SUMMARY: Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there.
WARNINGS: Pure fluff! Dean is down bad for reader, cursing, dramatic hockey boys, suggestiveness but no actual smut, probably some inaccurate Pilates descriptions (sorry)!
A/N: Once again this is PURELY self indulgent! Inspiration struck by watching a Quinn interview between Mika and Stephen talking about how he “accidentally” bailed on their Pilates class! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
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➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
Dean was naturally curious. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Dean was nosy. There was a difference. Curiosity was casually wondering about something. Nosiness was noticing a pattern and becoming mildly obsessed with figuring it out. And for the last three weeks, he'd been trying to figure out where the hell you kept disappearing to every morning at six o'clock.
Every. Single. Morning.
Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.
Where the hell were you going?
Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, you’d already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.
Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And you always, always, had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.
"It looks like liquid grass."
"It's tea, Dean."
"It's toxic waste, babydoll."
A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgmental stare while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.
"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."
"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.
"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.
And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was going to find out.
Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.
“Babydoll?” He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "At six a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.
"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. His gaze narrowed further, there it was again: that smug little smile.
The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.
"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.
You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.”He practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.
However, instead of speaking, you reached over and patted his cheek, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes, Dean?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.
Almost.
Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.
The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “If you’re so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers.
The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But it was no use, you were already awake.
"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.
With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.
Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.
Barely.
Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.
You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.
"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.
He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.
Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.
Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.
You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.
His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.
"It's really not."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.
Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.
Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.
"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.
"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.
The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.
Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.
Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.
Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.
Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.
There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.
The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.
However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.
The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.
When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.
Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.
Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.
As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.
Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it!" Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.
"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.
"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.
The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.
You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.
The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.
As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.
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pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you
tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise
warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong!
word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3)
note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x
masterlist
You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.
But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.
Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.
Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.
Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.
Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.
Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.
“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”
Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.
“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”
You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.
You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.
You were still new.
Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.
Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.
“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.
You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”
Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.
Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.
He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.
You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”
“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.
When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.
You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.
You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.
Strange, considering how different the two of you were.
Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.
You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.
There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.
It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.
You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.
Maybe.
The office changed at night.
Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.
You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.
He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.
Almost like a different person entirely.
You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.
Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.
“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.
Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”
You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.
He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.
Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.
“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.
It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.
Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.
Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.
“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.
The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.
“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.
His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.
You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”
Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.
Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”
“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.
“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.
You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.
You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.
Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.
He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.
His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.
You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.
Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”
“I thought you liked being late.”
He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”
You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”
“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.
“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.
Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.
You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.
His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.
He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.
And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.
Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.
You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.
Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.
That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.
“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”
“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.
“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”
You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.
Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”
“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”
That caught you off guard.
Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”
The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.
You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.
Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”
Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”
He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.
You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.
It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.
And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.
Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.
You had work to do. Explanations could come later.
Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.
The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.
“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”
You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.
Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.
You blinked once. Then twice.
“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”
Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.
And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??
You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.
For now.
You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.
He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.
Clark made a beeline for your desk.
“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.
Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.
In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C
You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.
The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.
But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.
“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”
Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.
Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.
Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.
Until now.
You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.
You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.
This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.
This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.
Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.
Something had changed, and you liked it.
Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.
Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.
Clark Kent? Superman?
You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.
You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.
A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.
Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.
You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.
Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.
You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.
Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.
Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.
Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.
The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.
By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.
“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”
The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.
You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.
For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.
Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.
Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.
Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”
You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”
Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”
You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.
Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.
“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”
You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”
“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”
You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”
“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”
Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.
Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.
Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You blinked, amused. “What?”
“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”
Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”
“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”
You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.
Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”
You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”
His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.
“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.
You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”
His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.
And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.
You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.
You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.
You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.
Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.
So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.
Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.
It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.
You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.
The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.
You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.
“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”
A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”
Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”
You rewound it again. And again.
Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.
Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.
You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?
Except no, they didn’t.
You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.
You stared back at the screen.
Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.
You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.
What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—
That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.
Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”
And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.
You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.
You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.
Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.
Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?
You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.
Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.
You sat back in your chair and stared.
“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”
Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.
Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.
He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.
There was no way they were the same person.
You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.
But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.
You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.
That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.
You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.
You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.
Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.
Unless that was the point.
You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.
You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.
You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.
You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.
And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.
The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.
Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.
The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.
Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.
Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.
You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.
What exactly were you doing?
You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.
Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.
You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.
But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.
And yet.
When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.
Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.
You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.
The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.
Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.
Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.
You flinched, braced for impact.
But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.
There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.
Nothing so much as grazed you.
When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.
Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.
Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.
You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.
“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.
You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”
Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.
When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.
Superman was right in front of you.
“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.
Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.
You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.
You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.
Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.
But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.
The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.
It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.
And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.
Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.
But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”
“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.
Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”
He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.
Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.
God.
You were losing it.
Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.
It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.
He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.
Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.
Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.
“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.
Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.
You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.
The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.
But you knew. You knew.
Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.
This was real.
Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.
The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.
Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.
And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.
You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.
It could all be bias, projection, or madness.
But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.
The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.
Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.
While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.
You glanced up.
Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.
Your eyes met.
It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.
It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.
Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.
There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.
Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.
You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.
Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.
It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.
You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:
Tonight.
My place.
We should talk.
No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.
You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.
Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?
The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.
Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.
You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.
Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.
You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.
Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.
There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.
You stepped inside hesitantly.
The apartment was surprising.
It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.
The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.
You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.
It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.
This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.
He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.
“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.
You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.
“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”
You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”
You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.
You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.
How could the same man feel so different?
Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.
Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.
Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.
Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”
You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”
You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.
Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.
Your breath caught.
Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.
Still unmistakably Clark Kent.
And Superman.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”
Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.
It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.
It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.
Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.
“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.
He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.
“They’re supposed to—”
You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”
Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”
The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.
You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.
His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.
“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”
Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”
Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.
“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”
You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”
Clark’s expression faltered.
“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”
“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”
He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.
“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”
You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”
His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”
“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”
“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”
You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”
Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”
And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.
You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.
Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.
Clark Kent loved you.
“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”
You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.
“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”
His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”
You nodded before your words could betray you.
Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.
“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”
Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”
You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.
And then he kissed you.
Not like Superman. Not like a secret.
Like Clark.
He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.
In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”
His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”
You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.
The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.
There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.
You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.
It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.
“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”
Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”
Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.
You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.
Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.
And you didn’t want him to.
Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.
Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.
Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.
The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.
You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.
It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.
Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”
Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.
You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.
You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”
And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.
Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.
He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.
The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.
Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.
In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.
You didn’t. But you thought about it.
Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.
At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.
“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.
Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.
It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.
You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.
And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.
Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.
Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.
“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.
Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.
“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.
You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.
Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”
Then she was gone.
The elevator doors glided shut.
You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.
The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.
Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.
You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.
It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.
Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.
He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.
“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.
“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.
“Exactly.”
You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.
Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.
“I missed this,” you murmured.
“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.
It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.
You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”
Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.
Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.
“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”
Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.
You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.
As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.
“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.
Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.
Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.
Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.
Everything was back to normal.
Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.
note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭
weak hero boys x fem! reader 18+ (separated scenarios) ☆
summary: weak hero boys with fem! reader who decides to wear a sexy lingerie to surprise them
featuring: yeon sieun, ahn suho, oh beomseok, park humin, go hyuntak, seo juntae, geum seongje, na baekjin
warnings: suggestive (minors dni!!), intended lowercase, usage of y/n, established relationships
author’s note: anytime i write fics that include multiple characters at once, i’m always curious who left the best impression on you — so let me know in the comments who made you giggle and kick your feet the most lol 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ
yeon sieun ໒꒱
sieun was studying at his desk, pages full of notes scattered around him. he didn’t even hear you come in until the door to his room was swung open and you stepped inside, arms full of shopping bags.
“enough of homework, sieun! i’ve got something better.” you announced excitedly.
he didn’t smile. he never really did. but his eyes flicked up to you, softening just a touch.
“what is it?” he asked, voice even but attention fully on you now.
you stepped closer, grinning. “not yet. close your eyes first. and keep them closed till i tell you, okay?”
he exhaled slowly, pretending to be put-upon, but he obeyed without question. his hands came up to cover his eyes, and even like this, he looked composed — back straight, shoulders relaxed… but you could tell he was listening to every tiny sound, trying to figure out what you were doing.
“don’t peek!” you warned.
“i’m not.” he said quietly — and he meant it. he’d never go against your word.
finally, when you were done, you said brightly “okay, all done! you can look.”
he dropped his hands — and then froze right away.
your lingerie glowed softly in the light, delicate straps hugging your waist, stockings pressed high against your thighs. you shifted nervously, suddenly aware of just how intensely he was watching you.
his ears turned pink first. then the tips of his cheeks. then the rest of his face.
“d–do you like it?” you asked, suddenly shy in a way he’d never seen from you.
he didn’t answer.
he just stood, quietly, slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement would break the moment. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you — not messy or rushed, but deep, careful, like he was memorizing the feeling.
“i… love it.” he murmured against your lips, breath unsteady in a way he’d hate anyone else besides you to hear.
he guided you backwards with a gentle hand on your waist until he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap. you straddled him, and he swallowed hard, fingers brushing the lace at your hips as if he didn’t quite believe you were real.
“for once, you were right… this really is better than homework.” he said, trying to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him — softer, warmer, tinted with awe.
you laughed breathlessly “everything i offer is better than your homework—” but the rest of your sentence dissolved into a quiet gasp the moment his lips found your neck. not hurried, not aggressive, just slow, deliberate, searching for that one spot he knew made you melt.
his analytical mind, always calculating, always observing, focused entirely on you now. your breath. your skin. your reactions.
and beneath his usual stillness, you could feel it — the intensity, the devotion, the quiet, dangerous protectiveness that he never let anyone else close enough to see.
“you’re… beautiful..” he whispered against your throat, voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should say it aloud “too beautiful.”
his hands kept exploring your body — fingertips tracing the lace along your waist, the ribbon on your hip, the delicate seams of your stockings. every part of you he touched, he memorized.
his eyes were half-open, half-lidded, like he physically couldn’t look away from you even if he wanted to.
“i want you to keep this on the whole night…” he whispered, voice low “it’s… really pretty.”
his fingers tightened around your thighs, right where the stockings ended, squeezing gently. the contrast between his cold hands and your warm skin sent a shiver through you.
you moaned softly, surprised, almost startled, at the initiative he was taking. usually, you were the one guiding him, teasing him, pulling the reactions out of him one by one. but tonight? he wasn’t hiding behind his quiet.
“if i knew a pretty lingerie set was all it took to make you this excited,” you giggled breathlessly “i’d have done this way sooner.”
sieun’s gaze flicked up to yours — sharp, dark, heated in a way that made your giggle die in your throat.
