SUMMARY: When you’re a cam girl and your viewers start demanding more intimacy so you find yourself in a tight spot… because the “boyfriend” they want to see doesn’t exist, and you might have to make one up.
WC: 2.1k words
DISCLAIMERS: smut [minors / ageless blogs dni.] sex on stream, fingering, oral if you squint ok. (f receiving), porn with plot ish, meandom!jongseob, use of the nickname bunny haiiii, unprotected sex (protect that kitty!!!!), creampie ? :p choking, slapping, and uhhhh. guys idk this is my smut debut.
The glow of your laptop screen casted flickering shadows on the walls of your bedroom as you paced back and forth. Your mind was racing with thoughts about the recent week of your exclusive content, and you were slightly panicking.
As Bunny, your secret camgirl persona, you'd built a loyal following over the past year — thousands of viewers who tuned in for your teasing dances, solo toy play, and whispered dirty talk.
But the other night, you made a huge mistake. In a moment of overconfidence during one of your streams, you'd promised something bigger which entailed a live sex stream with the “boyfriend” you spoke so highly of.
The chat had exploded with excitement, tips pouring in like rain to emphasize their anticipation of finally “meeting him”. Except... “him” didn’t exist because you didn't have a boyfriend. Hell, you hadn't dated anyone seriously in years. Your life as a faceless camgirl was your dirty little secret, hidden behind masks, angles, and dim lighting in the cramped apartment you shared with your lifelong friend, Jongseob.
And honestly, at this point, he was your last option but you’ve never even thought to cross that line.
But now, with the clock ticking down to showtime in two days, panic clawed at your throat.
The thought of him made your stomach twist in a way that wasn't just nerves. You'd grown up together — playground battles, late-night study sessions, and now this awkward roommate dynamic where you both pretended not to notice each other's late hours or the occasional muffled moans from your room during stream nights that could be passed off as self pleasure (which it basically was) or when he had someone over.
He was sweet in that boy-next-door way — messy dark hair, soft jawline, and eyes that crinkled when he laughed. Jongseob basically glowed, and he would honestly do anything for you if you asked.
But this? This was insane.
Desperate times though… call for desperate measures!…
You slammed the laptop shut and bolted from your room, barefoot and in nothing but an oversized tee that barely skimmed your thighs. The living room was dim, lit only by the glow of the TV where Jongseob lounged on the couch, controller in hand, oblivious to your crisis.
“Hey, Seob,” You blurted, voice higher than usual. He paused his game, glancing up with those warm brown eyes.
“Hm?” A pause.. “Oh, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He set the controller aside, patting the cushion next to him. You collapsed there, knees drawn up, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.
“I need to tell you something. But you have to promise not to freak out.” Your words tumbled out in a rush.
He nodded, leaning in, concern etching his features. And then it spilled — your camgirl secret, the alias “Bunny,”and the toys and teasing that paid your half of the bills and rent.
His eyes widened, but he didn't interrupt. He just listened as you confessed the latest screw-up which was the fake boyfriend stream scheduled for two days from now.
“So, you're asking me to... fuck you on camera?” Jongseob's voice was steady, but a flush crept up his neck. You nodded, cheeks burning.
“Y-Yes.” You swallow before taking a breath. This was embarrassing. “It’ll be completely faceless though. Please, Seob. I can't cancel now — they'll hate me.”
He was quiet for a beat, then a slow smile tugged at his lips — but it wasn’t to mock you, he seemed rather… interested..? “Okay.”
Oh, that was quicker convincing than you anticipated…
Really?
“But only since it's you.” A slight heat rose to your cheeks at that confession but regardless, relief flooded you mixed with something electric.
He was so easily … up for it???
Shocking enough, he had even suggested the idea of “practicing” but you ultimately both agreed to wait until the night of — because this was all just supposed to be for the camera.
