezes your ass cheeks. Slaps you again. Starts to touch your clit again, just little teasing flicks this time.
Which makes you resort to desperate, angry whining. “Clark, fuck, please.”
“I think you can wait. I want you cumming that much harder on my cock when I fuck you later.”
Later?! He plans on edging you until later? The masculine surety in his voice turns you on as much as his words tick you off. And yet, you’re buzzing with so much need and desperation at this point that you’d do anything—let him do anything to you—to find the release that had been so sorely stripped from you just moments before.
“You dick,” you say, grinding your teeth.
“You’ll be thanking me soon,” he purrs. He pauses momentarily to resituate you, pulling your hips up and hoisting your legs forward so he could stand. You find yourself braced on your elbows and knees as he maneuvers to the other end of the couch. He crouches next to your ass, his hands braced on either side of your raised hips.
With a long gasp, you realize his mouth is pressed up against you. He’s eating you out from behind, making obscene noises of satisfaction as he does.
“Fucking love this wet pussy,” he growls. Laps his way up your clit to your wetness, slips his wet tongue inside you. Your legs start to shake. You love how dirty he talks when he’s got you like this—your sweet, naive, goofy farm boy Clark, turned into something foul-mouthed and devious the second he gets a hard-on for you. It feels like you’ve uncovered a secret part of his identity, this dominant side of him. It’s the hottest thing ever.
It’s like a sigh of relief when he touches your clit again, gets you going again. He kisses your legs, licks your pussy, licks your ass, and rubs your clit in luxurious circles. Brings you to the edge, and then as though he can sense it, eases off. You moan in absolute frustration. Again, he coaxes you to your breaking point… and slows down.
“Goddamn it, Kent,” you cry. You hear his soft chuckle, that annoyingly satisfied sound, and know how much he’s getting off at having this control over you.
The third time he brings you right to the precipice, so close you’re almost past the point of no return. And yet again, he stops just before you’re there.
You’re delirious at this point, your face pressed in agony against the fabric of the couch, pleading his name, clenching your palms against the pillow. You need him so badly it hurts at this point. “Please, I need you inside me now,” you choke out. “Please.”
He tsks. “Begging for my cock? You must be more desperate than I thought. So pitiful.”
Such a humiliating statement, and yet it rings so true and resonates so deeply in your aching core that you simply nod and arch your back into him, urging him to comply with your plea. In this state you’re in, you feel like you need him inside you more than you even need to climax—except you know that the minute he pushes inside you, you’ll be a fucking goner.
You almost groan in relief when you hear him untie the string on his sweatpants and push the fabric down his legs. You bite your lip in sweet anticipation. You and Clark hadn’t had sex like this, from behind, before. But what you don’t tell him is it’s the position that gets you to cum the fastest.
He takes his time rubbing his cock right at the edge, making himself slick, teasing your clit with his head.
“Do you feel what you do to me?” Clark says, his voice hoarse. You certainly can. He’s hard as a rock from behind you. You whimper and wriggle your hips closer, but he doesn’t give you what you want. You feel his hand reach between your legs and touch your overstimulated clit again, igniting you with flames of need.
You breathe out his name, over and over again. It does nothing to inspire him to give you what you really need. Just makes his fingers move faster on your clit.
Sure enough, just as your breath begins to hitch with that impending release, he stops. “Right on the edge for me.” He squeezes your ass, kisses your lower back. “Just where I want you.”
And finally, with a loud collective groan from you and him at the same time, he sheathes himself inside of you. It feels so fucking good from this angle, so deep, so intense. He begins thrusting, back and forth, in and out, slow at first and then not slow at all.
“Clark, it’s so good,” you gasp out, your breaths hitching with each thrust. “You feel so good inside me.”
“Is that a compliment?” he murmurs. Brushes your hair off your neck. Bends over and kisses you there.
You want to say something quippy back to him, but all you can manage with the way he’s hitting that one perfect spot inside you is a cry that somewhat resembles the word, “yes.”
He makes a sound halfway between a chuckle and a guttural growl and continues to claim you. He holds your hipbones tightly in his huge hands, guiding your hips backward to meet his with every thrust. It’s hard and rough and utterly consuming in every way.
“Clark, I— I’m clo—o—ose,” you sob. Just as expected. You knew you wouldn’t make it very long like this.
“Hold it,” he orders.
With a shake of your head, you fall onto your chest and arms, completely at his whim. “I can’t, I can’t, I—!”
“Yes, you can. You can. Not till I say so, beautiful.” And then, as though to make things even more difficult for you, he brings his hands to your thighs and pries them open just a little wider for him. And then he fucks into you with quick, deep, efficient motions.
It’s too much. You can’t control yourself, but yet you find yourself begging, “Please, Clark, please—”
With a kiss to your lower back and a final spank, Clark says, “Okay, baby. It’s okay. Let go for me.” You do, and the whole time you’re climaxing, he talks you through it. “That’s right. Come for me, sunshine. Yes.”
You writhe in blissful agony at your orgasm. Inhuman whines come from you as your thighs squeeze together around him, as your body jerks, as your core convulses. It’s like a rush of steaming water being poured all over you, engulfing you in pleasure and release.
When the waves of pleasure finally subside, you find that you’ve fallen flat to the sofa. Clark pulls out, just to push your legs together. And then he mounts you, nearly straddling you while he fucks you into the cushions. The feeling is otherworldly, pure heaven, wholly overwhelming. You nearly gray out from the intensity of it all, or maybe start to hallucinate. Because it starts to feel like you’re levitating off the couch and being suspended into the air as Clark makes you his. But as soon as you register this, you realize you’re still lying flat on the couch, and you think to yourself you must be truly head over fucking heels for this man that you’re hallucinating you’re floating while he’s fucking you.
When he finally goes over the edge himself, giving one grand, final thrust, you sigh out with you, reach back to stroke his muscled leg, coaxing him, encouraging him. And then he’s convulsing, grunting, his hands a vice on your hips. He shudders and pulses inside of you, exhales in a final burst, and then falls forward on top of you.
For as long as it takes for you to recover, it seems to take Clark even longer. Which is unexpected. You thought the man always came with boundless energy. You catch a glimpse at his beautiful, exhausted face, pressed up against your back from where he’s collapsed on top of you.
It makes you giggle. When you try and fail to wriggle out from beneath him, he finally lifts himself just enough for you to twist over and face him. You press his chest so he falls against the other end of the mattress, and he lets you.
“Clark,” you say, grinning. He doesn’t say anything in response, just grins back, his eyes closed in ecstasy. How could this dominant, imposing man turn into someone so goofy and boyish in just a few moments?
You crawl onto his lap, laughing at him, tugging his chin up gently by the roots of his curly hair and kissing his mouth senselessly.
“Clark,” you say his name again.
“Yes?” he says, still grinning, his eyes still closed.
“You’re fucking evil.”
“No, I’m not.”
“That, what you did earlier, that is the definition of evil.”
He peeks one eye open. He knows you’re talking about the edging. “You seemed to enjoy this evil.”
“...That’s beside the point.”
“It’s entirely the point.” He opens both eyes now, both piercing blue eyes, and regards you wolfishly. “You enjoyed it, I enjoyed it, we enjoyed it.”
“So presumptuous.”
“I’m not presuming anything. I have ears. I heard the way you were begging for my cock.”
“All I’m saying is,” you narrow your eyes at him, “it’s grounds for payback.”
He lifts a sculpted brow. “Payback?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He laughs. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.” You’ll see how much he’ll be laughing when it’s him getting edged to his breaking point next time.
~~~
Following that, you and Clark end up having a pretty deep conversation about all the things you’re into. As it turns out, as if you don’t already know, you and Clark both find a lot of the same things hot. Chiefly: monogamy and consent. Following closely: passion and intimacy, both the sexual kind and the emotional kind.
And following that? The list of mutual kinks is longer than you’d anticipated. Light dominance and submission, and the freedom to switch these roles circumstantially. Dirty talk. Cumming inside you. Some degradation, some humiliation, but both of those things only privately and with ample affection, praise, and consent. Also, edging (as you’ve learned today) and overstimulation (as you’d learned last time).
Some of the mutual interests surprise you, pleasantly. Like the use of sex toys in bed (something you’d always been too shy to do with other partners in the past). And lingerie—it turns out Clark fucking lovees lingerie and wants to go shopping with you together for a new set or two. And… others. Like, for example, Clark can think of somewhere else he’d also want to finger. It all excites you as much as it excites him. The most surprising part about all of it is the notion that this sweet, goofy, clumsy Kansas farmboy dork was hiding this secret identity in the bedroom.
Something else surprising comes up in this conversation. Clark reveals that he’s only really been with a few women in his life before you. You can’t believe how confident—and confident—this man was for only having three real sexual partners, but you wouldn’t have been surprised or bothered anyway, not even if he’d been with dozens. It doesn’t matter, you tell him, and he tells you the same of you.
This does, in turn, bring up a continued conversation about Lois. Your mutual colleague, your newfound work friend, and Clark’s ex. Of course, you and he had talked things through this week numerous times, about the whole Clark-not-telling-you-he’d-dated-Lois situation, and you’d gotten over your anger about it for the sake of realizing he’d really meant no harm. But now, discussing his and your past relationships meant that Lois inevitably came up.
“Things just didn’t end up working out between us,” Clark says. “We both wanted pretty different things, from each other, but also, like, in general. With our careers and… life values and everything. We couldn’t be more different.”
“I think that’s how half the people we know would describe you and me,” you remark, raising an eyebrow. You and he are sitting at the dining table in your apartment, freshly showered (together), sharing a lazy Saturday evening meal consisting of Chinese takeout. Watching the rain come down outside while kicking each others’ feet playfully from beneath the table.
“Yeah, but just because our personalities are different, doesn’t mean we aren’t, like, compatible.” He shovels another bite of food in his mouth before continuing. “Which is probably the more important thing.”
“Are we?” you ask. “Compatible?”
You’d meant it rhetorically, but you’re also serious. Your previous relationships may not have worked out, but you
He smiles, his eyes crinkling behind those black glasses. “I think so.”
“Good,” you say, smiling back in relief. “Me too. But I would have denied it if you’d said anything different.”
You and Clark both lean back in your kitchen chairs, take a sip of wine, bask in the joy and simplicity of what had just been said. Clark meets your gaze over the top of his glasses, and you think to yourself you’ve never been so attracted to a person before. Not just in bed. But in all ways.
~~~
You spend the night at Clark’s that night. Reason being, you only have two sets of bedsheets, one of them was already dirty, and then you and he end up ruining the other set before the evening is over, and you don’t feel like doing laundry. So you walk across the hallway to his apartment after brushing your teeth and changing into pajamas.
You get to spend Sunday alone, taking care of laundry, doing some errands, solo shopping in the city, catching up on your audiobook. Clark has no issue being apart to give you some alone time, he never has. Although you know he’d much rather spend every waking moment with you. He’s like the human equivalent to a golden retriever in that regard. Happy-go-lucky. Eager to please. Likes being near you. But he does just fine on his own, too—he had been just fine being alone before you came along, anyway—and you appreciate his respect for your need to recharge alone sometimes.
All that to be said, you don’t see him all day Sunday. Not since you’d left his bed that morning with a kiss. And strangely, when the evening hits, you realize he hadn’t texted you once all day. Strange for him, because he always texts you in the evenings, at least to say “goodnight,” if not to initiate a full-on text conversation about your favorite movies, or some philosophical concept he’d read about, or to ask if you want to come over to hang out or vice versa.
When you see that he hasn’t texted you, you do the unthinkable, the last resort: you text him first.
You: gn and thanks for the fun weekend 🖤
It bugs you more than it should when he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even read the text. Even though you know he’s probably already asleep or something.
But Monday morning rolls around, and not only has he not replied to your text, but he’s not outside your door to walk with you to work.
You wait a few minutes, figuring he’s running late. Then you’re knocking on his door. He’s not answering. You knock louder, irritated, starting to get a weird feeling.
You call him, and he doesn’t answer. On the second call, he picks up.
The quality of the call is strange, distorted, breaking up. “Hi, sunshine,” he says, barely intelligible. Is he not even home?
“Clark, where the hell are you? We’re going to be late.”
He says something, but you can hardly make it out over the sound of wind and rustling and distortion. The words you do make out are, “—go without me—“ “—won’t be in today—“ “—tell you later—“ before the line abruptly clicks off.
“The fuck,” you mutter to yourself. But you look at your watch, swear, and go on ahead to work before you’re late yourself.
Sure enough, he doesn’t show up the whole day. No one seems that bothered. Your colleagues, presumably, have grown used to Clark calling out for random reasons. That is to say, it certainly isn’t the first time he’s gone MIA from work. And while Perry seems mildly peeved about it today, you overhear him telling Lois that Clark had “called out again” and that she’d have to pick up his slack while he’s gone. Which, of course, infuriated her.
You decide to approach her about Clark’s absence. “Hey, Lois,” you greet her at her desk.
She glances up from her computer. “Oh hey!” She has a really beautiful smile. And a great demeanor. It’s obvious why Clark would have wanted to be with her.
“Weird question, but…” You hesitate to ask, but she cuts in.
“This is about Clark, isn’t it?”
You scratch your neck. “Yeah, actually.” You figure she may have some insight about where he may have gone.
She takes a different angle, though. “Look, I’m really sorry it was me who broke the news to you that we… used to date. It really was sort of an under-the-table thing. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
Oh. “That’s—no, it’s totally okay. It’s all good. I really hope it’s not too weird with you…”
She holds her hands up. “No. Not at all. Zero weirdness. I just want him to be happy.” She studies you in a way that makes you feel seen, not scrutinized. “He seems happier with you than I’ve seen in a while.”
Really? The way she’d said it was matter-of-fact, without any spite. “Oh. That’s good.”
“You seem happy too,” she remarks.
“I am.” You give a small smile, which she reciprocates. “It’s just… I was wondering… do you happen to know where Clark is?”
Your question hangs in the air for a moment longer than expected, dissipating among the cacophony of keyboard clicks and conversations and other office noises around you. Lois blinks, her mouth tightening into a line. You know she understands the question you’re really asking—not just, where is Clark?, but also, where does Clark go when he takes off like this?
“I would have thought he’d have told you,” Lois says.
Told me what? “No, he just said he wouldn’t be coming to work today.” You scratch your neck again. “I just wondered, since you seem to know him pretty well, if you…”
You trail off. Lois seems frustrated—though not with you, you assume. About something else. She meets your gaze and reassures you, “He’ll be back soon. He always is.”
She doesn’t give you anything else to work with, so you go back to your desk, perplexed. Clearly, Lois knows more than she’s willing to let on. But it doesn’t answer the question: where the fuck is Clark, not just this time, but every time he leaves like this? And why does Lois know, but not me?
It was strange that he was just gone… and that he did this more frequently than not. You’d asked him about it once a couple of weeks ago, and he’d just said he sometimes has to deal with “last minute things.” Come to think of it, he had deflected your question and distracted you with the notion of an impromptu date night at your favorite restaurant in the city. (Which, of course, had worked. You love that restaurant.) And you hadn’t thought to ask him again about his going-MIA habit. But now that it’s happening again—now that you and him were dating, and now that you know that Lois knows but won’t say anything—you’re feeling suspicious.
Work is… tumultuous. There’s a conflict escalating in the city involving some disgruntled government employees, explosive devices with LexCorp-issued manufacturer codes, some supernatural or extraterrestrial monster of sorts wreaking havoc on the city, and a hotel building full of trapped conferencegoers in imminent danger. Perry’s already sent out half the Planet’s reporters, but the second the word hits about Superman arriving at the scene, the office is half empty. Meanwhile, you and the other editors are working in overdrive to publicize the events in live time. It’s chaos, but it keeps your mind off of Clark and his absence.
By the time you finally come to a stopping point, relay any relevant information to the evening shifters, and head out for the day, it’s nearly dark outside, the pouring rain and overcast skies casting a violet tint upon the city. And you still haven’t heard a thing from Clark. It’s starting to tick you off. On the bus home, you try to call him. It rings, but he doesn’t pick up. So you compose a text:
You: did you die?
No response. You huff in frustration and double-text:
You: look idk what’s going on but i just think it’s really shitty you won’t even tell me where you are or what you’re doing. i thought we were dating but ig not
It’s petty but you’re angry and you feel rightfully so. And, to be completely honest with yourself, it’s giving you a horrible, hollow feeling to think that Lois knows where Clark is and you don’t. Makes you feel used, and not in a good way.
At your bus stop, you realize you had forgotten your umbrella at work. Which means you have to trudge through the downpour for the block and a half walk from the bus stop to your apartment. It’s raining so hard you’re soaked from head to toe by the time you step into the awning of your apartment building.
And the elevator's broken. So you trudge up the stairs to the third floor and try knocking on Clark’s door. No response.
“Whatever,” you mutter to yourself, and reach in your bag for your keys. Your heart drops into your stomach as you frantically dig around for them. And realize you must have left them, too, at your desk at work.
No fucking way. The cherry on top to this god awful day—you’re locked out of your goddamn apartment.
You lean against your front door and slide down to the ground, gripping your knees. Try to decide on the next steps. You have a spare, but it’s locked inside in a kitchen drawer. You could go all the way back to work and grab the keys you’d left there. Which would waste nearly an hour of your evening and probably suck the life out of you in the process for how defeated you already feel. Or…
The fire escape connected to your balcony. You usually keep the sliding door unlocked, since there was little to no chance anyone could reach your apartment from the alley below. You could climb the stairs up to the roof, then take the fire escape all the way down to your floor, slide the door open…
A few flights of stairs seems more reasonable to you then wasting nearly an hour going back to work for your damn keys.
So you head for the stairwell and climb up to the top of the building. Up on the roof, the rain is coming down so hard you can barely see a few feet in front of you past the spray of raindrops. But you pad over to the fire escape, climb over the railing, and start making your way down.
The dark metal structure shakes with every step. You hold the guardrails with a deathgrip and try to avoid looking down. On the horizon, you see the muted lights of the city past the torrent of rain. And lightning, or what looks like lightning. You realize it’s in the direction of the commotion at the hotel the Planet had been reporting on all day, still going on all these hours later.
Never mind that. You focus on the task at hand, taking one step at a time down the rickety metal steps of the fire escape. You just have to get to the third floor, slide open your glass door, and then you'll be home.
