find me somebody to love
clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader
summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.
word count: 21k (iâm so sorry⌠the plot was plotting)
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clarkâs pov, teacher!reader, readerâs in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, introspection, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.
a/n: iâll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clarkâs head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: youâre a mastermind, and iâm beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!
Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, itâs usually the complete opposite.
Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clarkâs already saying, âNo. Thank you.â
âHello to you, too,â Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. âYou havenât even heard what I was going to say.â
âI donât need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.â
âWell, aren't you smart?â
âIf smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.â
Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. âCome on, Kent! Youâre going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.â
Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. âYour brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.â
âNow why would you say that?â
âItâs just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.â
âThatâs not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.â As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. âNever mind. But you have to trust me on this one!â
Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. âAlright. What is it?â
âSo thereâs this girlââ
âHere we go again.â
ââwhich is totally your type.â
âYou said that last time.â
âBut this time I mean it.â
âYou said that the time before last time.â
âWell, Iâm not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.â
âI donât recall ever asking you to do this.â
Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. âTechnically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, itâd be nice to have somebody. Iâm all alone. Iâm miserable.â He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clarkâs, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
For the record, he hadnât exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.
Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. âBuddy, thatâs mine,â he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.
Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. âGod bless caffeine.â
Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. âJust because you heard me saying it once doesnât mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.â
âI still wanna do it,â Jimmy argues. âIâm telling you, that girlâs out there, and itâs my duty as your best friend to find her.â
That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.
It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.
They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.
âIt must be nice to be in a relationship,â he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. âIâm sorry, I donât mean to ruin the mood. Iâm really happy for you guys.â
Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. âYou want to date?â
âSure. Why not?â
âAnd here I thought you werenât the dating type,â Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. âI mean, you never have any free time outside of work. Youâre constantly in a rush. In fact, Iâm surprised youâre even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?â
In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. âIâd figure it out. But of course Iâd like to be with someone.â
If other people could have it, why couldnât he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasnât like anyone else. He wasnât even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.
As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. âBabe, donât you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?â he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.
Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. âA great deal.â
Jimmyâs gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. âThen consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.â
Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. âYou donât have toââ
âI want to! Itâll be fun.â Jimmy clapped a hand on Clarkâs shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. âYou leave it to me, and Iâll set you up with the love of your life.â
That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.
In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Mollyâs friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he wouldâve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.
The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:
Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.
Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked âunconventionalâ. She said she often wondered why natural selection didnât eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.
Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didnât stick around to hear the rest of her theory.
Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than heâd thought. Jimmy often tells him heâs too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesnât consider being meticulous a flaw.
Years ago, heâd come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.
Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.
Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each otherâs apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.
Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.
The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Mollyâs friends, and itâs starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?
Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. âEarth to Clark. Whereâd you go?â
âSorry,â Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. âI canât believe Iâm even considering this.â
âI can always create you a Hinge accountââ
âWeâre definitely not doing that.â
Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. âAlright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.â
Clarkâs expression sours, going poker-faced. âIs it because sheâs the last option you have?â
Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. âYou always think so badly of me.â
Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasnât even struck nine-thirty yet. âCan I at least see a picture of her?â
âNope. Itâs a blind date. Exciting, right?â
A crease forms between Clarkâs brows. âYou canât be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I donât know what she looks like?â
âThat sounds like a you problem,â Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. âDoes tonight work for you?â
âWellââ
âPerfect. Iâm so glad youâre not busy saving the world or whatever. Iâll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about⌠the thing.â
Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmyâs sleeve, tugging until heâs leaning down so theyâre eye-to-eye level. âWe said we wouldnât talk about the thing at the office.â
âI know. I just still canât believe it! Youâre Supââ
ââSuper committed to my job? Yup. Love it. Iâm a big fan of newspapers,â Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.
Across the bullpen, Lois asks, âWhat are you two whispering about over there?â
âSomeoneâs got another date lined up!â Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.
âPoor thing,â Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. âI thought you were done with those.â
âMe too,â Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.
Grinning, Jimmy adds, âI could help you next time, Lois.â
âIâd rather die alone, but thank you.â At that, she strides off, and Jimmyâs mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.
Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. âJust imagine the double dates weâll go on, CK!â
Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.
Perhaps being single wasnât the worst fate after all.
While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. Itâs a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.
Youâre ten minutes late to the date, which isnât much, not really. After pacing the block twice, heâd arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.
Already, heâs read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnishâ
âClark?â
His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
âHey,â he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. âIâmâYes. Hi. Hello.â
Golly.
Heâs temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. Itâs beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.
You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. âJimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when heâs sitting, but youâre way taller than I expected.â Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. âThat sounded weird, didnât it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.â
A nervous laugh escapes his throat. âItâs alright. Iâve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.â
Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. Heâs convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now youâre genuinely laughing at what heâs just said. It feels authentic, and for him, thatâs unbelievable.
Then he realizes he still hasnât let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much heâs sweating.
âIâm so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldnât find a place to park.â You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. âDid I make you wait too long?â
Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. âI, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.â
âThen I suppose youâll have no problems ordering for me.â
Heâs left flabbergasted. âButâHow?â
âI like almost everything, thatâs why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,â you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.
A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?
Soon youâre talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him youâve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmyâs friends, you turned it down.
ââSo I thought Iâd try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.â You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. âThen Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and⌠well, here I am.â
âIâm glad you didnât lose all your hope,â he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. âJimmyâs a pretty⌠chatty guy, donât you think?â
âHeâs great! Plus, Iâve never seen Molly this happy.â
âYouâre right. They look good together.â
âAnd he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.â
âDoes that mean you know more about me than I know about you?â
âMaybe.â Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. âBesides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.â
His expression falls. Thereâs a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he canât help but blink owlishly. âWait, did⌠did Jimmy actually pay you?â
âIâm kidding!â you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. âThat was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I donât think Iâll ever be good at jokes.â
âIâm no better. Want proof?â
âGo on.â
âWhy are colds bad criminals?â
You lift your brows. âWhy?â
âBecause theyâre easy to catch.â
Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. âThat was⌠terrible.â
âOh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.â Clark laughs.
