Pairing: Clark Kent x female reader, Superman x female reader
Summary: You think your coworker Clark is actually Superman. You ask him out to dinner to determine the truth, only to hurt his feelings. One bad confrontation and two sexually charged encounters later, you decide to stay clear of him at work. Except you really can't, especially not when you know he wants you just as bad, too. That's okay. You'll just have to seduce him into giving in.
Word Count: 10.5K (worth it, i promise)
Content: Hurt/comfort, angst, seduction, explicit language, heavy petting, oral sex (male receiving), female fingering, size kink, heavy kissing, subspace, alcohol consumption, tobacco consumption, mention of pornography, insecurity, misunderstanding, use of nicknames, Clark being his own enemy, Clark having a monster cock?
Note: You asked, I delivered. This may be my magnus opus. I put my whole cooch in the smut.
You discover that your coworker, Clark Kent, is actually Superman on a random Tuesday.
You wished that the reveal was grand in nature—a result of your investigative abilities and not a complete accident.
The Daily Planet was quiet, midnight approaching rapidly closer by the minute, when it happened. Perry White insisted no one clocked out until the first draft of a three-page exposé on the alleged arms deal between Lex Luthor and the Boravian government was done.
You had lost count of the hours you had sat glued to your computer when you finally your eyes from the bright screen. You stretched, scanning the room to see what your coworkers were up to. Your gaze fell on Clark, who sat typing away at his desk a few feet away.
He yawned, pulled off his glasses, and ran his large hands over his face. As his arms dropped to his lap, you froze mid-stretch.
Is that Superman?
He slid his glasses back on smoothly, completely unaware of your earth-shattering discovery. Your gazes met across the floor, and he gave you a sweet smile before returning to his work. You looked around to see if anyone else had also seen what you just saw, but Lois and Jimmy were busy flipping through some papers. You were alone in your revelation
You turned back to your computer, and the words swam across the screen. No way. No fucking way.
You paused again, mind racing a million miles an hour. You began putting the puzzle together. Wasn’t it strange that Clark Kent was the only journalist in Metropolis to ever interview Superman? No reporter —not even Lois Lane— was able to get even a quote from the superhero. Clark was always late to work on days there was a Superman sighting. And then last week, when the Kaiju had attacked, Clark had gone home early, complaining about a headache, only to be gone for the rest of the week. Now that you think about it, you had never seen Clark Kent and Superman in a room at the same time.
You slammed your hands down on your table and spun around in your chair. Using the heels of your feet, you dragged your chair across the tile floor until it bumped into Clark’s desk. He glanced at you with an arched eyebrow, fingers slowing down over the keyboard. “What’s up?”
Are you Superman? you wanted to scream
Instead, you settled on, “Pub on Friday after work?”
He reached for his phone to check something. “I haven’t looked at the group chat. What’s the plan?”
“You. Me. Pub. Seven o’clock.”
He tilted his head to the side and scratched his head. “Oh, okay. Sounds good. I’ll meet you all there.”
“It’s just going to be us, Clark,” you simplified. “I’m asking you out. Like on a date. I think it would be nice for us to go out and talk.”
A pink streak broke across his face. “Oh, um,” he stuttered, “y-yeah. Sure. I’ll be there. Th-Thanks.”
“Good boy,” you smiled. “See you at seven.”
You used your feet to drag yourself back to your desk.
The cogs in your brain were turning; a plan was taking root. If Clark didn’t show up, and there happened to be a meta-villain attacking Metropolis at the same time, your suspicions would be confirmed. If he did show up, you’d present your evidence and ask him point-blank if he was moonlighting as a superhero on the side. He was a terrible liar; he always squirmed too quickly. Either way, it would be like catching an insect in your venus flytrap.
I got you now, big blue.
.
.
.
Clark Kent began bringing you a cup of coffee every morning after that.
He would walk in late, apologize to Perry, and beeline straight to your desk, balancing two paper cups in his hand. “Thought you might like some,” he would say, giving you a dimpled smile.
Okay, maybe you didn’t completely think your plan through. You wanted to lay low until the big day, but patience was not your strongest virtue. In hindsight, perhaps you should have asked for drinks the very next day. Now, instead of asking the big question, you were overdosing on caffeine every morning. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
By the time Friday rolled around, you were buzzing, and you didn’t know if it was due to the coffee sloshing around in your stomach or from sheer excitement. You had fled from your desk as soon as the clock struck five. Today was finally the day you would solve the mystery that was on every citizen’s mind, and you would be the first to do so.
At seven o’clock sharp, you walked through the doors belonging to your local pub and straight into Clark’s back. You yelped back, crying out in pain.
He spun around with wide eyes. “Gosh,” he exclaimed, “are you okay?”
Pain radiated up your face. You held your hand up to your nose and mumbled, “I’m fine.”
“Let me see,” he said, wrapping his hand around your thin wrist and peeling it away from your face. “Golly, you are bleeding! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you urged, waving him away. “It’s not even that bad.”
He watched you, eyes brimming with concern. He took your hand and guided you to the back of the pub. You sat down, still cradling your nose as he went to the bar to grab you some ice.
This whole nose-bleed fiasco had completely ruined your game plan. There’s no way this man isn’t Superman, you decided. How could some journalist have a back so strong and shoulders so wide and arms so—
Clark returned with some ice-cubes in a thin plastic bag and handed it to you. You took it from him. “Thanks.”
He hovered for a moment before choosing to slide into the chair next to you. “Let me help,” he offered, taking the ice pack from you.
He pressed it gently against your nose. His free hand cupped the side of your head to angle your face up to him. “Does it hurt?”
Your ears burned under his warm touch. “N-no.”
“Poor baby,” he whispered under his breath, making your toes curl in your heels. “You should have watched where you were going.”
His pleasant aftershave flooded your senses. “It’s not my fault you’re made out of iron,” you mumbled.
“Steel.”
“Sorry?”
“Still,” he enunciated, “you gotta’ be more careful. How will you stick your nose in Lex Luthor’s business if its broken?”
You couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes met yours, and you saw he was grinning. Before you could lose your nerve, you asked, “Clark, are you Superman?”
His smile fell. He pulled his hands away from you. The noise from the pub seemed to fade away so you could fully experience each painfully quiet second that went by.