You reach one of the platforms when the world suddenly drops from under your feet.
It happens in a blur. The platform breaks off from the outer brick wall of the building, groaning terrifically as it falls at an angle toward the ground below. And you fall with it—and barely catch yourself on one of the rails.
You cry, your legs dangling in the air. Your heart pounds as adrenaline fills your veins. Gripping on with all your might, you try to make sense of what had happened. But the flood of rain from the sky blinds you, blurring your vision. All you know is the fire escape had collapsed, that you’re holding on by sheer grip strength alone—and that your grip was slowly but surely faltering.
“Help,” you cry out, to no one. “Help!”
Lightning crashes—real lightning this time, nearby. Startled, you lose your grip, and you fall with a scream.
Before you can even register the wind whipping past you, the weightlessness of falling, the horror of what’s happening—you collide with something hard, solid, moving.
A body. You’ve collided with a body. And arms, cradling you. Sheer strength in those arms, solid as steel.
The next thing you know, you’ve been deposited on a solid surface. The concrete of a balcony. Your balcony.
“Are you alright?!” A voice sounded, shouted over the roar of rain and wind from the storm. Deep, confident, unfamiliar, male.
You can barely see, can barely hear, can barely feel anything save for the solid, safe concrete of the patio under your body. Begin to register the silhouette of a human form before you.
Not human. Hovering in the air beside you. A flash of lightning reveals a blur of red and blue. A cape billowing in the wind.
“Yes,” you croak.
The only response the inhuman form gives is, “Get inside and be safe.”
And then, with a burst of wind and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.
~~~
click for chapter 5 (I'll try to publish by next Saturday but we've now caught up to the point where I have not yet written any new chapters!! So no promises but I'll try for u hehe)
A/N: Omgggggg was this unexpected or did you see this one coming? What are your predictions--do we think she'll recognize it as Clark?! This is slowly turning into porn with little plot into...porn with actual plot haha. Please don't fault me for any DC comics inaccuracies bc I know I'm a fake fan, but I just love me some david!superman and I know you all do too hehe.
Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!
Much love ❤︎ from Juniper
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Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation.
Superman taglist (I went ahead and added users who interacted with prev parts, but if you'd like to be added or removed just lmk, and no hard feelings!):
summary: clark kent is the perfect boyfriend. sweet, funny, annoyingly handsome, and so much more. there was only one flaw… no matter how big the bulge in his pants was, he just wouldn’t let you have sex with him! you were determined to change that, even if it killed you.
cw: 18+!!, big dick clark (like huge), oral (f and m!receiving), munch!clark, dick pronouns, just the tip, unprotected pinv
an: i want to really sincerely apologize for falling so behind on my posts :( school has been kicking my ass for the past few days and i’ve had so little motivation lately💔 im trying to get posts out for you guys, and your support seriously means the world to me
✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ
You felt like you were going crazy.
Clark’s head had been buried between your thighs for what felt like hours now, hot tongue laving over your sensitive clit before shoving into your sopping hole again. Sometimes he suckled or slurped, and you were helpless to the wrath of Clark Kent’s downright sinful tongue. How he’d learned to eat pussy this good, you didn’t know, nor did you really care. He could take you to heaven and back with his tongue alone.
Now, just because you were always left sensitive and sated from his mouth alone didn’t mean that you didn’t crave more. Crave the one thing he hadn’t let you have yet.
The rock hard cock currently straining against the seam of his sweats as he rocked against the mattress.
He hadn’t even let you see it yet. How unfair was that? He’d had you in all kinds of positions just so that he could get his mouth on your cunt—bent over the arm of the couch, sitting atop the counter, standing in the shower, held up by his strong shoulders, sitting on his face, the list went on—but the second you reached for his bulge he simply tutted and pulled away.
Or, in this case, distracted you by sucking harder on your clit while he shoved two fingers into your messy pussy.
He hummed against your folds, pulling back just barely to spit against them—as if you weren’t wet enough to water a football field.
Before he could dive back in, you tugged his dark curls back enough to see his face. You were sure you looked wrecked, considering you felt like a mess, but he only looked up at you with that same reverent gaze he always had.
“E-enough, Clark,” you panted, squirming back so you could sit up. He practically whined, following enough to press a kiss to the top of your thigh.
“Thought you liked it.” He mumbled, almost petulantly. Every so often his eyes flickered back to your cunt—hidden away from him now—like he was yearning for it.
“I do,” you replied with a huffy laugh. “I just want something else right now.”
He must’ve seen the almost predatory glint in your eyes, because he practically shivered as he sat up fully. You could see the tent in his sweats now, and it was clear he wasn’t wearing boxers underneath.
You felt feral, like you could tear him apart and consume him whole. But maybe you were just ovulating.
“Baby…” He sighed, following your line of sight to his bulge. “It’s… not a good idea.”
“Not a good idea?” You scoffed, holding back a laugh. “What isn’t? Sex?”
“Yes. No! I-I don’t know.” He stammered, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just… I dunno, baby. I’m big. Too big. I don’t want to hurt you.”
You eyed him carefully now, seeing the true fear and insecurity in his eyes. “There’s no such thing as too big, baby. We can make it work.”
But he shook his head. “No, no. You don’t get it. I am too big. I know I am. It wouldn’t be enjoyable for you, and I don’t know what I’d do if I hurt you.”
His words made you smile, the fire of need simmering down a little. Here was your sweet Clark, so worried about hurting you that he’d hold off his own pleasure and needs.
“Clark,” you cooed, reaching out to cup his cheek. “It’s okay. I love you. All of you. Can I at least see him? See if we can make him fit?
He blushed at your words, letting out a sigh. You could see the conflict swimming in his eyes, but finally he relented. He untied the string of his sweats and tugged them down, shucking them off.
Finally, finally, you were met with the sight of Clark’s glorious cock.
Your first thought was holy shit.
Your second was how the hell am I gonna fit that thing inside of me?
He was big. Insanely big. Like the kind of big you see on cheesy pornos and scoff at.
But here was you perfect Clark looking so goddamn self conscious, so worried, that you had to reassure him. So you reached forward and wrapped your hand around him, relishing in the soft gasp he let out.
You watched him carefully, making sure he was on board with your actions before leaning forward and kitten licking his fat tip. He groaned, lifting his hand towards your head but pausing halfway, like he was scared to grab you. You took his hand and guided it to the back of your head.
You took a moment to admire him. He was big, obviously, but girthy too. You got the term soup can now.
His big hand threaded through your hair gently, not even harsh enough to tug on the strands. You traced your lips down his shaft, pressing soft kisses up and down the veins there before licking up the underside of him. His cock jerked and a bit of precum dribbled out, but you caught it with your tongue.
You took him in your mouth then, wrapping your soft lips around his tip and bobbing down lightly. He hissed quietly, huge thighs tensing up while he held back from thrusting into your mouth.
You worshipped him for a few minutes, your hand trailing down to toy with the soft skin of his heavy balls. He didn’t let you do that for long, pulling you off his cock with a strained “g’nna cum ‘f you keep that up.”
You looked up at him then, fluttering your wispy lashes at him. “I want you to fuck me, Clark. Please.”
He groaned again, closing his eyes for a few moments. “Baby, please. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“C’mon,” you whined, pouting now. “Please? I promise I can take you. How about just the tip?”
He seemed intrigued at that, perking up a bit. “Just the tip?”
“Uh-huh. All you do is put a little in. Please, Clark, I just want to feel you.”
He was quiet for a few moments, thinking. Then he sighed. You knew he’d never say no to you.
He guided you to lie on your back, tugging and shifting your hips until you were where he wanted you. Then he settled himself between your hips, taking his cock in his hand.
You strained your neck to look down at him, grinning. triumphantly. He caught your grin and gave you a look that said watch it.
“What?” You asked innocently. “He’s just so pretty.”
Clark scoffed out a soft laugh, his hand landing in your thigh to spread you open more. He took his tip in his palm, slowly guiding it through your folds. Immediately he was exhaling shakily, making an O shape with his hand so that he could thrust his cock into it while simultaneously running through your soaked folds. Every time, his tip kissed your clit just barely, sending sparks through your lower half until you were squirming uneasily.
“Claaark,” you whined. “Put it in me. Please. I’m hurtin’.”
He used his freehand to brush a stray hair off your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. Judging by the furrow between his brow and the way he clenched his jaw, he was just as worked up as you.
“I know, I know. I got ya’, baby.” He murmured, eyes focused on your winking entrance now. Slowly, he guided his tip to your entrance and began pushing in.
He only went in about two inches, but the feeling of his fat mushroom tip stretching you out was glorious enough. He practically whined when he first entered, gripping you hips like a vice. You were already a whining, moaning mess by the time he began doing shallow little thrusts. They were small, but you could feel them in the very depths of your being.
You couldn’t wait to see what the whole thing felt like.
He was losing pace now, thrusting a bit further in with each sloppy roll of his hips. Not that you minded, your moans we’re spilling out of you uncontrollably, soft babbles of words you wouldn’t remember in thirty minutes.
And this was only the tip.
Finally, after a few more stuttered thrusts an strained groans, he pulled out of you and spurred cum onto your lower stomach. And your mound. And your heaving tits. He even managed to gets little on your cheek.
You were both panting softly as he came down, using the pad of his thumb to swipe cum off of your belly. You caught his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and sucking the milky fluid off his finger. He swallowed hard enough you could see his Adam’s apple bob.
“Next time, I’ll take the whole thing.” You murmured with a glance down at his cock. To your surprise, it was still achingly hard.
Maybe next time would be a lot sooner than you first thought.
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you
tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise
warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong!
word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3)
note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x
masterlist
You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.
But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.
Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.
Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.
Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.
Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.
Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”
Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.
“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”
You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.
You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.
You were still new.
Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.
Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.
“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.
You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”
Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.
Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.
He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.
You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”
“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.
When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.
You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.
You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.
Strange, considering how different the two of you were.
Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.
You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.
There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.
It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.
You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.
Maybe.
The office changed at night.
Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.
You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.
He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.
Almost like a different person entirely.
You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.
Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.
“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.
Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”
You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.
He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.
Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.
“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.
It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.
Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.
Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.
“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.
The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.
“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.
His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.
You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”
Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.
Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”
“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.
“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.
You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.
You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.
Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.
He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.
His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.
You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.
Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”
“I thought you liked being late.”
He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”
You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”
“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.
“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.
Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.
You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.
His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.
He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.
And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.
Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.
You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.
Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.
That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.
“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”
“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.
“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”
You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.
Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”
“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”
That caught you off guard.
Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”
The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.
You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.
Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”
Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”
He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.
You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.
It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.
And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.
Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.
You had work to do. Explanations could come later.
Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.
The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.
“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”
You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.
Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.
You blinked once. Then twice.
“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”
Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.
And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??
You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.
For now.
You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.
Clark made a beeline for your desk.
“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.
Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.
In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C
You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.
The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.
But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.
“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”
Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.
Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.
Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.
Until now.
You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.
You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.
This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.
This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.
Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.
Something had changed, and you liked it.
Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.
Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.
Clark Kent? Superman?
You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.
You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.
A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.
Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.
You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.
Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.
You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.
Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.
Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.
Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.
The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.
By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.
“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”
The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.
You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.
For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.
Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.
Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.
Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”
You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”
Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”
You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.
Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.
“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”
You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”
“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”
Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.
Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.
Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You blinked, amused. “What?”
“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”
Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”
“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”
You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.
Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”
You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”
His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.
“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.
You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”
His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.
And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.
You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.
You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.
You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.
Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.
So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.
Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.
It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.
You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.
The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.
You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.
“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”
A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”
Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You rewound it again. And again.
Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.
Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.
You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?
Except no, they didn’t.
You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.
You stared back at the screen.
Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.
You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.
What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—
That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.
Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”
And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.
You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.
You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.
Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.
Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?
You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.
Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.
You sat back in your chair and stared.
“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”
Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.
Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.
He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.
There was no way they were the same person.
You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.
But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.
You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.
That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.
You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.
Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.
Unless that was the point.
You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.
You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.
You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.
You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.
And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.
The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.
Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.
The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.
Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.
Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.
You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.
What exactly were you doing?
You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.
Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.
You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.
But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.
And yet.
When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.
Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.
You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.
The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.
Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.
Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.
You flinched, braced for impact.
But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.
Nothing so much as grazed you.
When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.
Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.
Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.
You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.
“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.
You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”
Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.
When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.
Superman was right in front of you.
“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.
Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.
You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.
You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.
Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.
But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.
The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.
It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.
And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.
Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.
But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”
“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.
Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”
He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.
Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.
God.
You were losing it.
Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.
It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.
He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.
Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.
Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.
“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.
Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.
You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.
The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.
But you knew. You knew.
Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.
This was real.
Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.
The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.
Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.
And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.
You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.
It could all be bias, projection, or madness.
But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.
The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.
Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.
While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.
You glanced up.
Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.
Your eyes met.
It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.
It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.
Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.
There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.
Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.
You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.
Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.
It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.
You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:
Tonight.
My place.
We should talk.
No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.
You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.
Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?
The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.
Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.
You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.
Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.
You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.
Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.
There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.
You stepped inside hesitantly.
The apartment was surprising.
It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.
The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.
You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.
It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.
This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.
He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.
“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.
You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.
“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”
You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”
You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.
You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.
How could the same man feel so different?
Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.
Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.
Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.
Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”
You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”
You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.
Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.
Your breath caught.
Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.
Still unmistakably Clark Kent.
And Superman.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”
Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.
It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.
It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.
Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.
“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.
He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.
“They’re supposed to—”
You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”
Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”
The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.
You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.
His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.
“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”
Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”
Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.
“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”
You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”
Clark’s expression faltered.
“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”
“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”
He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.
“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”
You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”
His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”
“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”
“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”
You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”
Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”
And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.
You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.
Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.
Clark Kent loved you.
“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”
You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.
“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”
His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”
You nodded before your words could betray you.
Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.
“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”
Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”
You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.
And then he kissed you.
Not like Superman. Not like a secret.
Like Clark.
He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.
In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”
His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”
You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.
The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.
There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.
You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.
It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.
“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”
Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”
Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.
You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.
Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.
And you didn’t want him to.
Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.
Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.
Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.
The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.
You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.
It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.
Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”
Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.
You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.
You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”
And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.
Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.
He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.
The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.
Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.
In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.
You didn’t. But you thought about it.
Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.
At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.
“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.
Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.
It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.
You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.
And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.
Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.
Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.
“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.
Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.
“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.
You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.
Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”
Then she was gone.
The elevator doors glided shut.
You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.
The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.
Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.
You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.
It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.
Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.
He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.
“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.
“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.
“Exactly.”
You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.
Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.
“I missed this,” you murmured.
“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.
It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.
You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”
Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.
Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.
“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”
Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.
You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.
“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.
Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.
Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.
Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.
Everything was back to normal.
Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.
note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭
The Daily Planet princess needs saving Superman ⋆. 𐙚₊ ⊹
MINORS DNI 18+ | Kinktober Day Eleven ☆
Kinks: role play, costume sex, orgasm denial | Part three of Daily Planet Princess
You’d always thought Clark Kent was just… Clark.
The sweet, shy reporter who somehow managed to trip over cables and still look heartbreakingly handsome while doing it. He was the quiet to your chatter, the calm to your chaos.
When you breezed through the bullpen in perfume and heels, he’d glance up from his articles and give you that small, polite smile that made your stomach fizz like soda.
And that was fine. Harmless, even. Everyone had an office crush.
Then one night, everything changed.
Metropolis was chaos, alarms wailing, the night sky lit in flashes of red and gold. You’d been working late, trying to finish your “Five Fall Trends from the Planet Princess” column, when the floor beneath you trembled. You ran to the window, heart pounding, and saw it: the blur, the cape, the impossible man catching a crumbling building like it was made of paper.
Superman.
You stayed pressed to the glass, watching him, every breath short and shallow. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, the way he moved, the way he looked at people when he helped them. Gentle. Familiar.
Then, through the sirens and shouts below, he turned his head just slightly toward the Planet building, toward you.
And your heart stopped.
Those eyes.
Even from stories up, you knew them.
The next morning, Clark Kent walked in late. Tie askew. Hair wind-tossed. A smudge of ash on his collar. He mumbled something to Perry about “getting caught in traffic,” and you just… stared.
Because now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t unsee it. The same shoulders. The same calm in chaos. The same voice that had whispered “quiet” in a supply closet when your heart had been racing for how he fingered you.
It couldn’t be.
Except… it absolutely was.
You barely managed to whisper, “Clark… you’re—” He blinked down at you over his glasses, that familiar, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Running a little behind schedule,” he said softly, and before you could find your words, he brushed past — leaving the faint scent of ozone and cedar-wood in his wake.
And that was it. You knew.
From that day on, nothing about him, or you, was the same.
Now every time he walked past your desk, your pulse jumped. The Daily Planet princess, normally the one gossiping, glowing, spinning through the office like a social butterfly, became a complete, tongue-tied disaster. You dropped pens, spilled lattes, hit “send all” on emails meant for one person.
Clark, meanwhile, had changed.
Not a lot, but enough. He wasn’t the bashful farm boy anymore. He’d meet your eyes over his glasses, and there would be this tiny spark, that quiet, knowing amusement that said he remembered everything.
“Morning, Princess,” he’d say, leaning on your desk, the faintest edge of a grin tugging at his mouth.
You’d choke on your coffee. “H-hi! Morning! Lovely weather! You, uh, look… heroic.”
He’d laugh, low, genuine, maddeningly warm. “You’re still not used to me, are you?”
How could you be? He was Clark Kent, the man you’d secretly crushed on for months… and also Superman, the man who saved the city between coffee breaks.
No matter how much gloss you wore, or how steady your heels clicked, you were never quite the same around him again.
Sometimes, when the newsroom was quiet and the sunset hit the windows just right, you’d catch him watching you, that same small, secret smile playing at his lips. It wasn’t teasing exactly. It was… fond. Like he knew he’d shaken your entire world and was giving you time to find your balance again.
And maybe, one day, you would.
But the problem was, balance had never really been your thing. You were all impulse and perfume, lipstick and plans that sounded better in your head. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before your brain came up with an idea.
If Clark Kent wouldn’t talk about being Superman… maybe Superman would.
You’d convinced yourself it wasn’t technically ridiculous.
Lots of reporters put themselves in risky spots; it was practically in the job description. You just happened to have a slightly different motivation, one that wore a cape and the same cologne as your coworker.
It started small. You lingered at crosswalks a little too long, hoping for an impressively timed rescue. Nothing. You stood on your desk to hang a decorative garland and waited for the floor to tremble beneath super-speed. Still nothing. Superman, it seemed, didn’t respond to decorative emergencies.