“don’t.” he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh “don’t tease.”
the words weren’t a warning. they were a confession.
a little shaky, a little vulnerable.
like he wasn’t used to wanting something this badly.
he pressed another slow kiss to your lips, more sure this time, his hand gently pulling you closer as if afraid you might disappear.
“just… stay like this for a bit…” he whispered, breath warm against your mouth “i want to look at you.”
and he did. quietly. intensely. like you were something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved, but couldn’t stop reaching for anyway.
ahn suho ໒꒱
you and suho had a sleepover planned at your place tonight. he was supposed to swing by after his shift and the moment you heard a motorcycle pull up, you rushed to get ready for your big reveal — the little surprise you’d been planning for him all day.
“your delivery boy is here!” he yelled playfully through the door, voice muffled but obviously tired. he stretched, letting out a huge yawn he didn’t even bother to cover… which was exactly when you opened the door.
there he stood, mid-yawn, and you stood there in a lacy bra and matching panties, stockings hugging your thighs, and the only thing even remotely decent being his hoodie hanging loosely off your shoulders.
you rolled your eyes.
“i was gonna say something sexy, but that yawn kinda killed the mood.” you giggled, watching his brain absolutely shut down.
the second he realized how long he’d been staring, he stumbled inside in a panic, slamming the door shut behind him so no one else could possibly catch a glimpse of you like this. the bag of snacks he brought? forgotten instantly, dropped right onto the floor as he turned back to you, stunned all over again.
“did i die? is this heaven?” he breathed out, genuinely dazed.
you blushed and lightly smacked his chest.
“heaven is waiting for you in the bedroom… if you’re not completely dead after your shift that is.” you teased, shooting him a wink as you started walking towards your room.
the teasing barely finished leaving your lips before he practically jogged after you.
“for this i have plenty of energy!” he laughed, watching you flop down onto the bed. he stopped at the edge, practically tripping over himself as he hurried to undress down to his boxers.
the moment he finally got out of his pants, he practically climbed onto the bed after you, still slightly breathless — partly from rushing, partly from sheer disbelief.
“i swear…” he muttered as he crawled over you, hands settling on either side of your hips “you can’t just… stand there looking like—” he waved his hand helplessly at your entire body “—that, and expect me to act normal.”
you grinned, tugging lightly on the strings of his hoodie that hung off your shoulders “normal isn’t fun though, is it?”
“not when you look like my personal religion.” he fired back instantly, cheeks dusted pink as he lowered himself, kissing slowly down your jaw. he was warm — the kind of warmth that made your knees weak.
his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs brushing the tops of your stockings as he whispered against your neck “i rode here thinking we were gonna watch movies and nap. but you—” he kissed the spot under your ear, voice dropping lower “—you had other plans, huh?”
you shivered, tightening your legs around his waist. “maybe. depends if you’re good.”
he froze for a second, then laughed — that soft, breathy suho laugh that always made you melt — and gently pushed you down onto the pillows.
“oh, i’m good.” he murmured, pinning your wrists for just a moment, teasing, not actually holding them — just enough to make you gasp “i’m very good when it’s for you.”
then he let go, sliding one hand behind your thigh to pull it over his hip, his gaze drifting over your body again like it was some miracle he wasn’t supposed to touch.
“god… the hoodie looks better on you than it ever did on me.” he breathed out, fingertips tracing your waist “you really wore all this for me?”
“do you… like it?” you whispered, suddenly shy under how intensely he was looking at you.
suho’s grin turned impossibly boyish — messy hair, flushed cheeks, eyes warm and hungry at the same time.
“like it?” he scoffed, leaning down until his lips brushed the corner of yours “baby, i’m obsessed.”
he kissed you — not sloppy, not rushed, but slow and deep, like he’d been waiting all night for this. one hand cupped your jaw, the other traced your waist, sliding up your ribs deliberately, touching every curve like he was memorizing it.
you let your own hands wander too, fingertips dancing up his arms, gliding over the warm stretch of muscle across his back as he hovered above you. he dipped his head, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, each press just a little hungrier than the last.
“may i?” he asked, voice low and breathless, as he took your leg and lifted it. after your tiny nod, he slid his hand down, hooking his fingers under the top of your stocking. then, painfully slow, he rolled it down your thigh, over your knee, all the way to your ankle.
his eyes never left your skin.
when he finally slipped it off your foot, he laughed softly, holding the stocking between two fingers like it was made of gold.
“is there any chance,” he said, gaze flicking up to you with a smirk so warm and wicked it made your stomach twist “that i could take this home as a souvenir?”
you kicked him in the shoulder lightly, but he only leaned forward, letting your ankle rest over it, kissing the inside of your calf just to make you flustered.
“perv…” you muttered, smiling despite yourself.
“your perv.” he corrected, lips brushing your skin. “and i’m keeping it unless you stop me.”
he tossed the stocking somewhere behind him without even looking, then crawled back up your body, mouth finding yours again — deeper this time, needier, his hands already sliding under the hem of his hoodie on your shoulders.
“god,” he murmured between kisses “i can’t believe i get to come home to this.”
“you better believe it and do something about it, huh?” the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them — not because you didn’t mean them, but because of the way suho froze… then smirked. a low, dangerous, playful little smirk that always meant you were in trouble.
“oh? is that a challenge?” he murmured, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach twist.
before you could answer, he was already on you, gentle but fast, kissing down your throat with a heat that made your back arch off the bed. he pushed the hoodie off your shoulders like it offended him, tossing it aside without even looking.
“i wanna see all of you.” he said, almost to himself, thumb brushing your bottom lip before he went back to your neck, kissing, sucking, leaving warm, red marks blooming on your skin.
you gasped and grabbed at his shoulders, feeling his smile against your neck.
“suho—”
“mm?” he hummed, pretending to be innocent while deliberately slipping your bra strap off your shoulder, letting it hang crookedly “you told me to ‘do something,’ remember?”
his fingers traced the edge of your lingerie, slow enough to tease, firm enough to make your breath catch. his eyes dragged down your body — one stocking still on, the other leg bare, your hair already messy, face flushed.
“god…” he exhaled, leaning back just enough to look you over, licking his lips unconsciously “you get prettier every second i touch you. that’s not fair.”
you swallowed, flustered “i-it’s not my fault—”
“no,” he cut in softly, leaning down again, lips brushing your collarbone “it’s definitely mine — and i’m not stopping until you look even messier for me.”
oh beomseok ໒꒱
you and beomseok spent the entire afternoon shopping — or more accurately, he spent the entire afternoon insisting you let him spoil you. you didn’t plan to buy anything expensive, you even told him multiple times that you didn’t need anything, but he was stubborn in that soft, insecure way of his.
“it’s okay.” he kept repeating as he guided you from shop to shop “i… like doing this for you.”
that’s how you ended up with a pandora bracelet decorated with charms you secretly chose because they reminded you of beomseok, a new dress that made his ears turn pink when he first saw you wearing it in the fitting room, shoes that matched the dress perfectly, and several bags filled with little things he thought you might like.
beomseok carried every single one. even though he looked exhausted, he also looked… happy. like every bag in his hands was proof he was worthy of you. because somewhere in his mind — poisoned by years of bullying, abuse and loneliness — he still believed that buying pretty things was the only way to keep someone close.
you squeezed his arm, trying not to think about how much you adored him for reasons he never gave himself credit for.
but then… a mischievous idea hit you.
“i think there’s one more shop i wanna visit.” you said lightly.
beomseok perked up immediately. “oh? which one? i’ll take you.”
“victoria’s secret—”
you didn’t even get to finish.
his entire face went red, ears to neck, like someone splashed hot water on him. he stiffened, eyes widening, completely short-circuiting.
you burst into laughter.
“dear, if you’d feel more comfortable, you can wait outside, okay?” you teased sweetly.
he nodded so fast it was almost comical, then shoved his card into your hand like he was defusing a bomb.
beomseok assumed you’d buy something practical. a new bra. maybe cute pajamas. something normal… something safe.
what he did not anticipate was walking out of the shower that night and seeing you sprawled on his bed like a fantasy he didn’t think he was allowed to have.
tiny lace bra. matching panties. stockings with little bows.
you propped yourself up on your elbows, smiling “i wanted to thank my man for treating me so well today,” you giggled, giving your chest the tiniest playful shake “consider this… a little surprise.”
beomseok stopped breathing.
literally stopped.
“we’re like an old rich couple, don’t you think?” you continued teasing, biting your lip “my rich husband spoils me all day… and then i spoil him all night.”
the poor boy malfunctioned.
his face turned crimson instantly, eyes darting everywhere because he didn’t know where to look — at your legs? your chest? your smile?? it was too much. all of it was too much.
his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. he swallowed hard, shoulders shaking slightly as he took a step closer.
until now, intimacy between you had always been soft, slow, with dimmed lights. he always undressed carefully, shyly, almost like he felt unworthy of being seen.
and now you were lying here under full lights, wearing lingerie bought with his (technically) money, waiting just for him.
it overwhelmed him.
but in the best way possible.
“i… you…” he whispered, voice embarrassingly shaky “w-why are you… so… like this… for me?”
his heart was racing so hard you could see it in his chest. because no matter how much he loved you — he never quite believed he deserved you like this.
“beomseok, why are you asking something so silly?” you softened instantly, the teasing melting into something warm and gentle. “because i love you.”
his breath stuttered.
you always said it like it was the easiest truth in the world — and somehow that made it even harder for him to process.
“and if…” you leaned back on your palms, lashes fluttering in slow, deliberate temptation “you’re in the mood, i suppose you won’t let an almost naked girl wait here alone in your bed… right?”
your voice dipped just enough to make his face burn brighter.
he swallowed, took a deep breath like he needed to brace himself, and walked over. every step was hesitant but wanting — like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to approach you.
he sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped uselessly between his knees, shoulders stiff. he didn’t know where to look. he didn’t know where to put his hands. he didn’t know how to even exist in this exact moment without combusting.
you were just so… woah.
almost unreal.
almost too beautiful for his eyes, too confident for his shaky heart.
before you, he only saw people like you — girls this enchanting, this boldly pretty — on magazine covers he hid under his mattress, or posters in stores he passed by too quickly.
but now you were real. and sitting in his bed. and wearing lingerie that he technically bought for you.
and you were looking at him like you were the lucky one in this room and not the other way around.