His head dropped down to his lap, and a tremor ran through his shoulders. You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. A pit began forming in your belly.
Finally, Clark broke the silence. “You asked me out for this nonsense?”
Blood rushed to your ears. “No,” you began, “I mean— yes. I was curious. You just look so much like the guy, I thought maybe—”
He looked up at you, eyes glistening. “I thought you liked me.”
You felt a sudden pang in your chest. You had been so caught up in making a great discovery that you hadn’t even considered the gravity of your actions.
No, no, no, you chanted in your head. This is bad. He thinks I’m messing with him.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt your— I’m really sorry.”
He stood up, no longer looking at you. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of tissue and tossed it on the table. “I hope you get home safe,” he said and then stormed out.
You called out his name, running after him. By the time you step outside the pub, Clark is long gone and the only thing waiting for you outside is the cold autumn breeze.
.
.
.
Sometime over the weekend, you decided that you were a horrible person.
It was eating you alive that you had hurt Clark. You didn’t mean to, but that didn’t matter. Your actions had caused him pain. You had taken his kind heart and crushed it in your cruel fists in the name of journalistic pursuit.
You were dreading coming into work on Monday morning, and when Clark walked in, late as usual, your fears became true. He refused to even look at you. You tried talking to him, and his replies were polite as usual, but short and to the point. The cup of coffee you got him sat untouched on his desk. He didn’t even join in on your banter with Lois.
By noon, everyone at the Daily Planet knew something had gone wrong between you both. The way he cleared the space whenever you stepped into the room made it hard to ignore. “Is everything good between you and Kent?” Jimmy asked in the break room.
Your cheeks grew warm behind your cup. “I don’t think so,” you admitted.
“What happened?”
“ . . . date . . . accused . . . Superman,” you spoke under your breath.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “What?”
You sighed and answered, louder, “I asked him out on a date and then accused him of being Superman.”
“Superman? he echoed, and then barked out a laugh. “Clark Kent? S-SUPERMAN?”
You closed your eyes, groaning. It took a complete minute for him to stop howling.
Jimmy wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Okay, sorry— let me get this straight, you thought our coworker, Clark Kent, who can’t even walk through a door without bumping into the frame, was Metropolis’ saviour? You know that Superman lifts like cars off people, right?”
You cringed at the visual and then gave him the full account of your disastrous date.
“Okay, to summarize,” he said after listening to you, “you asked out Kent, got his hopes up by making him think you genuinely liked him, and then destroyed that hope within the first five minutes of your date.”
You nodded, cheeks flaring.
“Jeez,” Jimmy whistled. “You really have lost your mind.”
“Trust me, I know how that sounds,” you admitted. “I don’t know what was going on in my head. They don’t even look alike.”
“They really don’t. I guess you don’t spend enough time looking at him,” he remarked, shrugging. “At least not as much as he spends looking at you.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jimmy’s made a face that told you that he thought you were a real idiot. “Oh, come on!” he cried out. “You mean to tell me that you haven’t seen the way Clark Kent looks at you?”
You tilted your head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you stated, utterly confused.
Clark didn’t look at you in any particular way. You would have seen it for yourself since you had spent all of last week watching him like a hawk. The phone in your pocket buzzed as Jimmy shook his head, disappointed.
“All right, answer me this. Did you feel inclined to ask him out because you thought he was Superman, or because you simply liked him?”
You had been so preoccupied with feeling remorseful that you hadn’t spent any time dissecting your actions leading to the disaster. “I-I don’t know Jimmy.”
You pulled your phone out of your pocket as you racked your brain for an answer. A text message glowed on your screen.
Clark Kent: Meet me at the rooftop. I need to speak to you.
.
.
.
You raced up to the Daily Planet’s rooftop, out of breath.
Clark stood by the railing, staring out at the Metropolis skyline. “Clark?” you call out, heart beating loudly in your rib cage.
From the back, he appeared taller than usual. You realized the slight hunch in his back from before had disappeared. Cautiously, you made your way closer to him.
“What made you think I was Superman?” he questioned, still looking ahead.
You froze at the sound of his voice. It was much deeper than what you were used to. He sounded different than the Clark you knew. You cleared your throat before answering, “It doesn’t matter anymore. I was wrong.”
“I insist.”
You curled your hair behind your ears, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Okay,” you exhaled, “I guess . . . I just had a hunch that you were him.”
He didn’t turn around to look at you. The yellow sun shone brightly up ahead, bathing you both in its light as it disappeared behind the skyscrapers. The hair on your arms stood up as its warmth faded. The pit in your stomach was back again; something bad was about to happen.
Wanting to break the thick blanket of silence in between you both, you spoke again. “I found it odd that you were the only reporter ever speaking to Superman. Why did he only ever want to speak to when there were so many senior journalists reaching out? Then, it was t-the way you wrote about him . . . the surety in your words . . . it felt like you knew exactly what was going on in his head. You also passed off on fieldwork opportunities a-anytime a meta-villain attacked. I mean, what reporter does that? And then sometimes when you take your glasses off, I swear you look exactly like him—”
Clark finally turned to you. The frames were missing from his face. “Like now?”
There it was again; Superman looking right at you.
You gulped. “Yes.”
“What if I told you that your hunch was correct?” he questioned. “What if I really am Superman? What happens then?”
Your mind went blank. You hadn’t thought that far. Why didn’t I think about what happens next?
“What will you do?” he asked, teeth grinding. “Will you run down and tell Perry White?”
“No,” you whispered, jerking back.
“Or would you wait?” he mused, stepping closer. “Would you put in an overtime request to write the next exposé on me?”
“No,” you repeated, stepping back. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“I just wouldn’t do that to you,” you insisted, shaking your head.
You both moved in tandem until your back hit the concrete wall next to the door. His hand came up to rest beside your head. “Why not?” he challenged. “It would make for a great headline.”
Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to fall. “My professional curiosity got the best of me,” you croaked through the lump forming in your throat. “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get so bad between us.”
“I don’t believe you,” he stated, jaw clenching.
“You’re my friend, Clark,” you blinked, quickly. “I would never put your life in jeopardy like that.”
His icy blue eyes bore right into you. He let his head drop down, and his forehead met yours. “If you ever cared about me,” he sighed, “even just a little, promise me that you will never speak to a soul about this.”