Then came the construction site assignment.
Lois had gone home sick, and Perry needed someone to grab a quote from the site of a crane malfunction near Centennial Park. You practically leapt from your chair, hair bouncing, heels clicking.
“This could be dangerous,” Perry warned.
You smiled too brightly. “Oh, I’ll be so careful.”
Fifteen minutes later you were standing under a tower crane, notebook in hand, pretending not to stare at the skyline. The air smelled like rain and metal; workers shouted to one another. You shuffled closer to the caution tape, a little thrill pulsing in your chest.
Just a bit of danger, you told yourself. Something that would justify a rescue.
As if on cue, the wind shifted and a gust sent a loose tarp snapping free from the scaffolding. It wasn’t truly dangerous, but it was enough, it whipped toward you, tangling around your arms and blinding you for a heartbeat.
Then the world tilted, a metallic groan, a shout, and before you could even register what was happening, the scaffolding above gave a sharp crack.
You barely had time to gasp before a blur moved through the chaos. Strong hands caught your waist, pulling you off the street and into the narrow shelter of an alleyway just as the metal frame crashed down where you’d been standing.
The sound echoed, shouts, clanging, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You blinked up, breathless, and found yourself pressed against a brick wall, steady hands still braced around you.
“You should be more careful,” a deep voice said, calm even over the noise.
Superman.
Close enough to see the faint gold flecks in his eyes. Close enough that the wind stirred a curl at his temple. Close enough that you could feel the warmth still buzzing from his skin, like static.
“Ohmygosh,” you gasped, breathless for entirely non-life-threatening reasons. “You look so… familiar.”
One dark brow lifted. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” you said, fighting the nervous laugh bubbling up. “You, uh, kind of look like someone I work with. Except he wears… more polyester.”
That earned the smallest smile. “Polyester, huh?” he murmured. “I’ll have to remember that.”
The way he said it, quiet, amused, like you’d passed some unspoken test, made your stomach flutter. He stepped back just enough for you to breathe, but one hand stayed at your waist, steadying you.
“I really should… thank you,” you stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous your little stunt had been. “If you hadn’t—”
He interrupted softly, voice low. “Something tells me you knew I would.”
Your face burned. “That’s—! I mean—! I was just doing my job!”
“Of course you were,” he said, eyes warm with mischief. “Maybe next time, stick to fashion columns.”
Your jaw dropped. “You—you read my columns?”
His thumb traced a slow circle on your hipbone through the silk of your blouse. “Every word. ‘Planet Princess’ is my favourite part of the Daily Planet.”
The alley’s shadows deepened the blue of his suit, made the crest on his chest glow faintly. His gaze dropped to your lips. “Especially the one about silk scarves doubling as restraints.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. Clark knew. He’d read every coy innuendo you’d slipped past Perry. Before you could stammer a reply, he leaned in, breath warm against your ear.
"You put yourself in danger," he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through your bones. "Just to see if I’d show." His fingers slid slowly up your side, catching the silk scarf draped loosely around your neck.
The fabric whispered against your skin as he tugged it gently, testing its weight. "This would make terrible restraints," he mused, almost to himself, eyes darkening with amusement. "Too slippery. Too easy to slip free."
You swallowed hard. "I—I wasn’t—"
"Oh, you were." His thumb brushed the pulse fluttering wildly beneath your jaw. "I saw you lingering at crosswalks. Watched you wobble on that desk." A soft chuckle escaped him. "You’re terrible at subtlety, Princess." He wound the scarf tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. "But I like that."
His other hand settled firmly on your hip, pinning you against the cool brick. The distant chaos of the construction site faded to a dull roar. All you could see was the intensity in those blue eyes, the faint glow of the S-shield against your chest. He leaned closer, lips hovering inches from yours.
"Tell me," he breathed, "did you think about this? When you wrote that column?"
You nodded, unable to speak. The scarf tightened another fraction.
"Good." The word was a low rumble. "Because I did too." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, lingering where your blouse gaped slightly. "Every word. Especially the part about denial." His thumb pressed into the delicate hollow of your throat. "How long do you think you could last? Begging? Trembling?"
You whimpered, arching into his touch.
Clark, no, Superman, smiled. It wasn’t shy anymore. It was hungry.
"You're trembling," he murmured, fingers tightening in the silk scarf. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, making your breath catch. "Say my name."
"Clark," you gasped.
His grip tightened instantly, knuckles white against the silk. "Wrong." His voice dropped to a growl that vibrated through your ribs. "Try again."
The rough brick scraping against your back. "Superman," you breathed.
The sound of his name on your lips ignited something in his eyes, a dark, possessive gleam. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours. "Better." His free hand slid down your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your thigh. "Now ask nicely."
Your voice cracked. "Save me."
He laughed softly, breath warm against your skin. "From what? Falling scaffolding?" He tugged the scarf sharply, forcing your chin up. "Or from yourself?" His gaze burned into yours. "You wanted me to catch you. Admit it."
You couldn’t lie, not with the S-shield glowing crimson against your chest, not with his thigh pressing between yours. "Yes," you whispered.
He kissed you then, hard, demanding, his tongue claiming your mouth while his hands pinned you against the wall. The taste of ozone and cedar flooded your senses.
When he pulled back, your lipstick was smeared across his jawline like war paint. "Good girl," he rasped. "Now tell me what you really want."
You didn’t hesitate. "Make me beg." The words tumbled out, raw and shameless. "Like in my column."
His eyes darkened. "Denial?" A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "You think you can take it?" His hand slid beneath your skirt, fingers tracing the lace edge of your panties. You arched against him, a whine escaping your throat. He stilled instantly. "Ah-ah." His voice was velvet steel. "No."
You froze, trembling. "Please—"
"Begging already?" He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. His thumb circled your clit through the damp lace, feather-light. He withdrew his hand completely, leaving you gasping. "You’ll wait." His gaze locked onto yours. "Until I say."
A sob caught in your throat. "Superman!"
"Shh." He pressed a finger to your swollen lips. The silk scarf slithered free from your neck, pooling warm against your collarbone. His hands moved with impossible speed, not super-speed, but deliberate, controlled precision.
Before you could blink, he’d twisted the scarf into a taut band, catching both your wrists together in a single fluid motion. The knot pulled tight against your pulse points, silken but unyielding.
He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. The alley’s dim light caught the sharp planes of his face, the dark amusement in his eyes. "Better." His palm smoothed down your arm, fingertips tracing the bound wrists. "Now you can’t touch." He leaned close, his breath hot against your ear. "And you really want to touch, don’t you?"
You nodded frantically, straining against the silk. His laugh was a low vibration against your skin. "Good."
One hand slid beneath your skirt again, fingers skimming the soaked lace. You jerked against the scarf, a whimper building.
He withdrew. "I didn’t say you could move." His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing your ruined lipstick. "Patience, princess."
You whimpered, the silk restraints biting into your wrists as you fought the instinct to arch toward his retreating hand. The damp lace of your panties clung to your skin, aching and neglected.
Superman watched you with that unnerving calm, a god amused by mortal desperation. His gaze dropped to where your skirt had ridden up, exposing the soaked fabric stretched taut between your thighs.
Slowly, deliberately, he undid his belt. The leather hissed through the loops, loud in the alley’s sudden silence. The blue suit parted, revealing the hard line of his cock straining against his briefs. He freed himself, thick and flushed, the tip glistening. Your breath hitched, hips straining forward against the silk binding your wrists.
"Look at you," he murmured, kneeling before you. His knuckles grazed your inner thigh, feather-light. "Soaked through." He traced the damp outline of your panties with the blunt head of his cock, dragging it along the lace seam.
The friction was maddening, almost enough, never enough. You cried out, bucking against nothing. "Shh," he soothed, pressing his length harder against the fabric, grinding in slow circles. "You wanted denial."
The pressure built, coiled tight and desperate. You could feel every ridge, every pulse of him through the thin barrier. "Please," you gasped, tears pricking your eyes. "Superman!"
"Save you?" He chuckled darkly, the vibration traveling through his cock into your clit. "From what?" He leaned in, teeth grazing your earlobe. "From how much you need this?" He rocked his hips, the tip catching on the lace edge, teasing your entrance without penetrating. "Say it properly."
You sobbed, the words thick with humiliation and want. "Save me… please, Superman… make me feel it…"
He stilled instantly. "Not yet." His hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding himself back as he rubbed the swollen head against your clit in torturous, tiny circles. "You don’t get relief until I’m done watching you beg." His free hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in.
The silk restraints bit deeper as you strained against them, every nerve screaming for friction, for release. He traced the damp outline of your panties with his tongue, slow, deliberate swipes through the lace that made your knees buckle.
You cried out, arching off the wall, only to be pinned back by his palm flat against your belly. "Stay."
The command vibrated through you. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged the panties down just enough to expose you completely to the cool alley air, and his heated gaze.
"You wrote about silk scarves," he murmured, breath ghosting over your exposed flesh. His thumb brushed your clit once, a lightning strike of sensation, before retreating. "But you never imagined this, did you?" His fingers slid lower, tracing your slick entrance without entering.
"Bound in an alley. Begging Superman to fuck you." He pressed two fingers against your core, applying just enough pressure to make you sob. "Denial isn’t just waiting, princess." He withdrew his hand completely, lifting his glistening fingers to your lips. "It’s tasting what you can’t have."
You sucked his fingers into your mouth, whimpering at the taste of yourself, salt and desperation. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue.
"Good girl," he growled. "Now watch." He stroked himself slowly, his fist gliding over his thick length as he watched your bound wrists tremble. "See what you made me?"
Pre-cum beaded at his tip. "All those little columns… your perfume in the elevator… the way you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking." His thumb smeared the wetness across the swollen head. "You did this."
He stepped closer, his cock pressing against your thigh, hot and heavy. "Tell me," he breathed against your mouth, "do you want Clark? Or Superman?"
You shook your head, frantic. "You—both—"
"Wrong answer." He gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly against the brick. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, teasing, not entering. "Choose."
"Superman," you gasped. "Please—"
He thrust in, one brutal, perfect stroke that stole your breath. You screamed, the sound swallowed by the city’s distant roar. He held himself deep, unmoving, as you quivered around him.
"Good," he rasped, his voice rough with restraint. "Now stay still." His hands tightened on your hips, holding you suspended. "Don’t move. Don’t come." His lips brushed your ear. "Not until I give you permission."
You whimpered, trembling with the effort to obey as he began to move, slow, deliberate pulls that dragged every ridge against your walls.
Denial wasn't waiting. It was agony. It was ecstasy. It was Superman making you his.
The alley’s brick scraped your shoulders raw as he pinned you higher, each measured thrust deeper than the last. His suit’s fabric rasped against your thighs, rough Kryptonian weave against silk stockings, while his hips snapped forward with inhuman control.
Sweat beaded along his jawline, mingling with your smeared lipstick. He watched you unravel, blue eyes sharp behind the disguise of heroism.
"You feel that?" he growled, slowing to a near-still grind that made your hips jerk against the silk restraints. "Every inch." His thumb found your clit, circling just shy of the pressure you craved. "Denial isn’t suffering. It’s art." You choked back a sob, thighs trembling around him. He smiled, Clark’s gentle curve, Superman’s predatory edge. "Beg prettier."
"Please!" The word tore from you, ragged. "Let me—"
His hand clamped over your mouth. "No." The thrusts resumed, brutal and precise. "You don’t ask." He nipped your collarbone, teeth sharp through the thin blouse. "You take what I give you."
The silk restraints burned your wrists as you strained against them, every nerve screaming for release. His thumb circled your clit with agonising lightness, close enough to tease, never enough to push you over. You arched against his palm, a muffled sob vibrating against his skin.
"Patience," he breathed against your ear. His hips snapped forward, driving deeper. "You wanted denial. Feel it."
He withdrew almost completely, leaving you empty and shaking, then slammed back in, once, twice, before holding himself still again. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. "Look at me."
Tears blurred your vision.
Above you, Superman glowed faintly in the dim light, the blue sharpened to something primal. The S-shield pressed hot against your chest, branding you. His thumb brushed away a tear track, his hips rolled in a slow, devastating circle, grinding deep.
A choked whimper escaped you. "Now," he commanded, his hand sliding down to grip your hipbone, "come for me."
The permission shattered you.
The orgasm ripped through you like a supernova, violent, blinding, your back arching off the brick as you screamed into his palm.
Waves of pleasure crashed over you, dragging you under. You convulsed around him, milking every inch of his cock as he held himself deep, letting you ride it out against the unyielding wall of his body.
When the tremors subsided, you sagged against him, boneless. He lowered you slowly, your feet touching the gritty pavement. The silk scarf still bound your wrists, but his hands were gentle now, cradling your face. His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip.
"Good girl," he breathed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The tenderness was almost worse than the roughness.
He untied the silk scarf with careful precision, letting it pool around your wrists. Your fingers trembled as you touched his chest, the S-shield still warm beneath your palm. He caught your hand, pressing your knuckles to his lips. "You know now," he murmured against your skin. "Officially, Clark Kent is Superman."
The alley’s shadows softened around you both. Distant sirens faded into the city’s hum. You stared at him, the smudged lipstick, the disheveled curl falling over his brow, and saw Clark Kent beneath the cape. "So," you whispered, tracing the line of his jaw, "no more supply closets?"
His laugh was low, warm, familiar. "Oh, princess." He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like ozone and forgiveness. "Supply closets were amateur hour." His thumb brushed your bottom lip, wiping away the last trace of crimson.
"But no more construction sites." The command was velvet steel. "If you want me…" His eyes darkened, holding yours. "…ask."
You shivered, the aftershocks still echoing in your bones. "What if I want Superman?"
He stepped back, adjusting his suit with effortless grace. The transformation was instant, shoulders squared, chin lifted, the shy farm boy erased by the hero’s poise. "Then call for him." A ghost of Clark’s smile flickered beneath the stern mask. "But remember…" He tapped your nose lightly. "…denial works both ways."
Before you could protest, he was gone, a blur of red and blue streaking skyward.
You stood alone in the alley, silk scarf dangling from your fingers. The scent of cedar and rain clung to your skin.
Back at the Daily Planet, chaos reigned. Perry bellowed about deadlines; reporters scrambled. You sank into your chair, knees still weak. Across the bullpen, Clark Kent’s desk sat empty, a half-eaten donut beside his keyboard.
You touched your throat where the scarf had bitten in.
Ask.
The elevator dinged. Clark stepped out, glasses slightly askew, tie perfectly knotted. He carried two coffees. His gaze found yours instantly. You avoided his gaze, shuffling notes with shaking hands.
"Princess," he said softly, placing a latte on your desk. His fingers brushed yours, deliberate, lingering. "Heard you had quite the adventure."
Heat flooded your cheeks. "Just doing my job." The lie tasted thin. Your thighs still ached from being pinned against brick, the ghost of silk restraints burning your wrists.
"Mm." He leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper only you could hear. "Next time you want a rescue…" His breath warmed your ear. "…try the break room." He straightened, adjusting his glasses with that familiar, shy smile. "Less scaffolding."
Lois raised an eyebrow from her desk. "You two sharing secrets?"
Clark winked. "Just coffee."
But as he walked away, his hand grazed your thigh beneath the desk, brief, electric.
You lifted the latte.
Scrawled on the cup in Clark’s neat print: Tonight. Your place. Bring the scarf.
a/n: oh, i loved writing this story so so much! not only a fantasy au, but also essentially a bodyguard au with a hot af werewolf? yes please. all day, every day. so naturally i really let myself go to town and make it a real filthy mess, hehe. hope you like it ♡
summary: “...your highness… are you trying to say that you have been having improper thoughts about me?”
warnings: werewolf!knight!clark kent x princess!reader, smut, fantasy au, bodyguard au, innocent!reader, slight perv!reader, kinda brat!reader, forbidden romance, secret relationship, age gap, mutual pining, monsterfucking, alcohol consumption, arranged engagement, baby boy clark curses in this one (it just felt correct in this au), blackmail, so much rain, it was a dark and stormy night folks, crying, outdoor sex, loss of virginity, sir kink, armour kink, dirty talk, size kink, belly bulge, manhandling, knotting, overstimulation, fingering, oral, squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, they're in love your honour
word count: 5374
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masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2025
“Oh no…”
Ceasing your merriment at once as your giddy twirling spun you around, the tune you’d sung along to with all of the other strangers in the tavern, all of them in complete ignorance as to your true identity, too dissipated from your lips when you turned around to see the hulking armour that had slipped in through the pub’s door and was now towering directly beside you.
“Oh no indeed,” Clark echoed before he grabbed your half-empty pint out of your hands and set it down on a nearby table, “let’s go,” the knight’s impatient timbre cut through the party that kept on bustling around you.
“Wait,” you tried to argue as he grabbed your forearm, “but I–”
“No buts,” his tone stayed stern, “let’s go,” before he then dragged you out of the establishment and into the light mist of drizzling rain that glimmered in the nighttime village streets.
“What are you doing here?” you struggled slightly against his gauntleted grip, your inebriated feet stumbling a bit as you complained, “I thought you were down by the stables.”
“It is my duty to protect you,” he shot you a look, “of course, I figured out where you snuck off to tonight, your highness,” he lowered his voice slightly as he dropped your royal title, careful to stay out of earshot of the few folks wandering the dark streets this late at night.
Your eyes then narrowed as you huffed out a breath, “do you have a heightened sense of smell of something? Was that how you figured out where I was?” the alcohol still tingling your tongue let the daring words slip faster than you were able to keep them at bay, “I’ve always wondered that about creatures like you.”
“What are you on about?” his heavy boots slowed to a halt, though he still managed to let out a sigh of annoyance to shield the truth, “creatures like me?”
“Oh, you know,” you shrugged as you blinked back at him, unable to stop yourself from uttering, “lycanthropes.”
Tensing up and glaring around to see if a sparse onlooker noticed, in a matter of seconds, Clark had suddenly seized your frame and shoved you into a dark alleyway, away from any ears, though in the fevered process, had accidentally pulled you so close to his armoured frame that a silent gasp tumbled from your lips at the longed-for proximity.
“Keep your voice down!” he hissed, though as he cornered you against the wall, your eyes couldn’t help but flicker down towards his lips, even as he continued to growl, “why would you even throw around an accusation like that?” as such afflictions were not only taboo, but also highly illegal in the kingdom that your father ruled over.