The next two days dragged like molasses, thick with unspoken anticipation. Mornings started normal — shared coffee in the kitchen, him in his rumpled sleep shirt, you avoiding his gaze as you poured cereal. But every brush of shoulders or accidental touch sparked those butterflies into a flutter.
You'd catch him watching you from the corner of his eye while you scrolled on your phone, wondering if he was picturing it too — the stream and your body under his.
At night, alone in your room, you'd touch yourself to the thought, fingers circling your clit as you imagined his hands instead, his cock stretching you. Guilt twisted with excitement; he was your best friend.. but the secret hung like a charged wire.
Jongseob played it cool though, but cracks showed. The evening before, as you both cooked dinner, he cornered you against the counter, reaching for a spice jar above your head.
His body pressed close, heat radiating, and you felt the outline of him hardening against your hip. “Sorry.” He muttered, voice low, but his eyes lingered on your lips. You mumbled something incoherent, heart racing, and escaped to the living room.
The butterflies were relentless now, a constant swarm making your skin tingle whenever he was near. By the second day, the air in the apartment felt heavy, laced with the promise of what was coming.
The day arrived before you knew it and you spent a majority of your day avoiding him. As the evening approached, you dedicated it to prepping by dimming lights, testing your camera angle to ensure your faces would be kept out of frame, and arranging toys on your nightstand like little decorations.
Jongseob knocked on your door and the moment you opened it, your breath hitched. He was already shirtless, showing off his slight toned frame with loose sweats that hung low on his hips.
“Ready?” He asked, voice casual, but his gaze raked over you in your thin doll-like dress lingerie, hungry.
You nodded, throat dry, moving to the side and let him in. The room smelled of vanilla from your candle, masking the nervous sweat prickling your skin.
Without a second thought, you began the stream with a breath and before you knew it, your chat filled with excited messages.
user68: hi bunny baby 😍😍😍💦💦💦
user12: sexy🐰🐰🐰🐰
user90: Missed your tits sweetheart
user35: needed this after a hard day 😘😘
user24: where’s your boyfriend 🍆🍆
“Hi, my loves.” You stood in front of the camera, making sure your face was out of frame while you read off a separate screen where your chat sat.
“I have someone I’d like you to meet.” You said sweetly, reaching your hand out to Jongseob and bringing him over before introducing him as your boyfriend. The chat went wild, donations pinging like fireworks as he shamelessly slapped your ass for content. Your cheeks flushed as you glanced back at him — a cocky grin on his face.
user63: 😍😍😍😍😍😍
user77: Mmm do it again
user19: he’s probably so handsome 😘
user53: Bunny i want to fuck you hard 💦
As you followed through with a few more exchanges with your viewers, Jongseob held you against his chest, waiting patiently — his hands roaming underneath the flowy black lacy set and rubbing against your skin which earned himself soft hums from you.
Soon, the two of you turned to the bed where you got on your knees, pulling him down with you, hands trembling as they slid over his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.
His lips met yours softly at first, tentative, tongue brushing yours in exploration. But then something shifted as his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He bit down, not gently at all, teeth sinking into the flesh hard enough to make you gasp, a sharp sting blooming into heat.
“My bunny girl,” He growled against your skin, voice dropping an octave, rough with need. “You have no idea how long I've wanted to mark you like this.” The words hit like a spark, butterflies exploding in your chest as he sucked bruises along your collarbone, each one deliberate and possessive.
He pushed you back onto the pillows, climbing over you, knees pinning your thighs apart as he yanked down the top half of your lingerie. His mouth trailed lower, latching onto your nipple, sucking hard while his teeth grazed the peak, tugging until you arched off the bed with a whine.
'F-fuck, Please—' You whispered softly, but he silenced you with a slap to your inner thigh, the crack echoing, skin blooming red.
“They’re not allowed to hear you right now.” He commanded, eyes dark, a smirk twisting his lips.
You nodded, quickly listening, while your chat no doubt erupted — probably begging to hear your sweet noises but it was clear he was egging on for more donations to change his mind.