You gave him a shaky nod.
“Give me your word,” he demanded, lips turned downward.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “I promise. Please believe me.”
You both remained still, frozen in that moment. Your mind couldn’t process what was happening. The coldness of his words stood against the heat radiating off his skin, making your head spin. Your breathing became laboured. If it wasn’t for his forehead pressed against yours, your legs would have given out.
“For what’s it worth,” he said, his breath fanning your face, “I liked being wanted by you. Even if it was just for a moment.”
A second later, he pushed away from you, yanked the rooftop door open, and disappeared downstairs. You waited for his footsteps to fade away before you let the tears fall.
The ground beneath you swayed and crouched down. In that moment, you felt like a child, caught in a mess that you didn’t know how to navigate. You wrapped your arms around your knees, sobbing.
The only thing you knew was the answer to Jimmy’s question. You truly did like Clark Kent.
.
.
.
Things went back to normal slowly.
Clark returned to his usual, cheery demeanour, but you could see that his eyes had changed. Long gone was the softness for you that always seemed to be settled within them. His eyes now carried that a streak of apprehension instead. Anytime Lois mentioned Superman, you could feel Clark’s eyes glance at you in uncertainty.
For fuck’s sake, you wanted to scream out, I told you I wasn’t going to say anything!
You decided to just stay clear of Clark Kent. You have had enough of him acting like you were some villainess who stole ice cream out of the hands of children. “Aren’t you just dying to know who Superman is?” Jimmy asked, mischief painted across your face.
You rolled your eyes. “Ha-ha,” you deadpanned. “Very funny.”
“For real,” he insisted, “any new guesses?”
You pretended to think for a moment. “Lex Luthor?”
You heard Clark choke on his coffee behind you. Jimmy cackled at your response.
“Seriously,” Lois interjected, oblivious to the reason behind Jimmy’s taunt, “that’s your best guess?”
The clock struck five, and you began packing up. You shrugged. “As long as he keeps on doing what he’s doing, it’s none of my business.”
Lois raised an eyebrow. “Got a hot date?”
You slung your work bag over your shoulder. “Yeah,” you answered with a grin. “It’s with Superman.”
Jimmy and Lois’s laughter echoed through the floor as you exited the Daily Planet. You walked to the bus stop with the back of your ankles scraping painfully against your heels. You reached just in time to see the bus speeding away. On cue, rain began pouring down from the sky, soaking you within seconds.
Great, you thought, I just love my life right now.
You held your work bag over your head to shield yourself from the downpour, choosing to walk home instead. The wind picked up, and the cold air made your teeth clatter. It was times like this that made you wish you could fly. Maybe if you hadn’t ruined things with Clark, he would have taken you flying.
No, you told yourself. I made a mistake and I apologized.
There was not much you could do beyond that. Eventually, Clark would have to forgive you, and if he didn’t, then you’d just have to live with it. You couldn’t spend the rest of your career at the Daily Planet walking on eggshells.
You turned the corner and ran straight into something big and blue. “Agh!” you yelped, stumbling back.
Two hands shot out to steady you. You angle your bag up and saw a familiar face. “Cl— I mean, Superman?”
.
.
.
The superhero stood in front of you with concern coloured on his face.
The bright red and blue of his suit stood in stark contrast against the gloomy city. You could vividly remember the last time you were so close to the man. It was on the rooftop when he had given you a harsh dressing down.
“You’re soaked,” he remarked, eyeing you from head to toe.
You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, genius,” you countered, moving around him to walk ahead.
“Let me drop you off at home,” he called out, catching up with you.
“You don’t have a car,” you said, speeding up.
His long legs made it easy for him to match your pace. “Superman doesn’t need a car.”
“You're referring to yourself in third person now?” you snorted.
“No,” he shook his head, “it's just a thing I came up with. I thought I'd try to work
into my chit-chat with the citizens. Why is it strange?”
“Nope,” you lied, “I think it’s completely normal that you spend your spare time rehearsing dialogues with strangers.”
“We are not strangers.”
“My point still stands.”
He grabbed your arm to gently stop you. “What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed through clenched teeth.
People passing by eyed you both, whispering to each other. One man across the street pulled his phone out to record you two. You couldn’t even be upset at him for invading your privacy; you did that as a job.
“I’m just trying to get you home quicker,” he reasoned, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It will take you forever to limp home in those shoes. Why don’t you have a coat with you by the way?”
“Sorry for forgetting to check the forecast!”
“Just let me help you!” he exclaimed, matching your volume.
“You’re making a scene,” you told him, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t need your help.”
“I know,” he sighed, licking his lips. “Let me help you anyway.”
“Why?” you questioned, confused at his changed attitude. “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”
“You said it yourself,” he reminded, smirking. “You have a date with Superman.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course, he was eavesdropping; he probably couldn’t help himself with that super-hearing power of his.
“Come on,” he urged, tugging at the straps of your bag. “Let’s get out of here before.”
You stepped back to take a long look at him. A dark, wet curl had torn loose from his neatly combed back hair. You felt a sudden compulsion to reach out and tuck it back in place.
Shit, you thought, am I really about to give in to his bullshit?
Perhaps it was because you missed his company, or the expectant look in his eyes, or maybe you were just curious to know why he had followed you out. Before you could uncover the reason behind your decision, you flipped to face the man across the street.
“Oh, Superman!” you cried out, swooning. “Save me from the rain!”
You tipped back just as Clark reached down to wrap one arm around your shoulder and the other under your knee. He hoisted up to his chest and grinned.
“Let’s get you home, citizen.”
.
.
.
Flying looked better in movies.
You hadn’t stopped screaming since you took off the ground in Clark’s arms. The wind and rain hit your eyes as you both soared over Metropolis. It was probably for the best that you couldn’t see, because anytime you made the mistake of looking down, nausea took hold.
Clark was having the time of his life; he hadn’t stopped laughing for a second. He even had the nerve to spin you both through a cloud over LuthorCorp. Your hands fisted his cape as you buried your head in the crook of his neck. You caught the tail end of what he was saying.
“—not dropping you!”
“DON’T DROP ME!”
He laughed even harder. A reluctant smile broke out on your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you had experienced something so exhilarating.
Is this how you live, Clark?