“Well,” you fought to force your gaze away from his lips as you quietly heard yourself admit, “I’ve kind of been watching you…”
It had been a long time that you had fallen into the pattern of spying on your guard, around corners, through windows, and even through the odd keyhole at times. Your crush had not only lent you to learn secrets about him, like how far down the scar on his hip stretched, but also other, more nefarious details the knight kept hidden.
But instead of looking surprised at your voyeuristic tendencies, Clark’s stern features didn’t even shift as he simply murmured, “oh, I’m well aware of that habit of yours,” as he was skilled enough at his post to be able to subtly clock you most of the times that your spying eyes found him.
Blinking back at him a moment, you then revealed, “…you know, I saw you the other morning from my window… one moment I thought I’d have to call upon you to alert everyone of the beast that I spotted wandering onto the palace grounds, but then the monster changed before my very eyes…” your gaze met the stare of the very same man you saw transform that dawn.
His eyes fluttered shut as a defeated sigh swiftly flowed from his lungs, “princess…” he exhaled as he scrambled his brain for a way out of this that didn’t end up with his head on a spike.
“Does anyone know?” you then asked.
Blinking his eyes back open, he uttered, “only the people who matter the most to me know…” a shiver trickling down your spine as he continued to stare back into your eyes with each and every word, “your highness, please. I’m in control of it, I swear. Please don’t tell anyone,” he begged.
Gazing back into his desperate stare, you soon exhaled, “alright… I won’t tell anyone if you do something for me…”
“Princess, I swore an oath to protect you. You just say the word and I’ll do it,” he vowed, fully expecting you to barter for a return to the tavern.
“…I–, well…” your eyes averted as you hesitantly began, “I’m not quite sure what it is exactly that I’m asking for…” butterflies fluttered within your belly so fiercely that you feared you might faint, “I frankly don’t understand it, because I’ve never–, no one else has ever made me–…”
“…your highness…” he slowly uttered as he caught onto what you were struggling to express, “…are you trying to say that you have been having improper thoughts about me?”
Drawing in a sharp breath, you gazed up at the torch flickering nearby on the wall, “define improper.”
“Oh, fuck… princess…” he bowed his head as a gravelly sigh rumbled deep in his throat, “you don’t know what you’re asking…”
“I think I do,” you swiftly tilted your head, “or, I mean, not completely, that’s why I’m asking, but I do, I do know. I–… I want you…”
Meeting your gaze, his head slowly began to shift gently from side to side, “…no, you don’t…”
“Yes, I do,” you repeated in a much clearer tone, your cadence virtually stubborn as you blinked back at your guard.
“No,” he continued to shake his head, “you’re supposed to be kept pure for your future husband, not for some lowlife to swoop in and corrupt you.”
“Oh, you are far from a lowlife, Sir Kent,” you rolled your eyes lightly, a faint chuckle tumbling off your lips at his solemn words.
“Maybe not anymore, but trust me when I say, this isn’t what you want,” he stated firmly before taking a step back.
With the stars twinkling in the sky above, you blinked back at him as the gentle rain formed in glistening pebbles all along the shiny metal of his armour, “is it because you don’t find me beautiful? Aren’t I as pretty as any other girl in this kingdom?”
“You are not a girl, your highness,” he refused to meet your gaze, “you’re a princess.”
Or in other words, you were completely and utterly off limits.
Biting down on your inner cheek hard enough for a metallic taste to ooze against your tongue, you then narrowed your eyes before finding the audacity to utter, “…so, I should start with my father, shouldn’t I?”
Meeting your stare, he furrowed his dark brows, “what?”
“The king. He’s the one I should go to first and spread the news of what you really are.”
“No, you–…” his heated words crumbled as he squeezed his eyes shut and instead fumed in silence as what you were wordlessly asking of him was almost as bad as letting his secret out, as he’d probably lose his head if anyone found out about either option.
Slowly moving in closer to him, “…please, Clark…” your whisper kissed his features as you inched in so near that your nose almost ghosted against his own.
“Your highness…” his low voice was barely audible as he refused to open his eyes, “…we can’t…”
“Please… just this one thing… just this one time…” you sounded downright pathetic begging to one of your subjects in the dark of the alleyway, “…I just wanna understand what it is that you do to me… please?”
Letting his gaze flutter back open, he blinked back into your glistening eyes a moment before he finally uttered, “…fine…” his chest rose and fell nearly as rapidly as your own, “…but not here,” he shot a look back towards the quiet streets before he grabbed your hand and snatched the lit torch off of the wall behind you.
Tugging you along, he didn’t utter another word as he then dragged you out of the village and into the nearby woods.
A crack of thunder sounded when you soon were surrounded by trees, as the light drizzle of rain intensified and it began to pour down upon you both, threatening to snuff out the blazing light in his other grasp with each heavy droplet.
But eventually, when you were about to finally question him about where he was taking you, the mouth of a small cave appeared. It was the first place he thought about, as it was secluded enough for him to utilise each month when the moon grew full, so if it was private enough for that, then it would be private enough for this.
When you had ducked into the cavern for cover, with his back still turned to you, Clark wordlessly spiked the torch into the dirt, just before where the rock beneath your feet began.
The world still spun beneath your feet, partly thanks to the plethora of pints you had downed before your knight had managed to track you down, and partly in disbelief of what was about to happen. Your eyes traced the droplets of water as they slowly slipped down across the harsh lines of his armour and dripped onto the cave floor below.
You yourself were soaked to the bone, and not simply in the manner that your dripping dress clung to your frame…
And soon, very slowly, he broke the silence and asked, “…have you ever been kissed before?” he then gradually turned around to finally face you once more, though didn’t shift to do anything else, barely even met your eye.
“A few times…” you panted as your fingers fisted the wet fabric of your skirts, “at balls when I was younger… although, I never quite understood what all the fuss was about. It was so strange, each time…”
“Well, did you like the people who kissed you?” he finally met your stare.
Your gaze strayed a moment and flickered across the jagged rocks on the ceiling before you uttered, “not particularly.”
“Well then–, your highness…” he cautiously took a single step closer to where you stood before him, “…would you allow me the privilege of giving you a kiss?”
Blinking back at him with wide eyes, you only managed a small, “mhm,” as a response. The kiss was soft, slow, and though he kept it brief, it was nothing short of magical. Your body swayed a moment when he withdrew, “holy f-fu–…” you dizzily blinked up at him as he withdrew his fleeting touch along your jaw, “I–…” goosebumps prickled across your flesh before you then asked, “c-could you do that again?” and when the knight complied with your wish, you thought he let you linger a second longer this time, when in actuality, your guard was really restraining himself as to not give in to the alluring danger of your company, “…so that’s what it’s supposed to be like…” you smiled a moment as the touch of his lips still tingled against your own.
Though what unfolded next was slow and gentle, it still only seemed like a blur to you.
Sitting down on the ground with his back sloped against the cave wall, he sat you down in his lap. Your neck twisted for your wide eyes to blink up at him as his own gaze tracked his gauntleted hands as they slowly began to trace your frame, the cool iron leaving goosebumps in their wake as his armoured fingers ghosted across your skin and dragged along the soaked fabric of your dress, your chest heaving behind his touch as he let it skim across your boobs.
But the rough gauntlets soon came off when he hiked up the skirts of your dress, letting it crumble and gather around your hips. A sharp breath filled up your lungs when Clark nudged at your thighs and spread your legs wide, letting him peek down over your shoulder at your sweet little honeypot, already a leaking mess for him.
He guided you through it all and whispered reassurances in your ear each time your nerves would make your muscles tense. He even made you reach down to feel along as well as he explained it all and demonstrated with his brawny fingers, as to still keep you somewhat pure, so that he didn’t feel like he was ruining you completely.
Though as your hips naturally grinded down against his lap and made your body feel as if it was a shooting star soaring across the night sky, how were you to know that it only worsened the throbbing hardness that strained against the codpiece of his armour.
“I’ve got you…” his lips were smouldering against the side of your neck when your own hand ceased being capable of keeping up, as your body suddenly went as tight a bowstring taking aim, and a strangled moan bounced off the cold cavern walls.
“Thank you…” you eventually panted as your eyes fluttered back open, though you were still not able to start moving again, “…you have my word…I’ll carry your secret to my grave…” you vowed before the two of you could begin to try and go back to normal.
“Slow, slow, shh…” the familiar timbre of Clark’s voice found your ears as you regained consciousness.
Slowly sitting up, it took you a moment to notice the change in location as you were no longer in the grand throne room of the castle, but in your own chambers, lying atop the mattress of your canopy bed, “what happened?”
Standing over you, the knight gazed down at you and gently reminded, “you fainted,” and the memories swiftly came rushing back of how his armoured arms had caught you before you could have crashed to the stone floor, “right after his majesty told you that you’re–”
“Oh, fuck…” you squeezed your eyes shut as heated tears promptly began to well up in them.
“Hey,” he softened his tone even more as you drew your knees up to your chest, “it’s gonna be alright.”
“No, it’s not!” you snapped, “I thought I had more time,” a tear escaped in the carnage and rolled down your cheek, “you know, maybe it’s a bit foolish, but I was actually starting to think that it would never happen. But no, miracle upon miracles,” you scoffed weakly as you threw up your arms, “my father has finally managed to auction me off to the highest bidder.”
And when you then broke down even further, curling inward as you bowed your head and wrapped your arms around your bent legs, to your surprise, your knight suddenly sank down to sit beside you and enveloped you in a hug.
“Of course, I always knew that this day would come,” you went on, sniffling against his armour, “but now? Already?”
“It’s gonna be okay, princess,” his hand carefully swept up to caress the crown of your head.
“No, it’s not!” you exploded and suddenly shoved Clark back before you rose from the bed and stomped away a few paces, till you stood before the fireplace that lit up the dim room in a warm glow, “I’m gonna get married off and move to an entirely different kingdom,” you gazed into the flames before the bittersweet sensation of your knight’s touch lingered against your skin, “I’ll–… I’ll lose you…”
“I won’t let that happen,” he got up as well, “your highness,” he then took a single step to close the gap between him and your turned away frame, still letting you keep most of your distance, “I will not leave your side, no matter what. I took an oath to protect you,” his words were deliberate and clear, “you have my sword–”
“But that’s only as long as I stay here, unmarried,” your voice broke slightly as you pointed out.
But then he simply murmured, “I’ll take care of that.”
“What do you mean?” you turned back to face him once more, “are you–… are you saying that you’d come with me?”
And as he let his feet shift once more, closing the gap further, an earnest exhale escaped his lungs as he vowed, “to the ends of the earth…”
Blinking back at him, you still only chalked up his words as yet another sign of his devotion to his oath of protection, “but I–… Sir Kent…” you averted your gaze once more, “what if you can’t?” fresh tears began to well up in your eyes once more, “what if I never see you again?”
But then, from out of nowhere, instead of uttering another word, your knight snapped, the beast inside of him breaking free as he grabbed your face and drew you in till your lips collided against his own.
The desperate kiss was nothing like it had been previously. It was fevered, hot and made you lose your breath.
Withdrawing slightly, you searched his eyes for a second before you truly noticed the look that was plastered all over his face.
In that moment, you finally realised that you had much more than just the knight’s sword, because in truth, his heart was yours as well.
A small sob then blubbered out of you, a hefty mix of both the purest of joy, as well as doom, considering the grave circumstances.
Stumbling forward, you crashed back into him, now equally as staved. It all unravelled so quickly after that. From starved tongues to wandering hands, while you began to aimlessly tug at his armour, the plate mail still staying locked around his burly frame as you didn’t know where to undo it, his own broad hands coasted along your curves, his fingers knowing exactly how to rid your body of your silky garment.
“Clark,” you panted as he dipped down to let his lips wander along the column of your neck, “I–…” a needy whine crackled in your throat as he kissed your rapid pulse, “can you–, I–…please?”
“What is it, your highness?” his deep voice vibrated against your skin and his fingers couldn’t help but dent your waist at your desperate little noise, “what do you want?”
“You,” the word left your lips like a choked sob, “I want you… like in the forest, but–”
“But?” he tilted back up just enough to catch your eyes, “you want more, don’t you?”
“You said there was more… that people could fit together and–…” you remembered before a shaky breath filled your lungs, “I just–, if it doesn’t work out, if you can’t come with me, if this is one of the last chances we have–”
“Princess,” he shut you up with a soft tone as a smile curved on his lips, “you don’t need to beg.”
A gentle giggle then flowed from you as he kissed you once again, “do you think I’ll like it?”
“Gods, I hope so,” a groan slipped through his chuckle before he stole another peck. His hands were all over you as you kissed, like a wildfire, scorching across your frame, till eventually, when his fingers slowly tugged at the laces along the back of your dress, the beast within him lost patience and he suddenly ripped it instead, a growl vibrating on his tongue as he tore your gown to shreds.
When there wasn’t a single scrap of fabric left on your body, not even a lonely woollen stocking still clinging around your leg, Clark continued to manhandle your frame and ended up tossing you back onto the canopy bed behind you.
Ripping the sheer curtains to the side, the heavy armour that still clung to his brawny frame caused the divot in the mattress to dip even further as he then joined you on the bed and layed on his stomach between your thighs.
“Fuck…” he groaned as he stared down at your aching pussy, briefly catching your eye as he dipped down to plant a smouldering peck to the very top of your inner thigh, his hands swiftly peeling off his gauntlets and tossing them to the ground with a loud clank.
Your big, brave knight nearly seemed to get drunk on the taste of you as he then devoured you whole, his gaze rarely straying from your own. Your hands stretched down to helplessly tug at the dark curls atop his head as he sucked down hard on your throbbing clit. Hiking up your already trembling legs to spread you apart even further for the werewolf’s ravenous tongue, his sloppy pecks savoured every inch of you, from your puffy little pearl, to the leaking entrance that rhythmically clenched around nothing, to even when he growled against you and drew your hip up further against him, letting his eager mouth dip so far down that you felt his tongue flutter against the tight little rosebud of your asshole.
Even after he made you cum once, his wide palm stayed on your soft cunt as he twisted up beside you in order to kiss you. But as your tongue danced against his own, a strangled moan melted against his lips as you felt the warrior slowly sink one of his thick fingers into your virginal little hole.
“Oh gods–,” you gasped as you ripped yourself away from the kiss to blink foggily down at his digits gradually disappearing inside of you, the unfamiliar sensation making your eyes flutter.
“If you truly want more, if you want us to fit together,” his low voice tickled the shell of your ear, causing a shiver to rush down your spine, “then you gotta let me stretch you out a bit first. I don’t wanna hurt you, princess.”
“O-okay,” you whimpered and watched as his middle finger traced your opening, already clinging around just his one digit, though still in its caresses, searching determinedly for a way inside as well.
Your eyes were barely open by the time that he’d managed to stuff not only two, but four of his big fingers inside of you, sinful sloshing sounds echoing each time that he pumped them within you. Pussy leaking so fiercely that you stained the sheets below, Clark’s mouth dipped down to nip and suck at your tits, aching up towards the canopy above each time his fingers bottomed out inside of you.
Though even as his deliberate efforts once more pushed you towards the edge, the guard didn’t let you cross it this time, as he instead slipped his glossy fingers back out and abruptly crawled up off of the bed.
Taking a step back, Clark took his sweet time as he then slowly peeled off one layer of his armour at a time, his stare ever glued to your own, his gaze virtually eating you up as you panted in return, your hand mindlessly shooting down between your thighs as more and more of his body was revealed to you. Even though you had previously caught glimpses of his nude form and could already report back a vast percentage of the scars that usually stayed concealed beneath the warrior’s uniform, there were still parts of him that you had only ever dreamed about, or that was until now…
And as soon as he stripped off the last bit of clothing, when his fingers popped open the buttons of the linen pants he wore beneath all of that metal, a bewildered look took over your dazed features as his throbbing cock sprang free.
“H-how is that even going to fit?” your wide eyes blinked down at the intimidatingly fat knot that swelled up the base of the werewolf’s length.
“Oh, your highness,” he chuckled softly as his touch briefly granted himself a silky stroke, “don’t worry,” you noticed just how much glistening precum was already leaking from his bulbous tip, “I’ll make it fit…” he told you calmly, before joining you once more on the bed, his massive body caging you in as he crawled on top of you to kiss you once more.
With the crackling of the fireplace in the background, behind the blur of drapes hanging around the bed, Clark’s eyes held your own captive as he soon reached down to nudge the head of his dick against you, sweeping his girth through your glistening petals. His excessive precum nearly acted as lube when he eventually settled down and began to brush against your quivering opening.
“Touch that pretty little button of yours,” he uttered huskily, his nose bumping against your own, to which you swiftly obeyed, reaching down to swirl your puffy pearl, “deep breath, okay?” he waited for you to do so, and when you did, your mouth fell apart in a gasp as he slowly began to split you open, “shh, shh, there you go, it’s okay, you’ve got it,” he groaned as well as your cunt struggled to stretch for his beastly size, “atta girl…”
Your mouth hung agape with strangled whimpers tumbling forth as the lycanthrope slowly sank in deeper.
“I-it’s–, fuck!” your nails dug into his broad shoulders as you peeked down to discover that still half of his length remained before that throbbing knot would even ghost against your skin, a whimper fell from your lips as you already felt so incredibly full.
“You okay?” he paused a moment, still staying ever so near that he nearly inhaled your small moans.
“I–I think so,” you finally peeled away your gaze for it to reunite again with his own.
“Good,” his lips twisted into a faint smile before his hips then tilted slightly, drawing his fat dick back out till your pussy only clung around the tip of him, before he then slid back in to the same shallow point, swiftly settling into a slow rhythm that caused your thighs to shake on either side of his frame.
Planting a tiny peck on the tip of your nose, Clark seemed so huge atop of you, eclipsing the entirety of your field of vision as he continued to just rut away inside of you.
As he had already brought you so close with the touch of his fingers, not long passed before you came undone once more, though this time, the high manifested itself differently, rocking you so intensely that you had to rip your touch away from your clit as a gush of squirt wept from your cunt as you tumbled over the edge. In that moment, your velvety walls clenched around Clark’s thick cock, choking him so fiercely that your pussy managed to squeeze him out entirely.
“Gods,” you eventually panted when Clark tapped the hefty weight of his cock against your glistening petals once again, conjuring one last weak trickle of nectar to soak him further, “what was that?”
