soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
Summary: As an administrator for the 141, you thrive on pushing paperwork behind the scenes so your boys can do their thing. You are wholly unprepared when a multi-chapter erotic friend fiction starring you and Ghost begins circulating around base, to the delight of literally everyone except you and him. Forced to work together despite his reluctance, you are determined to find the mysterious author and put an end to this indignity.
Rating: E for sexual content; fatphobic, ableist, and offensive language.
Tags: Female/AFAB reader, plus-size/fat/chubby reader, enemies to lovers, fluff, humor, romance, explicit sexual content, story-within-a-story, mutual pining, fantasizing
Credits: Beta read by the impeccable @no1frogfan.
Fanart: Check out this incredible self-insert image by @clevestark!
Chapter One: Renamed
Chapter Two: Reprimanded
Chapter Three: Recon
Chapter Four: Regroup
Chapter Five: Rest
Chapter Six: Revolt!
Chapter Seven: Revealed
Chapter Eight: Revenge + Texts from Johnny
Chapter Nine: Regret
Chapter Ten: Rectified
A note on inspiration: Although the plot of this story is original, the premise is not. I have read several Dragon Age and Skyrim fics with the "non-consensual erotic friend fiction" trope, and I thought I would put my own spin on it for this fandom. Unfortunately I believe the Skyrim fic that really made me fall in love with this concept has been taken down (it was from circa 2016), but I did want to shout out The Shield-Maiden & the Brigand by vehlr and Perfectly Novel by lvl99arsene as having similar premises.
Cameron Cade x f!reader (established relationship)
Synopsis: muscle tension relief massage turned happy ending for both !
Warnings *MDNI*: soft!dom Cameron Cade, piv, unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering (finger licking/sucking), playful banter, big dick, hint of fluff and aftercare, *he’s your own personal dick whisperer* omg who said that, oil is used, not an accurate depiction of a real massage, “baby” as a term of endearment, this is nasty idk
WC: 2.6k
A/n: My first ever anything being written because I came out of watching HIM feeling… inspired.. to say the least ! And there are not enough fics out yet so if this is shit I’m sorry LMAOO (pls give me some grace, this is a figment of my imagination😩) (Also only proofread once, apologies if there's any errors <3)
You were rubbing Cameron’s shoulders and back as he laid with his face sideways on your stomach and eyes halfway drifting off as he savored the feeling of your soft hands rubbing back and forth. The faint hum of the tv played in the background when you broke the comfortable silence, “Baby you feel really tight right here.”
Cameron began to smirk and lifted his eye slightly at the sound of that with a thought brewing in his head immediately but you quickly cut him off before he could start, “Get your mind out of the gutter Cam! Your muscles have a lot of tension, let me give you a massage.” His head turns to look up at you, his chin resting on your stomach now with his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips, “I’m ok baby, they’re not as sore as they were earlier, I promise.”
You responded “C,monnn give me a chance to practice my masseuse skills! You’ll love it.” He chuckled, “Practice?? Are you planning on becoming a massager?” You rolled your eyes “No but that’s beside the point! Here, just lay down on your stomach, I’ll be back shortly.” As he got off you and you moved off the bed he threw his hands up in surrender with a grin, willing to oblige any of your demands, “Yes ma’am.”
When you came back in the bedroom after grabbing some coconut oil and some candles you situated the items onto your nightstand. Cameron who was currently sprawled on the bed in his boxers glanced to the left and looked at what you were doing with raised eyebrows. With an almost astonished cadence he uttered: “Damn I’m getting VIP treatment?! Must be my lucky night!” You laughed and followed up with “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, I’m doing this in a fully professional capacity.” Smiling warmly at him with a glint in your eye. “The candles are purely for ambiance”, You say as you dim the lighting in your shared bedroom.
You had positioned yourself on Cameron’s lower back with your thighs on each side of his hips. Given that Cameron was finishing off at 6’5, you needed to lean forward a bit to even reach his shoulders. You sat up as you gradually rubbed oil on his back taking time to admire how toned and firm his back felt. You didn’t want to be the first to fold but you couldn’t help the way your body instantly responded, a deep knot forming in the pit of your stomach just from staring at his muscles and feeling his defined back. You were sure your breathing had become heavier but not enough for Cameron to notice so you continued, You tried to steady your voice, “Let me know if it hurts at any point, ok?” He nodded.
The massage began with you kneading the center of your palms from his tailbone up towards his shoulders with light pressure at first. Upon repeating this a few more times you began to pick up on Cameron’s breath shifting. You studied closely as you switched to focusing most of your hand motions at the base of his shoulders with medium pressure now testing to see what feels best for him. Groaning low at a particularly deep kneading point he mumbled with his eyes closed, “Feels good, so good...”. He sighed and you bit your lip at his response to your movements. You fought the urge to respond verbally for fear you’d give it away that you had been turned on from the start. So instead, you continued with some more hand and arm motions on certain pressure points up and down his back until his groans and moans became more consistent, too much to bear, and you decided (for no apparent reason) it’d be much more effective to continue the massage with him facing you. “Time to turn.”
You positioned yourself over to the side of the bed resting on your knees while you waited for him to flip over to resume your position on him. When he flipped, his eyes scanned your entire body in your two-piece pajama set with a slight grin. His eyes darkened as he admired you, hands gravitating towards your hips to reposition you. You shared a similar look when your eyes darted from his growing pupils, to his lips, to his sculpted chest and abs, to his growing bulge. Cameron wasn’t just talented on the field, he was talented in *other* regards as well. His hands automatically began rubbing your thighs back and forth. He declared, “I’m ready.”
You continued the massage on his front side, starting with his shoulders, as he intensely stared at you in the process. You softly began the same pressure on his front side. You took your time thoroughly rubbing and kneading each of his shoulders. Checking in you asked, “Still good?” He simply responded by pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and nodding. As the massage progressed, so did his grip on your hips and thighs, as the rubbing became charged with something else. Something needier. The breaking point was when you slightly shifted your seat on his hips further down so that his bulge was applying friction. In that process you slowly ran a finger down his happy trail and felt his hips twitch. “So this is still the professional treatment?,” his voice shaky. You leaned down to his face while pressing your hips against his with more pressure, a light moan escaping you. Lips ghosting his, “Uh huh.” before moving to press light kisses along each side of his jaw. His breath faltered, hands moving to grab your ass and slowly grind you into him. You stopped your kisses just shy below his ear to mumble “Cam…” Wetness fully seeping through your thin sleep shorts as you continued grinding on him back and forth with more fervor. Your hands planted on his chest to ground you, he gently pulled you down to for a kiss that turned from a soft peck into you needing to pull away for air, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lips. He whispered low against your lips, “Tell me what you want,” you dropped your head into his neck clinging to his body, the balloon almost snapping in your stomach. “Fuck me, please.”
You both discarded the few garments you had on, then Cameron flipped you onto your back. He admired your figure with a hungry look in his eyes as he caressed your thighs just teetering towards your folds. His fingers were so close to where you really wanted them, another wave of arousal flooded your stomach. “Cam please,” you moaned, reaching out to pull him in for a kiss. “Patience baby.” Then an idea came to mind as he gave you a soft peck before saying, “Let me return the favor.”
Before you could protest, he had already grabbed some oil to start rubbing you. Smirking, he said, “I have a feeling my skills will be better than yours.” You snickered, “We’ll see. I didn’t hear any complaints but right now I’m giving you 1 star for making a customer wait!” He chuckled slightly before voicing, "You'll feel different after my perfect, amazing, wonderful technique." He then winked and in response you rolled your eyes, "And just for that, if it's anything less than those things my rating is going in the negatives." Grinning in response, he started rubbing some oil on your collarbone, gradually traveling down to your breasts, circling your nipples with his thumbs. He paid close attention to how you responded, seeing you clench your legs and your breathing becoming heavy as he continued. Slowly, he rubbed oil into your stomach in a downwards motion until he reached your thighs, his hands starting to inch towards your folds. He stayed at this pace, to see you squirm until he was satisfied he had teased you enough.