Eventually, you both slowed down. You peered over his shoulder and saw your apartment building underneath. Clark gently glided lower until you both reached your balcony. You thought he would set you down, but he didn’t. He balanced your weight on one arm and used the other to pull the slide doors apart, leading inside. He walked in, slipped on the indoor shoes without being asked, and carried you to your kitchen.
He gently settled you on the counter and stepped back. “How did you like it?” he asked, sheepishly.
“Honestly,” you croaked, mouth dry. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
He squinted at your stomach and then decided, “No, you’re not.”
You used your arms to shield your torso. “Don’t use your x-ray vision on my belly!”
“Sorry, sorry!” he cried, holding his hands up in surrender. “Force of habit. I won’t do it again.”
You shoved him back a little and hopped off the counter. You opened a cabinet and pulled out two empty cups. “I don’t know how you do this every day,” you said, setting them on the marble slab. “I thought I was going to pass out.”
He shrugged. “It was frightening for me at first, too,” he admitted. “I would do it in my sleep and accidentally float into the living room after bedtime. It would give my ma’ and pa’ a real scare.”
“No one ever caught you?”
“I didn’t have neighbours close by,” he explained. “Just acres of farmland. I think our cows saw me a couple of times, though. I-I lived in a small town— Smallville.”
You giggled as you filled up the kettle. “I don’t know why I just said that,” he said in a small voice. “I have never told anyone that before.”
You paused, searching for any hints of regret in his tone. “You don’t have to worry,” you replied. “I told you I wasn’t going to say anything.”
You both stayed silent as you turned the stove on and set the kettle down on top. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh before,” Clark spoke from behind. “I was really alarmed that you figured it out so easily.”
You shook your head, looking ahead. “I should have brought it up with more tact,” you admitted, biting your lip. “You made me feel like shit, but you had good reason to get upset. I just want to put this whole thing behind us, you know?”
You felt him step closer. His forehead slumped on your shoulder. “We can’t. I know you don’t see me the same anymore. How can things ever go back to the way they were?”
You spun around to face him, irritated. “Then what do I do, Clark?” you questioned, lips thinning. “What do you want me to do? I can’t turn back time and pretend that I don’t know you’re Superman. What can I do to make you stop looking at me like I’m a monster waiting to destroy you?”
You saw that he was taken aback. “I—” he began, lashes fluttering, “I just . . . I . . . ”
You felt a sudden surge in confidence. You placed your hands on his shoulders and bore into his bright eyes. “That day when I asked you out,” you started, “how did it feel?”
He blinked. “I was . . . surprised?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “I was taken aback. I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“And?”
“I was excited,” he continued, gulping. “I had wished for it longer than I’d like to admit.”
Your stomach tightened. “And?” you inquired, fingernails digging into his suit.
“And it hurt my heart to find out that you only did that because you wanted to uncover my big secret,” he confessed, voice getting higher.
There it was. The big hurt lay out in the open; exposed for you both to discuss.
You inched closer to clear the gap between you both. “What if I told you that I didn’t ask you out just for that?” you asked, craning your head up at him. “What if I told you I asked you out simply because I like you?”
The air around you grew warm and made your head spin. It was almost as if the sun itself was inside your apartment. Your lips brushed against Clark, and his eyelids grew heavy. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
He tipped your chin up with a massive hand. Your hands slipped down to his large biceps. His chest rose and fell, rapidly. You swallowed in anticipation. “I’m telling you I want you, Clark,” you whispered.
The kettle whistled behind you, jolting you both. The spell snapped. Clark stepped away from you.
You called out his name, but he cut you off. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “If it was so easy for you to figure out the truth, then I have to believe that others may already know too. It’s only a matter of time before the world knows it, too. When that happens, everyone around me will be in danger. That can never happen. I can’t do that to you. What I want can never happen.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he was already gone, taking the warmth in your home with him.
.
.
.
You decided that you will just have to seduce Clark Kent.
Clark wanted you too. Of course, he didn’t say those words out loud, but you knew what he meant. You didn’t know if you should be crying or laughing. The man you liked you back just as much.
His superhero dilemma made you want to bang your head against the wall. You understood why he was afraid, but being alone for the rest of his life was hardly the solution. Some day, he would have to get over it, and you weren’t going to be the woman he almost had.
No, you came to the conclusion, I think I’m going to have you now.
You had no plan; you were being driven just by instinct. It was an act as old as time. Clytemnestra, Cleopatra, Jezebel, and countless others had perfected the game before you. You just hoped that Kryptonian men ran just as red-blooded as their human counterparts.
There was just one issue. You had never seduced anyone before; the need for that had simply never come up. Some brainstorming and a few mortifying Google searches later, you decided on your first move.
Step 1: Look hot.
You looked great every day, but now you had put your sexiest foot forward. Within limits, of course, you didn’t want to be pulled aside by human resources and dress coded. You decided to tap into the part of your wardrobe you were usually too shy to wear.
When you showed up at the Daily Planet on Monday morning, heads spun. You dove right into work, and kept your eyes off Clark. You didn’t have to look to see if he was watching; you could feel the floor turn into a sauna as soon as you had stepped in. Only he radiated that type of heat.
“Hey,” you heard a voice greet.
You peered over the edge of your computer to see Clark standing on the other side. You leaned back in your chair. “What’s up?”
His eyes couldn’t focus on one place. They darted from your face to your legs to your chest and then back to your face. “Perry,” he cleared his throat, “wants you to edit my latest interview for Superman.”
“Okay.”
“Whenever you get the chance,” he said, straightening his glasses, “I’d really appreciate it.”
Step 2: Be confident.
“How about now?” you proposed, standing up.
You walked toward him as he stepped back. You both crossed the floor, and the back of his knees banged against the edge of his desk. He spun around just in time to grab a paperweight before it could topple over. “Sorry,” he huffed, taking a seat.
You moved behind him and bent down to see his screen better. Your chest pressed against his arm, and he stiffened. The scent of his aftershave made your stomach tighten. You let out a shaky breath to compose yourself. At this rate, you’d entice yourself before you could seduce Clark.
Your heart thundered in your chest as you tried to concentrate on his work. “I can just share the file with you,” he suggested, wiping the sweat off his philtrum.
Step 3: Maintain eye contact.