Smiling against your cheek, he whispered huskily, “oh, princess… it just means that you like me, that’s all…” before he buried himself once again, groaning lowly in your ear as he did.
By the time that your knight finally managed to cram thick cock in so far that the fat knot at the base finally touched your slick skin, your little hole still struggled to open up for the bulb, try as Clark might, his strenuous efforts only resulted in the big knot repeatedly bumping against your cunt, repeatedly slamming against your poor clit with every animalistic thrust, sufficiently overstimulating you and making you tremble beneath the werewolf.
Clark soon growled as he grew frustrated at his fruitless attempts at feeling your warm embrace around all of him. He then stubbornly found himself flipping your legs up and hiking them all of the way up onto his wide shoulders. Folding you in half, he cracked you open and created even more room for himself between your legs.
Glancing down at his progress, a smirk glinted on his features as he spotted the messy cream that slowly leaked out of you with each of his fevered thrusts, turning his dick all milky from your desperation.
Though when he finally managed to stuff his fat knot inside of your pussy, a sickeningly wet plap echoed as it popped in.
With his balls finally flush up against your slick skin, Clark let out a gravelly groan, “oh gods, princess… you feel so amazing… you’re perfect… I–… I haven’t been with anyone who could take my knot in ages…” as you gasped up at him, your eyes rolling in your skull at the staggering sensation.
Your weak arms clung around his neck as you panted up at him. Stuck inside of you, your poor pussy clenched wildly around the entirety of his length, from his flush tip that crammed up against your cervix to the fat knot your body was bearing down upon, the bulb creating so much pressure against your pelvis that you feared he might rip you apart.
Utterly impaled on him as he remained locked inside of your cunt, your walls continued to flutter around him as he reached down to rub your clit in order to help you relax around him further and allow him to move once more.
“It’s so big…” you choked on the words, “I swear, it feels like you’re somehow all of the way up in my belly….”
Although when Clark promptly let out a soft chuckle at your weak panting, his touch on your puffy pearl widened, his hand stretching up over your cunt till his fingers ghosted over the imprint of himself that bulged through your stomach.
“That’s because I am,” he pointed out with a smile, before he then caught one of your trembling hands and guided it down to the bulge.
Eyes growing wide, you blinked up at him, “t-that’s you?” your stare briefly soared down to catch a glimpse of it as well.
“Mhm,” he nodded as he dipped back down for another kiss, “I’m so fucking proud of you… taking every single inch of me so well… taking my knot…” he murmured in between smouldering pecks, before his palm over your own suddenly pressed down further against the imprint of him, causing you to cry out as you abruptly unravelled again, “fuck… your highness…” he groaned as you once again squirted all over him, although this time your cunt couldn’t clench him back out as he was still all stuck inside of you.
When he eventually managed to free his knot from the tight embrace of your quivering cunt, he then began to fuck the fat bulb in and out of you, making your overstimulated pussy weep even more with each wet and sloppy pop as your loyal guard dog ploughed you into the mattress.
Clark even drooled slightly as his hips rocked to slam roughly against your own, his pace feverish till he finally shot his hot load right up against your cervix. Though his cum promptly began to leak out of you as his girth already filled you up too much that there wasn’t any room left to spare.
You barely felt corporeal any longer by the time that each of your heartbeats had finally settled back down and your lips were all swollen from the slow make-out that couldn’t help but blossom in the aftermath. His throbbing cock remained within you, still stuffing you full even as he began to soften, though never fully with the way that your pussy continued to flutter around him.
“Princess…” his palm floated up to ghost against your soft cheek as he let himself gaze down upon you, “…I promise you, I will stay at your side for the rest of my days…” he let the pad of his thumb brush against the edge of your face, “no matter what,” he vowed, “I’m yours.”
cw: hurt/comfort, a little angsty, smut (mdni, 18+), masturbation (f), oral (f rec), unprotected p in v, creampie
wc: 2.2k
a/n: thank you to everyone who’s been so excited for part 2, here you go <3
now playing: Cherry – Lana Del Rey
You struggled to recall a more mortifying moment than this one where you sat in the hospital’s exam room.
It would almost be romantic – the way Clark didn’t dare to let you walk a step on your own along his constant apologies and quiet tears – if the whole situation wasn’t so damn embarrassing.
The gynecologist scheduled tonight had asked him to leave and given you a very serious talk about the warning signs of domestic abuse. You had implored her to believe you that this was all just the most awkward accident of your life and she had allowed Clark to come back into the room to hold your hand while she assessed your injuries.
Bottom line, there would be no long-lasting damages. You were a little bruised – both your flesh and your ego – and had a small internal tear but that was all going to heal on its own within a few weeks. After receiving a prescription for painkillers and a very medical safe sex talk, you were discharged.
Clark held your hand tenderly, as if he was scared to break you. His fingers limply wrapped around yours while his other arm supported your back as he walked by your side.
The incident had shaken him to the bone, an almost frozen expression of severe shock and guilt etched into his face. Even when you protested relentlessly that you were both equally at fault, he just shook his head and murmured more apologies.
And that’s how the torture began.
Clark didn’t touch you more than necessary. His fingers barely brushed yours anymore when he passed you mugs of coffee or groceries. He never let you get more than a soft kiss and he sure as hell didn’t initiate them anymore.
There were no gentle back rubs anymore, no cuddling on the couch or forehead kisses before work. He might as well have put up a force field around himself whenever you entered a room.
The first few days, you let him get away with it, hoping that a little bit of distance would help him realize that this wasn’t his fault at all, that you were not mad at him or scared of him.
After a week, you tried to ease back into your usual rhythm, not yet starting anything sexy or intimate, just a gentle kiss between doors in the morning but he backed away.
“I have to go to work, sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, and left you standing there, lips parted and heart aching.
Two weeks after the trip to the ER, you were declared a hundred percent healed and ready for sexual activity.
You tried to convey the news to Clark in a casual way in order not to spook him but you only mentioned the word ‘sex’ and he was out the door, claiming he needed to get some groceries – the fridge was overflowing with fresh produce as he had basically spent every free minute of the last weeks in the store to avoid you.
Clark slowly eased out of his skittishness, allowing soft touches here and there once week four of your involuntary celibacy started.
You were sensitive with need, a faint thumping between your legs following the most tender hug from him, his muscular arms barely squeezing you. He smelled so good, so masculine and sweet at the same time.
That night, you made a decision: you were going to get your loving, touchy boyfriend back.
So, when dinner was over and all dishes were cleaned, you put on a movie and cuddled up to him on the couch.
He tensed when you sank into the crook of his arm, your body melting against his effortlessly.
But he didn’t pull away – yet.
Instead, he stayed motionless while your fingers danced innocently over his forearm, tracing the veins bulging out from his skin.
A stifled sigh, or maybe a suppressed moan, you couldn’t tell, slipped from his mouth when your hand wandered and slipped under his shirt.
“Baby,” he whispered, “Please, don’t.”
You looked up at him with innocent eyes, all wide and reverent.
“C’mon, Clark,” you pleaded, “I miss you. I’m literally going crazy without you.”
He shifted uncomfortably and you saw the bulge in his pants, growing and twitching – he was as pent up as you, maybe even more.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he protested, “You’re still healing and-“
“I was cleared forever ago and I told you so,” you cut him off.
He groaned softly, frustration written all over his face. You were not the recipient of his irritation, he himself was.
As he sat up, your hand slipped a little further down and brushed against the waistband of his sweats. He inhaled sharply, his fingers darting up to hold your wrist. He didn’t move your hand, just kept it in place like he was trying to find resolution in the midst of his clouded mind.
“Sweetheart, I don’t wanna hurt you again. I think it might actually kill me if I ever did.”
His words hung heavy in the air, your heart cracking as you heard the way his voice shook.
“You’re not gonna. What happened all those weeks ago, that was on me as much as it was on you. I shoulda let you do your prep and not egged you on as much as I did. We both learned from it, haven’t we?” you argued, gently tracing along the edge of his waistband.
He quivered under your administrations, his breath quickening and muscles twitching.
“I don’t- I don’t know. I’m terrified to… to touch you because what if…,” he trailed off, gesturing helplessly. Your constant touch didn’t help his hazy mind.
“Nothing’s gonna happen. I’m not scared-,” you insisted but Clark cut you off before you could continue.
“Well, maybe you should be. I don’t get how you don’t understand this, but I could literally break you in half, I could shatter you into a thousand pieces if I’m not careful. That’s not… that not a risk I’m willing to take.”
It was more than shameful how his words made you drip, slick collecting in the gusset of your panties. Clark tilted his head, that sad puppy expression on his face turning sour as his nose twitched.
“Are you- are you seriously turned on right now?” he gasped. He could smell the arousal drenching your thighs and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m sorry that having a strong, hot boyfriend gets me going,” you chuckled, “But you’re so much more than just incredibly strong. You’re kind and caring and we know now how far I can go, and because you are the most respectful man walking this Earth, I trust you not to push further than that. Even if the idea of it is really hot.”
He shook his head, sighing with exasperation.
“I can’t believe you,” he murmured.
“Oh, Clark, c’mon. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me,” you begged, “Trust me to tell you when I’ve had enough.”
--
The movie was long forgotten when Clark had freed you from the last pieces of clothing, unwrapping you like a present. His fingers were hovering over you, still too afraid to make true contact.
So, you took initiative.
You laid back on the couch, right in front of him, and spread your legs. The cool air in the room touched your cunt, making you shiver. Clark’s eyes were transfixed on your every move, following the exact route of your hands as you traced along your thighs.
He licked his lips subconsciously once you parted your folds with your fingers, a soft gasp breaking from you as you brushed up against your clit.
“C’mon, Clark, help a girl out,” you whispered, angling your hips to grant him a better view.
“Think you’re doing just fine,” he mumbled brokenly, never taking his eyes off of you.
You huffed in disbelief and sunk two fingers into your heat, moaning at the intrusion. After so many weeks of letting yourself heal, you were sensitive beyond what you could handle.
And Clark did not help at all. He just observed, absolutely mesmerized as he watched your cunt swallow your fingers. His mouth was slightly agape, the soft pink of his tongue darting out to wet his lips again while you writhed under your own touch, the coil in your tummy tightening with every plunge.
“Clark,” you gasped, “Please, I need you.”
His hands twitched as you pleaded and the dam broke when you moaned again, breaching your walls past your second knuckle.
He kneeled down in front of the couch and pulled you to the edge of it, your ass almost hanging off of it but he kept you in place. Your fingers slipped out of you, leaving you desperately clenching around nothing, arching your back for friction and pressure.
“Sweetheart,” his voice was serious as he speak, despite the lustful veil spanning over his eyes, “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yeah? Promise me.”
“I promise,” you swore, “Please, Clark, I need you to touch me. Now.”
He nodded softly and placed a kiss on your trembling thigh.
“I know, princess, I got you.”
His touch was slower than yours, only one finger that was almost bigger than two of your own, gliding into your sopping heat.
Clark almost moaned as his finger made it past the first knuckle, sinking into you deeper and deeper.
He curled his digit right against your g-spot and your hips lifted off the couch but he sprawled his free hand across your tummy to keep you in place.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.”
It didn’t take him long to establish a gentle but fulfilling pace, adding a second finger to the mix and then scissoring them apart to open you up, and your orgasm washed over you in no time.
Relief flooded your veins but it wasn’t enough, not by long.
Your thighs had barely stopped shaking when you were already pleading with him to fuck you.
“Please, Clark, I need you so bad. Pleasepleaseplease.”
He hesitated, eyes darting between your glistening core to your face.
“I could go down on you,” he offered but you shook your head.
“That is very sweet of you but I need you to fuck me. Please,” you answered, the pulsing between your legs worsening with every second passing, “I need to feel you.”
Clark’s body shook when he slotted himself in between your legs.
“Remember your promise?” he asked softly, meeting your eyes.
“Yeah, I remember,” you answered, “And I promise – again – I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
He nodded slowly and you wrapped your legs around his middle, dragging him closer.
A deep groan spilled from his lips as his pulsing tip connected with your drenched cunt. He reached down between the two of you and slowly, agonizingly slowly, inched into you.
Your walls fluttered around him, hot pleasure seeping into your limbs, as he filled you up.
“Clark, oh my god,” you whimpered, your nails dragging along his back as your cunt stretched for him.
He gasped, muffling the sound by pressing his mouth against your skin.
“Oh gosh,” he whined, “I almost forgot- forgot how good you feel. Are you- are you okay?”
“I’m more than okay. Please, move,” you replied, digging the heels of your feet into the back of his thighs.
Clark shuddered when he withdrew ever so slightly, only to plunge back into your heat. He connected your mouth with his, tongue slipping past your parted lips to explore yours.
His hips met your own again and again, heat pulsing off of him. Every muscle of his body was tight with restraint, whether he was trying to keep himself in check or holding off from cumming on the spot, you didn’t know.
Copious amounts of slick drenched your velvety walls, sticking to you and him in creamy webs. A white ring of your arousal marked the base of his cock as he sank into you repeatedly.
He panted into your mouth, spit wetting your skin.
“Fuck, Clark,” you wheezed as he hit a spot deep within you, “I- I can’t-“
He froze on the spot, looking down at you. “What? Am I hurting you?”
He tried to withdraw but you tightened your legs around him.
“Don’t you dare, Kent,” you managed to gasp, “You feel so good, don’t- don’t ever stop. Keep going.”
Your eyes rolled back when the mushroom tip of his cock continued to meet that gummy spot in you, blinding pleasure rolling in waves through your body.
Clark murmured something intelligible against your skin, his eyebrows pinched together as his hips stuttered.
His fingers traveled down to your clit, and the added sensation brought you closer to the edge in an instant.
He drew tight circles across your pulsing bundle of nerves while his cock thrusted in and out of you relentlessly.
His eyes stayed on you as your orgasm hit you, even though his hips thrusted forward faster like he was trying to chase his own release.
With a deep moan breaking free from his chest, he followed you over the edge and spilled deep into you. Warmth flooded your insides as he painted your insides with his cum.
You twitched helplessly with aftershocks, muscles trembling.
“Are you- are you alright?” he whispered, cradling your face between his hands. His cheeks were flushed with a deep shade of pink, sweat beading on his forehead.
“I’m so much more than alright,” you answered, a dopey smile on your lips.
He exhaled with relief and slumped onto you.
“Oh, thank the Gods. I love you.”
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I’m just happy getting you stuck in between my teeth
clark kent x f!reader
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), lingerie kink (kinda?), explicit photos, pussywhipped!clark, oral (f rec), overstimulation, implied inappropriate use of underwear
wc: 1.7k
a/n: woke up, had a vision, made coffee and wrote this
now playing: Only Angel – Harry Styles
It all started with a pair of panties. You had bought them as a joke, his emblem right at the center of the flimsy cotton. When you put them on that morning, you thought nothing of it, just a little secret living underneath your navel. No part of you had known how much it would affect him until Clark walked through the door.
You were in the living room, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and the panties while you watched the latest news report. Mass destruction, ashes and a thousand relieved faces blinked back at you from the screen – another catastrophe prevented by yours truly, Superman.
The quick of your nails was exposed, bitten down until it bled, as you waited for Clark to finally come home. According to the reporter on the TV, your boyfriend had flown off, uninjured, just moments ago.
Like clockwork, a tap against the glass sliding doors of your apartment’s balcony followed, and you jumped from the couch as you saw Clark’s dimpled smile beaming back at you.
Breathing became easier as you opened the doors and fell into his arms. He returned the hug instantly, his large, warm palms coming to rest at the dip of your back while he tipped his head to rest on your shoulder. He inhaled like he was trying to consume you, his chest expanding and rippling against your skin.
“God, you scared me,” you confessed, “I saw you on TV.”
“I’m fine,” he replied quickly, pressing his plush lips to the exposed space above your (his) shirt’s collar, “Happy to be home.”
In one smooth motion he picked you up, not allowing for any distance to separate your bodies as he stepped into the apartment.
You felt the plates of muscles move under his shirt while he walked, soft kisses decorating your throat and you instantly knew what kind of mood he was in. He set you down on the counter like you were made of glass and then peered up at you, already hunched over like he was straining to keep himself from dropping to his knees.
“I missed you so much,” he breathed, “Thought about you the whole day.”
He punctuated every word with a tender nibble along your jaw, then further south towards your chest.
“Thought about her, too,” he mumbled sheepishly as his fingers traced the inside of your thighs, traveling along the expanse of exposed skin until they met your mound. You sucked in a sharp breath of air, the heat of his hand suddenly much too warm, leading you to rock into his touch.
Clark glanced down and a small smile built on his face.
“What’s that, honey?” he asked and gently spread your legs to inspect your choice in underwear a little closer.
Your squirmed a bit as his thumb traced the seam of your panties, then followed the outline of the ‘S’.
“Don’t you like them?” You knew his answer before he even opened his mouth, want written all over his face.
“I love ‘em,” he replied quietly. Clark didn’t quite manage to look away, almost hypnotized as his symbol sat between your legs, soft fabric spread across your cunt to mark you as his.
“So pretty,” he went on, hooking one finger into the waistband but he didn’t pull them down yet. “I think I’ll need a picture.”
The words hung in the room as he still stared at your panties, slowly feeling the skin underneath them. As you struggled to respond, he glanced up at you and whispered, “May I? Just for me?”
Without thinking, you nodded and Clark’s smile widened immediately. The hunger in his eyes only grew when he picked you up again and carried you into the bedroom. The mattress squeaked softly when he laid you down, his hands following along the line of your legs while he straightened up.
“Don’t move,” he mumbled gently, “I’ll be right back, sweet girl.”
After you nodded, he pressed two kisses to your skin, one against the cap of your knee, the other to your forehead.
He scrambled out of the room like time was running out even though you both knew this was just the start of a very long night.
While you laid on the bed, the plush comforter muffling every move you made, you heard him rustling through his work bag. A soft “There you are,” followed and then a zipper closed. For a man his size, Clark’s footsteps were surprisingly quiet as he returned to the bedroom, victoriously holding up his camera.
The shutter clicked instantly before he even stepped into the room and you propped yourself up onto your elbows.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Clark purred, and you heard how he activated the zoom while pointing the lens right between your thighs, “You look so gorgeous.”
He came closer with every photo he took, shifting angles and adjusting his grip every now and then until he kneeled in front of the bed and grabbed one of your legs to spread you even further.