âAnd lie to you? Never.â
âYouâve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.â
â⌠Which is?â
âPursuing a career in comedy, obviously.â
Youâre laughing. Again. He thinks heâs never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.
Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: âSo, you work at the Daily Planet, right?â
He nods. âMostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as wellââ
At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonightâs specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.
Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. âIâve read some of your piecesâSome of the interviews with Superman, for instance.â
âOh.â He hums, with an air of shock.
âSorry. Youâre probably tired of people bringing him up.â
His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. âNo, not at all. Itâs just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.â
âWell, youâve got an avid reader here.â Your lips curve knowingly. âSo⌠is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?â
That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. âWhat makes you think that?â
You ponder, wrinkling your nose. âWell, when someone has that much power, itâd be easy to slide into arrogance.â
His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. âI believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldnât say heâs arrogant.â
You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. âHeâs not so fond of the media, though, right?â
âThatâs because some have chosen to distort his image.â
âI see youâre a Superman apologist,â you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. âSo tell me: if heâs not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?â
In situations like these, Clark realizes heâs been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?
âI justâŚ. happen to be in the right place at the right time. Thatâs all.â
You give him a lopsided grin. âDonât be so modest! Give yourself some credit. Youâve given him a voice no one else has. I think itâs admirable.â
Thereâs a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he canât look at you properly while speaking, as if heâs staring straight into the Yellow Sun.
It seems almost unreal that youâre here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.
Youâre beautiful. And heâs petrified of making the wrong moveâof saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.
âI wouldnât say weâre friends or anything like that,â he adds after a beat. âItâs strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.â
He isnât too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurdâGosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.
But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Arenât those the very things that canât be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?
Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.
Cutting off Clarkâs mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.
He sets the glass down. âAnyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.â
âI teach,â you say, your tone softening. âPrimary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.â
âThat sounds like a lot of responsibility.â
Your eyes brighten a little. âIt is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What Iâm meant to do.â
His lips quirk before he even speaks. âShould I confess then that I havenât read a fiction book in years?â
âHow are you still going on with your life?â You jest, taking a sip of your water.
âI manage just fine.â
âLucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.â Itâs like youâre half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, âNot like Iâm forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. Iâm only saying that if youâre interestedââ
Jimmy wonât believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.
His heart sings as he answers, âThatâd be nice.â
While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:
Youâve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.
He learns that youâre not much of a drinker. Youâll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.
As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.
When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.
The moment he turns back, youâre holding your phone out toward him.
âIâd really like to see you again, if you want to,â you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. âThink you canâWould you give me your number?â
His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. âIâd love that. Of course. I mean, youâre great, and I thinkââ
A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.
He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.
âIt was a good first date,â he admits at last.
The silence between you deepens, and then you say, âIâm glad I accepted Jimmyâs offer.â
âHeâll be all over me at work tomorrow.â
You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. âTell him I said hi.â
âI will.â
Even so, thereâs a part of Clark that doesnât want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.
You both have responsibilities, and he knows he canât ask for too much when youâve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.
God, heâs already in so deep.
You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. âOkay, then⌠bye. I guess Iâll see you around.â
You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way youâre tilting your head, heâs pretty sure youâre planning on kissing him on the cheek.
He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.
Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, âA true gentleman.â You give it a firm shake. âNoted.â
âSorry, I justââ
âDonât worry.â You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. âIâll go first.â
You take two steps backward. âYup. Fine.â
Needless to say, when heâs a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.
âI need all the details!â
âJimmy, I swear to Godââ
âYouâre entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!â
Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. Theyâre right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.
âStop yelling, man!â Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmyâs as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. âYouâre scaring people, and you haveâWhat the hay, dude?!â
Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.
âDid you just lick me?â Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmyâs shirt. âHow old are you? Three?â
âI will not be silenced.â
âYouâre gross.â
âAnd Iâll continue to be if you donât tell me how it went last night,â Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clarkâs chest.
Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no oneâs eavesdropping their conversation. âI already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?â
âDid you kiss?â
âWhat?! No!â Now Clarkâs the one yelling.
âRelax. Itâs not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.â
A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clarkâs neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. âWhy are you more⌠unfiltered than usual?â
âKissing isnât a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,â Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.
He quickly follows after him. âBut itâs too early for a kiss. Weâve only been on one date.â
Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clarkâs glasses, blurring his vision for a second.
âYou notice how you're trying to control the situation? Itâs like you want to structure every single thing,â Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. âYou need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.â
Taken aback, Clarkâs brows snap together. âI donât âgo with the flowâ. And my planâs not stupid. I just⌠put a lot of thought into it,â Clark laments.
âHow many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?â
âIn my defense, she did it first.â
âOh! Fantastic. Looks like Iâve found someone who matches your freakiness.â
Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
He canât help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. Heâs been waiting all morning for this.
Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. âOh, man. Is it her? Tell me itâs her.â
Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text thatâs popped up:
I really hope you didnât give me a fake number last night.
Clarkâs thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, âRemember that sexting in public is gross!â
He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clarkâs direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. âHeâs joking, obviously,â he sputters, his head bent. âIâd never do that. Youâre all⌠safe.â
Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.
Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?
The typing dots appear right after.
You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?
Clark: I canât think of any good reason right now.
You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.
Clark: It was blue⌠and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.
You: Your eyes do work wonders.
Clark: Itâs the glasses. They take all the credit.
You: But is your memory always this good?
Clark: Only on important occasions.
Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop cafĂŠ youâve been meaning to try. Clarkâs determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.