“i… i don’t…” he whispered, voice breaking embarrassingly as he stared at his trembling hands “i don’t want to… mess this up.”
you blinked, your smile softening immediately as you scooted closer until your knee brushed his.
“hey,” you whispered, placing your hand gently on top of his — slow enough for him to pull away if he needed. he didn’t. “you’re not messing anything up. we’re just… here. together. and i want you.”
his breath hitched at that.
finally, he dared to lift his gaze — shy, overwhelmed, and shining with something warm and terrified.
you squeezed his hand.
“beomseok,” you murmured, leaning your forehead against his “you don’t have to know what to do. you just have to be with me.”
his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
and then he whispered, so quietly it was almost a confession to the space between you two “okay… then can you… show me? just a little?”
“of course.” you breathed, brushing your fingers along his jaw “i’ll go slow.”
beomseok tensed at the first touch — not in fear, but because it sent a shiver through him so intense he didn’t know what to do with it. he wasn’t used to gentle affection. not like this. not directed at him.
you cupped his cheek, turning his hesitant gaze towards you.
“look at me.” you whispered softly.
he did. and the second he met your eyes, his shoulders relaxed like your calmness grounded him.
you leaned in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to his lips. not rushed. not teasing. just warm and guiding.
his breath hitched, and after a moment, he kissed you back, clumsy at first, but eager, like he was memorizing every movement you made.
you pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth “see? nothing to be nervous about.”
beomseok stared at you, cheeks burning, chest rising and falling fast.
“i’m… i’m not nervous.” he lied instantly.
you grinned “sure.”
he opened his mouth to argue, but the moment your hands slid down his shoulders, gently feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt, his words dissolved into nothing.
you leaned closer, resting a hand on his chest, right over his racing heartbeat.
“you’re shaking…” you murmured.
“i’m fine.” he croaked, even though his voice cracked in the middle.
you giggled softly and let your fingers trail down to your own thigh, adjusting one of the lacy garters slowly, deliberately. you didn’t even have to look at him to know he was staring.
his breath faltered.
hard.
“you… you look…” he swallowed, eyes darting away then back like he couldn’t help it “…you look like someone i’m not supposed to even touch.”
your heart squeezed.
you moved closer, guiding his hand gently, placing it on your thigh, over the soft edge of the stocking.
his breath stopped completely. again.
“you can touch me, beomseok,” you whispered “i want you to.”
his fingers curled instinctively, squeezing lightly, and the moment he did, he panicked “sorry—! was that too—”
“it was perfect.” you murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth “you’re perfect.”
that word hit him harder than anything else.
his whole expression softened, like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth blooming in his chest.
slowly he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to his warm body. the move was was shy, almost uncertain, but it was him, taking initiative for once.
he held you tight — not desperate — but just like a boy who finally felt wanted.
you felt him relax against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, arms still resting on your waist, while you played gently with his hair, wanting him to relax more. he still felt nervous, but then something inside him shifted.
maybe it was the how your “because i love you” kept playing in his head, or the soft way your fingers combed through his hair patiently…
whatever it was, beomseok suddenly inhaled sharply, like something inside him clicked.
he lifted his head.
his eyes weren’t wandering anymore — they were locked straight on yours.
focused.
intent.
wanting.
he leaned in and kissed you.
not the shy, soft kiss from before — but a real one. deep. full. hungry in a way he had clearly been holding back for a long time.
his hand came up to the back of your thigh, fingers trembling but firm, pulling you tighter against him like he finally stopped being scared of wanting you.
you let out a little sound into his mouth, something between a gasp and a whimper. he froze for half a second, startled by his own boldness.
then he kissed you again. harder.
like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
when he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.
his lips were slightly swollen, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising and falling quickly.
he swallowed, thumb brushing your lower lip “sorry…” he whispered “i don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
you smiled, dizzy, warm, and absolutely gone for him.
“don’t be sorry,” you murmured, leaning forward so your nose brushed his “i liked it.”
then, quietly, but with that same beginning confidence he responded “good… because i think i want to kiss you like that again.”
one of his hands slid up your back, steady for once. the other stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking the garter strap.
you felt his voice more than heard it as he whispered against your mouth “just… tell me if i ever go too far.”
you cupped his face gently “you won’t.”
he exhaled shakily — relieved, thrilled — and kissed you again, softer this time but no less desperate.
for the first time tonight, beomseok wasn’t just overwhelmed.
he was wanting.
and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
your breathing was still uneven from the kiss when beomseok gently but firmly guided you backwards all of s sudden.
one careful push to your shoulder, and you were lying down on his bed, your hair fanned out around you like something out of a dream.
he hovered above you for a second, almost stunned by the sight — like his brain needed time to register that this was real. that you were real.
then he kissed your neck.
slowly at first, almost testing the waters.
soft lips brushing your skin, then a little braver… warmer… more lingering.
you let out a breathy sound that made his entire body tense and his pants uncomfortably tight. and then something snapped in him again.
with a sudden surge of confidence he didn’t know he had, beomseok grabbed both your wrists and pinned them gently above your head.
not rough.
not forceful.
just firm enough to make your heart skip.
“is this… okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.
“y-yeah…” you breathed, already melting.
that tiny bit of permission made him bold again. he kissed down your neck, then your shoulder, then the soft line of your collarbone. each kiss a little deeper, a little hungrier, but still so careful like he was afraid you might break.
he let go of your wrists only so he could slide lower.
his hands traced along your waist, your hips, the lace of your lingerie, and you instinctively shifted, one leg falling open.
he froze.
then very slowly, he guided your thigh upwards… placing it over his shoulder.
the position made your breath hitch.
and beomseok… beomseok looked like his soul left his body for a moment.
his hands rested on your thighs now, thumbs brushing the bow on your garter. he swallowed hard, eyes lifting to meet yours.
half-lidded.
dark.
in awe.
the lace brushed against his shoulder, and you watched the realization hit him — that you were dressed like this for him, that your legs were literally wrapped around him.
his voice came out rough, barely a whisper “you’re… so beautiful.”
you felt your heart twist at the sincerity in his tone.
he lowered his head again, leaving slow, trembling kisses up the inside of your thigh, enjoying how you squirmed lightly under his touch.
he paused, his forehead resting gently against your skin, breathing you in.
then he looked up at you again, from between your legs, eyes warm and flustered.
“i… i don’t know how i got lucky enough for this,” he murmured, fingers tightening on your thighs “but i’m not letting go.”
you reached down, touching his cheek softly.
“you don’t have to.” you whispered.
and when he smiled, still overwhelmed and shy, but finally confident in his desire, you realized you’d never seen anything more beautiful either.
park humin (baku) ໒꒱
you were sitting on baku’s bed, covered in a blanket, looking all innocent, even though you were anything but that at the moment — a wicked plan forming in your mind. you scrolled on your phone, waiting for baku to notice, while he paced around the room in complete chaos.
“i’m late for practice, gotak is gonna kill me!!!” he yelled as he packed his bag, shoving his shoes in messily, tossing in a half-empty water bottle, and now frantically searching for his lucky jersey.
“y/n, have you seen it anywhere??” he looked at you with the saddest puppy eyes, and that’s when you decided to reveal it — you slowly pulled the blanket off, showing that you’d been wearing it the whole time.
that alone did something to baku’s heart. he always blushed seeing you in his clothes, but in his jersey, with his number and name on it… you were beyond sexy.
“babe, you’re the most pretty, beautiful, hot, gorgeous, gorgeous girl to ever walk the planet earth, but if you love me you want me alive, i suppose, and if i don’t get to practice in 10 minutes gotak is gonna kick my ass so—” he rambled as he walked over to you to take off the jersey.
but the moment you lifted your arms and let him pull it off, his heart stopped.
underneath — a red lingerie set, a tiny bow in the center of your lacy bra.
he stared at you for a few long seconds, his face turning the exact color of your bra. then he finally muttered “okay, this is worth dying for.” and laughed before immediately plopping himself onto you.
you giggled as his hands started exploring the material hugging your body so perfectly, his lips trailing messy kisses along your neck.
“baku— you’re really not going?” you giggled as he continued kissing you like he’d been deprived of oxygen for weeks.
“practice? what practice?” he muttered against your collarbone, voice muffled as his hands slid over your waist, fingers tracing the edges of the lace like he was trying to memorize it “never heard of it. doesn’t exist. coach can bench me forever.”
you laughed and tugged lightly on his hair — and he whimpered.
that was new.
baku froze for a second, eyes going wide, before he leaned back just enough to look at you properly.
and god, the way he looked at you… like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to worship you or combust on the spot.
his gaze traveled down your body slowly, lingering on every bit of red lace, the bow, the straps, all of it hugging you perfectly. his cheeks burned hotter the longer he stared.
“you’re… unreal.” he whispered, voice dropping an octave without him meaning to “i mean— you always are, but this? this is like, illegal levels of hot.”
before you could tease him, he grabbed your waist with both hands and pushed you back into the pillows, climbing over you with that cocky grin he only got when he was really flustered.
“you seriously wore this under my jersey?” his thumb brushed the bow between your breasts, barely touching you but making your breath catch “you trying to kill me, or…?”
“maybe i just wanted to delay you a little.” you smirked.
baku laughed breathlessly, leaning down until his lips were at your ear “congrats,” he whispered “mission accomplished.”
his hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer in one smooth motion — way more confident now, like the initial shock melted away and left him buzzing with adrenaline instead.
he kissed you again, messier this time, all heat and urgency, like the world outside his bedroom no longer existed. his lips moved down your jaw, your throat, your chest — he couldn’t stay still for a second, too overwhelmed, too electrified by the sight of you in red.
“god, i can’t—” he breathed against your skin, laughing at how hopelessly turned on he sounded “you look so good i forgot how to breathe.”
you cupped his face gently, pulling him up to meet your gaze.
“baku,” you teased softly “gotak is seriously going to murder you.”
he smirked, leaning down until his forehead touched yours.
“then i’ll die happy.” he whispered, kissing you again — slower this time, deeper, like he wanted to savor every tiny bit of you.
go hyuntak (gotak) ໒꒱
hyuntak always knew exactly how to make you flustered. he knew your sensitive spots, the pet names that made you blush, how to push you just enough so that you’d gasp or squeak, and then, after you were sure your heart might explode, he’d flick your forehead and grin, saying a simple “you’re cute.”
so, you decided it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine.
you’d secretly ordered a matching lingerie set in royal blue, his favorite color, with delicate white bows scattered across it.
your plan was simple: invite hyuntak over to play videogames, then make him completely lose his composure for once after seeing you like this.
when he arrived you were wearing an oversized hoodie, keeping the erotic display hidden… for now.
for the first twenty minutes, everything seemed normal, until hyuntak noticed there was something odd about you.