“Oh golly,” he mumbled under his breath, the camera shaking slightly while he inched closer. His gaze left the viewfinder and instead focused on you. A primal appetite surged in his eyes and he slowly lowered the device.
“How are you real?” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, “How are you mine?”
Your skin burned with desire and a smidge of embarrassment as your hips bucked lightly at his words. Too many clouds occupied your brain to form an answer for him but Clark didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he busied himself by letting his lips wander, starting at your ankle, then traveling upwards to your knee. He sucked on your skin on the inside of your thigh, dark red blooming under his lips as his teeth sunk in softly.
You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your mouth, every muscle taut with anticipation while his tongue smoothed over the mark he had just left behind.
“Can I taste you?” he murmured, never quite lifting his face so that he could keep savoring you. “Please, baby? Wanna make you feel good.”
God, he didn’t have to beg but you loved it when he did. If you were a stronger woman, you’d tease him a little longer but every part of you was on fire, arousal collecting in the gusset of your panties.
“Yes,” you breathed out and he was on you immediately, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he placed a feverish kiss on your clothed cunt.
The groan that rolled through him sent shivers up your spine. His tongue traced your slit, and he hummed softly when he tasted your juices dampening your panties.
“Oh, baby,” he whined, the bed shaking as he subconsciously rutted against the mattress. Heat flushed through your veins when Clark pushed the fabric covering you to the side. His hot breath fluttered across your core before he dived in, pressing his mouth in between your folds.
Your back arched upwards as his tongue traced your entrance, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit.
The pleasure built quickly, growing like a wildfire spreading across your entire body with every kiss of his lips.
He suckled on your flushed bundle of nerves, whimpering and groaning like a part of him ached for your release.
With smooth drags of his tongue, he pushed you higher and higher, the muscle flattening across your clit seemingly without end.
Your whole body was tight with your building orgasm, fingers mindlessly grabbing and reaching for him. His hair was soft to the touch but a little mussed as you held onto him, tugging on the roots while he nursed on the wetness pouring from you.
Clark gave head like a man starved, grabbing the sides of your hips to keep your cunt pressed against his mouth. The sounds were obscene, his spit mingling with your arousal, dripping all over the sheets and the lower half of his face. He kneaded the flesh of your thighs, slow circles drawn across the trembling muscles.
The coil in your belly tightened, sweat slicking your face as he devoured your cunt. Blinding hot pleasure had you crying out, grabbing a fistful of his hair as your release flushed through you.
He never stopped, simply continued to work you through your orgasm until you were shaking and pushing away. Then he placed a last kiss on your clit, one that had your body jumping with oversensitivity.
You had barely caught your breath when he looked up at you and asked, “Again? Please?”
It was impossible to deny him anything when he glanced at you with that puppy expression, a veil of drowsiness drawn across his eyes. His chin and mouth were sinfully drenched with your slick, the room’s low lighting catching in it.
His lower lip trembled like he was just about to snap.
“Okay,” you agreed softly and Clark immediately pulled your cunt closer to his face.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he managed to whisper before tilting his head to lap at you again. A breathless gasp tumbled from your throat as he added two fingers while his tongue circled your clit. The fullness, the stimulation, it had you fisting the bedsheets while your pelvis tried to angle away – too much, too fast.
But Clark made sure to keep you in place, praising softly to soothe you while his digits plunged into you, “You’re doin’ so well, my beautiful girl,” and “Takin’ me so good.”
His fingers curled upwards, right again your gummy walls and you felt the pressure in your lower tummy expand.
He knew the inside of your body like the back of his hand, slowly moving across your g-spot with every drag and twitch.
As he kept you full, thrusting in and out, he lowered his lips onto your clit again, sucking simultaneously. A light graze of his teeth across the engorged nub made you whimper and you felt him chuckle in response. The vibrations traveled right up your core, combined with the fingers disappearing into you, triggered your second orgasm.
Your juices seeped out of you and Clark made sure to drink up every drop, not letting up until you physically pushed his face away as the overstimulation became too much.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he babbled, watching every twitch and shiver run through your body as you slowly came down from your high.
When he pulled at the waistband of your panties, you trembled slightly, feeling the fabric drag across every inch of sensitive skin. He used them to clean you up and then muttered, “Can I keep them? Please?”
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summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.
word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, creampie, happy ending.
a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world !!!
Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.
It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.
Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.
And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.
If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.
The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:
It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.
But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:
It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.
Just so much for a girl in her twenties.
You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.
She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.
Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—
“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.
He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”
At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”
A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.
Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.
Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”
With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”
As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”
“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”
You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.
The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.
Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.
“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”
Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”
Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.
Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.
You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”
He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”
No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.
He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.
Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.
“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”
“Shut it.”
“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”
You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”
Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”
A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.
He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”
Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.
He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.
At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.
Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.
“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”
Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”
You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.
Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.
“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.
Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.
In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”
Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”
Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.
“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”
“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”
You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.
Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”
Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”
But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”
Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”
Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”
Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”
Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”
“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”
The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.
You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.
Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.
A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.
It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.
Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.
Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.
Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.
Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”
“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.
“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”
“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”
To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.
You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.
Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.
You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.
“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.
You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.
He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.
Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.
An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.
At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.
Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.
Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.
It’s yours.
Goddammit.
Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.
[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]
[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]
[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]
You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.
The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.
A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.
It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.
Don’t beat yourself up over it.
It’s just one article.
Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.
What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.
You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.
Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.
He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.
“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”
Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.
The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.
You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.
You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.
You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.
A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.
You hear it. His voice.
“…Hey.”
Clark.
You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.
There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.
Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.
He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”
That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.
“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.
You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”
It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.
Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.
“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”
“It’s not.”
You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.
That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.
Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.
You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.
It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”
You choke on your own saliva.
“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”
Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.
He smiles, barely. “I know.”
A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.
Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”
He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.
“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”
His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.
“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”
Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”
His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”
“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”
“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”
Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”
There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.
“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”
You scratch your nose. “Sure?”
“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”
“…No.”
He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”
“Oh my God.”
“I warned you.”
“No, but—a thesaurus?”
“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”
“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”
“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”
“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”
He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”
“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”
You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he echoes.
A pause.
“Wanna hear another one?”
“Clark, please—”
“What do you call fake spaghetti?”
“I don’t even want to think about that one.”
“An impasta.”
You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”
Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Of terrible puns?”
“Of coffee and emotional support.”
You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.
By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.
“You always carry tissues with you?”
“A man needs to be prepared.”
He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.
You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”
Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”
Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.
Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”
Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.
You like Lois.
You really, really do.
She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.
You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.
Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.
They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.
In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.
All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.
“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay?“
You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”
Jimmy blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”
You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.
“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”
The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”
“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”
“Drop it, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”
You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”
“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.
Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.
Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.
Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”
You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.
And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.
Again.
They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.
And somehow, that settles it.
The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.
The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.
The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).
You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.
The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.
You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.
He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.
“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”
You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”
He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”
“Well, are you?”
His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”
You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.
“Are you annoyed?” you ask.
His smile fades. “What?”
“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”
“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”
You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.
Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.
Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.
“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”
“She’d eat you alive.”
“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”
“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”
Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”
Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”
“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”
He smiles then. “The team.”
“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”
“Caro?”
“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”
“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”
You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”
“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”
He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”
And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.
The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.
But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.
The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.
“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”
You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.
Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”
“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.
You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”
He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”
“How do you…?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”
“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”
“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”
“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”
“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”
“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”
Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.
He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”
“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”
“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”
As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.
“You say that like I’m not honored.”
“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”
“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”
You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”
He pauses. “I had a feeling.”
You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”
Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”
You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.
By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.
You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.
“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”
“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.
There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—
An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.
He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me a call if it gets worse.”
“Only if I want to be carried again.”
“Happy to oblige.”
And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.
You’re beyond head over heels.
Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.
Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.
Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.
You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—
“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”
“Clark told you,” you say flatly.
Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”
“I cannot believe he told you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”
“I hate you.”
He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”
“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”
“Not attention in general. Just his.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.
Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—
“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.
You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”
Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”
“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”
“...Okay.”
You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.
“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”
“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”
He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”
“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”
And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.
Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.
You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.
Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”
You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.
Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.
Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.
You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.
And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.
Your charger.
Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.
Jimmy Olsen.
You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”
“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.
“You left your charger here—”
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
“—but I already gave it to Clark.”
Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.
“You what?”
“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”
“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”
“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”
“Jimmy—”
“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”
The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.
You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.
Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.
In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.
“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”
You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”
He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”
You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”
He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”
You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.
“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”
You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”
He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”
He says nothing. So you keep going.
“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”
You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”
Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”
Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.
“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”
“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”
And so he begins to read.
You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.
There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.
“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”
“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”
He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”
“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”
Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”
“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”
Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.
You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.
He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.
“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”
“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”
When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.
You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”
“Do what?”
Does he want you to say it?
You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.
That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.
One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.
His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”
You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.
Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.
You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.
He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.
“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”
A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.
Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.
At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.
It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.
He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.
Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.
Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.
And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.
At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.
Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.
Then:
“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.
That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”
He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”
He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.
You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”
“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.
“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”
“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”
“How noble of you, Kent.”
Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.
But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.
Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.
It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.
Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.
One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”
Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.
Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”
He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”
“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”
“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”
Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”
Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.
Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”
The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.
“Mr. Kent.”
His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”
He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”
“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”
“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”
It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”
His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.
As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.
Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.
Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.
You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.
There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.
You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.
Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.
The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.
Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.
Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.
Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.
And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.
The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.
Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.
The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.
Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”
You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.
You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.
Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.
“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”
He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.
Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”
You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”
His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”
If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.
Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.
In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.
His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.
For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.
A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.
You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."
He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.
Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”
“I told you—”
“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”
He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Disappointed, then?”
“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”
He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”
You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”
That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”
“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”
“I’ve been telling you—”
“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”
“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”
“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”
“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.
Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”
“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”
“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”
You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”
“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"
“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”
Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.
He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”
“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.
“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”
Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.
The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.
One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.
You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.
Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.
He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.
It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.
Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.
Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.
But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.
You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.
Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.
Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.
Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.
Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.
His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”
You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”
He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”
“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”
He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.
His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.
Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”
You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because I want to know.”
“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”
“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”
For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.
Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.
So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”
“Then you know what comes next.”
Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.
It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.
Sleep won’t come.
You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.
So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—
You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.
And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.
It all makes you wonder where Superman is.
He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.
You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.
Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”
It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.
You can’t look away.
The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.
For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—
No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.
Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.
“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”
Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.
Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”
You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.
Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.
There he is.
Clark.
Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.
Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.
Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.
Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.
Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.
Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.
If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.
If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.
They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.
Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.
You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.
The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.
The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.
Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.
For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.
Straight through you.
Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”
You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.
He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.
You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.
Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.
Gone.
You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.
“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”
The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.
Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”
Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside
At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.
“Clark—”
“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”
It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.
They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?
“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”
Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.
You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?
“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”
You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.
In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.
“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”
You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.
Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.
The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.
He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.
A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.
“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”
You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.
“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”
His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”
“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”
So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.
“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.
There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”
“What do you mean—”
“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”
Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”
It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”
“I love you.”
“Again. Please.”
You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”
He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”
“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”
“Then let’s keep it that way.”
You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.
Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.
But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you
He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.
You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”
“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”
You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”
“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”
A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”
“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”
Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”
“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”
Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”
“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”
You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.
“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.
He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous
Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.
He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”
“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”
Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.
“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.
“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”
You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.
You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”
“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.
Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.
“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”
Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.
“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.
“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”
It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.
His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.
“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.
“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”
Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.
This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.
When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.
He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—
Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.
Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.
Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.
By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.
You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.
He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?
“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”
And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.
The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.
Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.
At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.
To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.
“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”
You slow your pace but don’t let go.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.
You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.
“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”
“Baby, I swear—”
“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”
“Then you deserve it.”
“But twice?”
“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”
Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”
One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.
“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”
He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.
Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.
In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.
Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.
His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”
“Condom?”
He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”
“I told you you could come inside me.”
That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.
“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.
He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.
“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”
“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”
Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”
“Yes.”
“Bare.”
“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”
He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”
“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”
“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”
“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”
He pushes in.
At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.
“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”
“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”
“Want me to kiss you?”
He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”
You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”
“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”
A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”
His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.
“Why not?”
“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”
It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.
As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.
Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.
He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.
The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.
“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.
The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.
You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.
“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.
It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.
His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.
You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”
The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.
“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.
“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.
It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.
He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.
Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.
You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.
He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.
Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.
“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”
You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.
The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”
You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”
“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”
You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.
There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.
“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.
A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”
“What does that have to do with what I just said?”
“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”
“That… was a weird route to get there.”
He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”
You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”
“It was like a week ago.”
“We weren’t even speaking.”
He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”
“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”
“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”
“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I—”
“Are you going to?”
“I—would you want to?”
You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”
When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.
“So is that a yes?”
“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”
At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.
Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.
synopsis. clark kent's kid wants to be batman for halloween, much to his displeasure.
an. this is a repost.
imagine clark kent had a child that wanted to be batman for halloween instead of superman and he gets so bothered by it. he's all, "baby, why not superman? superman's just as cool as batman - if not cooler. plus, batman's only got on boring, dark colors. superman has blue and red and-"
"batman's stronger, pa! he doesn't need any powers to stop bad guys!"
"stronger?!" clark would say with great offense. “now hang on a second, kiddo. superman can fly. you know how much gas batman spends just driving that batmobile around? huh?”
"it's faster than superman! if they had a race batman would win!"
you'd be laughing at this point because clark is literally going pink from how pissed off he is. his offspring thinks the most boring, straight laced superhero ever is significantly cooler than him. albeit the fact the little one doesn't know he's superman (they'd definitely go and tell everyone they know and somehow people would believe them.)
" hear me out. what if... superman gave you candy?"
the kid cocks their head, confused. "...what? how? he doesn't even know where we live!"
clark leans forward, conspiratorial. "sure he does. just like how santa knows where you live to give you all your presents. now, if superman himself, cape and everything, showed up at the door tonight and gave you double candy, you'd wanna be wearing his costume instead, right? the one i bought you that you didn't take out of the package?"
the kid gasps, considering. clark can see the gears turning, so he ups the ante, whispering like it’s the deal of a lifetime. "he'll even throw in a really cool, limited edition, one in a million action figure."
"fine, okay! but only if superman, like, the real one, shows up."
clark grins widely and scoops the little one up. "done. you got yourself a deal."
come halloween night, there’s Superman on the porch, cape billowing, smile brightly. he waves at the group of trick or treaters surrounding the house, offering some hugs and autographs and waving at parents, before slipping his kid extra candy as your kid screams with excitement, then runs back inside, shouting: "SUPERMAN CAME! HE CAME JUST FOR ME!" while clark sneaks back through the back door two seconds later, trying not to laugh.
you intercept him and shake your head, wiping some leaves from the bush he was changing in off his chest. "you know, you spoil the kid too much."
"well." he pecks your smiling lips. "i couldn't lose to batman, could i? he'd never let me hear the end of it!"
Summary: did you know live tweeting through a crisis is a great way to get laid
Warnings: reader has a job, hostage situation, dealing with customers omg scary, dry humping (the suit stays ON), oral (f receiving), lowkey awkward at first, piv sex, missionary, he’s a lil rough but a sweetheart for a moment, creampie
a/n: accidentally made this long asf whoops
Part 1
The ballroom hums with expensive laughter. The room is filled with crystal chandeliers fracturing light across the polished marble floor, gliding accents, and too many politicians congratulating themselves in the same breath they butter dinner rolls.
The champagne never stops flowing. Neither do the egos.
But here you are, on autopilot. Balancing a try of flutes, smile stretched cheek to cheek, weaving between mobs of suits that smell like entitlement and overpriced cologne. But every time there’s a moment, a break in the routine, every time you slip into the kitchen to refill your tray, your hand strays towards your pocket.
Your phone.
Your thumb swipes over the screen, instinctively, pulling up that tiny, obscure instagram handle. His handle. The one he gave you, that no one else seems to know exists,
@ supe.in.motion
His posts are mundane, it’s almost laughable. Metropolis skylines, sunrises from odd angles, a blurry shot of some pigeons on the Daily Planet. But you scroll through it like it’s scripture. Searching in every picture, reading and rereading the simple captions he left behind.
And it’s replaying in your mind. Especially tonight.
That low voice in your ear, fraying throughout the call. The way he called you sweetheart. Your little secret.
“—oooh, what’s this?”
You jolt, angling your phone away, but it’s too late. Your coworker, Jesse, leans in with a grin, balancing the plate of hors d’oeuvres on his arm away from you.
“You’re smiling at your phone, who’s the lucky guy?’
“Nobody,” you hiss, turning the phone from his view, and trying to will away the bright red creeping its way your cheeks.
Jesse peeks anyway, catching a glimpse of the profile. His eyes light up. “Oooh, is that his profile? Is he your sneaky link? Lemme see—“
“Nope.” You shove another tray into his prying hand, and sidestep out of reach.
“You wanna help me survive this shift? Keep moving, pass those out to someone else before Senator ‘Im-the-most-important-here’ throws a fit and starts yelling about the food service again.”
He laughs, tossing a “Heard!” over his shoulder as he heads back onto the floor.
You exhale, pressing the phone to your chest before forcing yourself to put it away. No more distractions. Not here.
But your fingers betray you one last time, pulling up twitter in a quick swipe, already flying across the keys:
Stuck at work on a Friday night surrounded by old men in suits
0/10 don’t recommend
You toss the phone into your apron pocket before grabbing another tray of champagne flutes, mind already swirling, and slip back onto the floor, back into routine.
Theres clusters of tuxedos and sequin gowns, the sound of champagne flutes clinking, and posh laughter. You balance the tray against your palm, passing carefully through the crowd, offering your practiced smile that never reaches your eyes to passersby.
From a distance, you probably look effortless. Gliding between the gaps of guests with your tray held steady. But up close, you’re starting to feel the strain in your shoulders, the ache in your wrists from the weight of glasses, the low hum of irritation at the way no one ever really spares you a second glance. Not as a person, just as part of the event.
Still, you wear the smile. Keep your head down. In and out. Its just easier that way.
“Champagne?” You murmur, smooth but neutral customer service voice coming forward.
A senator you vaguely recognize, now tie loosened, eyes glassy, and face flushed, snatches a flute from your tray a little too eagerly.
“Well, don’t you look serious,” he booms, sloshing the contents of the glass around dangerously close to the rim. “Whys a pretty girl like you working on a Friday night, huh? Should be over here, having fun with us?”
You blink, smile tightening. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you though.”