Turns out you donât talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people donât consider Clarkâs quiet nature much of a virtue, but heâs never seen it that way.
He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldnât speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.
He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.
Itâs too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?
As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.
I donât think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.
Actually, Iâm not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.
Youâre kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.
All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.
The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. Youâd mentioned a certain movie youâd been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasnât wasting the chance.
Youâve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, wonât start for another ten minutes. Youâre devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.
âI didnât know you liked popcorn so much,â he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.
âI love it, but Iâm starving, too.â
âGuess youâll have to survive on popcorn for now.â He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. âBy the way, whatâs this movie about?â
He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.
âA love triangle,â you explain, crossing one leg over the other. âI hope itâs good. Iâve heard all kinds of opinions.â
It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascalâs character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnsonâs Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.
About halfway through the film, thereâs a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. Itâs heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isnât helpful at all.
The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.
Except it isnât there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, itâs gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.
Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.
He wants to say heâs sorry, that he didnât mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.
What he doesnât know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that youâre forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.
His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.
Heâs everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you youâre rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.
From then on, it all happens in slow motion.
Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.
The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until youâre breathless. But thatâs not something he can do, something he should do. It doesnât go according to the plan.
Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where youâre joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.
Thereâs a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he canât help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the worldâs about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.
And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.
Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.
The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
Clark swallows hard. He hadnât meant to hit him that hard. âIâm so sorry. I think I got a cramp,â he whispers, hoping that heâll take pity on him.
All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldnât care less.
He hasnât been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, heâd have to call it quits and tell Superman heâs not doing any more interviews.
In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.
Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.
Heâs afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking heâs losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, itâs not like Clark can stay silent.
His stomachâs been growling for the past hour. Itâs officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.
Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.
When he checks his phone, thereâs a message from you. Youâve got a long break between classes, and youâre thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.
Clark: Think Iâll just skip lunch today. Thereâs so much I have to get done.
He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.
From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, âEat me.â
Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.
âIâm serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.â
âItâs fine, Iâll just eat later,â Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, âYou look stressed.â
âWell, I most certainly am.â
âIs it about all the hate your little friendâs been receiving lately?â
On any other occasion, were he not this tired, heâd have corrected him, insisting theyâre not friends. But today, he lets it slide. âItâs draining. Collecting all this information and thenâhaving to askââ
His own sigh cuts him off. Thereâs a weight pressing on his chest he canât shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.
Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. âI wonder if this is the end of Superman.â
Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. âWhat?â
âI mean, heâs constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think heâs great, butââ
âHeâs not gonna stop helping others just because thereâs some⌠bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. Itâs what drives him. ItâsâHeâs not giving up.â
Startled, Steve tilts his head. âDid he tell you all that?â
Clark stammers, âHe didnât, but IâI know thatâs what heâd say if I were to ask him.â
After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing whatâs left of his snack. Clark assumes thatâs the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.
But thenâ
âSo⌠Iâve heard youâre going out with this girl.â
âYou mean Jimmy told you.â
Steve shrugs. âSame thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?â
Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. âI donât know. Weâve both been busy the last few days.â
You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.
Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you heâs exhausted and heading to bed early, itâs often a lie. Later, youâll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friendâs not getting much sleep tonight.
âGot a picture of her?â Steve asks out of nowhere.
Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. âIâm not showing youââ
âKent,â a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. âThereâs someone waiting for you outside.â
Thatâs weird. âFor⌠me? Are you sure?â
âItâs a girl. Says sheâs looking for Clark Kent.â The manâs voice thickens with annoyance. âAs far as I know, youâre the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless youâve got a secret twin brother or somethingââ
Clarkâs already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. âAlright, alright. Iâm coming.â
He doesnât expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and thatâs when it hits him.
He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?
âWhatâI donâtâYouâre here?â
âI texted you, but you werenât answering, so I figured Iâd just⌠drop by,â you begin, slightly breathless. âYou said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, andââ
Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag youâre clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. âYou didnât have to.â
âI was getting something for myself as well.â
âButââ
You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. âArenât you hungry?â
âDonât play that card with me. You know I am.â
That makes you laugh. âThen take this, and tell me if you like it.â You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. âItâs a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so Iâm counting on it being good.â
I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missedâ
âIâm sorry I didnât check my phone. I just⌠thereâs a lot going on at the moment.â His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. âI wasnât avoiding you or anything.â
Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he canât describe. âI know. I didnât think that, and Iââ
You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.
âI'd better be going,â you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. âMy next class starts in about half an hour, soââ
âMakes sense,â Clark answers, though his words donât match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like heâll lose you if he looks away. âIâll head back inside.â
You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. âAnd Iâll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.â
Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, whenâ
âKent, are you coming in?â Ninoâs holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.
âRight. Sorry,â Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. âYeahâBye.â
He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, heâs immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.
You: Want me to grab you something? Iâm nearby anyway.
You: Hello?
You: Well, now Iâm just getting you food.
You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?
You: Iâm trusting my instinct.
All the while he eats the sandwich, he canât stop beating himself up for not telling you how much heâd been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea heâs had in weeks.
Thereâs a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but heâs willing to take the risk.
Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.
Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.
âClark?â Youâre smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice heâs hiding something behind his back. âWhat is it?â
You reach out, but he dodges. âEasy there.â He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way youâre looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. âThis is my way of thanking you for todayâs lunch.â
âOh my God!â you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. âThese are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thankââ
Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.
How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?
Thatâs it. Heâs gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldnât even try to stop you. He canât understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.
A month ago, if heâd seen you on the street, he wouldâve glanced twice and kept walking.
Today, heâs terrified of losing sight of you.
The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.
His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. Youâre staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.
âI take it you liked the flowers?â he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.
Your answer doesnât come in words, but in a kiss.
Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that heâs met with your cheek instead.
He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. âAre you free tonight?â
For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.