“hey, you’re distracted today. you keep losing!” hyuntak said, frowning at the screen. usually, losing meant a fit from you, so this calm threw him off.
“i… i guess i have something else on my mind.” you admitted, your voice low.
“oh yeah? and what’s that?” he asked, finally glancing at you.
“this hoodie… it’s just so uncomfortable.” you said, carefully avoiding his eyes.
he laughed, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie right away “that’s it? then take it off, it’s nothing—“
however, the moment the hoodie slipped from your shoulders and revealed the lingerie beneath, hyuntak froze. his jaw dropped and his eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“…wow.” he breathed, voice low and almost unsteady, still staring.
for the first time, the usually confident, teasing hyuntak looked completely flustered, like he’d walked into a dream he wasn’t sure he deserved.
he couldn’t move. for a few seconds, he just stared, chest rising faster than usual, like he was trying to process what he was seeing.
every instinct in him was screaming to touch you, to pull you closer— but at the same time, a little hesitation crept in. his hands, calloused and rough from fights and endless hours on the basketball court, felt almost alien like compared to how soft and delicate your body looked right now, wrapped up in that lingerie like a precious gift.
“y/n…” he murmured, voice low, almost shaky “you… you look insane.”
he reached out tentatively, brushing a fingertip over the lacy material near your breasts. the contrast made him flinch in surprise — so soft, so warm, it was almost too much.
“hyuntak…?” you whispered, tilting your head, letting him see that you weren’t pulling away.
that gave him the courage to move closer, slowly, as if approaching something fragile he didn’t want to break. his hands traced the curve of your waist, then slid a little lower, skimming over the bows on your lingerie.
“god… you’re… like… perfect.” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, voice rougher than usual. his usual teasing confidence had completely dissolved, replaced by a raw need to be close to you.
he paused for a moment, just taking you in, pressing you gently against him, feeling the softness beneath his rough palms.
“i… can’t believe this is real.” he murmured, and for once, there was no joking in his tone. just awe, and that unstoppable, almost desperate need to be near you.
he leaned down slowly, just enough that his forehead brushed against yours, hands still exploring lightly along your waist and hips. you, feeling bold, tilted your head and pressed soft kisses along his neck, humming lightly against his skin.
“hey, hey… what’s gotten into you? the lingerie, now this?” he murmured, his voice low, teasingly rough, one hand sliding to cup your jaw while the other kept you close by your waist.
“i… i wanted to fluster you.” you admitted, voice small and a little breathless.
he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart beat faster, and leaned just a little closer, eyes half-lidded, smirk tugging at his lips “oh really?” he whispered, letting his nose brush yours lightly.
you nodded, blushing furiously, biting your lip “did it… did it work?” you asked, meeting his gaze.
hyuntak could swear he physically felt his heart hammering in his chest, his cock getting uncomfortably hard in his pants.
“you bet.” he breathed, and before you could react, he leaned down, lips capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss, pressing his full weight against you and gently forcing you back onto the bed, hands still firmly holding your waist and jaw as he claimed the moment entirely.
seo juntae ໒꒱
you were hanging out at juntae’s place after school, however he was extra tired today — probably because hyoman had been annoying him nonstop lately. the moment his back hit the blanket, he was out.
you couldn’t help but smile at your sweet, exhausted boy before quietly opening his laptop to put on the show you two had been watching last time.
but as you scrolled through his tabs, something… unexpected caught your eye.
a crunchyroll window.
rascal does not dream of bunny girl senpai.
you clicked — and there she was on the screen — anime girl with long bunny ears, strapless black bodysuit, tights, a little fluffy tail.
your cheeks burned immediately.
juntae? into something like this?
the thought alone made you grin. and just like that, an idea started forming in your head.
a few days later, you texted him saying you weren’t feeling well and asked if he could come over. sweet as always, he rushed to you with a plastic bag stuffed with instant soups and way too many tea flavors.
but when he arrived, your front door was already a little open.
he froze.
“y/n?” he whispered, stepping inside cautiously.
then his phone buzzed.
come to my room please.
he swallowed hard, nodded to himself like it was some mission, and walked down the hall.
the moment he opened your bedroom door, he stopped dead in his tracks.
his entire face flushed immediately.
because there you were.
sitting on the edge of your bed in a full bunny girl outfit — ears, black bodysuit, sheer tights, even a little fluffy tail.
“h-hi…” you smiled, suddenly shy.
juntae made a sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, gripping the doorknob so hard his knuckles went white.
“y–y/n…? w-why… what—” he stuttered, eyes darting everywhere except at you because whenever they did he turned even redder “why are you… dressed like that?”
you tilted your head, letting the bunny ears flop a little.
“well… you seemed to like this show a lot,” you teased softly, patting the spot on your bed beside you “so i thought maybe my boyfriend would like this too.”
juntae finally met your eyes, completely flustered, voice cracking “i— i mean— i do— i really—”
he shut the door behind him with his foot, still pink from his ears to his neck.
then, stiff and awkward, he padded closer until he stood right in front of you, eyes glued to the floor because looking directly at you was clearly too much stimulation for one man.
“can i… i mean— c-can i take a picture?” he mumbled, clutching his phone with both hands like it might fly away “only if you’re okay with it! i just— i… i wanna remember— i mean!! it’s just— you look—” he broke off, flustered mess.
you couldn’t help but giggle, leaning back on your hands in a way that made his breath hitch “a picture, hm? and what would you need that for, juntae?”
his eyes darted up to yours for a split second before he panicked and looked away again, ears burning “i-i don’t know! i just… you’re so— i’ve never— i didn’t think you’d ever… wear something like this. for me.”
you softened, reaching out to tug him a little closer by his sleeve. he followed instantly, stepping between your knees like he was under a spell.
“if you ever wanna see me like this again,” you whispered teasingly “all you have to do is ask. i’d dress up for you whenever you want.”
his breath punched out of him.
“i—” he blinked rapidly, like he might actually combust “you… you would?”
“of course” you smiled, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand “you think i didn’t notice that you logged that anime in your crunchyroll account as the most rewatched one?”
“oh my god—” juntae covered his face with both hands, mortified “i wasn’t— i didn’t— it’s not—”
you gently lowered his hands and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to finally look at you.
“hey,” you whispered “i did this because i wanted to. because it clearly makes you happy.”
juntae’s eyes softened, shy and adoring all at once. he leaned in just enough that his forehead touched yours.
“you’re… literally my dream right now.” he breathed out, trembling a little “like— actually. i… i didn’t think i’d ever get to see this for real.”
“well,” you smiled, tugging lightly at his shirt to pull him closer “believe it.”
he let out a tiny, helpless laugh — overwhelmed, red, and utterly whipped — before finally snapping a single picture with shaky hands, looking at you like you hung the moon.
geum seongje ໒꒱
seongje came home late again — not unusual, but what was unusual, was the fact, that tonight the apartment felt very quiet. he kicked the door shut behind him and ran a hand through his hair “hey, babe?” he called out.
no answer.
his eyes narrowed “…weird.”
he wandered through the apartment, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, like he half-expected something to jump him. when he reached the kitchen, he stopped dead.
a note.
wear this and find me in the bedroom ;)
next to it — a headband with red horns.
he huffed a laugh, shaking his head “just what are you planning, y/n?”
he picked up the horns, twirling them around his finger like he was considering whether to simply play along with whatever that you had planned for him or let you earn it on his own terms… for now he kept the headband in his hands.
he pushed open the bedroom door. darkness swallowed him.
“okay, babe just what are you up to—”
the light clicked on.
he froze.
you sat pretty in the middle of the bed — soft white lingerie, lace corset hugging your every curve, delicate angel wings behind you, a tiny halo glowing above your head. sweet. innocent. heavenly.
and absolutely designed to make him lose his mind.
“ta-dah!” you giggled, leaning forward so the corset pushed your cleavage up just a little more “like what you see?”
his smirk was instant, slow and predatory.
“oh, angel…” he stepped closer, voice dropping into that low, dangerous purr “you have no idea how much.”
he shrugged off his windbreaker in one motion, ready to pounce on you, until your palm met his chest, stopping him before he even managed to get on the bed.
“uh-uh” you tapped the red horns still in his hand “i’m not interested in mortals tonight. only demons.”
he stared at you for a long second, something wicked sparking in his eyes.
then he laughed — quiet, dark, amused. the kind of laugh that meant trouble.
“so that’s the game, huh?”
he slid the horns onto his head, pushing his hair back.
“fine. but don’t say i didn’t warn you.”
he leaned in close enough that his breath warmed your cheek “you want a demon? i can play a demon.”
his fingers hooked gently under your chin, tilting your face up “just make sure you don’t regret inviting one into your bed.”
you swallowed, cheeks burning “i won’t.”
the moment the words left your mouth, his smile shifted — less playful, more hungry.
“good.” he murmured “then let’s play.”
you barely had half a second to breathe before seongje grabbed your waist and pulled you into his chest with a rough, excited grin.
“you look way too innocent to be saying things like that, you know?” he muttered, eyes dragging over you like he didn’t know where to stare first “makes me wanna ruin the aesthetic a little.”
he leaned down, lips brushing your neck with passionate kisses, that quickly enough turned into teasing bites that made your breath catch.
he was still standing by the edge of the bed while you were kneeling in front of him, looking up at him with glossy eyes, your halo a little crooked to the side from how he’s handling you, and your gentle hands grabbing onto his shirt for balance. all of that was a sight that made him tight in his pants.
your breath hitched “s-seongje—”
“yeah?” he teased, leaning down so your noses almost touched “you nervous already? i have barely touched you yet. did the angel already get wet from tasting just a little bit of danger?.”
you pushed at his shoulder lightly, flustered “shut up…”
he laughed — that low chaotic laugh that always meant he was enjoying himself way too much. seongje flopped himself onto the bed finally, quickly guiding you to sit right on top of him. your wings bounced awkwardly behind you and you scrambled to fix them.
“don’t touch those,” he said immediately, grabbing your wrist mid-movement “they’re cute. i like them.”
you blinked, blushing “you… like the wings?”
“they make you look fragile.” he shrugged, eyes glinting “and that’s fun.”
you rolled your eyes at him “you’re impossible.”