You turned to meet his gaze and held it. “I don’t mind at all,” you smiled, sickly sweet.
You turned your attention back to the screen. Skimming over the words, thankful that there was not much to correct on his draft. He had interviewed himself after all. “Oh,” you pouted, “you made a typo.”
You reached for his hand that was on the mouse and curled your thin fingers over his. You guided the cursor to the mistake and double-clicked it to highlight.
“Thanks,” he croaked, shifting in his seat.
You bit back a smirk. “Any time.”
.
.
.
On Tuesday, you ran into Clark in the break room.
He was scarfing down a croissant when you walked in. “Hey,” you greeted.
You took your lunch out of the fridge and set it on the counter.
“Wha’ do havef there?” he inquired with his mouth full.
“Some dumplings from yesterday,” you answered, putting the lunchbox in the microwave. “Did you pack a lunch, or are you just filling up on the treats Cat brought?”
“No lunch,” he replied. “I had a late night.”
You knew what he was referring to; it was all over the news. Superman and Green Lantern had fought a radioactive creature late into the night. You were glued to your television until the wee hours yourself. You knew Clark could handle a fight, but that didn’t stop your stomach from clenching every time he was punched in the face or slammed down on concrete.
The microwave beeped, and you took out your food. “You did pretty well,” you told him, “I’m sure having the Green Lantern assist helped.”
He smiled, his dimples becoming prominent. “It’s nice not doing things alone.”
You grabbed a fork from the cabinet and impaled a dumpling on it. “Want some?” you asked, blowing on it.
Step 4: physical contact.
You held it up to his mouth, still puffing at the dumpling. He looked a bit hesitant, but then inched forward. You knew he couldn’t resist some good food; his big body probably needed a lot of it to sustain itself. He took a bite, and some of the sauce got on his lips. Without missing a beat, you reached out, wiped his lip with your knuckle, and licked your hand clean.
Clark’s jaw fell. He looked like you had just slapped him in the face. “Sorry,” you smiled. “Bad habit.”
.
.
.
On Wednesday, you found yourself in the archive room.
Perry had asked you to compile hard copies of any mention of LuthorCorp from decades ago and digitize them. Things were going smoothly when you were fetching files from the bottom shelf, but eventually you had to move up. Begrudgingly, you fetched a ladder from the supply closet and dragged it into the room.
The metal shook under your feet, and you hesitantly climbed up. You shifted your weight on the top cap and slid out a box. You placed it on your lap and began searching through its contents. You must not have heard the archive door open behind you because you jolted when a voice called out your name.
The movement made the ladder dance, and you stumbled backwards. You scrunched up, cradling your head, eyes closed, bracing for impact as you plunged down towards the floor.
When nothing happened, you hesitantly opened one eye, and then the other.
You were in Clark’s arms. He stared at you, breathing heavily. That was probably the first time you had seen him out of breath.
Step 4.5: accidental physical contact?
His fingers dug into the flesh of your bare legs and arms. “You scared me,” you croaked, clutching the collar of his coat.
“I didn’t mean to,” he breathed out.
You slid your hand to his chest. You felt his heart pounding through his dress shirt under your palm. “I’m okay,” you reassured, patting him gently. “You caught me in time.”
He nodded and set you down on your feet. “I’m really sorry,” he apologized anyway. “I should have knocked.”
You shook your head. “You had no way of knowing I was inside, big blue.”
“Still,” he said, frowning.
You bit your lip. You didn’t like seeing him upset. “Wanna’ make it up to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Come to the journalist retreat with us on Friday,” you said, fixing the fold in his collar from where you had grabbed it earlier. “The whole team is going, even Steve.”
“I don’t know,” he started, shaking his head, “what is something happens while I’m gone—”
“Nothing is going to happen to Metropolis while you’re away, Clark,” you cut him off. “Plus, the Justice League will be here.”
“Gang,” he corrected.
“Tomato-Tomatoh,” you waved him off. “So, are you in?”
He eyed the space between you both. You could almost see the cogs in his brain turning as he worked through all the worst-case scenarios in his head. Once he had exhausted them all, he met your eyes. “Okay.”
.
.
.
By the time Friday had rolled around, you were on step nine of your seduction plan.
Clark would have to be the most oblivious creature on Earth to not notice. Even Jimmy had picked up on it and, much to your relief, he had kept his mouth shut. That didn’t stop him from raising an eyebrow or smirking anytime you interacted with Clark.
When work ended for the week, you, Clark, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy had piled into a rental car to drive towards the retreat a few hours away.
You were halfway to your destination when you glanced up from your phone and out the window. “Is that Steve?” you asked Jimmy, as your car passed an exit on the freeway.
Jimmy glanced at the rear-view mirror. “Oh, yeah.”
He pulled over and turned the hazard lights on. Steve jogged up to your car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You rolled your window down. “What happened?”
“My car broke down,” he huffed, “everyone else went ahead with Perry. Can I catch a ride with you?”
“We have no seats,” Jimmy replied. “Just call for an Uber.”
“I’m not paying out of pocket for that,” he said, looking around the car. “NFL season is starting, and this man will need all his dollars.”
His eyes landed on you in the passenger seat. “She can sit on Kent’s la[,” he stated. “We are only an hour away.”
With how your life was going lately, you often doubted the Big Man Upstairs. Then situations like such presented themselves, and you knew there was a higher power. “Absolutely not,” you feigned outrage. “I’m gonna crush him!”
He shot you a weird look. “The man is big enough,” he said. “You can handle it, right, Kent?”
“I guess?”
You pushed the car door, hitting Steve’s shin in the process, a dramatically huffed, “Unbelievable!”
You bit back a grin as Steve limped to the front, and you hopped in the back where Clark was.
He sat absolutely still, spine erect, and hands in clenched fists at his side. You gingerly sat on his lap as Steve chucked his duffel bag over Cat and Lois’ thighs.
“Sorry,” you said to Clark.
“No worries,” he croaked, voice high.
The car merged back onto the freeway, and conversations erupted around you both. You were fine for the first few minutes, but then the heat emitted by Clark made you restless. You tugged your cardigan off your shoulders and draped it over your legs.
Still too warm, you shifted on his lap, struggling to find a comfortable position. His hands shot up to your thighs. “Don’t move,” he begged in your ear. “Please.”