He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does, but the drink in his hand is more interesting. He claps a hand on another politicians back, launching into another story about golfing on Sundays. Your response is brushed off quicker than the laws they should be signing.
You hover for a moment, though. Tray balanced, waiting to see if he’s going to drop the glass. Then, when it’s clear you’ve been dismissed as quickly as interrupted, you slip away. Your shoulders tight but smile still plastered on for the next bunch of guests.
Back in motion. Back in autopilot.
And all the while, you can’t help but think. Maybe if you’d tweeted something like, “currently stuck serving champagne to drunk politicians, send help superman”
He might actually read it.
You keep your steps smooth, gaze forward as your mind drifts farther than the gala.
The senators voice fades into the background noise as you coast further into the party, drowned out by the echo of another mans. That low, velvety voice. Sweetheart. You can almost hear the way it escaped his lips. Heavy with hunger, like he was pressing the word into your skin.
Your tray wavers slightly as you step. In your head, he’s still there. Whispering what he’d do to you if he were with you instead of hovering god knows where in the city. His mouth on you, drawing sounds from your pressed lips like confessions. His quiet command, touch your clit for me.
Heat flares in your stomach at the memory, causing you swallow hard. Your pulse skips and you’re suddenly aware of the weight of your phone in your apron pocket. Tethered back to him if you dared to touch it.
“Hello?”
The voice cuts in, sharp and nasally, snapping you upright.
A woman in a bedazzled gown, rhinestones catching every bit of light, is staring at you like you’ve committed a personal offense. Her perfectly manicured nail jabs downward.
“Are you even listening?” She snaps
Your stomach drops.
On the marble floor at her feet, lie a champagne flute in ruin. Bubbly liquid spreading in a golden puddle around the jagged shards. The woman sniffs, tilting her chin high.
“I reached for one and it just slipped. Someone should really be more careful.”
Shit.
Before you can sputter a response, Jesse appears at your side like some blessed, tray bearing angel. His brow lifts in a silent, ‘you good?’ but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes your tray smoothly from your hands with a wink.
“Go,” he mutters only to you.
You exhale in relief, already digging for the folded towel tucked in your pocket. Dropping low, you press the cloth against the spill. Collecting bubbles and splinters of glass as quickly as possible.
The marble is cold under your knees, even through the dark work pants you adorn. The woman’s perfume is clouding above you, and it’s almost suffocating. Your heart still hasn’t settled from the memory of the voice that called you mine just days ago.
But right now? You couldn’t feel farther from it.
You’re still crouched low, blotting the fizz and sweeping shards into a neat little pile with the folded towel, when an empty appetizer plate catches your eye. Perfect. With careful hands, you scoop the broken glass onto the plate, balancing it against your palm as you rise to your feet.
Thats when the shouting starts.
At first, it sounds like some entitled donor being louder for attention, but then an unmistakable crack of glass breaking against stone rings through the ballroom. A sharp scream follows.
Your stomach drops.
The crowd shifts, waves of sequins and tuxedos pulling back as masked men in all black tactical gear storm the floor, their weapons glossy against the chandelier lights.
They begin barking orders. Money, artifacts, leverage. You can’t even track it all over the sudden roar of panic from the crowd.
“Everybody down!” One shouts, rifle waving high.
The senator from earlier drops to the floor, clutching his wife’s arm, the pair wide eyed. The woman who chastised you is sobbing behind her jeweled hands. Staff scatter instinctively, pressing themselves against the walls or frozen in place.
Your heart goes wild.
But even was your hands shake, your response is automatic. You’re reaching for your phone.
The first tweet is quick, almost detached.
Omg this night just got so much worse. Men w/ guns. Horrible way to end my shift
The second comes before you could second guess yourself.
Should’ve stayed home and thirsted over superman instead smh
Your heart hammers as you press your back against the wall, sliding low as your coworker shoots you a startled look. But you’re still typing a third with a shaky smirk, half a joke and half a plea.
@ Superman there’s a situation over here at halcyon. Kinda need ur help??? lol
The plate in your other hand feels oddly fragile compared to the chaos unfolding around you.
One of the gunmen is sweeping his gaze across the crowd, barking at servers to drop their trays, and forcing guests down into trembling groups. Your throat tightens, but in the confusion you spot a gap.
Clutching the plate, you weave quickly between the waves of horrified guests, keeping your head down to match the crowd to get to a service hallway. Jesse and two other coworkers are already there, faces pale, holding each other. When they spot you, Jesse reaches for your arm and pulls you into the huddle.
“What the fuck is happening…” One whispers, voice shaking.
You’re still holding the plate like it’s a lifeline as your chest heaves. Your phones still burning in your other hand.
And somewhere in the city, you pray someone saw your tweet.
But for now, the hallway is suffocatingly quiet. Jesse presses a finger to his lips every time someone even so much as shifts their weight. The others sit stiff against the wall. White knuckled and pale.
Your phone buzzes in your lap. Jesse shoots you a look.
You almost drop it, heart beating hard in your ears. Until you tilt the screen and see the notification.
Superman liked your tweet.
You clamp your lips shut to smother the laugh that threatens to come out, this is hysterical.
Jesse glares at you, are you seriously on twitter right now?
But you can’t look away from the little glowing heart.
The minutes stretch. Out in the ballroom, the masked men prowl. Voices sharp and ugly, shouting something about wire transfers, ‘make the call!’, ‘well bleed you pricks dry!’ Every shout ricochets off your ribs.
Then, your hair stands on end.
Theres a shift in the air.
At first, it’s subtle. A faint vibration you feel more than hear. A low thrum in your bones. The crystal chandeliers above the hallway give the faintest rattle. A shiver of wind licks at the cracks in the windows.
You know that sound. You know.
The room hushes all at once. Then, from beyond the door, a collective gasp rises in the ballroom.
The skylight above explodes inward, raining shards of glass onto the floor below.
He drops through like judgement itself. His cape blazing behind in a deep red against the glare of the lights. The impact of his boots on the marble reverberates through the floor beneath your knees. It’s steady, grounding, even as broken glass rains down around him.
“Superman,” someone breaths. It’s a sob, but also a prayer.
The masked men scramble, their careful demeanor quickly slipping into raw panic. One man swings his gun towards him, but the rifle is swiped away like a toy, quickly being bent into a useless twist of metal. Another makes a run for the side exit, but heat vision, burning red flashes, and the door hisses as the metal morphs. A third lunges at Superman, only to be shoved back with one hand to his chest, sent barreling into a catering table.
It’s over in minutes.
Police sirens wail outside as they get closer. Officers rush in, guns drawn as they sweep the building. Superman speaks briefly with them, his voice calm yet commanding. Directing people to safety and handing over the disarmed men as if it’s just another Tuesday.
You’re still clutching that plate of broken glass like an idiot when the police get to your group. They do a once over, and move on to the next bunch. You’re stuck watching him with your heart caught somewhere between your throat and your stomach, though. Because now you know him not just as a speck on the skyline, or the voice on the other end of the line. But as someone who came when you called.
And maybe, just maybe, because it was you that called.
The chaos finally sizzled out. The ballroom humming with the frantic relief of survivors as they file out into their private limos. You spot him standing off to the side, speaking to an officer as the cuffed men are led to cars outside.
Your legs carry you forward before you can stop and rationalize.
“Uh.. hi,” you manage, clutching the towel uselessly against your front.
His head turns, and it’s almost worse seeing him up close. His eyes are brighter, steadier than you imagined. They flicker across your features, thoughtful.
“You’re…” you swallow. “I mean— I just wanted to say thank you. Im—“ you give him your name, a bit awkward and rushed. Like you’re afraid your voice will betray you.
He tilts his head, gaze softening on you. “I know that voice.”
The words punch you in the chest.
Your throat goes dry. He knows.
“Oh…” you blink awkwardly, feeling the flush crawl up your throat. “Yeah.”
It comes out smaller than expected, like you’ve been caught. You instantly regret it, shoulders curling in as though you can physically tuck the memory of that late night phone call out of sight.
Superman, Superman, chuckles softly. The sound is warm, low, and far gentler than it has any right to be.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says, cocking his head to the side slightly, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Im glad I remembered someone like you.”
Your heart does something complicated and stupid in your chest. He’s not even really flirting, but the way his gaze holds yours, as if you’re the only other person in the room. It makes it impossible to breathe like a normal human being.
You force a laugh, nerves turning it sharp around the edges. “Someone like me? Should I be flattered, or worried you keep tabs on all your twitter fans?”
His grin widens, playful and amused at the same time. “Maybe both”
You can’t help it. You laugh, genuinely this time, shoulders loosening for the first time tonight. For the briefest moment, you forget the wreckage of glass littering the ground. The chaos of the hostage situation. The fact that you’re still in your apron and probably smell like hors d’oeuvres. It’s just you and him, in this hazy ballroom. Standing close enough that you can see the faint glint of glass dust caught in his hair from his entrance.
Then a sharp voice cuts through the bubble around you two. “Superman!” An officer gestures him over, clipboard in hand. “We need a statement before transport.”
You jolt. “Oh! Yeah, of course, you’re busy—“
But he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he dips his head ever so slightly, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “Wait. Before you go… can I see you later?”
For a second, the words don’t register. Your mind blanks and catches on every syllable like a broken record.
“Uh,” Your face is burning so hot you’re shocked you don’t burst into flames on the spot. “Yes. Yeah. Definitely.”
His smile this time is unmistakable. Brilliant, pearly whites flashing with that kind of grin that sells news papers and saves worlds in the same breath. “Good.”
And then, as smoothly as if your entire universe hadn’t just tilted on its axis, he tuns and strides toward the waiting officer.
You’re left standing there alone. Gripping your apron like a lifeline, trying to remember how to walk properly.
When you finally do turn, Jesse’s staring at you from across the room, mouth hanging open so wide you’re pretty sure a fly could set up camp there.
“Holy shit,” He hisses the second you’re in earshot. “Was superman just flirting with you, girl?”
You nearly choke on your own laugh, smacking him lightly with the towel still balled up in your hand. “No! No, he wasn’t, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” He repeats, eyes bugging. “Ridiculous? He smiled at you like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and asked if he could see you later. Babe, that man was ready to risk it all.”
“Stop, stop, my cheeks hurt” You cant stop laughing, cupping your face with your palms, cheeks aching as you brush past him. Your heart won’t stop going crazy. “You’re just imagining things now”
But Jesse keeps muttering to himself as you head back toward the hallway, something along the lines of ‘Holy fuck’ and ‘I saw that with my own eyes’
Before you get the chance to defend yourself again, your boss’s voice cuts through the chatter, sharply commanding, “Alright, everyone back in! Grab your things, stay together. We’re shutting down for the night.”
Just like that, the spell breaks. Staff shuffle into line, exhausted and shaken up. Collecting their coats and bags under your managers watchful gaze. You sling your bag over your shoulder, apron tucked inside, and fall into step with Jesse as the group filters toward the employee exit.
The adrenaline is still flowing through your system, leaving you buzzing. You tell yourself you’ll process it all later, but his smile, his words, are swirling around your head despite it all.
Can I see you later?
You hug your bag a bit tighter as you walk out into the crisp night.
The subway car is nearly empty when you step on, just the rattle of the tracks and fluorescent hum of lights overhead filling the space. You sink into corner sear, bag tucked to your chest, and let your head rest against the window. The night outside is a blur of tunnels and passing darkness, and your mind wont keep up as it keeps skipping back to everything.
His grin
His voice, low enough for you to hear, ‘can I see you later?’
The way your name sounded in his mouth, on his lips. Like he’d always known it.
You bite back a smile, pressing your lips to your knuckles like it’ll keep it contained.
Then your phone buzzes.
Not a text this time, not just a notification
A call.
You freeze when you see the name, his name, the one attached to the tiny instagram account.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” your voice is a whisper in the empty train, equal parts disbelief and hysteria. You hesitate for a moment, then swipe to answer before your nerves completely take over.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice is quiet in your ear, phone pressed close. And it’s him, no doubt in your mind. “I hope this isn’t too forward. I just… didn’t feel like waiting.”
Your stomach does a flip. “I wasn’t exactly expecting you to call,” you admit, a laugh coming out nervous and airy.
“Would you rather I hadn’t?”
“No,” you say too quickly. Heat rushes to your cheeks, though no one’s around to hear you trip over yourself. “No, I… I’m glad you did.”
There’s a pause from him, heavy yet warm. It’s filled with the sound of him breathing faintly on the other end. “Where are you?”
“On the train. Heading home from work.” You shift in your seat, glancing at the dim reflection of yourself in the window between passing lights. “Im a few stops away. Getting off at—“ you name the street. “It’s not too far from my place.”
“Good,” he says, something sure and almost relieved in his tone. “I’ll meet you there. Don’t hang up.”
Your mouth does dry. “You’re… what?”
“I’ll meet you when you get off the train.”
It’s ridiculous, you think. Impossible. And yet, when the train finally screeches to a stop, your heart starts hammering so hard it’s almost drowning out the scratchy announcement of the station name. You tuck your phone against your ear, throwing your bag over your shoulder, and climb the stairs two at a time.
The night air sweeps down the steps, against your flushed cheeks as you step out of the station. The city is quieter here, side streets half lit and sleepy at this time of night. Nothing like the chaos of the gala earlier.
Still, you spot him.
Leaning casually against the lamppost at the corner of the street, cape stirring gently in the night breeze, like this is the most natural thing on the planet. He straightens when you catch his eye, the faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
There’s an awkward pause between you two, before you inhale sharply.
“My place is that way,” you motion behind him.
“Right, right,” he nods, a bit too eager.
You begin to make the trek, and he falls into step beside you like he’s done it a million times before. The sight of superman, actual superman, walking casually through your quiet neighborhood is enough to make you short circuit. His cape barely whispers against the pavement, hands tucked loosely at his sides. You sneak a glance here and there, acting like this is totally normal. Like you didn’t sext him into oblivion a few nights ago.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a block, voice low but almost amused.
“Im… processing,” you admit, cheeks warming. “It’s not everyday Superman shows up to walk me home.”
His grin is quick, sharp against the dimples in his cheeks. “Guess I’ll have to make it a habit.”
You almost trip over a crack in the sidewalk.
By the time you both reach your building, your nerves are humming, buzzing so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You fumble with your keys, trying not to drop them, and push the door open.
“Um. Come in?”
He nods, ducking slightly under the doorframe, stepping inside like he belongs here. Your apartment suddenly feels five times smaller, his presence filling every nook and cranny.
The air feels thick, a bit uncertain as you hang your jacket. You can’t help but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Okay, so, uh… welcome to my humble abode! This is the living room-slash-kitchen. As you can see, very chic, very tiny apartment I’m overpaying for.” You smile sheepishly.
He chuckles, following your half dramatic wave as you point to the small couch, the little table with mismatched chairs, and sink piled with dishes you definitely should’ve done earlier.
“And over here,” you continue, leaning into the bit because if you don’t, you think you’ll explode. “Is my cat. The real owner of the apartment. Be nice, he’s the landlord.”
Your cat blinks up from his perch on the arm of the couch, tail flicking, and completely unimpressed. Superman crouches slightly, extending his hand toward him.
“Hi there,” he says softly, baby voicing your fur baby.
He sniffs for a long moment, then headbutts his knuckles.
“Wow,” you say, jokingly mocking him to cover up the fact that your chest is tight. “Even my cat likes you. Thats... annoying”
He looks up at you with a slow smile, making it even harder to breathe properly.
“Well he just has good taste,” and shrugs playfully.
You laugh, and it comes out more nervous than witty. But you keep moving, heart hammering, pointing vaguely toward the short hallway. “And, uh, the tour concludes with the world’s smallest bathroom. No need to see that. And, um, my bedroom.”
You nudge the door open, trying to make yourself sound as normal as possible, like of course I’m just casually inviting the most powerful man on earth into my bedroom, totally normal thing to do!
The room is dim and cozy, a little messy from your rushed morning. Books stacked on the nightstand, a half finished glass of watery ‘iced’ coffee, your fuzzy blanket draped carelessly over the edge of the bed. He steps inside, eyes scanning the space with quiet interest as you point out random objects.
You linger in the doorway, fiddling with your bag. “So yeah… thats, uh, pretty much it. End of the grand tour.” You pull out your apron, folded and still faintly smelling of alcohol and appetizers. You shove it into the hamper.
When you turn back, he’s by the bed.
His fingers ghost over the edge of the blanket, petting the soft fabric almost absentmindedly. His expressions unreadable for a moment, then, his mouth curves, and he glances over his shoulder at you.
“So…” his voice dips low, that velvety tone you know all too well. “This is the bedroom you were touching yourself to me in, right?”
The words hit you like lightning, straight through your core. Your breath stutters, body freezing mid step, closet door still in your grasp.
“…Oh my god,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You...you can’t just say that—“
“I can’t?” He turns fully toward you now. Hip pressed against the bedpost, and arms crossing over his chest in a way that makes his shoulders look unfairly broad. There’s that gleam in his eyes again, mischievous, teasing, and playful, but edged with something heavier.
“Because I remember every word you said on the phone. And now I can picture you, right here, making those pretty sounds for me.”
Your knees almost give out.
“Okay, wow.” You force a laugh, high pitched and quick. As if you’re trying to stop the room from tilting. “So you’re just gonna what? weaponize my horniness against me?”
His grin deepens. “Seems to be working.”
And it is. God, it is. Your whole body feels fuzzy. Heat brewing low in your stomach. You clutch the closet door like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded, every nerve ablaze with the fact that he’s here. In your bedroom, of all places. Giving you that look you’ve only ever imagined.
You can’t bring yourself to move from where you’re half perched against the closet door, hand twitching uselessly at your side as you pick at the wood with the other. The room feels heavier, air humming around you with need, and you’re hyperaware of every breath you take.
Your eyes keep flicking to the door, the wall, your blanket, anywhere but him.
“You keep staring at that door,” he says, tone light but lined with amusement. “Is it really that interesting?”
Your gaze snaps back to him. He’s still leaning on the bed frame, one hand tracing the fuzzy blanket like he’s not the least bit rattled. But his eyes, they’re steady, pinning you in place.
“It’s a nice door,” you mutter weakly, defensive heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Very reliable. Solid wood.”
He laughs again. That soft but low one, already knowing what game you’re playing at. “You’re nervous.”
“Im not nervous.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, the pet name curling through the air like smoke, sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re holding onto that doorknob like it’s gonna save you.”