Tonight, youâre having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.
Everything feels like itâs moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if heâs stepping into your apartment for the first time.
âIt wonât happen.â Heâs talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. âYouâre strong. Youâre⌠committed to the plan.â Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, âStick to it. Think about the final outcome.â
This plan wasnât something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romanceâa life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.
Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasnât careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.
He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.
But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Paâs help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.
At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girlâs hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.
He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.
Thatâs why he couldnât just let things happen. He didnât trust fate. He didnât want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.
His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes heâs been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.
âHello?â
âWell if it isnât my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?â
âJimmy, Iâm leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.â
âAre you nervous?â
He is, but Jimmy doesnât need to know that. âWhy would I be?â
âYouâre finally getting laid!â
Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. âWait. What? Why are you even saying this?â
âBecauseâarenât you going to her place?â
âYeah. And?â
âWell, do the math, dude!â
âYouâre trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.â
âLook, itâll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.â
âCopulate?! I donâtâThatâs it. Goodbye, Jimmy.â
The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what heâd hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.
His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. Heâs not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.
Heâs really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself itâs simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.
Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan wonât leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each otherâs apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.
Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.
When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.
His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately heâs been avoiding your gaze.
âYou have a really nice place,â he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.
You surprise him with takeout from a place heâd mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesnât remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but youâve nailed it anyway.
His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.
âWhat?â he asks, the word muffled, and itâs almost as if heâd momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.
You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. âSince when are wraps so messy to eat?â
âMineâs about to explode, but itâs worth it,â he replies, and you nod.
You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. âHey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?â
Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadnât spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.
âDid you manage to finish that article?â you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.
âOh, yeah. I just⌠had to check some minor details with⌠my source,â he says, hoping the conversation wonât make the food turn in his stomach.
Lifting your fork, you point it at him. âLet me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?â He doesnât bother answering, because it isnât necessary. âDonât even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.â
âHe told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,â Clark tries.
You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. âDo you agree with everything he does?â
Clark nearly bites his tongue. âWhatâwhat do you mean?â
âWhen youâre writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, donât you ever feel like⌠maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?â
Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?
âI get what youâre saying,â Clark answers, straightening in his chair. âBut yeah, I agree with what he does.â
You arch your brows. âWith every single thing? Really?â
âI wouldnât interview him if I didnât.â
âI donât believe you.â Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. âThereâs gotta be something about him you donât like.â
Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. âNot that I can remember.â
You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. âCome on!â
âWhat?â He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. âIâm being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. Whatâs not to like about that?â
You click your tongue and wave him off. âSee? Youâre biased. Youâre not thinking straight. If you were, youâd find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.â
Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. âSo does that mean Iâve got something you donât like about me?â
You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. âYou could say that.â
His interest sparks immediately. âWhat is it? Now I have to know.â He scrapes his chair across the floor until heâs sitting at your side, facing you directly. âYouâre not getting out of this.â
âIâm not roasting you for free!â
âIâm literally asking you to!â
âClarkââ
âIâll just keep going until you break,â he teases, leaning in closer. âYouâll get tired of me eventually.â
With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.
Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: âYou never question him, not even once.â
He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.
Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. âIâm sorry. I was justâI was joking. You know Iâm terrible at that, right?â
Youâre trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He canât blame you for it.
âYeah, now I remember,â he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. âPlease, never give up teaching.â
He trails after you. Youâre at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he canât stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.
âGood?â he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he canât avoid getting lost in your beauty.
Itâs a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight thereâs something different he canât quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.
Youâre glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.
You answer his question with a small, âYou have to try it,â and then youâre holding out a piece to him, the same one youâd bitten into seconds ago.
His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.
âCome on,â you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. âI swear itâs not poisoned.â
This is the end of him. Who wouldâve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that heâd die right here in your apartment?
He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you donât, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.
Donât get hard. Please, just donât.
âItâs⌠delicious,â he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. âCan you make, like, a whole batch for me?â
Rolling your eyes, you say, âSure.â You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. âBy the way, howâs Atonement going? You like it so far?â
He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. âI reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are⌠well, you know.â
âYou mean the library scene?â
âYeah.â
âThey recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.â
âI had no idea there was a movie.â
âItâs from 2007. We should watch it someday⌠or perhaps tonight?â
Thereâs no way heâs surviving you, not with the way youâre looking at him now, the way youâre leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.
Your lips part slightly, as though youâre about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.
âDarn it,â he mutters under his breath, and heâs sure youâre about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.
His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.
Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and youâre immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.
As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.
Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.
Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isnât, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.
Heâd sworn to himself he wasnât here for this, that it was too soon. Heâd promised. Yet what you two are doing couldnât be further from just talking.
The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until youâre practically perched on top of him.
His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.
He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what heâs living right now, is real.
Heâs here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.
The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He canât stay still. He canât think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesnât want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, butâ
Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, itâs not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.
His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. âI think your phoneâs⌠ringing.â
Between kisses, you reply, âI donât care.â
âWhat if itâs important?â
âIâm sure itâs not.â
âBut what if it is?â
Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.
Clark takes a step back. The second youâre gone, heâs leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.
In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.
You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. âWrong number. Told you it wasnât important.â
Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.
He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. âPlease, just ignore it. Itâll go down. Eventually.â
âClark, itâs normal.â
âThat doesnât make it any less mortifying.â
âI actually feel flattered.â
Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.
Then you speak again. âIâm sorry. Was that too much?â
His head jerks toward you. âWhat do you mean?â
âLike⌠the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.â
âI didnât think you were too much. IâI liked it,â he admits, scratching the side of his nose. âI think you were able to see that clear as day.â
That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.
Thereâs a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.