That’s when you felt it; something hardening underneath you.
Holy shit, you thought. He’s hard.
You pouted and rolled in his lap once again. “I’m just,” you exhaled, leaning back into him, “trying to get comfortable.”
His warm breath hit the back of your neck. “Please.”
Taking pity on him, you kept yourself still. His chest expanded into your back, and your breaths synced. You scanned the car to see if anyone was paying attention to you both, and then sneaked your hand under your cardigan. You curled your fingers over his and rubbed circles on the back of his hand with your thumb. His forehead hit your shoulder.
The car suddenly met a rough patch on the road as you all pulled into the city, sending you bouncing. Clark clutched your hand, and his free arm moved to wrap around your waist to hold you in place.
You finally turned to look at him for the first time during the road trip. His hair was dishevelled, and he wore a pained expression. You inched your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Isn’t it time you gave in?”
You rolled your lips, deliberately, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t answer and only stared ahead with thick, furrowed eyebrows. When you finally reached the hotel, Clark pushed you off him and beelined straight for the hotel.
You smirk, pulling the cardigan back over you.
Yeah. I’ve got him now.
.
.
.
The only thing on the agenda for tonight was welcome drinks.
You were sharing a room with Lois, who was smoking out the window. “I’m taking the side closest to the bathroom,” she said, pulling the cigarette away from her lips. “I get up to pee during the night.”
“If things go according to plan,” you replied, pulling a dress out of your suitcase, “you will have the room for yourself tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Think you’ll meet someone tonight?”
“Something like that.”
You both took turns changing and getting ready in the bathroom before heading downstairs.
The hotel’s banquet hall was filled with journalists from nearby cities. Clark was already there with the rest of the Daily Planet staff when you reached. It was hard to miss the way he towered a full foot and then some over everyone else. He had traded his usual dress shirt for an identical-looking one, but had spent enough time watching him to know that it was the best one he owned. His hair was only slightly tousled, like he had just finished rolling around in bed. He was toying with the frames sitting on his face when you approached him.
“Hey, big blue.”
He jerked around at the sound of your voice. “H-hey,” he stuttered, eyes moving frantically over you.
“You look good,” you commented, running a hand through your hair.
“T-thanks,” he replied. “You look beaut— I mean good! You look good, also.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cheesing too hard. “Wanna’ grab a drink?”
He gave you a shaky nod, and you guided him to a bar. “Two martinis, please,” you told the bartender.
“I can’t get drunk,” he shared as you both watched the bartender make your drink.
“Like at all?”
“My Kryptonian physiology makes it impossible,” he explained, leaning on the bar. “I process the alcohol too quickly.”
Your hopes for a drunken confession from him ended quickly after that revelation. The bartender set the drinks in front of you, and Clark paid for them before you could offer. You held the glasses up in your hands and asked, “Should I have them both then?”
“No,” he said. “I still enjoy the taste. Plus, I can recall your tolerance from our office pub nights. You should pace yourself.”
“Why?” you questioned, pouting. “Are we doing something after?”
His cheeks reddened at your words. “Of course not,” he said. “You should stop saying things like that.”
You gulped down a drink and shrugged. “I was just wondering. I need to plan my night out while I’m still sober. Lois and I have an arrangement with our hotel room, and it doesn’t involve me sleeping there tonight. I can do good with some liquid courage before I talk to that reporter from Gotham.”
Your mouth moved to the other cocktail, and Clark’s hand shot out to stop you. He wrapped his hand around your thin wrist and brought the glass up to his mouth. He drank from it, chugging down the contents.
You eyed him, amazed. You had never seen any man drink a martini like a pint of beer before. He took the glasses from your hands and set them down on the bar. He pressed a hand on your lower back and guided you towards the exit. “We are going.”
As you weaved through the crowd, Lois shot you a confused look and mouthed, Clark Kent?
I don’t know, you mouthed back.
His hand burned through the fabric of your dress, and he walked you out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing, Clark?” you cried out once you were out of your colleagues’ earshot.
“What am I doing?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “What are you doing?”
“I am trying to enjoy my retreat,” you countered, frowning. “What else?”
“I’m not stupid,” he scowled, towering over you. “You have been coming at me all week, and now you’re telling me you’re going to—”
“To what?” you sneered, stepping closer to him.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped.
You felt like a spider weaving a web for your favourite insect. “I have been nothing but honest with you, Clark,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “You are the one who insists on torturing yourself.”
He stayed silent, jaw clenched. His silence infuriated you.
“I told you that I want to be with you, but no, ” you continued, poking him in the chest, “you prefer being alone over having someone care about you by your side. You know what? Be my guest! Have fun being ‘hastag supershit’ for all I care!”
“Super-shit?” he echoed, voice rising. “Why would you say that? You know that one specifically irritates me!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You either want to be with me, or you don’t,” you exhaled. “I can’t wait for you forever.”
“It’s not that simple!” he cried, eyes shot wide. “I told you t-that being with me is dangerous, but that doesn’t mean I can just stand by and watch you talk about s-some other guy. I have feelings too! You have been driving me insane. I can’t think or sleep or eat, or breathe when you’re near me. You have got to stop playing with me!”
There it was. Not a drunken confession, but close enough. Tears welling up in your eyes, you grabbed the collar of his shirt. “You think this is a fucking joke to me?”
His breathing picked up, and his hands clenched into fists. “Waiting for you to want me back is humiliating,” you confessed. “I hate that I watch for you in every room I’m in. I hate that you pull me close and open a window into your heart, only to slam it back shut in my face. I hate you so much sometimes that I could just—”
His mouth crashed down on you. You gasped, mouth parting just enough for his tongue to slip inside. He backed you into a nearby wall, and your hands flew to his face as his hands grabbed a handful of your ass through your dress. You sucked on his bottom lip and bit down, gently. Clark let out a pained groan. “Screw it,” he whispered in between the kisses, “you win, baby. It is about time I gave in.”
Hook, line, and sinker. You smiled against his lips, letting out a shaky breath and the anger bubbling within you with it. “We are going upstairs,” he commanded, pushing off you.
You nod, blood rushing to your ears, and let him pull you toward the elevator.
.
.
.
You and Clark stand on opposite ends of the elevator.