Money hungry freak.
You couldn’t care less though, you were already lost in him. He spread your legs wider, fingers delving between your folds, two thrusting in deep without warning, curling to hit that spot that made your vision blur.
“So wet already,” He murmured, pumping roughly, thumb grinding your clit. “I know you’ve been thinking about this for days.” He whispered into your ear, and that was not at all for the camera. That was just for you.
His free hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse thunder under his palm, breath hitching as stars danced in your eyes.
The pressure built fast, his fingers relentless, scissoring inside you while he choked you lightly, control absolute. You came with a cry, walls fluttering around him, juices soaking his hand. Without warning, he pulled his fingers free and shoved them into your mouth, making you taste yourself. “Suck.” He ordered, and you did, tongue swirling as he watched, cock twitching against your thigh.
He quickly flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so your ass presented high. “Spread for the camera.” He said with a cocky chuckle, voice raspy before doing it for you to expose your dripping pussy.
He groaned, low and animalistic, before his palm cracked against your ass — skin heating to a fiery red. The pain twisted into pleasure, butterflies churning as he rubbed the sting away, only to slap again and turn you on your back.
Shocked at his boldness, you let out a heavenly sound as he dove down in order for his tongue to probe gently along your folds shallowly, while his fingers plunged back into your core. The dual assault had you trembling, another orgasm building as he ate you out filthily, slurping sounds filling the room.
Before you could finish, he rose once more, leaving you a whiny mess before he swiped down the band of his sweatpants, gripping his hard on.. thick, veined, head leaking — and lining himself up with your entrance.
He thrust in one brutal stroke, bottoming out, earning a loud whine from you. “Fuck…. bunny, you’re so tight.” He grunted, setting a punishing pace, hips snapping forward.
Each drive dragged his length along your walls, hitting deep, while one hand found both of yours and pinned them over your head.
“Come on, let them hear you..” He praised you momentarily, a sly grin on his face as he locked eyes with you.
“F—faster.” You begged through whimpers, the words spilling out, feeding his ego as you were babbling complete nonsense now. He laughed to himself, pulling out only to shove himself back in without warning. He pounded in, cock bullying your cervix.
The stream chat was a blur at this point due to the years that rimmed your eyes, the ping noise of tips and donations clouding out of your senses, but all you felt was Jongseob — your friend — who was choking you again as he fucked and whispered depraved things things to you.
“Gonna fill this pussy.” He murmured, causing butterflies to riot, mixing fear and lust into a heady rush.
You came once again, whining out and nails raking his back. He followed after you with a groan, cock pulsing, hot come flooding your depths in thick ropes. He stayed buried, grinding through his release, before pulling out to watch it drip from you. You look completely ruined with your messy hair, tear stained cheeks, and limp limbs.
He reached forward, grabbing the camera that filmed the both of you before angling it only at your core. His fingers scooped it up to push it back in. “Don't be wasteful.” He murmured as his finger lightly fucked both yours and his release back inside you — your legs still shaking while pretty moans escaped your parted lips.
Eventually, Jongseob shoved his fingers back in your mouth, causing you to lick them clean on command, before finally clicking the camera off amid your aftershocks — and the stream ended with what was probably record tips.
He pulled you up, kissing you roughly before collapsing onto the bed with you and pulling you into his chest, stroking your hair.
“That was more than just for the camera by the way.” He whispered, saying with a sly smirk.
💌 mika’s message! THIS IS MY SMUT DEBUT SO BE KIND TO ME OKAY??? IVE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE IM SCARED. IF YOU HATE IT CAN YOU PRETEND YOU LIKE IT. Ok anyways sorry this was also a drabble from my Notes that i decided to finish but truthfully!!! this was inspired by another smut i read a few months ago im ngl. So. Take that as u will too thanks. ok i gtg Im scared I GOTTA GO. WE HAVE TO GO.
꒰ groceries ꒱ civilian life and jason todd did not mix. but you hate grocery shopping alone, so it’s not like he had much of a choice.