âAre you seeing someone else?â
âNo,â you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. â⌠Are you?â
âNo.â He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. âBut would you want to? See other people?â
âOh, no.â You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. âWhy are you me asking this? Do you want to?â
He snorts. âGosh, no.â
âItâs always a possibility.â
âTrust me, it isnât.â
âYou could want to explore other connections.â
âAre we on Love Island?â
âYou get what Iâm trying to say.â
In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. âI like where this is going.â
What heâd meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.
The next time you kiss him, itâs different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if heâs still in control of the plan.
You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.
You: I mustâve gotten it from one of my students.
You: I feel like crap. Iâm so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(
Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.
Clark: At least let me cook for you.
You: Nooooooo!!!
You: I donât want you to get sick.
He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.
Clark: I wonât stay for too long.
Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.
That should be enough to soften you.
You: AlrightâŚ
When night comes around, heâs in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.
The soup is simple, just as itâs always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.
Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. Youâre standing beside him, watching the procedure.
âIâm sure it smells great,â you mumble, congested. âI mean, I wouldnât know, but it looks like it does.â
Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, âCome here.â
You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesnât offer any resistance as he hugs you. âYouâre going to end up catching what I have.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
âThatâs how contagious illnesses work.â
âTurns out Iâm the exception.â
His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.
âYouâre so warm,â you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.
Later, after youâve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you donât.
Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.
âYou never take them off?â
âTake what off?â
You say it like itâs obvious. âYour glasses.â
Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. âI canât see much without them.â
âHave you ever tried contacts?â
âOh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.â
âEverybodyâs eyes are, in fact, sensitive.â
âI canât handle them,â he insists, shrugging. âThey feel weird.â
Another minute passes without you uttering a word.
But you wonât drop it. âCan I try them on?â
âSome other day. Theyâll make your headache worse.â
Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. âYou keep talking to me like Iâm a child.â
He picks up the remote to pause the movie. âIâm just answering your many questions.â
âCuriosity is one of my best traits.â
âI know.â
âWhich is why I keep wondering why Iâve never seen you without your glasses.â
âBecause I wouldnât be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.â
âTouchĂŠ.â You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. âLetâs save this debate for another night.â
âWant to call it a day?â
âNo, I can stay up for a little longer.â
Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.
By the time the credits roll, youâre fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you donât fight him when he carries you to bed.
Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.
âClark?â
âTell me.â
âThereâs a spare set of keys on my nightstandââ
He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?
ââso you can lock the door on your way out. I donât want to get up anymore.â
Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.
You try to hide from his gaze, but itâs nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. âStop looking at me like that.â
Clark canât help the smile tugging at his lips. âLike what?â
âLike Iâm dying and you donât have the cure,â you mutter, peeking through one eye. âI know I look bad, but donât make it so obvious.â
His brows knit in concern. âYou donât look bad at all.â
Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesnât budge an inch. âOh, youâre too sweet.â
âI mean it,â he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. âYouâre beautiful. Canât you see it?â
The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You donât miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, âWhere have you been all my life?â
He canât think of anything clever to say, because heâs afraid of making a false move.
âWhy donât you try to get some sleep, huh?â His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. âIâll call you in the morning to check on you.â
You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. âDonât forget to call me,â you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. âI promise I wonât.â
When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.
âWhat are you doing, giving me your keys?â he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.
He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once heâs outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
His first loss shouldnât look like this.
As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.
All heroes who wear capes face a moment they donât win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.
Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.
Heâs driven into the ground once more. He canât stop it this time, canât even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.
The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. Heâs got a rib, maybe two, fractured. Heâll have to check at the Fortress.
All around, screams erupt and people scatter. Heâs 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.
Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.
âIs he dead?â
âHe canât die, you dummy.â
âMy dad said he could beat him up.â
A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. âARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?â
Blinking slowly, Clark realizes theyâre all wearing the same clothes.
Itâs a school uniform.
He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.
âKids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?â
Is that your voice? Maybe heâd hit his head harder than he thought.
âBut Missââ
âNo buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.â
Oh, God. Itâs definitely you.
He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.
From high above, the Hammerâs deep voice pours into Clarkâs ears, saturating him.
The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of BoraviaâŚ
âAre you okay?â Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, youâre the only one moving. âCan you stand up?â
When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, âMaâam, youâve got to get out of here. Itâs not safe.â
You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.
The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.
The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. âThis is your last warning,â he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.
Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But heâs too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire bodyâs crumbling with every effort.
âDonât force yourself right now,â you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. âYou canât⌠fly in these conditions.â
Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.
The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.
Another ordinary day in Metropolis.
He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.
He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.
âSo⌠Superman in the flesh,â you say, tilting your head. âFunny thing. I know someone who knows you.â
âYouâll⌠have to be more specific than that,â he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.
âClark Kent,â you reply, tipping your chin up. âHeâs myâwell, it doesnât matter.â
That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. âYour⌠what?â
âWeâre seeingââ You stop, narrowing your eyes. âWait. Why do you care?â
If he werenât certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, heâd laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. âI wouldnât want to take up more of your time,â he says quietly. âYour students must be asking for you.â
You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. âI donât know if youâll find this disrespectful, butâmaybe you shouldnât have done that thing in Jarhanpur.â
Itâs the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.
He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. âThank you for the constructive criticism, maâam. But I have to go now.â His eyes catch yours for just a beat. âStay safe.â
Then heâs gone, vanishing into the sky.
When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.
You: I think now Iâve got beef with Superman. Call me?
Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Yeah, blame him. Heâs definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.
âSee you later!â Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friendâs for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why theyâd be seeing each other in just a few hours.
Right. The party.
Clark had forced a smile. âSure.â
The partyâs at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmyâs picked this place.
The barâs already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. âHey, buddy.â
Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. âMan, you came! I wasnât sureââ
âOf course I came. Got you something, but donât open it yet.â
Jimmy nods, taking the small âHappy Birthdayâ bag from Clarkâs hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. âBabe, can you put this with the other gifts?â
She says something Clark doesnât quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.