“yeah and you dressed up like a fantasy i’m pretty sure i’ve had since… forever on a random tuesday,” he countered, tugging at the ribbon of your corset with a wicked grin “so i think we’re even.”
you rolled your eyes and instead of talking back to him, you leaned in, pressing your mouth to his — and, just like always, the kiss turned messy in seconds. seongje never kissed you gently — he kissed like he fought. his tongue immediately pushed past your lips, claiming every bit of space he could, your teeth knocking lightly together as he deepened it without a hint of hesitation.
one of his hands slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how much stronger he was, while the other wandered upward, cupping your breast. you let out a soft moan against his mouth, instinctively pressing your body closer, chasing his heat.
“for an angel, you’re pretty damn sinful.” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, his smirk brushing your skin. “tell me, angel… were you always like this, or was it me who corrupted you like this?”
he pulled back just enough to look at you again — really look — eyes roaming over the halo, the wings, the delicate white fabric hugging your curves, your flushed face and eyes full of love, just once again reminding him how lucky he was, that someone like you would ever give yourself to a wicked man like him. he looked almost stunned for a second, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or drag you straight into hell with him.
“how are you real…” he muttered, mostly to himself, tongue grazing the corner of his mouth as if tasting the kiss you’d just shared “looking all divine and innocent, but somehow managing to be the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”
his fingers tightened at your waist, possessive in that reckless, seongje way.
his then eyes flicked up to the red devil horns sitting crooked on his head and his grin sharpened instantly — dangerous, slow, like he’d just remembered he held all the power in this little game.
“right… i’m the demon tonight,” he said, voice dropping into something low “means i get to be a lot meaner than usual, doesn’t it?”
and just like that he pulled you into another kiss, his hands wandering all over your body, squeezing and lingering in places he knew were sensitive, just to get a reaction out of you.
you were in for a long ride…
na baekjin ໒꒱
baekjin was sitting in his dim office at the bowling alley, finishing some homework, when suddenly your contact name lit up his phone screen.
you didn’t text him often. he’d told you to only message when you really needed something — he wasn’t the type to talk mindlessly on the phone for hours. so the moment he saw your name, he immediately sat up straighter.
can you come home soon? i need you.
that was all the message said. and of course, worry hit him instantly. with the life he lived, he could never be too careful, especially when it came to you.
he packed his things, locked the office, and went home without wasting a single second.
“y/n?” he called out as he stepped inside, the entire apartment swallowed in darkness. he didn’t like this. not at all.
he went straight to the bedroom.
and there — soft candlelight, flower petals scattered across the bed, and most importantly you sitting at the edge of it in a black lacy corset that pushed your breasts up exactly the way he liked, a silk robe draped over your shoulders that did absolutely nothing to hide the sinful sight you were presenting him.
he swallowed hard, losing his composure for a moment “you… you texted me that you needed me. what is all this about?”
you stepped towards him with that teasing glint he knew too well, fingers already reaching for his tie “i didn’t lie, baekjin. can’t you see how needy i am?” you murmured as you undid the knot slowly “it’s late… you should relax.” your lips pressed to his neck.
hesitation melted the moment he felt you. his hands slid to your hips, then lower, warm palms brushing over your bare thighs.
“what’s even the point of dressing up like this if i’m just gonna tear it off you?” he growled when your teeth grazed a sensitive spot on his neck. his fingers tightened around your soft flesh.
“because i want to look pretty for you. don’t you like what you see?” you whispered, pulling back to meet his eyes. “besides… i don’t mind if you undress me. this corset’s pretty tight.”
with that, you let the silk robe fall from your shoulders, pooling soundlessly on the floor. then you turned around, presenting him your back — the delicate lace ties winding down your spine — waiting for his hands to finally touch you.
baekjin’s breath hitched the moment the robe slipped off your shoulders. for a second, he just stood there — jaw clenched, eyes darkening, every rational thought evaporating as he took in the way the corset hugged your waist. you felt his stare burning down your spine before he even touched you.
then, finally, his hand slid up your back… slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of you before he even loosened a single ribbon.
“you did all this…” he murmured, voice low and dangerous as he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear “…just to get a rise out of me?”
you could feel his smirk without even seeing it.
his fingers tugged on the first ribbon — not enough to loosen it, just enough to make your breath catch. he enjoyed that, the power, the control, the way your body reacted before he even told you to.
“you really think i’m letting you play with me like this?” he asked, finally pulling the ribbons loose one by one, painfully slow.
your knees nearly buckled as the corset loosened around your waist.
he chuckled under his breath “careful. you can’t fall yet.”
when the last ribbon came undone and the corset fell down to your feet, leaving you bare in front of him, he grabbed your wrist and turned you around, pulling you flush against his chest. his eyes were half-lidded now, gleaming with something possessive and hungry.
“you looked pretty,” he said, thumb dragging slowly over your lip “but i like this even more. when you’re coming undone just because i touched you.”
you swallowed hard, and he smirked again, because he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“get on the bed.” he ordered, voice dropping even lower, his hand squeezing your jaw just enough to make your breath hitch. “you wanted me, didn’t you? then act like it.”
and as you backed up towards the bed, he followed you with slow, confident steps, like a man who finally had what he wanted in front of him, and wasn’t planning on letting you go for the rest of the night.
fin.
if you’d like to read more of my work make sure to check out my weak hero masterlist !! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭
ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: 18+, softdom!teasing!izuku, brat(?)!sub!fem!afab!reader, fingering, nipple teasing, established relationship, noncon elements (i like to imagine in all of my writing (concerning relationships), there is an established safeword), the discussion/imagery of: dom!bakugo, dom!todoroki, dom!sero, dom!kirishima, dom!kaminari. mentions/discussion of: size kink, dick piercings, bondage, nipple play, temperature play, omorashi, p in v, blowjob, dacryphilia, choking, exchanging nudes. (teasing) accusal of desire to cheat; izuku keeps suggesting reader should fuck his friends/wants to, praise, dot hate for bakugo shows up, jealousy(?), possessiveness, izuku is mean :(
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: this is a reblog from my old account meow meow
ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: a “casual” conversation about your boyfriend's friends' sex lives.
ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: ~1.8k
“that todoroki guy is pretty…” you mumble as you lie in bed next to your boyfriend, izuku.
“shoto?” he asks, head tilting in a request for clarification.
“yeah,” you shrug, continuing to scroll mindlessly on your phone. “a little boring though.”
he lets out a soft hum, pulling you close to him as you watch your tiktoks, seemingly amused by your tendency to think out loud. “any other friends of mine you wanna fuck?”
although his tone is light, almost playful— you can feel the edge tucked just beneath it. your brows furrow at his insinuation, a scoff slipping past your lips. “i didn’t say i want to fuck your friend. i was just saying he’s pretty. like a doll.”
izuku simply laughs, the sound colored with something almost a bit dangerous, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “fine. any other of my friends you find ‘pretty?”
“i’m not gonna tell you now,” you roll your eyes, returning your gaze to the screen in your hand. “‘cause you’re gonna be weird about it.”
“so there’s more?”
“no,” you scoff once more, teeth grinding against each other as you grow chagrined.
“i think ‘yeah,” he says mildly, tipping your phone’s screen down to redirect your attention. “i’m just curious, my love. i like knowing what you think about my friends.”
while the delivery of his words sound sweet, you know better. you sigh, setting your phone down to let yourself think, because you knew he wouldn’t let it go. “fine,” you mumble after a beat. “kaminari, i guess, but he’s annoying. kirishima… but i can’t tell if he’s cute or i just like that he’s tall. sero’s pretty. and i guess— ” you hesitate, before exhaling sharply, “—bakugo has some appeal to him. there, happy?”
“hm,” is all izuku responds with at first, letting himself sit with his thoughts. “i don’t think you could handle that train.”
“you said you weren’t going to be weird!” you huff, a heat creeping up your cheeks as the notion of such flashes in your mind.
a snicker escapes him at the sound of your whine, his eyes tracking the way your expression shifts as the dirty fantasies run amok in your mind. “well, i’m just saying— they all play pretty rough. like, eijirou has a huge size kink— he used to brag about how his dick reached like… here… when he did it with a girl.”
you glance downwards as his hand comes to rest just right above your belly button, your body instinctively bucking at the idea, much to your embarrassment. “that’s, that’s crazy,” you mumble, trying to feign nonchalance. “i don’t think that’s possible.”
“really?” izuku asks, tilting his head, his voice deceptively soft. “mine hits about here—” he lowers his hand a few inches down, “—when we do it. he’s a bit taller than me so i feel like it’s easy to imagine.”
“it just… doesn’t seem like… healthy or safe,” you hesitate, “i don’t know how anyone would enjoy that.”
he only offers you a shrug, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “there’s a lot of girls out there who think bigger is better,” he notes. “what do you think?”
“i’m satisfied. like… happily.”
chuckling at that, izuku continues. “denki has a bunch of piercings, and i mean like— i haven’t seen it — but, he has a couple down there. you feel those sort of things with every movement.”
your thighs clench at his description, a surreal heat rising in your core over the concept of your boyfriend talking about the sex lives of his friends. “i don’t think i’d like that…” you comment, unsure why you were even putting in your input, as well as if you were lying or not. “it seems weird. like what if they get caught or lost?”
“they’re usually pretty well in there,” he muses, giving your hip a soft pat, “you wanna ask him and see?”
“no,” you glare, biting the inside of your cheek. “why do you want me to fuck your friends so bad?”
“why do you want to fuck my friends so bad?” he retorts.
“i said i don’t.”
“yeah? then why are you so wet?”
before you can react, his fingers glide down your stomach, effortlessly slipping beneath the waistband of your pajamas and into your panties, unbothered by your attempts of pulling away to avoid proving him right.
“ack!— izu, quit it!”
your protest goes unacknowledged. instead, a long thick finger runs along your bare slit, arousal collecting against it’s pad. “quit what?” he asks, acting oblivious. “touching you? or talking about my friends? 'cause i don’t think you want me to stop either.”
when you don’t respond, pretending to be too distracted by his ministrations, he giggles, leaning close to whisper into your ear. “y’wanna know about hanta?”
“wh-what about him?” you find yourself asking, prurience getting the best of you.
izuku smirks as you maintain a sort of act of innocence. “he likes tying girls up with his quirk and doing whatever he wants to them,” he explains slowly, taking in how the puffy lips of your pussy flutter against him with every word leaving his mouth, “blindfolds them. gags them. pinches their nipples. think he likes omorashi too.”