It took a lot longer for Jason to adjust to a simple lifestyle with you. One of those bigger adjustments was doing something as simple as grocery shopping. After he came back as the Red Hood, he’d survived off of take out, mini mart reheat-able foods, and diners.
Now with you, he was eating at least two fully prepped and cooked meals a day. The downside to said meals, happened to be the shopping for the ingredients.
He liked spending time with you.. just not walking around a grocery store for well over an hour.
You’d be walking down the bread isle, bottom lip tucked firmly between your teeth as you debate whole wheat or sourdough.
“Hey, Jay?” You call over your shoulder, eyes darting between the two. He answers with a short, ‘hmm?’ But that was to be expected.
It was—to your great displeasure, his response to most things.
“Sourdough or whole wheat to go with Spaghetti?” You grab both options, turning around to face him. He looked cute hunched over the shopping cart, scowl on his face.
The scowl softened the moment he met your eyes, taking on a softer, more light side that you adored so dearly. “I don’t care. Couldn’t tell you the difference.”
Face falling almost comically fast, you narrow your eyes. “Wha—you know what! Never mind. Sourdough it is.”
You two dance around the same questions every time you are stuck between options. Half of the time, Jason wondered if you continuously asked him things simply to keep him awake.
By the end of the excruciating shopping, you always rewarded him with a kiss and first dibs on the movie you watched before bed—that is, your bed time, not his.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts. This is just a thought post ngl idk half of what i wrote.. credits to @uzmacchiato for the divs!!
꒰ holy ground ꒱ john never imagined himself dating a regular civilian. but seeing a someone helpless who happened to be the most beautiful person he’d ever seen—well, the rest was history.
John Constantine who; strayed away from anything serious when it came to civilians. But that came crumbling down the second his eyes landed on you that fateful day in the grocery store across from his favorite run down tobacco shops.
He’d halted in his steps — literally. His body frozen in the bread isle as he watched the scene unfold in front of him; you on your tip-toes, brows scrunched, and bottom lip tugged between your teeth. You were struggling to grasp a bag of everything bagels just out of your reach.
The trench coat around him brushed back behind his hands that were stuffed into his pockets. He debated on approaching to help a pretty woman in need, but he knew very well he should not get involved.
Nonetheless, his feet worked without his consent until he was standing less than three feet away, amusement tugging at his lips as he admired your persistence.
Feeling a presence, you’d turned to see the dirty blonde, shaggy haired, scruffy man smirking up at you. “May I help you?” Your eyes narrowed suspiciously despite the flutter of your heart.
Sure, he was rough around the edges.. but it was oddly charming in a way.
“Looking like you’re the one who needs s’help.” A thick Scouse accent slipping from his lips had your heart rate skyrocketing and expression growing more perplexed.
John liked that about you. No matter what, your face expressed exactly what you were feeing. It was comforting in the long run.
You’d huffed, falling flat on your feet and crossing your arms in defense. “Excuse you, mister-“
To your further annoyance and his smugness, he brushed against your side, grabbing the bag for you. And just like that, the both of you were screwed.
John knew he shouldn’t involve you in his life. You didn’t deserve that torture. But he found falling in loving with you was harder to stop than usual.
You’d accepted his lifestyle fairly easy, though you were sure you’d started sleeping less since you two began dating.. a small loss to win so much.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated! Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in any future dc/marvel/or john posts. Lowk uncharacteristic sorry… just had a thought. This is lowk a ramble. Idk.