His hands finally started to rub on your outer labia before he ran a finger through the middle of your folds from your clit to the entrance. your breath hitched and through your haze of arousal you peered up at his face only to see him staring at you intensely, mouth slightly parted, as though he was just as turned on as you. This was confirmed when you slowly ran your eyes down his body, drinking in his form, till you saw his dick leaking precum as he continued slowly rubbing your clit before moving down to your entrance. Given Cameron’s build, there was no surprise when you found out just how built he was when you first started dating. You still feel pressure taking him due to his length but you anticipate and welcome the feeling now, reeling in the pleasurable pain of him stretching you. Moaning again at this sight, you clench down on nothing before Cameron began pushing his middle finger in, continuing to rub your clit with his thumb. He kept up this languid pace while pushing one of your thighs outward towards your chest, the other wrapping around his waist.
Cameron added his ring finger, the wet squelching sound increasing in volume as he moved at a faster pace now. One hand grips the sheets as you dig your nails into his arm, orgasm fast approaching. Cameron leaned down to press a firm sloppy kiss on your lips before you broke away, unable to hold your moan in. “Oh f-fuck, Cam I’m gonna-” you stopped, eyes rolling back. Cameron breathed out close to your ear, increasing his pace at an inhuman speed, curling his fingers inside you, “Yea baby, just like that, cum all over my fucking hand.” Your body instantly responding, you gasped, nails digging into Cameron leaving deep crescent marks as you arched into him, legs instinctively trying to close as your orgasm fully washed over you.
Cameron slowed his movement as you came back down. Coming out of your haze your vision clears just enough to focus on Cameron pulling his fingers out and licking them clean. You whimpered, the fire in your stomach coming back tenfold. “Open baby”, his voice sounding deeper than before. You opened your mouth, sucking on his fingers with a moan, faintly tasting yourself, while staring into his eyes. Something shifted, and you saw a quick glimpse of something primal in his gaze before he pulled your jaw with one hand, guiding you to his lips. The kiss was long and sensual, his teeth lightly pulling at your bottom lip at one point, doing nothing but fueling that pit in your stomach causing you to wrap your legs around his waist and pull his hips down to relieve some of the pressure in your belly. You ran one hand up his back while the other was moving up and down his abdomen to his neck. Stomach tightening upon contact, his hips involuntarily thrusted up through your folds, his tip bumping your clit. Both moaning, you whimpered out “Please, need it so bad.” Cameron pulled himself up, reaching down to gently rub your sensitive clit before grabbing his dick and lightly slapping it on your pussy. He bit his bottom lip, looking at your wet folds mesmerized. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” You nodded, looking up at him with an ‘I can’t wait any longer’ expression. He gently squeezed your thigh, “Words baby.” You quickly responded with an “Ok, I will.” He leaned down to kiss you before whispering against your lips “Good girl.”
He positioned himself at your entrance then asked “Are you ready?” You rubbed his upper back softly as you answered, “Yes.” Upon your consent, Cameron slowly started inching in, moaning low when he felt the wet, tight grip of your pussy pull him in. “Fuckk baby, you feel so good.” You whimpered in response, your slick already helping the process go a bit smoother. As the pressure increased, your grip on his back tightened, “Cam,” He leaned close to your face to soothe you, “I know baby, I got you, relax for me.” Then he peppered kisses on your face as he began to lightly rub your clit. You started to relax as the pleasure increased the deeper he got until finally settling in.
You moaned, clenching all of him when he filled you up. Groaning, he started to move, setting a deep, slow pace pulling all the way out to his tip then thrusting back in to the hilt. Cameron groaned out, “Love this pussy so much.” You immediately fluttered around his dick, his words and the breathy tone of his voice hitting your pussy like a train. Sometimes—depending on several factors— Cameron was vocal in the bedroom. Very vocal. At first, you wondered if he thought of the things to say prior because he always knew how to trigger your climax solely off of saying the right thing. But you quickly learned he doesn’t think at all, he just knows your body. With your connection it didn’t take much navigating to push the right buttons. You stuttered, “Ca- Cam,” digging your nails into his arm, legs instinctively clenching his waist. He dropped his forehead to yours, his pace steadily increased, thrusts becoming rough.
One arm enveloped you as the other held onto your hip tight as he continued thrusting. “So perfect, made just for me, huh baby?” Your brain deciding to give up on words completely, you start responding incoherently. Moans becoming just as sporadic as his thrusts, you nod as best as you can. “Listen to that,—” Cameron pausing his statement to put emphasis on the lewd wet noise filling the bedroom. “That’s all for me? I’m all yours baby, this dick is all yours.” His thumb traveling down to rub your clit erratically. Cameron’s hips and breathing stutter as he feels your orgasm approaching quickly. He hit a particularly spongy part inside you as his thrusts became determined. Your eyes quickly squeezed shut then shot open and through your blissful haze you’re able to moan out, “Cam- I’m—,” He looked down at the strings of wetness where both of you are conjoined then looking back up your eyes, his pupils completely blown out now he utters the words that push you over the edge, “Oh shit baby right there?” Groaning deeply, dropping his forehead to yours, lips touching as he drinks in your moans, as he gasps out, “Cum with me baby, let me feel it.” Your orgasm intensely washed over you sending waves of pleasure throughout your entire body. You clawed down Cameron’s back, clinging to him to ground yourself back in reality. As you milked him, Cameron gasped, his mouth dropping as his brows furrowed and his eyes rolled back. His abdomen tight, his orgasm sending tremors throughout his body until you completely drained him.
Once you both came down, Cameron grasped your face, gently rubbing your cheek as his breath steadied. “I love you.” He said with a sincere smile, attentively looking back and forth in between your eyes. You smiled, gently rubbing his wrist that was holding your face, “I love you too.” You turned your face to lightly kiss his palm and in response he gave you a lingering kiss on your lips before pulling out. You softly whimpered at the loss of contact. Cameron got up to get a rag to clean you up before laying back in bed with you, pulling you into his body. As you two laid there cuddling and absentmindedly rubbing each other silently, Cameron voiced out “So am I still 1 star in customer satisfaction or—?” You laughed out loud, caught off guard by him bringing that up. “I’ll change my rating to five stars. No negatives. But you're still not better than me though!” And you gave him a quick peck on his cheek. He places a hand on his chest and responds with a playful grin “Oh, of course. I wouldn’t ever think anything different.” You contemplated, “Hmm maybe next time I’ll actually show you what my VIP treatment looks like…”
I hope you liked it, i'm open to feedback so please let me know if you enjoyed it (or hated it i guess) !
Some Anti-AI banners i made, anyone is free to use them, no credit necessary. Light mode and Dark mode versions.
Art and writing and people’s rights need to be protected, and AI has been used already to steal, plagiarize, and be used to threaten people using deepfakes.
As an artist and a writer, it’s an insult to my craft to see AI “works” along side mine.
Like i said, anyone is welcome to save/put these banners on their blog, or on posts, please just reblog this if you do.
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is.
tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home
warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut)
word count: 10k
note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again.
Not him, obviously. That would be complicated.
Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.
You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened.
At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.
And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be.
You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.
Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”
Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing.
The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly.
Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second.
It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.
And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”
Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”
Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling.
Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.
When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place.
Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.
Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.
You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.
“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?”
You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.
Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.
You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.
You hadn’t planned to live with him this long.
A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?
When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.
By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.
And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment.
You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place.
He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days.
You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.”
Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that.
From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself.
Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept.
You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.
No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.
Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”
“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were.
You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark.
Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.
You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.
So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.
There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”
You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.”
Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.
Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”
“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.
He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”
You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”
Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”
“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.
“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced, and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”
You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word.
But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.
As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date.
Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.
You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through.
Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections.
None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.
You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.
And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.
At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face.
All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest.
And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off.
As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in.
How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed?
It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.
Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered.
Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.
The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead.
You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair.
You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.
“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”
You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”
You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”
“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”
You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business.
“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”
Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.
You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”
Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”
You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased.
Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”
The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.
Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.
By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore.
“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”
He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”
You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.
A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.
“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”
And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.
Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead.
You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.
“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.