“o-omorashi?” you choke out, confused by how your own nipples have reactively already begun to stiffen against the fabric of your shirt. “that’s disgusting— why would he even like that?”
“denki likes it too,” he adds. “they’ve talked about how they like how helpless their partners get under them— the high they get from controlling someone else like that. i think they told me i should try it out with you one time...”
you shake your head, holding onto his arm for support as two calloused fingers slip inside your heat, pushing past the initial resistance with a delicious stretch. “nuh uh— no,” you refuse, a hint of curiosity betraying you, “that’s, that’s too weird.”
he chuckles knowingly at your reaction, fingers rocking back and forth as he speaks easily, “i think you’re just scared of me bullying you. but, hey — they’re a lot meaner than me — just imagine how they’d be with you.”
“i don’t wanna imagine that...” you exhale shakily, eyes rolling back as he brushes against your g-spot.
“but you already are imagining it,” he whispers, tapping against that exact spot again and again, over and over. “you’re soaked, babe.”
a haze feels as if it's clouding over your mind. “it’s because of you,” you whine, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in attempt to silence the noise.
“yeah?” he cooes, “it’s for me?”
you nod, a soft moan escaping you as he presses his thumb against your clit. “y-yes…”
“oh,” he smiles, as if he didn’t know. “you sure it’s not for shoto?”
“why— why would it be for him?” you ask, swallowing the pooling saliva in your mouth.
“well,” he starts, rubbing circles into you, “i don’t know. maybe you’re thinking about him using his quirk on you— teasing these—” his free hand slips under your shirt, rubbing a nipple between a thumb and a forefinger, before lightly tugging on the peak, “—with ice.”
“m’not,” you lie, already shivering as though you can feel it. you reach a hand down to palm at the growing bulge in his pants. “you’re hard,” you deflect, trying to gain some footing in this conversation, “maybe you’re the one thinking about him doing that to you.”
the attempt only makes him snicker. “nah,” he murmurs, fingering you deeper and deeper, “i’m hard because i’m thinking about how my perverted little girlfriend is about to cum on my fingers pretending it’s katsuki’s dick.”
you can feel your ears burn as the brief mental image takes you off guard — katsuki breathing heavy against your nape, gripping your hips hard, bruising — and you do your best to stifle the moan trying to escape your throat. “i, i’m not about to cum,” you whimper, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats in hopes of jerking him off as a diversion, but his hand under your shirt moves to catch your wrist, foiling the attempt.
“but you’re imagining it’s his dick, right?”
“i’m not doing that either!” you whine once more.
izuku only hums lightly at your denial. “he likes seeing girls cry, y’know that? one time, he sent me this picture of a girl he fucked — she had mascara all over her face, handprints around her neck — i thought it was a villain he fought at first. now that i think about it, i never really traded back with him…”
“no, no way— i f-fucking, fucking hate that guy,” you grit out, the idea of izuku sending his friend vulnerable pictures of you enraging yet strangely arousing.
“yeah?” izuku laughs, almost mockingly, “then why do you keep on clenching when i talk about him then?”
“it’s for you, baby, i swear…” you plead, begging him to believe you, feeling the waves of pleasure begin to ebb and flow in your core.
“you swear? you sure you’re not just saying that because you wanna cum?”
“i'm not,” you mewl, breath trembling in your chest, “it's for you, izu.”
“mm,” he murmurs approvingly, “whose pussy is this?”
“yours, only yours,” you gasp, eyes shutting tight as he curls his fingers, his free hand coming to tilt your chin upwards so that you couldn't hide from him.
“who's the only one who gets to play with this pussy? gets to have it?”
“you— oh my god,” you cry, toes curling as you feel yourself close to the edge, “i’m gonna cum, please don’t stop, please—”
“go ahead and cum, baby,” he groans, as if feeling your pleasure second-hand, “be a good girl, and cum for me.”
with his encouragement, you do exactly that, a whiny, whimper of a moan clawing itself out of your throat as your walls spasm around his fingers. izuku dutifully continues to pump his fingers in and out of you as you ride out the aftershocks.
“good girl,” izuku croons, subsequently slipping out of you. your forehead rests against his chest as you steady your breathing, the quiet in the room pressing in while your hazy mind slowly recollects itself.
eventually, you break the silence, mumbling the refrain you’ve been repeating for the past hour or so: “i don’t wanna fuck your friends.”
in response, he laughs, before guiding your hand to the outline of his cock in his sweatpants, allowing you to touch him at last. “i know, baby,” he whispers, mirth curling his lips, “although i’d prefer your first thought after cumming be, ‘i wanna fuck you.”
“i wanna fuck you,” you breathe without a second thought, gaze flicking to meet his.
his thumb lifts to brush against your bottom lip, watching as you press a gentle kiss to the pad, and you can feel his clothed shaft twitch against your palm. “hm,” he murmurs, before sitting up straight, “well, how exactly do you wanna do that?”
“i wanna suck your dick first,” you mumble, mirroring his actions before tying up your hair.
“mm, okay, baby,” he sighs contently, shifting to rest his back against the headboard of the bed. “just try not to moan any of my friends’ names when you’re choking on it, okay?”
in which you and trinity are exploring your committed relationship slowly, only you getting to get a look at her soft side — until you come over to her house and her roommate walks in on a sweet moment between the two of you.
warnings: fluff, making out, periods (santos), suggestive, soft trinity (to some extent)
“ Well, back at my houseI've got a California king Okay, maybe it's a twin bed And some roommates (don't worry, we're cool)” red wine supernova, chappell roan 1k celebration
𑣲⋆𑣲⋆
It's an unusually quiet day in the ER, considering that in a normal day you wouldn't be able to be sitting down for more than 3 minutes to have a quick look at some data of the patient who needs his cast removed without getting called for a more urgent task.
And you appreciate the small moment of getting to stretch your legs, quietly sipping on your coffee as your fingers tap against the screen. You rock the chair from side to side gently, a concentrated habit you've obtained since working here.
You're too engrossed on the screen to notice Trinity coming to lean by one of the computers in the station, obsessing with charting ever since Doctor Al-Hashimi took over as an attending.
She looks at you amusedly when you don't seem to even notice her presence. Fishing the receipt of the breakfast she had earlier out of her pocket, she rolls it into a ball in her hand before throwing it directly at you.
You barely flinch when it hits you, too used to her antics by now and unbothered by them — if not a bit endeared.
"Hey, dork." Santos calls, grin full of teasing when you scowl at her.
"Doctor Santos." You acknowledge with fake professionalism, fingers pressing to your lips in attempt to hide your inevitable small smile.
"What are we up to?" She askes with what she tries to come off as boredom, but that you know is just an excuse to talk to you.
"I am working, dunno about you." You retort playfully, glancing up at her without moving your head. "Kid broke his arm a few weeks ago and i have to take the cast off."
"Cool." Trinity hums, though you're not sure she's even listening to you properly. It might have to do with the intentional use of one of her favourite shirts of yours under your scrubs.
"You?" You question.
"What?" She seems to snap of her daze, neck turning slightly red with being caught.
"What are you up to?" You indulge in her conversation, chin coming to rest on your palm.
"Actually," She comes lean on your table table, "Check this out, some idiot comes in with a bad looking neck strain because as it turns he was trying to look at someone's phone in the train"
"Really?" You chuckle with raised eyebrows.
"Yep. Way more interesting than yours, i win." Her foot kicks your chair slightly and you push her arm with just as much force.
"It's a competition?"
"Absolutely." Trinity says triumphally, chin jutting out just a bit in a way you find too adorable.
You sit in silence for a minute, surprised to notice your girlfriend lingering by your table. You notice the way she nervously plays with her hands, exactly like would when she has something to say. So you wait for her to muster the courage to say whatever she needs to.
"Hey so i was thinking..." She pulls your attention from your ipad back to her, giving her a curious but reassuring look. "Maybe you could like come over after our shift is over? You know, have dinner and watch a stupid movie or whatever."
Her words bring relief to you, heart warm with the knowledge that she was so nervous to simply ask you over.
"Of course." You answer warmly, fingers hitching to take hold of her anxious hands.
"Okay. Cool." The doctor nods, gulping to play it off as she stands straight again. "You can also sleepover. If you want." Her eyes don't meet yours as she adds.
"Sounds really good." Your fingers tap the table as you throw her a sweet smile. "But only if i get to make dinner. Your food is awful."
Santos scoffs, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth as she pretends to be offended. "Sure, chef."
You shoo her away with the receipt she threw at you a moment ago, watching as she finally decides to get up and catch up on her charting.
But she's only two steps away when her figure rushes to turn back to you, only glancing around for one second before grabbing your face with one hand and clumsily kissing your lips.
Your fingers come to grab at the front of her scrubs, thorn between pull away and preventing her from doing so. But before you make up your mind your girlfriend pulls away, walking towards her table like nothing happened.
"Are you crazy?!" You whisper-yell, hands left in the air with shock.
Trinity laughs, shrugging as her fingers start tapping away on the keyboard. She seems pleased with her work, lips a darker shade of pink from the hasty kiss.
"Hey kid, what the hell are you doing?" Dana interrupts the moment, eyeing the both of you but not acknowledging anything. "Got a patient waiting for you, don't ya?"
"On it, sorry." You raise your hands in surrender as you slide of your chair.
Santos looks like she's going to quip something as you're walking by her chair, but interrupts herself with a subtle wince. Worry insights itself immediately on your stomach, stopping on your tracks. "You okay?"
She clears her throat, "Yeah, period's just kicking my ass." Her voice comes out in a grumble, as if to hide the vulnerability she feels for opening up to you — even if for something so small.
You soften at her, resting a hand on the back of her chair. "I'll make you some tea when i'm done with this." And then you're off to your task.
Trinity can't help but appreciate your words, throwing you a thankful look. You don't fuss over it, don't make a big deal out of it. She couldn't feel more understood.
Suddenly she doesn't feel like she minds Whitaker telling her she looks at you like an idiot in love. Because it might just be the only thing she's sure of.
Later she finds a sealed cup on top of her paperwork, a tiny smiley face drawn on it. She feels like an absolute loser for the fact that it brings out a smile of her own.
The day goes by as fast as it can in the hospital, and you find that at the end of it you're more excited than tired. The realization that it's your first time sleeping over at Trinity's house makes you giddy as you're pulling your things from your locker.