For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. âWhat is it?â he asks.
He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.
Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. Thereâs sweat trickling down the sides of his face. âI know itâs not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,â he murmurs into Clarkâs ear. Meanwhile, Clark canât stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. âIt just arrived.â
It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. Youâre wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.
Clarkâs been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countriesâeven galaxies. Heâs had them for many years now.
But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and itâs solely your fault.
Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasnât stopped thinking about itâdreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.
The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes youâre up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isnât waking up to an empty bed.
When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.
And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! Youâd never guess that just minutes before, heâd been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.
Itâs become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.
At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since itâs the same one running through him. The first time youâre together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.
âI didnât know you were coming.â
âIt was a surprise,â you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. âAre you surprised?â
Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. âVery much surprised, yeah.â
He hasnât seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasnât Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.
The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breathâ
But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.
Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.
âYou mind if I steal her for a bit?â Molly asks.
He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.
With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.
He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other personâs excitement spikes. Even mutters âJeez, thatâs toughâ if the story calls for sympathy.
He slips away from one of Jimmyâs cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead youâre alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.
He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. âDid it hurt?â
You squint at him. âWhat?â
âWhen you fell from heaven, did it hurt?â
That elicits a low chuckle from you. âYouâre real smooth.â
His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. âYou having a good time so far?â
âYeah,â you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. âEven better now that youâre here.â
He doesnât miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes flutteringâ
Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.
Lois slides into the seat opposite. âKent, I see youâve decided to invade female territory.â
Under the table, his knee knocks yours. âItâs not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?â
âI didnât leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,â she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. âSo, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.â
Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. âAre you okay?â
âYes,â he rasps. âJust choked on my saliva.â
âYou should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.â Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.
You let out a quiet laugh. âOh, I can imagine.â
âHe gets pretty defensive,â she presses.
He lifts a finger, calling her attention. âI donât.â
âYou totally do.â
âI just give my opinion,â he counters, raising his brows. âItâs literally our job.â
Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. âDonât do that. Youâre changing the topic.â
âIâm notââ
âWhat do you think about what Supermanâs been doing latelyâ Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.
You toy with your glass, your expression dull. âI guess some things couldâve been avoided if done differently.â
âLike what?â Lois inquires, leaning forward.
âThe fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.â
Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like theyâd only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.
Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. âThis is what I was talking about! Heâs dying on the inside.â
âDonât you think he had⌠fair motives?â he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. âItâs not like he thought it would make things worse.â
âWell, then maybe he should think twice before acting,â you reply, straightening. âIâm not one of those people that think heâs being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities werenât going to give him a medal for it.â
âBut he was stopping a war,â Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.
âIâm not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,â you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. âHe might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.â
A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.
At that moment, Lois cuts through. âHe crashed outside a school the other day, didnât he?â
Your head snaps in her direction. âI work there.â
âAnd how was he? Got his ass kicked?â
âExcuse me,â Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, âbut he didnât completely get his ass kicked.â
âHe was pretty hurt,â you argue, your nose crinkling. âI saw him. I helped him get up.â
As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. âOkay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!â
Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.
The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasnât rattled him. He sizes you up. âI didnât know you hated Superman.â
You exhale a long breath. âWhen did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?â
âYou took the opportunity to rip him apart.â
10âŚ
âIâm being critical, Clark. We all need to beâeven you.â
9âŚ
He canât control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then youâre saying, âCan we talk like adults without you looking at me like Iâve murdered someone?â
8âŚ
He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.
7âŚ
You catch your lower lip between your teeth. âAre we really fighting over thisââ
6âŚ
ââover Superman?â
5âŚ
âClark, will you please look at me?â
4âŚ
He does, but stays silent.
3âŚ
âWhy do you care so much about what I think of him?â
2âŚ
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. âIâI donâtâCan weââ
1âŚ
The look on your face is beyond devastating.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!
The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You donât meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.
When he rises, itâs slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmyâs back before hugging him briefly.
Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Clark realizes you take that as your exit. Youâre leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.
âHappy birthday,â he murmurs as he pulls away.
Jimmy smiles, though not fully. âThanks, man. I apprââ
âI got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!â
Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.
âWait!â he shouts.
You turn, startled. âIâm heading home,â you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.
âLet me walk you.â
It isnât necessary. He knows youâll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.
You hold your hand up. âDonâtâjust donât,â you say, frowning. âItâs no use.â
âPlease, let me.â
âIâm tired.â You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. âI shouldâMy headâs a mess right now.â
He takes a step forward. Youâre still too far away. âI just want to make sure you get home safe,â he says, opening his heart to you. âYou can kick me out later, butâjust let me do this one thing.â
You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.
When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it wonât be a minute. It wonât be two, not even five.
A sixth sense isnât among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.
The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesnât move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.
âWhat was that back in the bar?â
The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.
Yet this is different. Whatâs about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.
âI got carried away,â he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.
âOh, really? I hadnât noticed.â
âDonât do that.â
âWhat exactly donât you want me to do, Clark?â You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. âI donât know what happened there. I donât know what got you so⌠defensive all of a sudden.â
In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.
But everything feels different tonight. He canât deny it, canât cover it up with anything.
âI was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. Youâre stiff, you didnât talk to me. You didnât even look at me.â
Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie heâs been weaving for nearly two months.
âEven still, you wonât look at me.â
He knows heâs here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesnât mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.
You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. âWhy does it bother you that I donât agree with every single thing heâs done?â Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. âLast time I checked, I was dating you, not him.â
There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: âThe Boravian government isnât well intentioned.â
A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. âYouâre unbelievable,â you mutter, rubbing your temples. âDid he tell you that?â
âYes. I asked him.â
âThatâs right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.â
âWhat are you implying?â
âDoes he pay you for the interviews?â
The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. âYou think Supermanâs bribing me?â
âI donât know! Youâre just soâloyal to him!â
âHeâs not a bad person.â
âNobodyâs said that, Clark! Youâre putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he shouldâve considered the consequences of his actions.â
âYou believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?â
âWhy donât we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does heââ
âPeople were going to die!â Clarkâs shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.