Honestly, if people even disagree eith Lizzies actions why are they blaming Shannon ? Because there they like it or not SHANNON DOES DEFEND GIBSIE but they pretend she doesn't cause who else to blame than the 16 year old girl who just came off the horrifying situation to fox all the problems in the friendgroup when literally everyone else has little to no trauma . The Biggs siblings have none why aren't they being blamed
Lets not start with people acting like Shan and Johnny are going to break up because they disagreed on a few things
I see so many people blaming my girl shannon it’s exhausting but i do disagree with what you’re saying. The Biggs siblings watching as Gibsies dad and sister drowned, watched gibsie die & be revived then had a depressed / absent father with causes trauma no doubt. We shouldn’t compare trauma despite how drastically different they may be! They are all results of their traumas in different ways & nobody should be blamed for it. Free the fuck out of the core 10 and their idiot parents (yes that includes johnny’s parents considering they were absentee in the beginning + johnny literally talked about raising himself lowk)
꒰ june gloom ꒱ summer was once your favorite season. that was until your boyfriend broke up with you for another girl the same day you got fired. in search of a new start, you get an interview for a job at wayne enterprises—only for it to get off to a rough start when a certain wayne child spills his coffee all over you.
Everything sucks. Four days ago you were cheated on, broken up with, and fired all in the span of six hours. Now, you were pushing through the sweltering heat of Gotham City mid-June and trying not to get mugged in broad daylight.
You hate this city.
Clutching your purse close to your body, you side step a family. Two kids with their parents, smiling and licking ice cream without a care in the world. If only you could be that carefree again. If only the stench of the sewers didn’t put a damper on your mood—something you hadn’t much cared for as a kid as you were too busy fantasizing about mermaids or something.
Heels clicked against the broken pavement shortly before you hit the right side of Gotham. The wealthy, larger than life side.
There was a time to envied these people. The ones with pressed shirts and ties worth more than your rent. But, then you came to the realization after the last catastrophe the Black Mask caused, that they—more than ever, were at the mercy of the worst of the villains that flooded the city.
Inhaling briefly, smelling the exhaust from cars mixing with the aroma of a hot dog stand you pass, you force a smile onto your lips.
Wayne Enterprises were looking for a new desk secretary, and considering you had many qualifications for said job, you were more confident than usual.
Of course you’d have a lot of competition, but you still stood a good chance.
The skyscraper of a building rose far above the others, but in the clear sky you could narrowly see the tip of it—truly beautiful in its glistening, glass glory.
Calming your semi-racing heart, you take all of four steps inside when a burn pierces through your new off-white blouse.
It took you another forty seconds to process the brown stain blossoming over your chest. Fuck. No. Rage simmered beneath your skin as your eyes flickered up and just like that—the fire was smothered out.
Wide-eyed and mouth agape, Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson stood frozen and horrified in front of you. Bruce Wayne’s adopted child—or man now, you supposed.
“I am so sorry—“ he sputters out, reaching out before snapping his hand back.
Swallowing thickly, you press another fake smile onto your lips. Remain professional. Remain…
You shake your head and breathe deeply. “It’s fine! It’s fine. Just.. never mind.”
Dick winces, “do you have an extra shirt in your office..?”
Is he serious? Your face falls blank. You weren’t going to make the interview now, so you might as well cut your losses and just head back home.
The man was now apologizing to the janitor who was shooing him away from the pool of coffee on the ground. You’d ‘happily’ stepped away from it long ago.
Dick then turned back to you, his brows knitting together in apology. “The answer to your question, Mister Grayson, is no. I do not have a blouse in my office,” your voice took on a condescending tone despite your promise to remain professional, “as this was me coming here for an interview.”
His face blanches. “Shit.”
“Yep.. shit.” Nodding slowly, you clear your throat and push your bag up your shoulder.
A few awkward seconds pass by in which you could practically see his brain churning in thought. “What if I buy you a new shirt—we can go to the—“
Shaking your head, you stifle a laugh. “No. I’ll just go. Thanks.” Turning on your heels, you make your way toward the exit.
“Or—“ he keeps going, footsteps heavy as he follows after you. “It’s Bruce. I’ll get you another interview!”
You wanted to decline out of spite, truly. But… why would you miss such an opportunity? Using his nepotism could help you in the long run. “Fine. Deal.”