The lift stops at your floor, and you step outside, Clark on your heels. He grabs your waist and hastens your pace. “Go change into something comfortable and then come up to room two-twenty-four,” he said.
“You want it to be easy to take off later?” you teased.
“Careful,” he warned.
You grinned from ear to ear and followed along. You changed into a plain shirt and matching shorts and skipped all the way back to his room, humming to yourself.
You skidded to a stop in front of ROOM 224. You could hear the hardwood floor creak under Clark’s foot as he paced in his room alone. You gently knocked, and the door opened immediately.
“Hey, big blue.”
“Hi,” he smiled.
His glasses were gone, and he had changed into some blue pyjamas. He moved out of your way so you could step inside. His room was just as tidy as you expected. His clothes from the mixer were placed with care in the hotel’s laundry bag. His work laptop and notebooks were placed neatly on a desk. His unzipped suitcase sat on the bedroom bench, the familiar red and blue suit peeking out. You can take the boy out of the city, you thought, but you can’t take the superhero out of the boy.
You accompanied him on a short walk to the sofa facing the television.
He had put out for you two cans of soda, several bags of candy, and some popcorn on the coffee table. “How did you get all of this so fast?” you asked, taking a seat.
“Super speed,” he answered, shrugging casually, “I even managed to get a shower in before you got here.”
“Impressive,” you commented as he reached for the remote to search for a movie.
He picked one and pressed play. You both watched the screen in quietude. You couldn’t concentrate; your thoughts were racing back to the kiss you had shared in the lobby with him. You both were so hot and bothered minutes ago only only to now, you didn’t understand why he was making you watch a movie set in nineteenth-century Paris .
What the fuck is happening?
“Madame Raquin is making Thérèse marry her cousin Camille,” Clark said, eyes glued to the television.
“Oh.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and saw him fully engrossed in the storyline. “That’s Laurent,” he shared sometime after. “He works with Camille.”
“Oh.”
He fisted some popcorn in his hand and shoved it in his mouth. You had no choice but to turn your attention to the movie. Camille and his mother had exited the room to fetch some champagne, and once alone, Thérèse and Laurent had leapt at each other to kiss passionately.
You wished that it were Clark and you. That was you both mere minutes ago. “We were just doing that downstairs too,” you commented, yawning.
Clark choked on his popcorn. You rushed to him. “Oh my god!”
You picked up a soda can, pulled the tab off, and handed it to him.
He gulped down some of his drink and nodded frantically. You continued massaging his back. “Are you okay?” you asked, rubbing his large back.
His face had gone red. “Poor baby,” you laughed.
You slid your hand up and cupped his nape. His eyes widened as you moved closer, knees digging into the cushion. “Clark,” you murmured, “are we just going to watch a movie?”
He swallowed, shaking his head.
“Good,” you said, and inched your face closer.
He closed the distance and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips. Once. Twice. Thrice. His hand slipped into your hair, and he opened his mouth more. You relaxed your jaw to let his tongue prod your own. He tasted sweet, like the soda he had just drunk.
The kiss grew messier; his saliva mixed with yours. He pulled your arm and moved you so that you were straddling him. You gasped as his tongue swept over the roof of your mouth. He pulled away from you and mumbled, “Gosh, you smell so good.”
His lips trailed down to your neck, and you squirmed in his lap, attempting to get as close to him as you possibly could. He peppered kisses down to the hollow of your throat and then back up to your jaw on the other side. Your head was spinning. His scent and touches invaded your senses. Clark guided your hands to his hair, and you clenched the strands as your mouths met again. His own arm wrapped around your waist, and he slipped his fingers under the hem of your shirt.
His touch burned. You jolted at the sensation. He tore his mouth away from you again. “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes searching your face for any signs of discomfort.
You shook your head and grabbed his face. You kissed him, and your hips rolled down on their own accord. You were sure you were soaking his pyjama bottoms through your shifts. His body felt so strong underneath you; it was the best feeling in the world. You didn’t know where you ended and he began.
Clark groaned and seized you by the shoulders to move you back. “Wait! Wait!” he heaved. “I can’t do this!”
.
.
.
Your head tilted to the side, puzzled. “What?”
“I can’t have sex with you,” he blurted out, lashes fluttering.
You looked down at the bump pressing up through your shorts. “You don’t have the apparatus?”
“Of course I do!” he exclaimed, mortified at your question. “I’m literally hard right now!”
You pouted. “You don’t want to sleep with me then?”
“No,” he croaked, face scrunching. “Of course I want to.”
He curled your hair behind your ear with a finger and held your face. “I have been thinking about it for months.”
You kept your hand down. “You can have sex with me, you want to have sex with me, but you’re not going to? I’m confused.”
You heard him exhale. “I’m not like other men,” he began. “My . . . physiology . . . is different.”
You looked up at him. He licked his lips, looking visibly distraught.
“Different how?” you asked, intrigued.
You knew he was an alien, but the thought that there may be issues between alien-human copulation hadn’t crossed your mind. He let go of you to run a hand over his face. “I’m too big,” he mumbled through his fingers.
Oh. Oh.
A smile crept up to your face. “That’s hardly an issue for me,” you stated, pulling his hand away.
“You don’t understand,” he said, jaw clenching. “It’s not that simple. I have never been able to fit inside anyone before. The human body has its limits, and it’s l-like I’m not compatible with it. I don't want to m-mess this up or hurt you in the process. For heaven’s sake, they don’t even make condoms my size!”
You didn’t know what to say. You had a feeling that he had been hurt in the past. Kind words simply wouldn’t be enough to reassure him.
You sighed. “Let me try anyway, Clark.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Let me try,” you repeated, pushing off him.
You kneeled between his legs and looked up at him. “Let me try, baby. I wanna’ make you feel good.”
His chest rose and fell quickly as he stared down at you. Your hands reached for his crotch to rub him through his pyjama pants. “Please?”
He gulped, letting out a shaky breath, and then gave you a small nod. You smiled and hooked your fingers behind the elastic. Clark lifted himself up off the cushion to let you shimmy the fabric lower. You noticed that he wasn’t wearing underwear when his cock slipped out and slapped against his stomach.
You kept your expression neutral. “See?” he asked, shutting his eyes.