You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. Heâs never known where his breaking point was until now.
âOkay,â you say slowly, steadying yourself. âWhat is it that youâre not telling me?â
Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?
You continue to stare at him. âThereâs something more to this. I know there is.â
Itâs over. He canât undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?
His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you donât register whatâs happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.
âHoly fuck.â
Itâs the first time heâs heard you curse.
You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.
âYouâWhat? This⌠this whole time, youâWHAT?!â
âPlease, donât freak out.â
âIâm not freaking out. Iâm fine,â you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. âI only had one drink.â
âI know.â
âIâm not drunk,â you insist.
âI know,â he repeats, softer this time.
Your eyes donât leave him, even as your breathing slows. âYou look⌠different. How?â
He holds up the glasses between you. âTheyâre called hypnoglasses. Theyâthey alter the way people see me.â
You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like youâre working out impossible math in your head. âWere you going to tell me, or are you doing it out ofâwhat, guilt?â
âIt was supposed to happen after our eighth date.â
You stop dead in your tracks. âExcuse me, eighth date? Have you been⌠counting them?â
Something good was supposed to happen tonight. Thatâs what heâd thought initially.
He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. âThatâYou didnât have to know that.â
âWhy after the eighth date? Why only eight?â
âI donât know! I like even numbers.â
âClark, I swearââ
âI thought if we got that far, then⌠then it meant you really liked me,â he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. âThat you liked me as Clark. And thenâwell.â
Now itâs your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.
âI care about what you say about Superman because Iâm him. Iâm sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I donât regret it. I wasnât representing anyone except myself.â
His voice softens, almost breaking.
âAnd for the record, I like you. A lot. I know Iâve never said it out loud, and I know that itâs late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.â
Heâs afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything heâs said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself heâs half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldnât be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.
âPlease, justâjust tell me you want me to leave and Iâll go.â
âI donât want that.â
Perhaps heâs heard you wrong. âWhat?â
âI said I donât want you to go.â
He canât answer in any form other than monosyllables. âWhy not?â
You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. âYou have to be more careful. I know youâreâbulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.â
âI seriously donât understandââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say is thatâthat I like you, too.â You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. âIâI really do.â
âEven after all this?â
âI guess Iâm really stubborn.â
âSo⌠you donât want me to go?â
âNo.â
âYou donât hate me?â
You touch his forearm gently. âIâd never be able to hate you.â
âYou donât hate⌠Superman?â
âWe may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldnât be an issue,â you counter. âWeâre both adults. We can deal with it.â
âYou didnât answer my question.â
Holding his gaze, you whisper, âNo. I donât hate him, and I donât hate you.â
Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.
âYou know what I would hate?â
âWhat?â His answer is muffled against your shoulder.
âNot knowing more about your dating plan.â
He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. âForget about it.â
âImpossible.â
âItâsânot worth it. Trust me.â
âPlease, tell me.â
âYouâre gonna make fun of me.â
You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. âI promise I wonât.â
For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.
âIt consists of eight dates. Divided into three partsââ He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. âThatâs not fair! Youâre already laughing.â
You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. âIâm sorry. Itâs just thatâyou had it all planned. Itâs cute.â Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. âOkay. You may continue.â
He clears his throat. âRight now, if we count tonight as our seventh dateââ
âAre you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?â
ââweâd be in the last stage,â Clark finishes. âThen one more date. After that, if everything went well, Iâd tell you the truth, but IâI got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.â
âDoes each stage have⌠its own conditions?â
âSort of.â
âIs not touching me one of them?â
âS-sorry?â he stutters, ears going red.
âItâs just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.â
Clark sputters, looking down. âI meanâI never specified such a thing. Itâs not prohibited, butâNo, I wouldnât say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.â
You hum thoughtfully, nodding. âAnd would you like it to stay that way?â
âIâm the one who made it, right? So⌠theoretically⌠Iâm allowed to make a few changes here and there.â
âHow interesting.â
His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. âIt depends on what you want to do tonight.â
Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your irisâ, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. âI want it all.â
A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. âAll as in⌠all of it?â
âWhy donât you start by kissing me first,â you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, âand then we just⌠see it as we go?â
Clark nods as though youâve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.
And suddenly, he has a goal.
This is really happening. He knows it doesnât exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, heâd wait. But circumstances have shifted.
Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he canât complain.
Itâs hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone elseâs is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. Thereâs a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should⌠go with the flow. At least for once.
RIP Clark Kentâs dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.
Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.
The sweetness doesnât last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.
Heâs already hard. It hasnât been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesnât want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.
But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, âIâm sorry. Itâs justâyouâre⌠so pretty, and Iâmââ
Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. âYou shouldnât apologize for being aroused,â you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. âBesides, youâre not the only one.â
You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.
Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. Youâre wet.
No, scratch thatâyouâre beyond wet.
His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. âSee?â you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. âIâm just asâas affected as you are.â
Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; itâs as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.
He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.
One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. Heâs transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.
His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. âClarkâpleaseââ
You sound so sweet, so needy, that he canât make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. Youâre tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.
You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.
âShit,â you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clarkâs holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.
He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit donât falter, and you canât help but whimper.
âYouâreâGod, youâre killing me with these sounds,â he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. âIâve been dreaming about this. About you. I canâtâbelieve youâre mine.â
He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but itâs the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.
You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. âIâmâIâm yours,â you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, âAnd⌠youâre⌠mine.â
Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.
âAre you close?â he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. âOh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?â Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. âAlright. I got you.â
He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.