Dick smiles as you spin around to face him, your own expression mirroring his. “Thank you for your kindness, Mister-“
“Dick. Just Dick.”
You fought the frown halfway down your lips, slipping into an happier expression. “Thank you, Dick.” You exchange your name in return after, your shoulders slumping in relief.
Taking the silence that followed as your cue to leave, you make it three steps before he’s calling after you, your name slipping off his tongue as sweet as honey. “Hold on! Is it..” he rounds you, taking up the space where you were supposed to be exiting, “this could be considered a.. what do they say in the movies? A meet-cute?”
The bellowing laughter coming from your lips narrowly echoes off the walls, eyes crinkling in amusement. He’s not laughing, though. His beautiful, sculpted face is a mixture of expressions, mainly; confusion.
He is serious. Oh!
“Well… technically, yes. But we’re missing a key factor here.” You feign a serious look, eyebrows drawn together.
Dick grins, the corner of his lip tipping upward. “And what’d that be?”
“I suppose an exchange of numbers.”
He thinks real hard on that, nodding slightly. “You might be right.” It takes him one slip into his pocket, a slight dig through his wallet, before he hands you a police card.
“…detective Grayson.” You read thoughtfully, “i’ll give you a call when I get that interview set up.”
He laughs at that, opening his mouth to say something more but you already side step him, making a breezy walk out the front door.
And if you added a little sashay to your hips, well that was between you and the man who watched your exit with a smirk in tact.
Likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated!! Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future dick or dc posts <3 this was so rushed and lazy but i will start putting more effort in soon… trust.. & credits to @uzmacchiato for blue divider!!
꒰ easy life ꒱ jason didn’t expect domestic life to be this simple. and yet, here you were. so simple, yet so sweet.
After what seemed to be the longest night of his life, Jason found refuge—or he usually found refuge, in your comforting arms. Tonight was different. He’d only made it two steps inside your apartment before he grunted, the sharp pain of the corner of a night stand had him halting.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Your apologetic tone coming from the kitchen had his confusion growing.
Eyes alert and scanning the room, Jasons eyebrows knit together. Everything was rearranged? The couch was facing the wall where two recliners used to sit and said recliners were sitting where the couch once was.
Jason didn’t like change. He didn’t like the things he couldn’t predict. That’s why it’d been so hard accumulating to your lifestyle. You were a wrecking ball of change and the unexpected.
And somehow he found himself loving you for it. The very thing he despised somehow became what he cherished
“Jay?” He blinked twice, gaze flickering from the living room, to you.
He exhaled quietly, because no matter how many times he was greeted by your face, he could never quite accept that such a beautiful person had seen him and said; yes. Him. I want him.
Your small frown turned into a lopsided smile. “What?”
“Nothing.” Jason shrugs off his leather jacket, tossing it over the couch and rolls his tense shoulders. “What happened to the living room?”
Grinning as he made his way toward you, you shrug. “Got sick of the old layout.” Your warm, vanilla-y scent flooded his senses as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his own arms snaking around your waist, hoisting you up.
“Welcome home.” You smile, legs wrapping tight around his hips. “Thought about making dinner… but got caught up cleaning.”
Jason hums, burying his head in your neck, inhaling. “‘Smell good.” He notes, ignoring the comment on food, focusing on the only thing that mattered in the moment; you.
Rolling your eyes playfully, you kiss the top of his head. “So… you gonna shower while I order some Chinese food, or what?”
The grime of a long night out in Gotham wasn’t something that you particularly enjoyed about your boyfriends extra circulars, but you wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good night by bringing up your opinions on that topic.
Jason nods against your shoulder, setting you back onto solid ground. “Do I get a prize?”
Your eyebrows lift shortly before laughter follows. “Get the hell out of here.” Your hands press against his chest, pushing him lightly away from you. “Go!”
Smirking, Jason lifts his hands in surrender, taking a few steps backwards toward the bathroom. “I’ll be quick.”