She finds you waiting outside after she comes out a bit later than you, dark hair down and falling over her shoulders smoothly. Her bag slung over her shoulder, dark navy jacket that you insist makes her even more cuddly and face glowing under the streetlights.
You don't miss the way her expression lightens up when she spots you leaning against a wall with your eyes already on her, as if your own light is the source of hers.
The walk to the car is comfortably silent, slightly mandatory to decompress from the loud ER. As she drives, you make sure to pull her free hand to your lap, aware that she enjoys it even without the courage of initiating it.
When you arrive at her apartment, you make sure to send her off to a warm shower, insisting it's exactly where you want her and promising to have some pasta ready as soon as she's out of it. Trinity relents easily, eager to get out of her work clothes and take away the smell of hospital, cramps making her move slower.
She's back before you know it, large sweats thrown on her legs and a large t-shirt that's wet on the shoulders because of her freshly washed hair. After pouring two cups of wine, you both find yourselves eating your bowls of pasta in front of the tv —watching a sitcom that you insisted would make her mood better.
Which is exactly why you find yourself leaning against her couch cushions with a full stomach, half of Trinity's body thrown across your lap.
It's not necessarily unusual to receive this type of affection from her, at least not now. You'd never believe it months ago if someone told you there was this whole other side of her.
Now you relish in the comfort of it, fingers running through her hair that you brush and dried earlier and scratching her scalp with your nails softly.
"He absolutely cheated on her and she shouldn't get back to him." She grumbles from your lap, weirdly interested in the drama going on in the tv. "Besides, who the hell dates an idiot named Ross?"
"Sure, love." You agree with a chuckle, hand stopping its movement on her head to come and rest on the back of the couch.
She doesn't seem to mind it at first, lips pulled into a concentrated pout as she looks at the screen. But after a moment her head leans closer into your lap, hitting your stomach in request that you amusedly ignore.
"Baby." She calls for you without looking up, voice sweet dripping with honey.
You have no choice but to comply pulling your hand back onto her hair and twisting some strands with your thumb. As if not satisfied, Trinity grabs your other hand with hers. Guiding it to her stomach, you understand the assignment and gently massage it with pressure right above the waistline of her sweatpants.
Your girlfriend hums in appreciation, hand still atop of yours and tracing shapes with her fingers.
Without strength to hold back, you lean to press a peck on the corner of her lips. Her face turn as you do, capturing your lips in hers for a kiss that leaves you wanting more. And she knows it just with a look to your face.
She's sitting up in a flash, peering at you with need. "Can i?" And she's already leaning in, lips smashing into yours eagerly.
Her hands cup your face to pull it as close as possible, connected lips turning you into one only. You grab at both sides of her waist, fingers bunching the fabric of her shirt into your hand as you continue to relish in the taste of wine that lingers in her mouth.
Frustrated at not being as close she wants to, Trinity moves to your lap with you now trapped between her legs that press on the couch beside your hips. A noise leaves your throat, giving her the opportunity to deepen the kiss as one of her hands tangles on the hair at the back of your head and tilts it up.
Her body practically falls onto yours, tongue exploring your mouth like a thousand times before — every time more avid than the one before.
One of your hands slips inside her shirt where it rides up on her lower back, slowly tracing up her spine and exploring every inch of skin you can find as the other grips her waist to pull it flush to yours. You can't help but moan when she complies quickly with a grind of her hips.
"Fuck." You breath out, lips shiny with her as you move your ministrations to her jaw.
Your girlfriend is quick to tilt her head to give your access to her neck, your mouth pressing wet and messy kisses along her throat and all the way to the spot under her ear. You nip gently on the side of her neck, kissing the marks right after leaving them.
"God, i love you." The words leave her mouth before she's able to think them through, immediately freezing you on the spot.
Your mouth is slightly ajar as you lift it from her skin, eyes wide as you observe her every expression. "What?" It comes out quiet, your voice feeling rusty.
Her throat bobs as she swallows nothing, and you can already feel the wall she's about to build. But you fight it, steading her in your lap when she makes move to leave.
"Did you mean it?" You question with adoration, searching her eyes when she refuses to look at you. "Trin." The call is gentle enough for her to come back to you
"Course." She mumbles like it's obvious, which it is. But it's nice to know it anyway.
"I love you." You reciprocate feeling giddy.
"Yeah, don't let it get to your head." She rolls her eyes with a smirk, mouth close to yours as she speaks.
You're too emersed in your own bubble to notice the door opening and closing.
Dennis steps inside the apartment with soft steps, aware of how late it is and how he doesn't want to annoy his grumpy roommate by waking her up at this hour after a day of work.
What he doesn't expect is to walk in to the living room to the sight of her making out with you on their shared couch, sitting right on your lap and unaware of his presense.
"Oh my god!" He exclaims in panic, heat rushing up his body and turning his cheek into a deep shade of red.
You both scramble away from each other, startled by the sudden presence in the living room. Trinity throws him an annoyed look, as if having forgotten he also lives here.
"Are you just gonna stand there, dumbass?" She asks with a roll of her eyes.
"I- No! I'm so sorry." He scrambles to cover his eyes as if he's seen something obscene and rushes to his bedroom, awkwardly greeting you when you throw him a warm smile as if to tell him it's okay.
Santos groans in frustration once the door of his room is closed, "Stupid Fuckleberry." Her hands rub at her face.
"I think he's sweet." You reason, chuckling as you take in what just happened.
"Cockblocker is what he is." She retorts, slumping beside you on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows with a grin, "Poor baby."
"Shut up." She shuts down your teasing.
"You love me." You affirm with a softer tone than intended, pressing one last kiss to her cheek. And the worst part is she can't deny it now.
Later that night you fall asleep on her bed that is a bit too small for the both of you, mouth pressed to her shoulder and arm thrown across her stomach.
She falls asleep only a while after you, too aware of the way your energy is the one to light her up, your light reflecting in her moon that turns just for you.
Ilya was elbow deep in a plastic tote when he was caught.
“What are you doing?” Shane asked.
Ilya stood quickly, nearly hitting his head on the metal rack. “Nothing.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Why are you looking through my closet?”
“Our closet soon, moya chernika,” Ilya reminded him, smoothly stepping out of their closet.
“Blueberry?” Shane translated, tilting his head like Anya when she was curious. He looked adorable.
“Good job,” Ilya praised, raising a suggestive eyebrow.
“You’re not going to distract me that easily.” Shane gave him a stern look. “What are you doing?”
Ilya hesitated. There wasn’t much point in lying anymore after he was so clearly caught. Besides, he’d done enough lying to Shane for a lifetime. “You know the Olympics?”
A wry smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “I’ve heard of them.” Anyone who said he wasn’t funny was a liar.
“The 2014 ones,” Ilya clarified. “Team Canada wore this sweater.”
Shane eyed him suspiciously. “The fleece; I remember.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Why?” Shane asked, crossing his arms.
“I want to see you in it.”
“Why?” he asked again. Ilya decided to stop dancing around the subject.
“Because you were so cute in it,” he cooed, running his hands over Shane’s arms. “You looked so soft and—what is word—snuggly.”
Shane rolled his eyes but he was definitely blushing. “Oh my God.” He began to walk away. “No.”
Ilya followed him, tugging at his shirt. “Please,” he begged. He sounded whiny, even to his own ears.
“Absolutely not.”
“Shane.” Ilya dragged out his name.
“No,” Shane said again. He turned around, annoyed. “You should’ve told me how I looked when I was wearing it instead of telling me to fuck off.”
Ilya was hit with the sudden memory of their conversation years ago in the Sochi arena. He’d been cold, dismissive, much too cruel to Shane Hollander in his adorable team Canada sweater. “Ok, I am asshole,” Ilya agreed. He was ready to get on his knees and beg. “I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t then.” It wasn't true but it was easy to see why Shane thought that. The last of his irritation faded as he began to walk away again. “Come on. I’m hungry. Let’s make dinner.”
Ilya groaned dramatically but still followed. He’d have to try again another day. Shane was going to wear that fleece, one way or another.
~
“I’m home,” Ilya called as he shut the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes, muddy from his morning run.
“In here,” Shane called from the living room. He'd skipped their run to catch up "work," whatever that meant. Ilya followed the sound of his voice and saw the man he loved sitting on the couch, Anya beside him, and wearing a familiar white fleece. He looked up, his glasses slightly askew. “How was your—oof.”
His sentence was cut off by Ilya practically jumping over the couch and tackling him in a hug. “You wore it,” Ilya exclaimed. Anya huffed and moved to sit elsewhere, offended by the sudden intrusion.
“Well,” Shane said shyly. “I happened to be digging through some old boxes and found it.”
“So this is not for me?” Ilya teased. Shane furrowed his brows comically.
“No, of course not.” He smiled and oh God, Ilya loved him. He took his face in his hands and peppered dozens of kisses all over his freckled cheeks, exactly what he wished he could’ve done in 2014.
“Thank you,” he whispered. He felt Shane’s smile grow wider under his lips.
Megumi missed you a little too much when you went out for the day
cw: softdom!megumi :: overly freaked out :: very suggestive (no smut) :: clingy!megumi :: pinning down :: aged up au
a/n: finally wrote the overly freaked out oneshot i promised i would do. i hope you guys enjoy. as always, MDNI or do…i cant rlly tell yall what to do
inspired by freaked out megumi pinning kirara down
Megumi was always distant. He hated physical touch, and even at the beginning of your relationship, he barely tolerated it. Every now and then, you’d play-fight just to fill the space between you, and he always let you win.
Which is why it completely caught you off guard when he lunged at you the moment you got home. You crashed to the floor with a loud thud, his legs pinning yours as he straddled your back.
“Um… hello to you too?” you murmured, face pressed against the cold wooden floor.
Your hands clawed at the ground, trying to push up, but he stopped you effortlessly.
“Oh no,” he said, grabbing your wrists and pinning them behind you. “I like you right here.”
You groaned.
“This isn’t fair. I wasn’t even ready.”
He chuckled softly, tightening his legs around you as he leaned forward. His free hand traced up your back, rough fingers brushing over your skin until they reached the nape of your neck. He gripped it, forcing your head to turn.
You glared at him sideways.
“What are you do—”
He cut you off, sliding two fingers into your mouth.
Your eyes went wide. Megumi Fushiguro—the same guy who used to blush at the simplest kiss—was straddling your back, fingers in your mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He shushed you as you tried to speak, muffled sounds escaping.
“I just missed you, baby,” he murmured. “You were gone so long.”