Your fingers instantly unclench from the metal. “Shut up.”
He pushes off the bedpost, taking a slow step towards you. The space shrinks. You don’t breathe. You can’t.
Another step, and then he’s close enough that the edge of his hand brushes yours, feather light, delicate.
The contact is nothing, barely there, and yet it sets your entire body alight.
You glance up at him, startled by the intensity of his gaze. There’s no smirk, no grin. Just a quiet hunger simmering under the surface, waiting for your permission to pounce.
Your pulse stutters
“See?” He murmurs, vibrations practically thrumming through your chest. “Not so scary up close.”
In a flash, he shifts. Already lowering himself to sit on the edge of your bed before you get a chance to reply. The mattress drips beneath his weight, grounding and dreamlike all at once. He settles easily, relaxed, but his gaze still makes your buckle.
Then, like gravity itself is pulling you, you find yourself stepping forward.
Closer.
Closer still, until you’re standing between his knees.
His cape drapes across your comforter, and his thighs are brushing against yours. He tilts his head back slightly, looking at you from this new angle. the corners of his mouth twitching as he’s fighting a smile.
You can feel the heat of him burning up through the gap between you, your nerves screaming with awareness. Knees brushing the edge of the wooden bedframe as you hover. The space is impossibly small, yet you can’t make yourself move any closer.
“Better than the door?” He asks softly.
Your laugh catches in your throat, shaking, “little bit.”
He notices. He always he does.
His big hands rest lazily on his thighs, but after a moment, one shifts. His fingers ghost upward, tracing the outside of your leg in a slow, absent minded path. Barely a touch. Just enough to make your skin prickle in its wake.
“You’re trembling,” he says, almost to himself.
“Im not,” you whisper, though your voice betrays you with an uneven crack.
That damn grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You were braver on your phone.” His thumb presses just slightly into your thigh before retreating, teasing you with pressure and release. “Quicker with your words. But now?”
Your breath hitches.
“Now you’re shy.” He leans in, close enough that you can feel the faint brush of his breath against your wrist. “Cute.”
You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Your gaze fixes stubbornly on the ceiling fan, then the window, anywhere but his piercing blue eyes. But every time his fingers skim your leg, it drags you back down to him.
“Hey,” he says gently, pausing mid touch. “Look at me.”
It takes everything in you, but you finally oblige. And when your eyes lock, you see not sarcasm, but patience. Warmth. As if he’s daring you to believe he actually wants this, wants you.
Your heart lurches.
He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, then lets out a soft laugh. “Thats better. There you are.” His hand resumes its slow pace, fingertips drawing lazy shapes along your thigh. “I like this view much better.”
Your insides do a twist, a storm of nerves and excitement washing over you. He’s too much. Too close. Too... him.
“You always this talkative?” You manage lowly.
“Only when someone makes me curious.” His smile deepens. One hand slides just a smidge higher, brushing the edge of your hip before retreating again. “And you make me very curious.”
You swallow hard, pulse pounding in your head. He makes you dizzy, so dizzy. His teasing is unraveling you piece by piece and he knows it. He’s enjoying it.
But within a second, something shifts inside you. A warmth spreads in your chest. A spark of courage flaring inside by the way he’s looking at you, knowing what he’s trying to play with you.
And you can’t help but think, two can play this game.
So you lean in, just enough that your knee presses firmer between his legs. Your lips twitch upward as you murmur, “what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue now?”
For the first time, he falters. His grin freezes, eyes widening slightly at your boldness.
“Oh?” He breaths, leaning back just a hair, as if he’s reassessing. “Thats new.”
You let your smirk linger, encouraged by his reaction. “What? Didn’t expect me to bite back?”
His tongue sweeps across his lower lip, and his hands flex on his thighs. His laugh is lower this time, rougher. He tilts his head like you’ve just rewritten the rules of this game.
“Careful,” he says, dark and promising. “You might like where that gets you.”
And all at once, the tension is stretched tight. The rope tugging you closer to him is seconds from snapping.
You arch a brow, playing braver than you feel, “maybe thats the point.”
His grin returns, slow, deliberate, almost dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart…”
His hand slides higher, warm against your hip now. Thumb peeking just under the hem of your shirt. “You really shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
Your inhale sharply, refusing to look away this time. “Who says I don’t?”
For a split second, he just stares at you, unblinking, like he’s weighing the truth of your words. And then he moves, swift but unhurried. A large hand cupping the back of your neck, tugging you closer until your forehead is brushing his.
His breath fans across your lips, but he doesn’t kiss you yet.
“You’re staring at me like you want something?” He teases, voice low and almost smug. “What do you want?”
“You know exactly what I want.”
Thats all it takes. His mouth claims yours in a sudden, hungry kiss. Lips firm and hot, drawing a muffled gasp out of you. The world tilts when he pulls you closer, guiding your hips forward until you find yourself straddling his thighs. Your knees braced against the edge of the bed.
He deepens it, tongue brushing yours with that measured patience he showed before. Tasting you, teasing you, pulling back just when you try to chase the feeling of him.
“God,” he murmurs against your lips. “You taste better than I imagined.”
You laugh a bit shaky, letting your fingers in his hair ground you. “You imagined it?”
“Constantly,” his hands grip your hips harder, holding you steady in his lap. His grin turns wicked. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve been living in my head the past few days, sweetheart. Rent-fucking-free.”
Heat blooms across your chest, stomach flipping in return. You try to hide it with a smirk. “Guess I’m unforgettable then, huh?”
His lips brush against yours again, touch feather light. “More than unforgettable.” He nips at your lower lip, making you gasp. “Addictive.”
You shiver, trying to keep control. But your body betrays you. Pressing closer, thighs tightening around his hips.
“Mm.” he pulls back slightly, eyes half lidded, searching your features. “See. Told you you’d like where this gets you.”
“And you’re awfully smug about it,” you whisper, smile giving you away.
He laughs softly, the sound low in his chest, then tugs you closer until your noses brush again. “I can’t help it. Not when you’re finally where I want you.”
Your kisses turn messy fast, tongues tangling, teeth knocking against teeth. You can’t tell if you’re trying to kiss him or consume him. His hands are roaming your body greedily. One anchored on your ass, the other skimming up your back like he’s memorizing your curves.
Your fingers twitch where they clutch the front of his suit, tugging and tugging, until you finally dare to reach around the back, searching for a way to get him out of it. You find the zipper, fingertips wrapping around the cool metal and pulling slightly. Just enough to press your palm against warm skin and pull him closer. His mouth doesn’t dare tear away from yours in the process, groaning low against you, sending the feeling through your bones.
“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re driving me insane.”
You giggle, fingers numb with nerves. “You’re one to talk”
Then he pulls back, eyes low, pinned to where your top gapes open slightly. He fiddles with the buttons gently as the curve of your bra shows, delicate lace against flushed skin.
“Baby…” his voice is rough. A warning, a prayer, its not quite clear.
“Don’t stop looking at me like that.”
Something in him snaps. He shrugs his broad shoulders and his hands release you, unclipping his crimson cape, letting it fall to the side in a heavy pool of fabric. The sight makes your throat dry.
Before you could start, he’s on you again. Mouth finding yours desperately, while his hands slide down to grip your thighs, pulling you flush against his pelvis. You gasp as the hard line of him presses perfectly where you’re aching, hips moving instinctively.
The friction sends jolts through you both. He groans into your mouth, the sound ragged, fighting to hold himself back.
“Fuck,” you whisper, grinding again, feeling bolder this time.
He tilts his head back, eyes shut and jaw clenched tight. “You don’t know what you do to me. How hard it is to hold back.”
“Oh” you gasp, fingers tying into his hair as you roll your hips. “I think I do.” You lean forward, taking advantage of his open neck, planting kisses along the tender spot. Sucking hard enough to leave deep purple marks in their place.
The air is thick, tension becoming unbearable. Your shirts bunching up as his hands fumble higher, body arching as his chest presses flush against you. Every moment is slow but desperate, like you’re both drawing it out just to savor how close you are to falling apart.
When his thumb drags over the edge of your bra, teasing the swell of your breast, you stifle a moan. He smirks against your lips, proud of how you’re wearing thin.
“Careful,” he whispers, breath mixing with yours as you whine. “You keep giving me that look. Im not stopping until there’s nothing left between us.”
Your blouse is hanging loose now, his fingers brushing against skin every time you move, dragging the pad of his thumb just under the band of your bra. He’s taking his time with it, unwrapping you like a gift he doesn’t want to tear the paper off too quickly.
“Relax, let me take my time with you.”
The words swirl in your head. Breath stuttering as you slide your palms down his chest, the press of textured fabric brushing against your skin. The ’S’ on his chest is close enough to kiss, but you hold back, savoring the way his eyes darken as you tease him.
You shift in his lap, sliding your knees out further until you’re as close as can be, core impossibly close to the bulge in his suit. The hardness beneath the fabric twitches, solid, sending sparks through you. A shaky laugh escapes you as you grind down, feeling the unyielding strength of him beneath your core.
He moans your name softly, a warning slipping out low and strangled, ruined by a groan that follows.
“What?” You murmur, breath feathering against his jaw. “Am I… distracting you?”
His hand tightens on your hips, but he doesn’t push you off. “I can’t wait much longer”
Your gaze flicks past his shoulder. The bright streak of red, his cape, has slipped halfway off the bed, pooling across the floor. You reach for it, tugging the heavy fabric up and around your shoulders, swirling it dramatically before hooking it into place on the shoulders of your open blouse.
You smirk, settling back down against him. “Huh. It fits better than I thought.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, lips parted. Then one dark brow lifts.
“You’re really going to wear my cape while grinding on me?” His voice is husky, threaded with both disbelief and amusement..
You shrug innocently, rolling your hips with calculated slowness. “What? You left it lying around. Finders keepers.”
He laughs, and its dangerous now. Reverberating through his chest. “Sweetheart, you don’t know what you just started.”
Before you can sass back, his arms hook under your thighs. The motion is so fast, so smooth, you gasp, clutching at his broad shoulders.
“Hey!”
“Hold on,” he says, eyes sparkling. He rises so effortlessly, lifting you as though you’re weightless, and carries you two short steps back to the bed. Your legs twitch as he plants you on your back, his body caging yours, the cape draping around you on the sheets.
Pinned beneath him, your chest rises and falls against the emblem on his suit, the golden mark scratching against your bust.
He smirks, pressing you into the mattress. “We’ll see how long you get to wear it before I take it back.”
His fingers skim up the inside of your thigh, slow but dedicated. He leans down, capturing your lips with a kiss. He’s steady, trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory. When he pulls back, his eyes linger, then dip down your body with hunger.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about since the other night?” His lips brush your jaw as he whispers. Moving down to your throat, sucking lightly until you gasp and squirm. His hands trail down, unfastening the final buttons on your shirt to expose more skin for his lips.
“the sounds you made on the phone. Sweet little noises… begging me to tell you what I’d do.”
Your heart races, face burning as need spreads across your skin. “And?” You whisper, already breathless.
“And now I get to show you.”
He kisses down your chest, pausing to nose against the lace edge of your bra, before moving lower. By the time his mouth traces your stomach, your hands are clumsy on your pants button, fumbling to undo it. He beats you to it, though. Fingers slipping past yours as he opens and drags the zipper down with a low rasp of metal.
You shiver as he eases your work pants down your hips, tugging until they’re off and forgotten. You’re left in your undergarments, sprawled beneath the man of steel, his cape half wrapped around you like his claim on you.
“Perfect,” he breathes, eyes darkly roaming you. He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, and higher. It’s slow and driving you mad. His hands spread your legs open, fingertips leaving prints on your skin.
By the time his mouth hovers a breath away from the damp heat of your panties, you’re practically shaking.
“Please,” you whisper, more desperate than you meant to sound.
His grin is wicked, eyes peering up at you filled with sin. “Begging already?”
“Don’t… don’t tease”
But he does. He drags his mouth over the thin fabric, inhaling, groaning against like he’s the one coming undone. The he hooks a finger into the band and slides your panties aside, allowing the cool air to fan over before lowing his mouth to you.
The first touch of his tongue has your back arching, a choked cry escaping your throat. He moans into you like he’s been starved, feasting on you, flattening his tongue against your clit and lapping slow and thorough. Then fast enough to make you whine.
Your hands find his hair, tugging, guiding. “God, I can’t…”
“Thats it,” he mumbles against you.
“Yes, yes. Don’t stop—“
And then, at the very edge, right as your body trembles and tightens, he pulls back.
The sudden emptiness makes you gasp, your climax fizzing away before it hits. You blink down at him, dazed, chest still heaving. “Wh—what...?”
He smirks, chin glistening with you. His eyes dark as he peers up at you. “Not yet.”
You tremble as his hands brush up your sides, the ghost of your orgasm denied leaving you flushed and aching. His hands pause at your hips, pale bruises left from his prior grip on them. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth as he drags one last teasing lick up your folds before pulling away entirely.
“Why would you stop…“
His thumb presses into a purple mark. “Because I want to hear it.” His voice drops, dark, commanding. “You want me to make you come? Say it.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, but the desperation burns hotter. “I… I want you to...”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Louder.”
Your pride cracks. “Please, please make me come.”
He flashes you a grin, “Thats my girl.”
He doesn’t waste another second. In one fluid motion, he’s climbing back over you. Tugging your panties down the rest of the way, tossing them aside like nothing. He frees himself from the suit, just enough to bear the length of him. Its thick, tip flushed a deeper shade as it strains in his hand, as he lines it up with you. The press of his cock at your entrance makes you inhale sharply, eyes going wide at his size.
Then he pushes in, inch my inch. Filling you until you’re stretched tight around him, nails clawing at his shoulders.
“Fuck!” You choke out, legs trembling as he bottoms out. This was more than you’d expected.
“God, you feel so good,” he groans, forehead knocking against yours, breath ragged against your cheek. “So damn tight.”
He doesn’t start slow. He pulls back and slams into you, hard enough that the headboard rattles against the wall. You gasp, throwing your arm up to brace the wood, shielding your head as the force rocks you.
You gasp as he scrambled your insides, “Slow— down!” You choke out.
He growls low in his throat, lowering himself, palm sliding protectively to cradle the back of your head as he thrusts harder, deeper, angling until sparks shoot up your spine. His other arm hooks your leg over his shoulder, pinning you open as he drives his cock into you mercilessly.
Each thrust punches sweet, helpless moans from your throat, his rhythm relentless. His mouth finds yours again, teeth knocking together, swallowing each sound you make like he can’t get enough.
When he pulls back, sweat dampens his hair, and his eyes are wild, blow with lust.
“you’re mine,” he rasps, fucking into you deeper.
You’re already unraveling once more, voice breaking as you whimper in between strokes. “Please—“
He grits his teeth, then suddenly shifts, wrapping both arms around your thighs. In one quick move, he drags you away from the headboard, hauling you back to the center of the bed. You gasp, dizzy, clutching at the sheets as he settles above you again.
This time, his thumb finds your clit. Pressing hard and circling the bud with precision as he slams into you.
“Come for me,” his voice is hoarse as he demands. “Come on my cock, sweetheart, I want to feel you.”
The coil inside you snaps. You crumble beneath him, back arching off the sheets as the orgasm courses through you, walls twitching around his cock. Your voice breaks with moans, body trembling as he fucks you through it, chasing his own.
“God, thats it,” he growls, thrusts growing sloppy. “So perfect— so fucking perfect”
Your orgasm grabs at him, walls pulsing tight and greedy around his cock and it nearly unravels him on the spot. His pace grow wilder, hips snapping forward in a punishing way that has you gasping for breath beneath him.
“I— I can’t—“ you whimper, nails raking down his arms.
His eyes squeeze shut, jaw tight, a deep noise vibrating in his chest.
“Fuck— ‘m so close” his thumb keeps working your clit even as his hips stutter, trying to drag every last tremor from your body before he lets himself go.
Your thighs shake, overstimulated but still clinging to him, urging him deeper.
“Please, baby, want you to let go”
Thats all it takes. His thrusts slow, stutter, then he buries himself to the hilt with a strangled groan. Heat flooding inside you as his release rips through him, cock twitching as he pumps you full. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath fanning over your skin as he shudders.
For a long pause, there nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing, and your pulse pounding in your ears. He stays buried deep, holding onto you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.
Finally, with a low exhale, he eases back just enough to look at you. His hairs damp and shiny, curls plastered against his forehead. But his eyes, bright blue and blown wide, are nothing but soft. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the dampness there, then presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips.
His thumb runs over your hip, easing the tension in your joints from the position you were in. But eventually his touch softens.
His chest rises with a deep breath, “I should go,” his voice is soft above you, low and reluctant.
You blink at him, still fuzzy from everything thats happened tonight. There’s a quick flash of disappointment that crosses your face before you can hide it. He notices, of course he does, and smiles, apologetic.
“Duty calls,” he adds, brushing a few wet strands of hair off your forehead.
You nod weakly, even though you wish the world could wait for him a little bit longer. “Right. Superman stuff…”
His chest puffs with a quiet laugh, leaning down to capture your lips once more. Slower than all the others, lingering a little longer that tells you everything he can’t put into words right now. When he pulls away, he presses one last peck to your forehead, then gently shifts you down against the sheets.
“Stay,” he mumbles, replacing his cape with your plush blanket. He wraps it snugly around your bare shoulders. “Get some sleep.”
You melt into the softness, a faint hum slipping past your lips as you watch him rise. He gathers his belongings, moving with the same demeanor as someone who’s lived here for years. The familiar click of his cape fastening back into place makes you smile, it’s the most surreal reminder of who he is beyond this room, beyond you.
At the window, he pauses. The city’s quiet below, but sirens wail in the distance. the warmth streetlights paint his silhouette in gold. He looks back at you over his shoulder, and flashes a grin, not the practiced one, the one for you. It makes your chest burn.
“Sweet dreams,” he says softly.
“Yeah, yeah, go save the world,” you whisper back, already drowsy.
Before you can blink he’s gone. The rush of cool night air comes in, the soft sound of glass shifting in its frame. You catch a glimpse of red and blue across the skyline, eyes dipping as they struggle to focus.
The sheets smell like him. Your skin tingles where he touched you. The last traces of adrenaline fade into fuzzy exhaustion. You find yourself rolling over, smiling into the pillow, phone long forgotten as he stays on your mind.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, irritatingly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
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