“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”
Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”
Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”
He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”
Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark.
You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!
“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”
“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”
Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.
“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”
Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”
“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”
He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”
Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.
Then disaster struck.
Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”
You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.
Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.
By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”
You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”
Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”
You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”
Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.
You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.
Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.
The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.
“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.
You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.
You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”
He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.
By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.
The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”
You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”
Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.
You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”
He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries.
The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow.
He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.
“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”
Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.
Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.
“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”
Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together.
You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.
You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.
But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.
You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him.
Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.
With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while.
“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.
You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.
It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating.
Not that it was anything special.
You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.
You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry.
Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.
Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.
So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement.
It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates.
You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.
“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”
You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”
Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.
“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”
He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”
Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”
You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.
Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.
Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”
You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”
Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”
Your stomach did that impossible flip.
Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.
Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.
The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass.
Meanwhile, you were freezing.
You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.
After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.
But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.
Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.
You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow.
It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.
“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.
You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”
Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”
You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”
Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.
“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.
Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”
You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”
Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”
When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark.
You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”
Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”
You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.
Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened.
There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk.
Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.
Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”
Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.
Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”
You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.
“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”
You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.
Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared.
“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”
“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.
Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.
“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.
Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.
“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.
He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”
There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.
“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.
Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.
“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”
You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”
Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”
“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”
“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”
You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone.
Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”
You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”
Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh.
“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”
The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.
You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”
The way he said it made your heart squeeze.
You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.
Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.
Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”
You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.
Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.
You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing.
In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.
It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.
Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”
You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”
Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”
“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”
“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”
“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”
Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.
“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”
“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”
“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”
Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”
“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning.
Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”
You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”
“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”
“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”
Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”
You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream.
“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”
“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”
Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.
Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.
The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.
“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.
He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”
You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”
That was all it took.
In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.
It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.
Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.
When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.
The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.
When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.
When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.
The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real.
Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.
You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.
Your throat went dry. “I—”
But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Gosh, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”
The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself.
“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”
His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.
“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.
You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”
Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.
“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.
“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”
Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”
That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.
You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.
Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.
“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?
Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”
The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”
“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”
Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”
Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”
Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”
He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.
“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”
And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.
You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”
Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.
“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.
“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”
You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.
When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.
You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”
You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”
Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”
You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort.
You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation.
It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.
And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”
Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.
Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.
Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly.
Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”
Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.
synopsis : Alcohol gives you the courage to finally talk to the hot stranger at the bar, the one you’ve been eyeing every time you came here. What could possibly go wrong?
If you were in this bar to begin with, it was her fault. She was getting married in a couple of weeks and wanted to celebrate as much as she could with her friends. After the wedding, she and her wife were moving out of Metropolis to Evergreen for her wife’s new job.
So every weekend lately felt like a bachelorette party, and you were always invited.
"Do what?" you mumbled, drunk and barely tracking the conversation.
"Go talk to the guy you've been eye-fucking all night!" she giggled, making the rest of your friends laugh with her.
"What guy?" you asked, trying to sound innocent. You thought you were pulling it off, but you definitely weren’t.
"The one who looks like Superman!" Jenny yelled, just as tipsy as you.
And, well… she wasn’t wrong.
The guy you’d been staring at was probably the hottest man you'd ever seen in your entire life. Tall, broad-shouldered, soft-eyed. His glasses gave him a nerdy charm, but everything else about him, especially that body, told a very different story.
It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him. The more often you came to this bar, the more familiar his little group became. There was a shorter but still cute blond guy, a stunning bleach-blonde woman, a mesmerizing dark-haired woman, and him.
Just like you and your friends, they seemed to be here most weekends.
For at least the last three weekends, you’d been watching them, especially him. It wasn’t like you were ever going to do anything about it. You never did. But you liked to watch him from afar, a quiet, harmless ritual.
Snorting, you turned away from eyeing them yet again and faced your friends. “You know what? He kinda does look like Superman…” you muttered, almost to yourself, then added quickly, “Just another reason why I shouldn’t shoot my shot.”
That shut down the chatter among your friends. It wasn’t a new thing, you putting yourself down. They were used to it. Not that they appreciated it.
“Oh, stop it!” Claire snapped. “He looks strong enough to manhandle you straight into heaven. Men like him? They love their women thick, girl. I would know.” She laughed, unapologetic.
Another truth.
Claire was a big girl, not that she was hiding it. She owned every inch of herself. And her boyfriend? A sweet, nerdy soul who adored her, fat and all. He was gentle to the core, tall and lanky, always looking at her like she hung the stars.
Claire had always said men like Justin were lovers before anything else.
“He looks like a lost puppy most of the time, but I just know he’d rock your world,” Claire added pointing at the stranger, taking another sip of her cocktail. Will. Like she knew it was inevitable. Like it was already written.
Looking back at the hot stranger, you noticed he was smirking. Your eyes couldn’t seem to leave his dimpled lips alone, and your brain, traitorous as ever, was already conjuring up foul scenarios where his mouth was doing anything but smiling.
You shook your head quickly and turned back to your friends for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. If you’d waited just one second longer, you would’ve met his gaze, he glanced your way, right as you looked away.
“It’s just… he’s out of my league,” you muttered with a shrug, hoping, begging, they’d drop the subject.
All your friends sighed at the same time, but thankfully, they dropped the subject, sober enough to notice you were starting to get uncomfortable.
Truth be told, you weren’t even that fat. Chubby was probably the more accurate word. But some terrible experiences in your past had altered the way you saw yourself. Made you question your worth. Your appearance. Everything.
Your friends had always been there, catching you before you spiralled too far, stopping you from slipping into unhealthy patterns with food or the gym. You owed them more than you could say.
Still, you struggled to believe people could find you attractive. You hadn’t grown up with that kind of validation, and since moving here, most of the men you’d encountered had been… well, bastards, to put it mildly.
And now, your friends wanted you to go talk to a man who looked like he could play a Greek god in a movie. Of course they insisted you were just in denial about your own beauty, but they clearly didn’t grasp just how hot that man was.
You couldn’t really blame them. Out of the six of you, only you and Claire weren’t lesbians. And the handsome stranger was way outside of Claire’s type. She liked, in her own words, “skinny boys with sad eyes.”
So, you did what you all came to do—talked, laughed, danced, and drank. Way too much. Way more than any of the other nights you’d been here. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the energy. Maybe it was Lucie’s countdown to married life. Or maybe it was the unnerving way the stranger’s eyes had brushed past you a few more times than coincidence allowed.
Everyone had paid for a round of shots. Everyone had at least two cocktails. And the bartender, clearly trying to charm a group of mostly lesbians, had given your table two rounds of free shots.
You were wasted. Utterly wasted. And that meant your eyes kept drifting across the bar, to him. Always to him.
Apparently, his friends had the same chaotic energy as yours, because they were now on stage, screaming, well, attempting to sing, Firework by Katy Perry. To your drunken self, they were the best band you’d ever heard. To everyone sober in the bar, it was a train wreck in real time.
Seeing him alone at his table, head in his hands, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends, did something to you. Your body was already warm and fuzzy from the alcohol, and you couldn’t really say what took over you.
One second, you were sitting with your friends, half-listening to a conversation you couldn’t even follow. The next, you were on your feet, weaving through the crowd on wobbly legs, heading straight for the handsome stranger.
The moment you stood, his eyes left his friends and landed on you. It was immediate, like gravity, and it made your heart skip a beat.
His gaze was gentle, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, but still taking you in with quiet appreciation. A soft smile played at his lips. It almost felt like he’d been waiting for you.
Before you reached him, you glanced back at your friends and flashed them two thumbs up in what you thought was a slick, covert move. It wasn’t. The stranger saw it, plain as day, and let out a quiet, amused laugh.
“Hello,” you said as you stopped at his table. You didn’t sit down right away, not wanting to intrude if he preferred to be alone.
“Hello, Miss,” he replied in a deep voice. His smile was gentle and kind, so different from the usual smiles men gave you.
“You know… you could be Superman's twin?,” you slurred, the alcohol finally catching up with you.
He was even more handsome up close. From here, you could see the faint ghost of his dimples, the softness in his eyes, and the unruly mess of his hair. His shoulders seemed even broader at this distance, and the glass in his hand looked almost comically small. Without meaning to, your thighs pressed together at the realization.
