The first time you met him was at the farmer’s market on 5th. You were balancing your tote bag, a three-ring binder, and your phone when you dropped your keys right in front of a pair of boots.
“Oh shit—m’sorry!” You sighed deeply at your clumsiness.
He bent down at the same time you did, glasses slipping down his nose. You both laughed as your thumbs touched when he placed the keys back in your hand.
"Hmm, he looks familiar," you thought.
“I’m so sorry,” you apologized, looking up at him. “Mr…?”
“I’m Clark,” he said, voice soft but steady. “And no need to apologize. Looks like we both needed a break from gravity.”
You smiled, and for a beat, he looked like he wanted to ask you something, but some other person called his name, and he disappeared into the crowd with a shy wave.
It was a week before you saw him again. And where did you see him next? AT WORK.
The elevator doors opened, and your two-inch heels clicked into the blur of ringing phones and the buzz of looming deadlines. The Daily Planet always felt like it was one step away from coffee-fueled hysteria. While you don’t work in reporting—you’re over in digital, a tiny bit removed from the rumors of the newsroom—with the office-wide mandatory meeting with the reporters and editors today, you were thrown right into it.
He was easy to spot. The man from the farmer’s market—same glasses as before, same shy half-smile, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, navy blue tie slightly skewed to the side, like he wrestled with a wind tunnel. He looked damn good. Too good for the category of “mild-mannered,” that’s for sure.
You tried to pay attention to your coworker’s diatribe, but when Clark Kent laughed from across the bullpen, it was warm enough to lose track of the agenda.
“Y/N,” whispered your coworker Tisha, following the direction of your gaze, “Girl, I know damn well you ain’t over here crushing on a reporter.”
“Oh, so he’s a reporter?” you said as if you weren’t checking out the speedy way his fingers tapped across the keyboard. “He’s got a pretty face for someone who types that fast.”
“I mean…sure, Clark Kent has a pretty face and all, but that man is probably allergic to flirting. His ass can’t handle a woman like you.”
“Are you kidding?” you murmured, your eyes trailing along the lines of his shoulders beneath his white dress shirt. “Look at all those muscles under that crooked tie. That man’s hiding something.”
Your friend snorted. “Yeah, a library card and whack dick.”
“You know nerds are my weakness, Tish. Look at those dimples. I want to sit on his gorgeous ass face.”
“Good luck with that. He doesn’t even look like he knows how to eat pussy right.”
You rolled your eyes. “Clearly, you need to borrow his glasses.”
What you didn’t realize was that every word traveled across the room. Clark’s pen stopped mid-note as his hearing—always sharper than he wanted—caught every syllable you and Tisha exchanged. The tips of his ears turned pink as you mentioned how soft his tongue was again.
He risked glancing over the top of his glasses. You were still grinning and whispering to something he couldn’t pick up over the fresh documents shooting out of the printer, but the sound of your voice saying his name stuck with him like static.
The coffee pot at the Daily Planet wheezed like an old man whose diet consisted of Newport 100 longs and diet Dr Pepper. You had your back to the coffee pot, leaning up against the counter, scrolling through your phone and waiting for the drip to finish, when you sensed a tall, muscly presence at your back.
“Careful,” a low voice warned. “It’s been known to bite.”
You turned, half-startled, half-smiling. Clark Kent stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie slightly off-center. The playful glimmer under his glasses was small but certain.
“Good morning, Clark.”
“Morning, Y/N. You always this focused before your first cup?”
Hmm, you don’t remember giving him your name. Interesting.
“Comes with the job description.”
He stepped closer to pour his own mug, the faint scent of peppermint soap and paper ink clinging to him.
“You’re in digital, right? I keep seeing your name on the internal threads.”
“Yep, that’s me. I’m the one everybody calls when their article crashes the website.”
He chuckled quietly. “Then I guess I owe you a few thank-yous. I tend to break things around here all the time.”
“So I’ve heard,” you teased. “Pretty sure I fixed one of your uploads last week.”
“Then I’m glad I ran into my hero.”