You’d only been gone three hours.
Three hours.
That was it.
You wriggled, trying to free your wrists, but he only tightened his grip. He tilted his head, watching you clench your jaw with a quiet smirk.
“Try biting me,” he said calmly, wiggling his fingers.
Heat crawled up your neck as you glared at him. He looked way too pleased with himself.
“What?” he whispered, leaning closer, warm breath brushing your ear. “I’m just curious.”
His chest pressed fully against your back, one hand holding your wrists, the other still in your mouth. Your jaw tensed, and he chuckled softly.
“Come on, I know you have it in you.”
You try to push him off with your elbows. For a moment, it almost worked—until he pressed his chest harder against you.
“Don’t go pushing me—”
You bit his fingers lightly.
He froze.
Seizing the moment, you flipped the two of you over and landed on top.
Megumi blinked, mouth opening and closing in shock. He had let go of your wrists in his stunned state.
“Curiosity satisfied?” you sneered.
For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely surprised.
“…You’re brave,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Or maybe,” you grinned, “you’re just slow.”
Your hands rest on his shoulders as he stares at you like a deer in headlights. You lean closer and kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail kisses along his jaw and down his neck.
"What? Cat got your tongue now?" you tease, teeth grazing his skin.
He inhales a sharp breath, hands trembling slightly as he grabs your waist.
"Y/N," he whispers, voice hoarse and shaky.
"Mm?" you mutter against his collarbone.
He shivers, chest rising and falling faster now.
"What, Megumi?"
A beat passed.
Then suddenly, he moved, rolling you over so fast the room spun.
He was above you again—but this time, not on your back.
His hands braced beside your head, hair falling over his forehead. Your hands rested on his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
“You just made this worse for yourself,” he muttered. "fucking around with me like that."
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah?”
He leaned back, grabbing your thighs and guiding your legs around his waist.
“Yeah.”
Your breath hitched despite yourself as he settled between them, making it impossible to pretend you were still in control.
Your hands flattened instinctively against his chest.
Of course he noticed.
His eyes flicked down briefly to where your fingers pressed into his shirt, then back to your face. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Problem?” he asked.
You scoffed. “You tackled me, remember?”
“Mm,” he hummed, gaze lingering on you. “And you bit me.”
“You told me to,” you said stubbornly.
He hummed quietly, clearly unbothered.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You shifted slightly, testing his hold. His hands tightened just enough to keep you exactly where you were.
“Are you just going to keep me here all night?”
“Maybe.”
You shifted again. He sucked in a breath, looking down. Your hips were pressed directly against his.
He leaned closer, breath ghosting over yours. Your breath caught as his hand left your thigh, trailing slowly to your waist. You shivered.
“You’re acting weird,” you said, trying to keep some normalcy.
He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, letting his hand linger on your cheek.
“You disappeared for hours,” he whispered.
“I have a life.”
“I know.”
His voice softened, vulnerable.
“I just wasn’t part of it today.”
Something in his tone made your rationality falter. Your fingers curled at the fabric of his shirt.
“You could’ve just said you missed me,” you teased, pulling him into a kiss.
He kissed you gently, thumb brushing your jaw, then pulled back slowly, studying you.
“I did,” he said.
“Tackling me doesn’t count,” you murmured.
He tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“It doesn’t?”
Before you could answer, he kissed you again—rougher this time. His lips crashed into yours, and for a moment, it felt like time stopped. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging slightly, swallowing his muffled groans. He pulled back just enough to keep control.
“Megumi,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
“What, baby? Tell me what you want,” he whispered, trailing kisses along your jaw.
“If you’re going to do something, just do it already.”
A small, dangerous smile appeared.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
a/n: what do we think guys…was it worth the wait or should i js quit writing rn😹
can't stop thinking about bsf!percy being absolutely gobsmacked when reader suggests practicing giving a blowjob on him (could be his first time getting one, or not, whichever)
Practice? Oh...practice.
Pairing: Percy Jackson x reader
TW:Explicit Sexual Content, blur-of-boundaries, exploration of sexual themes within a platonic friendship, sexual tension, themes of surrender and vulnerability, consent.
A/N: Muehehehe.
The silence in Percy’s cabin usually felt like a warm blanket—familiar, safe, and smelling faintly of sea salt and the blue cookies his mom had sent in a care package earlier that day.
You were sprawled on the edge of his bunk, staring at the ceiling, while Percy sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame as he absentmindedly sharpened Riptide with a whetstone. It was a mundane Tuesday afternoon, the kind of afternoon where the boundary between "best friends" and "something more" usually felt solid as a rock.
Then, you opened your mouth.
"I’ve been thinking," you said, your voice casual, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "About… practice."
Percy didn’t look up. "Practice? Sword fighting? Because I told you, your footwork is getting better, you just need to—"
"No," you interrupted. "Not sword fighting."
He paused, the whetstone scraping one last time against the bronze blade. He tilted his head back, looking at you upside down. His sea-green eyes were bright and curious, completely unsuspecting. "Then what?"
You took a breath, the oxygen feeling thin in your lungs. "I was thinking I need practice…giving a blowjob. And I was wondering if I could practice on you."
The silence that followed wasn't like the warm blanket from before. This silence was a vacuum. It sucked the air out of the room.
Percy didn't move. He didn't blink. For a full five seconds, he looked like a statue carved from Olympian marble. Then, the color started. It began at the tips of his ears and raced down his neck, a deep, frantic crimson that clashed spectacularly with his orange Camp Half-Blood shirt.
"Wh—" His voice cracked, a high-pitched sound he hadn't made since he was twelve. He cleared his throat, trying again. "What?"
"You heard me," you said, your own face heating up, but you pushed forward. "We’re best friends, Percy. I trust you. And I figured…if it’s your first time too, or even if it isn't, it’s better to do it with someone you actually like."
Percy dropped the whetstone. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he didn't seem to notice. He scrambled to his feet, looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. He looked gobsmacked—jaw slightly ajar, eyes wide, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know whether to grab you or run for the Long Island Sound.
"You want to… on me?" he stammered. "Like, right now? In the middle of the afternoon?"
"Is the timing the problem?" you teased, though your voice trembled.
"No! I mean—no, the timing isn't—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stand up in even wilder peaks. "Gods, _____. You can't just… drop a thermal detonator like that and expect me to function."
He took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to your eyes. The "best friend" mask was gone. In its place was something raw, hungry, and incredibly overwhelmed.
"You're serious?" he whispered, stepping closer until his knees brushed the edge of the mattress. "You’re not joking? Because if you’re joking, I might actually jump off the climbing wall without a harness."
"I'm not joking, Percy."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan, sinking onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight. He looked at you, the shock slowly melting into a look of intense, focused heat that made your toes curl.
"Okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like the son of the sea god and less like the boy who forgot his sandals this morning. "Okay. Let’s… let’s practice."
Percy’s hands were shaking. It was a subtle thing—the kind of tremor he usually only got after fighting a drakon or holding up the sky—but as he reached down to unbutton his jeans, the metal button felt like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "Wait, _____. Just... give me a second to catch my brain. It’s currently somewhere near the bottom of the canoe lake."
He sat back on the edge of the bunk, his legs spread slightly, looking at you with a mix of reverence and terror. When you moved to kneel between his knees, the denim of your own clothes rustling in the quiet cabin, his breath hitched so sharply it sounded like a sob. The floor was cold against your knees, but the heat radiating off Percy was intense, a localized summer storm.
As you eased his jeans and boxers down, the air in the cabin seemed to thicken, smelling of sea salt and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline. Percy’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes fluttering shut the moment your fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He was already hard, a pulsing, heavy weight that spoke of how much he’d been suppressing while sitting next to you during campfire songs and strategy sessions all these months.
"Holy shit" he whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the blue-clothed mattress so hard the wood frame creaked.
You looked up at him, the sight of the Great Prophecy's hero looking so utterly dismantled bringing a flush to your cheeks. "You okay, Percy?"
"Yeah," he choked out, his eyes snapping open. They were a dark, stormy green now, turbulent and deep, the way the ocean looks right before a hurricane hits. "Yeah, I’m... I’m great. I’m fantastic. I’m just trying to remember how to breathe in and out in the right order."
When you finally took him into your mouth, the warmth of the contact made Percy’s entire body jolt as if he’d been struck by one of Thalia’s highest-voltage lightning bolts. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound you had never heard him make in all the years you’d known him. It wasn't the sound of a best friend or a leader; it was the sound of a man being systematically undone.
And gods if it wasn't hot.
He didn't know what to do with his hands. First, they stayed locked on the mattress, then they hovered indecisively in the air, before finally plunging into your hair. His fingers tangled in the strands, not pulling, just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him from drifting out to sea.
"Gods," he gasped, his hips twitching upward instinctively as you swirled your tongue around the head. "You... you said you needed practice? Who told you that? Because you're—fuck, _____—you're doing everything exactly right."
As you grew more confident, experimenting with the rhythm and the pressure, the suction he so clearly craved, Percy stopped trying to maintain his composure. His head rolled back, exposing the long, strained line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed back a moan. His chest heaved under the orange cotton of his shirt, the fabric damp with sweat. He looked beautiful like this—vulnerable, stripped of his legendary status, and entirely dominated by a sensation he couldn't control.
The "practice" became less of a clinical exercise and more of a desperate, messy scramble. You used your hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the top, and the combination made Percy lose his grip on reality.
"I'm gonna..." He gripped your hair tighter, his eyes blown out until the green was just a thin, vibrating ring around his pupils. His heels dug into the floorboards. "I can't—_____, stop, no, don't stop—wait, I’m gonna—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't. With a final, choked-off cry of your name that sounded like a prayer, Percy stiffened, his back arching off the bed in a violent line of tension as he surged into you. He held the position for several long seconds, his heart hammering so hard you could see it thumping against his ribs through his shirt, before he finally collapsed back against the pillows.
When it was over, a heavy, sweet silence returned to the cabin, charged with the weight of a brand-new reality. Percy stayed slumped against the headboard, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, shaky heaves that gradually slowed.
Finally, he opened one eye and looked down at you, a dazed, lopsided, and entirely smitten grin spreading across his face. He reached out a shaky hand to brush a stray hair from your forehead.
"So," he whispered, his voice still trembling with the aftershocks. "Do you... do you think you need more practice? Because I checked my schedule, and I’m free every Tuesday. And Wednesday. And, uh, every other day for the rest of my life."