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he laughed—with you, not at you.
You were more lost in looking at him than in functioning properly. The alcohol still swam in your veins, muddling your thoughts, made worse under the weight of his watchful eyes.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked gently, pulling out a chair for you.
Something unlocked inside you. The moment you sat, you forgot all about your friends, your shyness, and the belief that he was far out of your league. He was so interesting, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and he really listened to you.
Even when you were certain you weren’t making any sense, especially after ordering more drinks, he stayed attentive. Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep this nonchalance if sobriety ever caught up with you.
Clark—that was his name—was, without question, the most attractive and kind man you had ever met. Between every drink, he gently slid a glass of water toward you. He didn’t seem the least bit drunk, but then again, you weren’t sure you trusted your own judgment.
At some point during your conversation, your friends came over to collect you. You threw a little tantrum, refusing to leave with them. Deep down, you knew you’d probably never see Clark again, and that when you thought back on this moment, you’d find it painfully embarrassing. But right now, you wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.
After a few minutes of back-and-forth, your friends finally gave in. Still, Lucie made sure to turn your location on, just in case the handsome Clark turned out to be less than perfect. “You might look like Superman, dude, but I don’t trust strangers,” she said, kissing your cheek before heading off.
As the conversation went on, his friends drifted by one after another to say their goodbyes. By the time the bar was closing, the two of you were the only ones left still talking. When the owner gently asked you to leave, Clark settled both his tab and yours, even though you’d insisted he didn’t have to.
Outside, the night air hit you all at once. The street blurred, the ground swayed beneath your feet. You had badly underestimated your drinking, and there was no denying it now : you were absolutely wasted.
Trying to order an Uber was a disaster, your fingers slipped against the screen, your eyes refusing to focus. Clark stood beside you, gently taking the phone from your hands, putting it in your bag—just after he had looked at your address.
You tried to concentrate on his lips as they moved, but the words slipped past you, blurred and repeating themselves. Even sober, you doubted you could have focused. All you could think about was how soft his mouth looked, how badly you longed to press yours against his.
Not thinking straight, you pushed yourself up, aiming for his lips. But the height difference was impossible to ignore, you realized you’d never reach him like this. In your drunken haze, the only solution your mind could come up with was simpler : you wrapped your arms around him instead.
“Oh,” you heard Clark say with a gentle laugh. His arms came around you, warm hands rubbing your back. “I’ll take you home, darling.”
Giggling like a schoolgirl, you nodded against his chest. Heat rushed to your cheeks. It had been so long since you’d felt this way about a man, and stranger still that this man was, in truth, almost a stranger.
The entire way back was a blur, a warm, hazy kind of blur. Clark didn’t seem to mind your clinginess in the least. You held his hand, clutched at his arm, even traced the lines of his bicep, and he never pulled away. Instead, he just kept talking, filling the walk with easy conversation : little anecdotes about the city, praises about random restaurants, nerdy trivia about Superman.
He knew a lot about him—suspiciously a lot. He’d said he’d interviewed Superman several times for work, which only made him sexier in your eyes. A sweet, nerdy journalist with broad shoulders and kind eyes.
Your absolute favourite kind of man : a himbo.
By the time you reached your place, you didn’t want the night to end. It felt so good, being seen, being appreciated by a man like Clark. He was a dream come true : handsome, intelligent, gentle, and kind.
Clinging to his arm, you walked toward the front door, only to stop abruptly. Your eyes met, finally level in the glow of the entry light. Your gaze drifted down to his lips, while his lingered on yours.
“You wanna come up?” you asked.
Or at least, you thought you did. The words tangled together, blurring into one another. Still, you turned back toward the door with the biggest smile on your face, feeling victorious even though he hadn’t said a single word.
Clark followed you up to your flat, steadying you with his hands as you climbed the stairs, afraid you might miss a step and fall. He couldn’t help but notice the darkness hanging over the building, the front door broken, the lock useless.
At your apartment door, his body went rigid, like a dog catching a sound you couldn’t hear. Maybe he had heard something. This wasn’t exactly the best part of Metropolis, but it was all you could afford. You, at least, had grown used to the background noises and didn’t pay them much mind.
Once inside, you slipped off your shoes while he lingered at the door, carefully studying each of your locks with sharp, deliberate eyes.
When he turned around, you tried to kiss him again. What you imagined as a graceful, soft leap was closer to a clumsy tackle, and Clark caught you easily in his arms. He turned his head just in time, so your lips brushed his cheek instead.
“Sweetheart…” he sighed, voice warm but steady, almost like a warning wrapped in kindness.
If you’d been sober, you would have drowned in embarrassment at being turned aside like this in your own home. But instead, you tried again, practically climbing him like a tree. His large hands settled firmly on your hips, not pushing, not harsh, but guiding you down with quiet insistence.
He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your weight, which only fuelled the thought spinning in your hazy mind: maybe he did like you. But the way he held you, gentle, unyielding, made it just as clear he wasn’t going to let this go any further tonight.
Or at least, it was clear to him.
Giving up on prying you off, Clark simply shifted you more securely in his arms and started making his way through your apartment, as though he already knew where to go. It didn’t take him long to find your bedroom.
In the meantime, your head had dropped against his neck, your nose brushing softly against his skin as you were gently rocked by the rhythm of his steps. The walk from the front door to your room wasn’t far, but in your drunken state, sleep rushed in far too easily.
It should have been the opposite. Drunk, alone, bringing a stranger into your flat, your mind should have been wide awake, primed to fight or flee. But something about him was different. Soothing. Calm. Safe. It was too easy to trust him.
The moment your body met the mattress, sleep pulled you under without mercy. And the last thought that drifted through your mind before the darkness claimed you was how serial killers would have loved you.
Pounding.
Your head was pounding. Your mouth was dry, your stomach twisted, and you felt grimy all over. Opening your eyes was a nightmare, the sunlight streaming through the window stabbed straight into them.
When you finally managed to keep them open without burning, you dragged yourself into the bathroom. The dress from last night hit the floor, and you turned on the shower. A good, cold rinse might work miracles.
It did, just a little. Out of the shower, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You were a wreck. Hair wild, mascara and eyeliner smeared like bruises around your eyes, your skin paler than usual. The lack of sleep and the leftover alcohol left you looking half-dead.
On instinct, you gulped water straight from the tap before brushing your teeth, desperate to wash the taste of alcohol from your mouth. Dressed in an old oversized football shirt of your brother’s and a pair of panties, you shuffled toward the kitchen, nowhere near ready to face the day.
The plan was simple : grab some breakfast, then crawl back into bed and sleep off the rest of the world.
What you hadn’t expected was Clark, standing in the middle of your kitchen, gently whistling as he cooked. Your eyes flicked to the couch, where a throw blanket lay crumpled, his shoes and socks neatly beside it. It looked very much like someone had spent the night there.
Had he slept on the couch?
Frowning, fragments of last night slammed back into your head, draining even more colour from your face.
He shouldn’t be here. He had rejected you. Surely he would have gone home after you passed out. And yet, here he was, in your kitchen, casually cooking breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Clark said gently, without even turning around, as if he had sensed your presence. When he finally glanced back, his warm, calm smile made your stomach twist, half embarrassment, half something else you couldn’t name. He went back to the eggs sizzling in the pan, completely unfazed by your staring.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he continued. “I made breakfast.”
Your brain protested, scrambling to find the right words, or any words at all. Why is he here? Why does this feel… comforting? Your heart thudded, a mix of guilt and something you weren’t ready to admit. He had rejected you, but he hadn’t left. He was here, taking care of you, and part of you wanted to melt into the ease of it all.
You shuffled closer, feeling the edges of panic and gratitude collide. Your mouth opened, but no coherent words came out. All you could do was stare at him, at the soft light of the morning catching his hair, at the way he moved so naturally in your space. It was infuriating, and intoxicating.
“Here,” he said, placing a plate piled with eggs, toast, and bacon in front of you, sliding a cup of water alongside it.