You looked up from your coffee, a little caught off guard by how gently he said it. The corners of his mouth lifted again.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said, taking a sip from his coffee. “Just funny—how many good things start in this break room. Strong coffee. Better conversations.”
The way he said it made your stomach backflip. You covered it with a smile.
“You trying to charm me, Kent?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
You met his eyes over the rim of your mug. “Oh, it’s workin’ overtime.”
He chuckled again, nodding at you before turning and heading for the door. “Good to know. I’ll have to check back in later for a progress update.”
When he left, the smell of his cologne lingered—clean, faintly cedar. You caught yourself grinning in your coffee before shaking your head.
“Get it together, girl,” you mumbled into your mug as you exited the break room to the elevator. “Focus on something else other than sitting on those dimples.”
Clark heard every single word.
The grocery store was nearly empty, lights dimmed to that sleepy after-hours glow. You’d thrown on a hoodie, slides, and a pair of old jeans, telling yourself you only needed one thing—butter pecan ice cream and peace of mind.
You were beyond sexually frustrated. Those blue eyes and deep dimples haunted you the entire way home. It was something about him that made your thighs clench and pulse thump harder.
You really wanted a long night of toe-curling fucking with four eyes, but you knew it’d only happen in your dreams. You decided to indulge on some Häagen-Dazs instead.
The air hummed quietly. You were halfway down the frozen section when the doors of the ice-cream case fogged over, your reflection ghosting back at you. You opened the door, grabbed the familiar gold-rimmed pint, and turned straight into a solid chest.
“Whoa shit—sorry!” you gasped, clutching the ice cream before it hit the floor.
“My fault,” came a low, familiar voice.
You looked up. Clark Kent stood there in a grey t-shirt, dark curls mussed, glasses slightly fogged from the cold aisle air. The sight was so absurdly normal it took your brain a second to connect the dots.
“Clark?”
“You again,” he said, smiling. “We keep meeting by accident. Three times in a week—that’s gotta be a sign.”
You barely suppressed a giggle, shaking your head. “You stalkin’ me, Kent?”
“Something tells me that if I were, you wouldn’t have a problem with it.”
Damn, he got you there.
You held up the pint, changing the subject. “Butter pecan. Don’t judge me.”
“It looks like you have good taste,” he said, pushing his glasses up with a knuckle.
You tilted your head. “You like to eat butter pecan?”
His smile widened, something sly and soft in it. “Every chance I get.”
The way he said it, low, almost playful—hit harder than it should’ve. The fluorescent lights hummed, the air from the elderly gentleman opening the freezer curled cool against your skin, and suddenly the night was itching to unfold into something promising.
And now here you were, back in your apartment, ice cream somewhere melted on your kitchen counter since you abandoned it half an hour ago when Clark pushed you against the fridge and stole your breath with a mind-numbing kiss.
“Clark, please!” you choked on a moan, his nose hitting your clit as he gripped your ass and held you down on his face, urging you to ride him with a filthy groan.
You’d already cum on his tongue once, but apparently that wasn’t enough for him. Your knees dug into the tiled floor as you began to grind against his face.
He smacked your ass and growled, “Harder.” The deep vibrations traveled all the way to your bones. You whimpered as you rocked harder, eyes pricking with tears of bliss as another orgasm was making its way downtown, walking fast.
Your fingers were already tangled in his hair, but you tugged on the strands as you began to ride his face faster. He groaned loudly in response, encouraging you to keep going as his tongue flattened against your clit.
“I’m gonna cum again,” you gasped out, body tingling all over.
“Don’t stop until my face is covered in your cum.” His demand came out muffled.
You came with a sharp cry, mouth falling open as you panted harshly. His grip on your lower back tightened, fingers digging into your ass as you jerked against his face.
“Clark—oh shit—when are you gonna fuck me?”
“Right after the third one.” He promised before tugging your sensitive clit between his lips again.
Nothing could have prepared you for this night. Your thighs were shaking like an early 2000s video vixen, but he didn’t care. He kept on licking. He kept on sucking. The man was insatiable.