Big was an understatement; he was huge. His penis reminded you of those monster cocks you had seen in hentai novels back in college. It was thick at the base, too broad to fully wrap a hand around. His bulbous head was thinner in comparison, the perfect shade of red. Two heavy balls accompanied his cock and completed the picture beautifully. Your mouth watered.
Yeah, I’ll make it work.
.
.
.
You wrapped a hand around his cock, and he hissed in response.
You stuck your tongue out and ran it to the tip from where the base met his balls. You started off by placing open-mouthed kisses along his length to test the waters. His stomach clenched in response. “You taste good, baby,” you whispered, between licks.
You glanced up to see Clark’s blue eye watching you through the gaps in his fingers. His breath hitched every time your mouth made contact with his dick. You geared yourself for your first attempt and relaxed your jaw to slip his head inside. You felt him let out a deep groan.
You worked your mouth over him, slowly, to not overwhelm him or yourself. If he saw you struggle, you were afraid he was going to get embarrassed. His heaviness made you salivate. You hollowed cheeks out, wrapped both hands around the parts of his shaft you couldn’t reach just yet, and bobbed your head down. He hit the back of your throat, and your toes clenched around the carpet hair. You had reached your limit, and he was only a quarter in.
His hand moved to your hair as you sucked away. You didn’t think you could ever enjoy pleasuring someone else this much. Maybe everything did feel better when you did it with someone you loved. The thought made you smile around his cock.
Clark’s fingers cupped the back of your neck, and you felt him inch forward slightly. You glanced up to see him chewing his lip, trying to hold back the sounds from escaping his lips. You ran your hand from his knee up to his thighs, soothing him.
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
He cupped your face and drove his shaft further down your throat. You dug your nails into the meat of his thighs as he rocked into your throats with shallow thrusts. If you reached up to your neck right now, you’d feel him moving through your skin.
“Gosh,” he groaned, tugging his dick out.
He yanked you up and crashed his lips over yours. He licked into your mouth, tasting your saliva intertwined with his pre cum. He spun you around and sat you down over his abs. “I think I love you,” he exhaled. “I-I love you.”
You turned your head to the side and kissed him over your shoulder. His lips were soft and plump; you wanted to feel them forever. He groaned and slipped his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down along with your underwear in one go. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “I may have been too big to fit in anyone, but I have had a lot of practice with my fingers.”
You did as he asked, moving one limb over his thigh and the other over the armrest. His thick fingers glide down the exposed skin of your stomach, where your shirt had hiked up, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He trailed his hand down the hair on your mound, over your clit, and in between your lips. He spread them apart, exposing your cunt to the cold air in the room.
A shiver ran down your spine as he dipped his fingers into your cunt and collected the wetness on his fingertips. His free hand wrapped around your knee, holding you in place. “Gosh,” he groaned in your hair, “sucking me off was that fun? You are so wet.”
You nodded, shaking in his arms. “A-all for you.”
He pressed a soft kiss on your earlobe. He glided his fingers over your labia and back up to your clit. His fingertips began circling it as he spoke, “You know I had five piano teachers quit on me back in Smallville?”
You tipped your head back, biting down on your lips. You clenched your hands into fists, unsure what to grab onto as you withered under his touch. “They said there was no point in teaching me,” he continued, absentmindedly. “I was too shit at it . . . ’cause my fingers were too big for the keys. They were good at other things, though. Would you like to check for yourself?”
“Fuck!” you exclaimed, toes curling in anticipation. “Yes! Yes!”
You felt his lips curve into a smile in your hair. Clark moved his middle finger down to your hole and inched it inside. You arched off him at the sensation, and he wrapped a hand around your waist to pull you back to his chest.
He pushed through the initial resistance in your cunt and slid down to his knuckle. “There you go,” he cooed. “You’re so soft inside.”
He pumped his finger inside you, and your eyes rolled back. A sob tore out of your throat. “Don’t cry, baby,” he exhaled. “I’m trying to make you feel good. Doesn’t this feel good?”
You had woken up something within him. You didn’t expect him to be so vocal to begin with, and now he wouldn’t stop asking you questions that made you clench around his finger. “F-feels good,” you spoke through clenched teeth. “You feel so good.”
“You can hold on to me,” he said, gently. “You can make all the noise you want.”
You unclenched his fists and placed them over the arm that held you in place. Your nails dug into his hand every time he pumped his finger out of you.
“One more?” he asked.
You could only nod frantically in response. His index finger prodded your hole and slowly swivelled inside. “B-big stretch,” Clark panted in your nape. “Good girl. You’re taking my fingers so well.”
Your body shook as he curled his fingers in deeper. They moved within your gummy walls and found the spongy bit that made you seize above him. You let out a loud moan and hoped the hotel room was soundproof.
He rubbed against the spot, and electricity ran up your spine. You were close. He felt it too. “Come for me, baby,” he instructed, kissing your throat. “Please.”
His fingers moved in and out of your cunt faster. His thumb found your clit again and he began toying with it in a pattern that followed his own will. Both your breaths picked up in tandem.
Your pleasure reached a crescendo and burst like a balloon over an open flame. You shook wildly in his arms, as your orgasm tore up through you. Exctasy rolled through you in waves, making your limbs tight in one moment and then relaxed in the next.
Your head felt light. You felt your soul levitate out of your body and upwards to the ceiling. You looked back down to see your own eyes, glassy, staring in the distance as Clark shook you by the shoulders. His mouth moved as he spoke, eyebrows furrowing, but you weren’t listening.
You stretched your arm out to float back down; it was like moving through molasses. You let out a gasp as you came back to earth. Clark was calling out your name in distress. It took all your effort for you to turn around in his embrace. You silenced him with a kiss. “I fucking love you, too,” you sobbed against his mouth.
His hands slid up and down your back; his touch grounded you. “I’m never letting you go,” he croaked through deep breaths. “I’m going to keep you safe forever. You’re my girl.”
“I know, big blue. I know.”
The movie played in the background, long forgotten. You both held each other close, basking in the warmth of the moment you had just shared. Figuring out coworker was Superman proved to be a great discovery after all.
THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY 3.11
Conrad, I choose you, of my own free will. If there are infinite worlds, every version of me chooses you, in every one of them.
can’t tell if this is karma for saying “gun deaths are necessary” or if this is karma for saying his ten year old daughter would be forced to go through with childbirth if she was raped
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