When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. âThat was⌠amazing,â you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. âI want to touch you.â
He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. Heâs pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, heâll finish embarrassingly fast, and he canât let that happen.
So instead, he drops to his knees.
Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.
He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. âYou donât have toââ
âBut I want to taste you.â His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. âCan I?â
You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you canât keep watching him. Itâs too much.
âSoâfucking good,â you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. âI donâtâI donât even want to know where you learned all this.â
Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. Heâs not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesnât know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears youâll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where heâs helplessly humping his mattress.
âYou taste like heaven,â he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. Itâs as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.
âPlease, donât stop.â Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. âKeepâkeep going, just like thatââ
Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.
As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you donât make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.
With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.
He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.
You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. âWhy are you still wearing clothes?â you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.
He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.
Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. âClark?â
âYeah?â
Youâre looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.
âIâI thinkââ The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. âIâve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.â
His heart stings. For a moment, heâd thought you were going to say those three words heâs been biting back.
Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. âOh, I have.â
âYeah? Who is it?â
The answer is simple. âYou.â
You stifle a laugh. âThatâs very cheesy,â you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. âI want to take care of you.â
He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, heâs nervous, as though you arenât both already half-naked. âThereâs something I need to tell you.â You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. âWell, IâGosh, I donât know how to say this.â
âJust⌠say it however it comes.â
âIâm not going to last long,â he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. âIâm not being modest or anything. IâI just know it. I know my⌠body.â
You take a moment to think. âAnd whatâs the problem with that?â
âWell, itâs certainly not⌠what youâd expect from me.â
You shake your head. âYouâre overthinking it.â
He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.
âI donât care how long you last.â You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. âI just want you to feel good. Thatâs all.â
Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time heâs thought of you alone in his apartment.
The only difference tonight is that it isnât his hand that grabs it, but yours.
You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.
âHey,â you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. âEyes here.â
Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.
âThatâs it,â you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. âIs this okay?â
âFeels⌠nice,â he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. âIt feelsâOh, Jesus.â
His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.
As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you canât fit into your mouth.
The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He canât remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.
His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.
Thatâs when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.
âOh, baby,â he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.
And now heâs close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, andâ
The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if heâs lost what was left of his sanity or if youâre having fun edging him.
Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what youâre thinking.
For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if heâs outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.
Then the haze clears, and heâs back in the bedroom with you. Youâre on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.
He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.
At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.
Donât come. Donât come. Donâtâ
âFuck,â you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. âYouâreâyouâre splitting me in half.â
âDonât⌠try to rush it.â He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. âItâs gonna take a while, sweetheart.â
He doesnât miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.
âYou like that, donât you? You like it when I call you those names?â Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. âThatâs why youâre clamping down on me?â
He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. âPlease, move.â
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, âCanât. Youâreâreally tight.â
âI wanna feel you,â you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. âItâs okay. You wonât hurt me. I can take it.â
He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.
Once he bottoms out and canât go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.
The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.
âY-you hear that?â Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. âSheâs crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.â
With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.
Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before heâs plunging forward again.
âC-Clark, oh my God,â you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. âYouâre fucking big, youâreâyouâre everywhere.â
He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. âYou feel so good, baby. So good, so warmâI never wanna leave you.â
His own pace is killing him. Itâs too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he canât stop. Heâs far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.
Youâve told him before that youâre on the pill, that itâs safe, but he still needs to hear it again.
âIâmâIâm close,â he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. âCan IâIâm justâPlease, let me. Iâm sorry, Iâll make it up to you, but p-please.â
âCome inside me,â you breathe, arching your back. âI want it. You can let go.â
And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
His heart hammers like itâs going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.
Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.
He thinks heâs spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.
Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. âHow are you stillââ
âI have no idea,â he replies, nosing your cheek. âThereâs probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.â
You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think thatâs it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.
But Clark gets hard⌠again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.
After a couple seconds, you notice it. âAre youâare you hard again?â
âLooks like it,â he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. âFeels even better now.â
Heâs still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isnât listening.
You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. âWhat are you doing? I wanted you to stay.â
No answer. Just pure silence.
You twist your neck, brows knitted. âClark? Is something wrong?â
Heâs too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.
âYouâreâmuch kinkier than I thought,â you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. âSecond round?â
He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.
You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.
âI can see you better this way,â he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. âYouâll tell me if it hurts?â
Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. âI will.â
This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until youâre filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.
He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.
His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. Youâre pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. âIâd do anything for you. Just say the word andâand I will.â
His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once heâs expelled the breath.
âI love you,â he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what heâs giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.
âC-clark, Iââ You canât finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. âIââ
âItâs okay. You donât have to say it back just because I did,â he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. âI just wanted you to know it. I can wait.â
Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though heâs determined to wait until youâre there with him.
The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and youâre murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows youâre close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.
âIâm gonna get you there, donât worry,â he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.
âIâIâm so close,â you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. âDonât stop.â
âNever,â he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. âIâm right here, honey. Iâve got you.â
You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.
He doesnât pull out until heâs sure youâve milked every last drop. When he finally does, itâs reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.
To his surprise, he actually feels tired. Heâs sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.
Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.
Romanticism isnât dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.
Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. âI think we need to shower.â
âYeah,â Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. âWith holy water.â
You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes youâre not tracing nonsense on his skin.
Youâre writing the same letters, over and over.
I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.
âOh,â he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until youâre looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He canât stop the smile pulling at his lips. âReally?â
âYes.â You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. âI love you, Clark.â
He seals his mouth with yours. âI think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.â
âThatâs your way of saying thank you for setting us up?â
âExactly.â He gives you another peck. âIâd suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. Iâve already made my peace with the idea.â
The mere thought doesnât unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
Clarkâs duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his lifeâs purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.
What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.
Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes⌠he was right.
dividers by: @chrisssiren <3