Then he placed a second plate beside yours, this one even more generously filled than the first.
You sat down, still reeling from his unexpected presence, and he settled directly across from you, his calm gaze making it impossible to look away.
You picked up your fork almost mechanically, unsure where to start, your eyes darting to him every few seconds. Clark, meanwhile, ate at a relaxed pace, occasionally glancing up with that calm, steady smile that made your chest tighten.
“Sleep well?” he asked casually.
Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “I… uh… yeah. Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up.
You took a tentative bite of your food, your mind swirling between embarrassment, disbelief, and a strange comfort. Every time your gaze flicked to him, you caught little gestures, the way he stirred his coffee, the way he pushed a stray crumb off the table with his finger, that made your heart race.
He was still just as handsome as he had been at the bar.
“Hum,” you began, trying to keep your tone casual. “I don’t want to be mean, but like… did you sleep on my couch?”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting nervously between you and the couch. “I… I didn’t want to leave you alone. I kept hearing those noises outside, and… well, if I left, your front door wouldn’t have been locked,” he admitted, his words tumbling out in a mix of concern and awkward charm.
There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clatter of breakfast utensils. You couldn’t help but notice the faint blush rising in his cheeks, the way he avoided your eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. Somehow, the honesty, and the tiny hint of vulnerability, made him even more irresistible.
“I didn’t move anything, didn’t touch anything… I left your bedroom the minute you fell asleep,” he rushed out, his words tumbling over each other. “I—uh—I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uneasy…”
His eyes searched yours, earnest and slightly anxious, as if he needed you to believe him. The awkwardness made him even more endearing, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but soften, realizing how much he cared about your comfort, even before coffee had fully woken you up.
It might have been the lingering alcohol in your blood or the lack of sleep, but tears gathered in your eyes. “That’s… the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”
“It’s the least I could do,” Clark said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, as if protecting you like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Weirdly, once the initial awkwardness passed, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You forgot all about how messy you had looked, how cringe-worthy you had felt last night. If anything, the man turned out to be an even bigger nerd than you were.
Talking to him felt so natural, almost as if he had been meant to be in your life all along.
But, as all good things must, Clark had to leave, suddenly, and in quite a hurry.
It felt odd. No one had called him, he hadn’t received any texts, and it was Sunday. Yet here he was, rushing off without explanation. You didn’t question it, at least, not out loud. Deep down, the nagging thought crept in: maybe he had only been kind enough to sleep here, to talk to you, without any real interest.
Of course. Clark was way out of your league. The genuine connection you had convinced yourself existed was probably nothing more than a fleeting dream.
As he made his way to your front door, you followed, ready to lock it behind him and bury yourself in bed for the rest of the day. You had plenty of explaining to do to your friends, and you weren’t ready for their lectures about how reckless your behaviour had been.
“Hum,” he started, stopping by the front door. His eyes flicked from the floor to yours. “I… I’d really like to see you again, if you want, of course,” he added quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.
“I’m sorry I have to leave like this, but I have something important I can’t postpone…” he explained, his words tumbling out as fast as before.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. For a moment, your mind went blank, the words you wanted to say buried under a rush of warmth and disbelief.
“Uh… yeah, I’d like that,” you finally managed, your own cheeks heating up. “I mean… if you want, too,” you added, stumbling over your words, hating how flustered you sounded.
Clark’s smile widened, his dimples showing, a mix of relief and quiet joy lighting up his face. “Good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Then it’s a date. I promise I won’t disappear next time.”
The words settled between you, leaving a lingering buzz stronger than any alcohol had. Giggling, you bit your lip before letting out a soft breath. “Okay.”
Then he scribbled something on a scrap of paper, what you assumed was his number, turned one last time, and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead before he was gone. It all happened so quickly that you barely registered the softness of his lips on your skin.
Locking the door, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. The grin refused to fade, even as you sank back into bed, ready to steal a few hours of sleep.
This time, sleep came more gently than it had hours ago, just as a flash of red and blue streaked past your window.
the hottest thing about john price is that he’s stripping every ounce of millennial-grey paint off of your dream fixed-upper. he’s on his hands and knees in the kitchen, going at the cabinets with a scraper like a madman, grumbling about “what happened to craftsmanship” and “gotta restore her to her former glory, peanut”
a scene must be included PRIOR to sex where the characters READ their birth certificates OUT LOUD so the reader will know they were born on the SAME DATE to avoid any disgusting AGE GAPS
"mmh did you know that creator you like also posts 🔞 content? did you know that? don't you think that's weird? don't you think we should keep this space-"
no. i don't.
i booked a front row seat to the devil's sacrament and you're blocking the view
just go back to the 1660 new england hole you just crawled out of and eat barley for a week to atone for your sins or whatever
simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all
synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent)
words : 12.7k
ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more
It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.
Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.
He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.
That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.
It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.
Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.
At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.
You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.
Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.
“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.
Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.
“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.
You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.
Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.
It had been a long day.
You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.
Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.
And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.
From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.
Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.
Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.
“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”
After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.
You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.
Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.
Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.
The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.
Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.
“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.
How had he known?
He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.
But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?
You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.
What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.
When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.
Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.
For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.
But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.
That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.
A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.
You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.
You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.
When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?
It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.
“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”
You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.
Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.
Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.
“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.
You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.
You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.
God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.
“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.
“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.
“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”
And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.
“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.
He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”
Oh.
You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.
But of course Clark did.
You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”
Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”
He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.
“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.
Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.
You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.
Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.
Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.
You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.
“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.
Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.
You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.
Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…
You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.
The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.
Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?
So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.
Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.
Clark.
Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.
He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.
He looked good. Too good.
“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.
He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”
You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.
“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”
Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”
He’d been different with you lately.
Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.
A start.
And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.
“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”
Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”
His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.
“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”
You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.
Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.
You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.
Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.
The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.
Solid. Warm. Safe.
Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.
“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?
What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.
You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.
It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.
And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.
Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.
You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.
Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.
What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.
Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.
Maybe Jimmy was right?
“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.
“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.
The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.
Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.
You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.
Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.
You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.
Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.
The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.
You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?
You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.
“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.
You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.
“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”
“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.
But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.
“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”
You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.
Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”
You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”
“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”
He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”
You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”
“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”
“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”
Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”
“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”
“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”
You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.
There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”
You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”
That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”
You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.
“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.
It felt like you knew him.
Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.
But the thought lingered.
“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”
You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.
Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”
You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.
“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”
There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.
That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.
But where?
After that night, Clark started acting... different.
Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.
He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.
It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.
You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.
Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.
Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.
He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.
It was a weird dynamic.
Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.
Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.
Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.
But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.
Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.
Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.
And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.
And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.
Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.
Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.
He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.
You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.
It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.
Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”
You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.
“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”
You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.
You didn’t get far.
An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.
“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.
“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."
It was his turn to scoff.
You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.
For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.
This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.
“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”
His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.
“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”
You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.
And so you shifted. Softened.
“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”
That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.
You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.
“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”
His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.
You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.
“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”
Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.
“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”
He stiffened. You stepped back.
“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”
Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.
Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.
Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?
An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.
“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”
Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.
You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”
He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”
You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”
You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.
Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”
You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”
“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.
That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.
You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.
It was nice. Sweet, even.
You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.
Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.
He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.
Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”
He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”
You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.
The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.
Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.
You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.
It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.
So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.
You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.
You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.
Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.
Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts
Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.
Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.
But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.
Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.
You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.
The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.
“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.
He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.
You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.
“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.
You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.
And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.
They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.
That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?
Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.
Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.
As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.
Clark.
He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.
“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.
He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.
“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”
Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.
You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.
“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.
You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.
“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.
Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.
You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.
Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.
“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”
You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.
They were both watching you. Waiting.
It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.
What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.
The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.
You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.
Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.
Yeah. Tonight had been good.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.
You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.
But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.
The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.
Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.
You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.
Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.
Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.
“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.
But Clark heard you. Of course he did.
Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.
He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.
It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.
This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.
You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.
Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.
His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.
His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.
Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.
You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”
Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."
Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.
“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.
“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”
“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.
“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.
The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.
His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.
His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.
Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.
He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.
“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.
His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.
His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.
You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.
You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.
Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.
Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.
After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.
Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.
You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.
Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.
You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.
"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.
He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.
You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.
“Clark,” you moaned softly.
“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.
“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”
How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?
Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.
His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.
Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.
He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.
It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.
Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.
His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.
Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.
After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.
But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.
He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.
Greedy little thing you were.
And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.
Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.
And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.
Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.
Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.
Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.
You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.
He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.
“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.
“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.
The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.
When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.
He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.
He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.
The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.
You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.
You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.
His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.
Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.
Weird.
Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.
You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.
The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”
His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.
You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”
Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”
Silence. Your brain stalled.
“You could… what?”
His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.
clark kent smut drabble, pwp, established relationship, soft/adoring clark, chubby fem reader, multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, cowgirl, spooning), squirting and ejaculation, mild size kink, body worship, overstimulation, praise, playful banter and teasing, second person pov
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The sheets are already damp.
Clark’s lips trail down your belly, slow and worshipful, his breath shaky like he can barely hold himself back. You’re sprawled beneath him, skin flushed and thighs twitching from the orgasm he just coaxed out of you—his mouth wet, his fingers gentle but strong, stroking you through every pulse and quake like you’re something sacred.
And to him, you are.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, lips ghosting just above your cunt. His voice is low, ragged, and he’s barely holding himself together. “I could spend all night here.”
You whimper.
His hands cradle your thigh, thumbs brushing reverently over soft skin, your plush curves spreading wide for him. He stares like he’s memorizing you. Like every inch of you is his favorite thing.
There’s no rush. Clark never rushes you.
“Clark—please…”
Your voice breaks, need unraveling you from the inside out.
That’s all it takes. He shifts up slowly, dragging his body over yours, every inch of his broad chest brushing against your body as he goes. He’s thick and hard, already rutting against your soaked folds, not to tease—but to savor. You feel him shudder.
When he slides in, it’s slow and steady, a deep stretch that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. Your hands claw at his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist.
Clark groans, the sound raw in your ear. “God,” he breathes, hips pressing flush against yours, cock buried deep. “You feel so—so good. So warm. So wet for me. Always so perfect for me.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you. Lets you feel him. Lets you breathe him in.
Then his hips start to move.
Like every thrust is meant to say something he can’t. His forehead presses to yours, his hand caressing your jaw as his other stays gripped at your hip like he’s grounding himself.
You can’t stop whimpering. You’re so full. So sensitive. And the way he keeps hitting that spot just right—
“I’ve got you,” he says. “Gonna make you come again. You can take it, can’t you?”
You nod, nearly sobbing. “Yes. Please—don’t stop—“
And he doesn’t. He fucks you through it—gentle but firm, building the rhythm until your whole body arches, your orgasm tearing through you like a storm. You come hard, wetter than before—squirting around his cock, your moan breaking into a cry.
Clark gasps like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
“Jesus, baby,” he chokes. “That’s it, that’s so hot—you’re unbelievable—“
But he still doesn’t stop.
You’re still twitching, overstimulated and soaked when he flips you onto your side, curling around your back and sliding back in. Deep. His arm comes around to hold your chest, hand cupping your breast while he rocks into you from behind.
“You okay?” he breathes into your hair. “Still with me?”
You moan, nodding. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—“
“I won’t,” he says softly. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So good for me.”
You come again—shaking, clenching, soaking him all over again. The mess between your thighs is obscene, but Clark groans like it’s a gift from heaven. His rhythm stutters.
When he finally loses it, it’s with a strangled moan buried in your neck. He fills you deep, his cock pulsing, thighs trembling, arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You feel the heat of it spill inside and shiver with the fullness.
He kisses your shoulder. Your back. Your cheek.
Then he laughs—breathless and soft. “Think we’re done?”
You can barely speak, but your lips curl into a smile. “Clark. You’ve come three times. I’ve come… I lost count. So no. We are not done.”
Clark lets out a low, hungry sound.
“Good,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Because I need you on top next.”
. . . .
You’re not sure how you’re moving, but you straddle him anyway, thighs shaking as you hover over his lap. His cock is hard again—already—resting against his stomach, thick and flushed, twitching with need.
“You sure you can handle this?” you tease, breathless. “Pretty boy’s still hard?”
He gives you the softest, filthiest grin.
“For you?” He reaches up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. “I’d stay hard for hours.”
You sink down onto him slowly. Deliberate. Stretching, taking him inch by inch until you’re full again, your mouth falling open as your hands brace on his chest. He moans loud, head falling back against the pillow.
“Holy shit—“
His hands grab at your hips, your ass, anything—as you start to ride him, bouncing slow and deep, letting him feel every drag and grind. The way you move—confident, fluid, soaking him again with each pass—nearly breaks him.
Clark’s hands worship every curve he can reach. He strokes the softness of your belly, your thighs, your breasts, his voice wrecked as he praises you through it all.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “Look how you ride me. So beautiful. Can feel you fluttering around me—fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me come again.”
(You mentally tick how many times you’ve made him cuss.)
Your orgasm hits sharp—your body locking as you squirt again, soaking his chest, thighs, everything. Clark moans like a prayer, cock twitching wildly as you keep riding him.
He comes once again. Hard. Holding you tight, crying your name into your neck as he spills inside you a second time.
Eventually, you collapse on top of him, boneless, skin damp with sweat and slick and so much mess. His arms wrap around you as he nuzzles into your hair, heart racing against your cheek.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Now we’re done. Maybe.”
You laugh, still breathless. “We’ve ruined the sheets.”
“We’ll wash them later.” He tilts your chin, kissing your lips softly. “Right now, you just stay right here.”
You hum, nose brushing his neck. “You’re kind of a menace in bed, you know that?”
Clark laughs, smug. Cheeky bastard. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
You flick his chest weakly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He kisses your knuckles, your collarbone, your jaw. “And hopelessly in love with you,” he murmurs. “Which is why I’m going to hold you until your legs stop shaking. Then go down on you again.”
summary: you're trying to make scrambled eggs. clark doesn't really care. (he's trying to scramble your eggs instead)
wc: 3.8k
genre/tags: established relationship, boyfriend!clark, fluff, smut, morning sex, size kink, slight praise kink, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, implied protection (reader on bc), creampie, soft sex, p w.o p, no use of y/n, as domestically sweet and smutty as it gets <3
the apartment is quiet, save for the soft sizzle of butter in the pan atop the stove and the occasional clink of a spatula against the skillet. outside, the sun is beginning to rise, spilling orange light through the sheer curtains, casting long gold streaks across the kitchen tile.
you're standing at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of clark's old metropolis u shirts and humming quietly as you cook.
the eggs are nearly done, evident by their yellow fluffiness and you reach up to grab plates from the overhead cabinet above your head and then you hear a sound:
the faint creak of the hallway floorboards.
he's up.
you don't turn around yet. you just smile to yourself, turning the burner off and sliding the last bit of scrambled eggs onto the second plate.
then, after a moment, you decide to speak. "you're staring."
clark's voice is still rough with sleep when he answers, low and thick with that familiar farm boy drawl.
"i'm allowed to admire my lovely girlfriend."
then you feel his arms wrapping around you from behind, warm and firm as his hands find purchase splayed across your waist. he presses against your back, nose brushing your shoulder, and sighs like this is his favorite place to be. like you are.
"morning," you murmur softly, your smile audible now.
"mornin'," he says, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against your sides. "you always look good in my shirts," he adds lowly.
you lean back into him a little, slightly teasing. "you're only saying that because you enjoy the view."
"i always like the view," he corrects you, mumbling the words against your skin and his lips graze the base of your neck.
the words sit warm and heavy between you – sweeter than sugar and softer than the warm light basking his kitchen. you turn your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to brush his jaw.
"you always say the nicest things when you want something," you tease softly.
clark huffs a soft laugh, his breath fanning your skin. "and what if i do?"
his hands haven't moved from your waist, but now they're a little firmer like he's reminding you of his strength. as if you don't know how easy he could fold you over the counter if he wanted.
you smirk and shift slightly in his arms, grinding back just enough to feel the unmistakable shape of his cock, half hard and pressing into you.
"clark," you say, mock scolding. "i'm making breakfast."
"uh-huh," he hums, nosing along the curve of your neck, voice lowering. "but you started it."
"i said you were staring and now, you're the one all grabby."
his hands trail under the cotton fabric of his shirt, skimming your stomach and then up your ribs.
"you're wearing my shirt and no bra," he murmurs. "you're cooking and humming, looking like the reason i don't get out of bed on sundays."
you laugh, but it catches in your throat when his right hand trails down to pinch the soft flesh of your ass. "and in just panties under here. it's like you wanna kill me." he noses back up your neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "we can eat later," he says, dragging his fingers slowly back to your waist.
you're breathless already, trying to stay upright. "the eggs–"
"–will be fine," he finishes for you, turning you around gently in his arms.
and then he kisses you, soft lips meeting your for a connection that's slow, deep and filthy with intent all at once. his hands trail down to grip the backs of your thighs, squeezing the flesh there with a low hum.
you clutch at his bare shoulders, your fingers pressing against the hard contours of his shoulder muscles, his skin warm because of course he's always warm.
he lifts you like its nothing (because it is), hands slipping under your thighs to anchor you against him.
"clark," you breathe as he starts walking, already heading toward the bedroom. "the food's gonna get cold," you warn him softly. it's a half-protest because there's no real bite in your tone, evident by the lack of your body's resistance by the way your legs wrap around his hips for extra steadiness.
"that's why 've got a microwave," he murmurs lowly, eyes lidded slightly downward and glazed over. yeah, there's no getting clark out of this mood until you've exhausted yourselves.
clark carries you down the hall like he's done it a hundred times – granted, he has – with a quiet urgency, like he woke up this morning starving for you and now that you're in his arms, there's no sign of him letting go anytime soon.
might as well relent.
you're kissing him all the way to the bedroom, hands buried in his dark curls, mouth dragging along his jaw, and you don't need super-hearing to hear his pulse thudding hard against you. he barely manages to kick the door shut behind him before he's laying you back on the bed, cool sheets crumbling beneath your body as he hovers over you with a look that steals the breath from your lungs.
even in the soft glow of morning in his quiet apartment, there's a look of intensity in the deep blues of his eyes. one that reminds you that he's memorized every inch of you, but the hunger in them tells you he wants to do it again. slower. deeper. needier.
his hands are everywhere, first braced on either side of your hips, then smoothing up your waist, fingers skimming under his shirt, the delicate softness making your breath hitch.
the light bleeding through the curtains in his bedroom casts against his hovering frame above you, giving him a glowing aura on the right side of his body.
he takes his time taking your shift off, like he's unwrapping a precious gift, revealing your skin to the air and his intense gaze at the same time.
clark groans, quiet and low, like the sight of you takes something out of him, which it does, no matter how many times he's seen you before.
he palms gently up your thighs, his hands large and warm as they settle back on your hips. he leans down to kiss the center of your chest, between the valley of your breasts, his lips reverent and humming against you. you gasp as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the slopes of your breasts, one hand snaking upward to pinch at a stiffened peak. he silences a whimper with a hushed whisper of 'sorry,' against your smooth skin, despite continuing his ministrations, rolling the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.
"clark," you pant softly. you arch slightly, breathing shallow and heart pounding in your chest. "enough teasing."
he half-hums, half-chuckles, lashes fluttering against your breast as he presses a kiss there. your words make him grin – lazy and lopsided and far too smug for someone of his usual candor.
"but, baby," he muses, trailing his lips down the smooth skin of your belly, "that's the best part."
you whimper softly, lower body squirming against the sheets, searching for any form of friction.
he chuckles again, nodding at your neediness. "okay, okay," he murmurs, soft and low. his finger hook into the hem of your panties, teasingly flicking them against your hip once before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside with a practiced flick.
your legs part for him instinctually, humming when his palms squeeze around the plush flesh of your thighs and pulls them further apart. he leans down pressing a kiss to the inner side of your knee. he peppers kisses up the side of your leg, meeting your inner thigh.
"so pretty," he murmurs, his lips going higher, then higher, until you're gasping, your finger tangled in the sheets.
you don't have to say anything. your hips shift restlessly and he hums in approval.
"'haven't even done anything yet," he says, voice low and reverent, almost smug. he has the full qualification to be, with the way you writhe and pant against the bed after he's done little to nothing.
"clark," you breathe again, tone bordering desperate.
he doesn't need to be told twice. his mouth descends upon you – warm, slow and torturously thorough. his tongue lazily flicks against your clit, lapping at the hardening bundle of nerves with just the right pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut and your back arch further off the bed.
your hands fly to his hair, tugging reflexively at the dark locks, and clark groans at the way you tug him closer to your core. he easily manhandles you, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, inhaling the scent of you while his tongue never wavers.
even now, with his mouth between your thighs and your body unraveling all from his doing, there's a special kind of care in the way clark touches you. he doesn't simply take from you, rushing to meet both of your ends. no, he draws it out. he touches you like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again.
clark is thoughtful.
he effortlessly swept you off your feet with his kansas farm boy charm on his first day working at the planet. and not because of grand gestures.
quite the contraire.
it's little things that clark does that made you fall in love with him.
like how he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. or how he carries an extra umbrella in his bag, just in case it rains and someone in the office forgot theirs. how he remembers your coffee order. how he'll fold your laundry if he stays over your place, not because you asked him to, but because he "had a little time while you were showering."
it's how he listens, really listens, like nothing in the world matters more than what you have to say.
it's the soft expression he holds when you meet his gaze, either at home or at the office.
it's the whispered words he reserves for only you to hear – sweet nothings, gentle praises, utmost compliments.
just like he's whispering right now against your core between languid laps that you can't even make out
"fuck," you gasp, legs trembling around his shoulders. your toes curl at the skillful precision of his tongue.
he pauses just long enough to murmur, "language," into your skin, then grins when he feels you glare down at him. (as if he doesn't swear like a sailor every time he's balls deep buried inside you.)
"i swear to god, clark–"
"blasphemy now?" he teases the inside of your leg again, gently kissing the juncture between your thigh and pelvis.
you shoot him a warning look but it's soon wiped off your face when his mouth returns to your core, this time swiping up your slit. his tongue gives a break to your puffy clit, circling the area under it, reaching your entrance, achingly fluttering.
he hums in satisfaction, dipping his tongue past the opening of your entrance, making your walls flutter.
you're already so close, and clark knows it. if he wasn't your boyfriend, it'd be embarrassing. he pulls away to meet your gaze with his heated one. the blues of his eyes are nearly nonexistent with the ways his pupils have dilated. "always so messy," he muses with a smug smile, bringing his fingers to swipe through the slick between your folds, spreading it around your twitching core.
clark is a giver.
so, despite having pulled away when you were oh, so close to an orgasm, it wasn't out of cruelty. it never is. it's always for something better.
and from the way he kneels up at the foot of bed, allowing you view to the large and hard outline visible behind his sweatpants, you have an idea what that is. the cotton clings to the outline of his cock, the fabric damp at the tip where precum has already soaked through.
his finger hooks into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down in a slow motion, making a show of it. tease, you think mentally and rolling your eyes with a smile. his heavy cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking with his arousal.
your mouth waters at the sight.
you've seen him like this several times, but it still knocks the breath out of you. you always remind him his cock is a good representation of his entire being. he's just so big, so achingly beautiful in a way that makes your center flutter at the sight.
clark meets your gaze, reads your expression and the way your hand twitches to reach for him and he shakes his head. "later," he rumbles, scooting closer to you on the bed, settling between your thighs. "need to be inside you," he adds.
you nod eagerly, panting as he lines himself, giving himself a few slow strokes and nudging the head of his cock at your entrance. "think i'll fit without prepping you with my fingers first?"
you're too needy to care, nodding anyway. "we'll make it fit," you murmur firmly.
clark laughs at your determination to take him without properly preparing your tight walls. the memory of your first time flashes in both your minds: how it took an hour and three toe-curling orgasms coaxed from his fingers before your pussy was able to take his cock.
safe to say, you believe you've conquered him since then.
you roll your hips purposefully against the engorged head of his cock, demeanor desperate. "clark," you whine softly.
"alright, alright," he hums with a nod, slowly pushing inside your welcoming walls with a soft hiss.
your walls stretch around him immediately, fluttering from the sudden pressure of his size. the head alone feels impossibly thick. already punching the air from his lungs despite how gentle he is.
"shit," you breathe, fingers fisting the sheets beside you as he slowly pushes in another inch.
clark groans above you, slack jawed as he watches the way your body tries to take him. "you're so tight, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth. "still... every time... so tight f'me."
your thighs shake around his hips, your whole body arching to meet him, desperate for more, even as your pussy clenches instinctively at the intrusion. "don't stop," you pant, voice breathless. "i can take it, i can-"
"i know you can," he cuts you off, murmuring the words and brushing his lips across your cheek as a gentle reward. "you're my good girl, right?"
your core clenches around him at his question and you nod frantically, nearly delirious with need as he pushes in deeper. the stretch burns in perfect way: so much, but not too much, just enough to make your mind muddled with fuzz.
slowly and steadily, he gives you another inch, and then another, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady to keep you from squirming too much.
"halfway there," he murmurs, but it's more to himself than it is to you. he watches, eyes glazed over and jaw open, as your pretty little body struggles to accommodate just half of his length. "you're taking me so well, sweetheart."
you whimper at the praise, arms winding around his back, clinging to him like a lifeline as your hips roll helplessly to attempt and meet his.
"more," you breath, voice broken and needy. "please, clark..."
his gaze darkens, pupils still swallowing up the blue. he leans down, resting his weight on one forearms beside your head while the other slides under your thigh, hooking your leg up around his waist for a better angle. "i know, baby. i know," he murmurs reverently. brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that's soft but hungry, his cock twitching inside you from the sheer intimacy of it all.
and then he pushes further.
you croon, mouthing falling open in a silent gasp as inch by inch, as he splits you open and stretches you to your limit, and then past it. your walls pulse around him, fluttering like your body can't decide whether to suck him in deeper or clamp down to keep him out because he's too much; too thick; too clark.
clark grunts softly, his voice soft husky at your hair. "i missed this," he murmurs, hips stilling so he can savor the way you're trembling beneath him. the ends of his curls, damp with sweat brush against your earlobe, tickling you. "missed the way you feel around me... like you were made for it," he muses. it's obvious he's drunk with sex, never so bluntly vocal about something so obscene.
you nod, feeling his forehead press to yours. "think i was," you pant, lashes fluttering as your lips brush against each others.
you weren't sure if fate travels across solar systems, but damn are you glad that earth was the planet he crash landed on.
your words do something to him. you can feel the effect rippling through every muscle in his body. his cock twitches deep inside you and his restraint falters.
he sinks deeper into you.
your mouth drops open with a strangled moan and clark swallows the sound with a hungry kiss. his tongue licks into your mouth as his cock continues to stretch your pussy. he's three-quarters in, then four-fifths, then–
"fuck," clark groans, voice raspier than ever. "that's it... that's my girl, taking all of me."
he bottoms out with a heavy press of his hips, the base of his cock flush against your soaked swollen folds. the hair above the base of his cock brushes against your clit, creating a delicious friction. you feel full in a way that should defy logic, as if he's reaching places inside you that no one has (and let's be real, no one else ever will).
and the best part?
it's not just sex. it's never just sex. not with clark.
he lifts his head, meeting your gaze, his lower lip trapped between his teeth because he's holding back oh, so much. "can i...can i move yet?" he asks, tone strained.
you smile at his unwavering consideration and chuckle through your nose, nodding. "mhm, 'm okay," you murmur softly.
his hips roll, slow and deliberate, easing out just enough for to you feel the loss, making you whimper, before he sinks back in with a deep needy groan.
your hands clutch at his back instinctively, fingertips pressing into the firm planes of muscles, anchoring you.
clark moves like he worships you – because he does.
each stroke of his is slow, reverent and full of maddening patient he always has, like he's determined to make you feel every inch of him. it's as if he wants to carve himself into your velvet walls (as if he hasn't already) in the quiet morning light.
"y'feel so good," you slur softly, voice featherlight. "always feels s'good."
"yeah?" he rasps, burying his face in the crook of your neck, gently nibbling on the damp skin. "you feel like heaven, sweetheart."
and you believe him. not just because of how he says it, but because of how he says everything. clark speaks with nothing but truth, softness, and, only with you, with an undercurrent of awe, like he's genuinely shocked that he gets to love you this way.
his pace builds, inch by inch, thrust by thrust, until you're gasping his name like a mantra. your bodies rock together in a practiced rhythm, slicked with sweat and tangled in warm sheets and sunlight. his name continues to spill from your lips from sheer instinct and without thought.
clark murmurs soft encouragements against your skin, his lips pressed to your cheek, down your jaw, down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder.
"you're doing so well for me, baby... so good..."
you're so full, so dizzy, so completely undone.
"clark, 'm about to... gonna..." you whine, feeling the pressure tighten in your lower belly.
he chuckles warmly, slipping his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. "you gonna cum already, sweetheart?"
you nod, eyelashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your brain nearly mush at this point.
clark reels at your expression, knowing he's the only one to subject you to this state of mind and body.
"cum then, baby," he says, voice tight with balanced control as he continues the relentless rhythm, rocking your body into the mattress. "wanna feel you cum around my cock."
your orgasm hits fast, no warning, save for the high pitched cry of his name spilling from your lips. you're thankful you're over at his apartment instead of your own because you really can't afford another noise complaint from your neighbors. you claw at his shoulders, leaving indents for sure (that'll heal in less than ten minutes), and your thighs squeeze around his hips as you cum hard around his cock.
clark groans as you tighten around him, barely managing before he rasps, "i'm about to– inside– can i?"
you nod eagerly, body flushing with heat. he never fails to ask despite every constant reassurance from you that you're on birth control and he's always welcome to cum inside. that's just another thing that makes clark, clark.
he manages a few more thrusts before he follows you over the edge. his hips still as he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills into you with a strangled moan of your name.
the room goes quiet, with the exception of your mingled breathing and birds chirping outside his window.
he doesn't pull out right away – he never does. clark never rushes to move. he always just holds you, pressing kisses to your temple while carding his fingers through your hair. he pulls back enough, just to look at you, just to see your hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and stupid in love. he presses a kiss to your forehead, a million words sealed into the intimate gesture.
you feel his cock soften inside you as he stays buried in the warmth of your body as if it's where he belongs. he likes to think so, at least.
you hum, lazy and content, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, pulling him flush atop you, unworried about how he practically crushes you.
"the eggs are definitely cold," you murmur against the sweat-slick skin of his neck.
he pulls back – too worried about his weight on top of you, bracing his arms beside your head – and sports a grin, lazy and crooked. "worth it."
you snort, tracing your finger along the hard expanse of his chest. "you always say that."
"and i always mean it."
again, you weren't sure if fate traveled across solar systems, but somehow, someway, it sent clark kent straight to you.
any zombie au i would write with simon would be like. he rocks up to the settlement that ur staying at and you do Not like him
he's off-putting, he has weird flat eyes that look right through you, he's massive and it keeps kicking some deep-buried prey mindset you have into first gear
but he's able to do the work of two men easily enough. an arsehole, yeah, but he's willing to go further out than most and all he wants in exchange is one of the houses to get out of the rain
maybe other people have an issue with the way he looks and speaks, but he's useful enough that they don't say it too loud
you don't know how to voice that you don't like the way that he stares over at you, how he barks at you to get back if you ever do find yourself in the same group - takes the lead into any unexplored buildings and treats you like a nuisance
he firmly tells you that you won't be going back out if he's not there and lets you bitch all you won't but you find that no one will let you leave if he's not there
the settlement setup seems to be working for now, so he's letting it be, but god help you when he decides everyone is interfering too much with the two of you or he decides you guys are better off making your own way
he'll be off in the middle of the night and you'll be coming with him - and you're not exactly asked for your opinion on the matter