A total lie, by the way. Ever since Jason partially moved into your apartment, you swore your water bill went up tenfold. But, it made you happy, oddly enough.
Showering meant he was getting used to seeing his scars, perhaps even comfortable with them.
Smiling to yourself, you turn on your heels and head straight for the phone. A nice night of Chinese takeout and your favorite series—which had a new episode airing tonight—meant you got to cuddle up next to your boyfriend. That thought alone made you have an extra pep in your step.
likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future jason or dc posts!! this is my first time publishing a dc - related post on this acc <3 i plan on doing it more, though!! @/uzmacchiato for the divider!
Love your writing! I know it is farrr from Christmastime but could you write a fic where Pedri and reader kiss under the mistletoe because all their friends are teasing them and then obviously leads to a lil confession later on
Under the mistletoe ( Pedri González ! )
synopsis. finding yourself under the mistletoe with your best friend along with the incessant demands of your friends, you and pedri find yourselves in a situation that could only lead to the best christmas present of your life.
disclaimers. kissing, gender isn’t specified — no use of y/n.
notes. idk how to feel about this.. i haven’t written in a veryyyyy long time. ( 1.75k words )
𝓡ed, green, and golden hue’s lit up your living room giving the room a distinct Christmas-like feeling. It was by far your favorite season, especially since it meant you got to have all your friends together in one place.
Steaming mugs full of creamy cocoa warmed your hands and chest as you walked through the open kitchen door into the bustling living room. Three mugs was a lot to carry, but as a former server at a restaurant it was no bother.
You pause under the doorway to admire the scene laid out in front of you.
Leandra was scowling at Hosea as he juggled three ornaments, harsh scoldings leaving her lips to hide the laughter in her eyes. A few feet away, Gavi was explaining a dramatic re-telling of his ordeals at the airport last weekend — a story he’s told a thousand times since it initially happened — to four grinning friends who would rather let him drone on than spoil his mood
And then there was him. Pedri. Your best friend.
He was smiling softly as he listened to Gavi’s story to the loveseat a few feet away. His green knitted sweater sleeves were rolled up half of his forearm and the adorable pin Raphinha’s daughter made him for Christmas was pinned right over his heart.
The man looked good. You had no qualms admitting it, either. It was a well known fact.
Your smile lifts when his head snaps up to you like he had a sixth sense for your presence. Your friends liked to joke that he had spidey-sense for two things in life; football and you.
Pedri rose quickly, slinking around the furniture and straight toward you, hands outstretched. “Let me help.” He said simply, and who were you to decline such an offer?
“Thank you.” Exhaling in relief as he diligently takes two mugs, his hand brushing yours briefly. A shiver runs up your arm at the small contact, but you don’t have time to think about it before a loud whistle interrupts the moment.
Two heads snap in the direction of the sound only to find the culprit—a young Lamine Yamal, who’s giggling with Gavi.
Pedri spares you a questioning glance before Leandra bursts into laughter, as well. By now, the whole room has turned to face the two of you.
“What?” You frown, “is there something—“
Clearing his throat, Pedri murmurs, “look up.”
So you do. An instant wave of nausea and something else hurls through your stomach. Cheeks flaring a vibrant red, you could practically feel the blood pumping through your heated face, you swallow hard.
Mistletoe. Thanks, Marco.
“About damn time!” Leandra chuckles, “quick! We have been waiting for this—wait who has a phone on them?”
Hosea lifts his hand, waving his phone proudly. You groan, Pedri shifts on his feet, laughing quietly.
“What’s so funny.” You hiss, “they are—“ Pedri sets his mugs aside casually before taking yours, leaving you stunned and all too silent. What is he doing? “Pedri.”
He’s not speaking, at least not yet. His eyes swipe across your face, flicking to your lips. The room’s buzzing laughter and chanting dies in your ears then.
Is he really going to do this?
Scratch that. Are you really about to let this happen?
Then, your name leaves his lips like a prayer to whatever God is listening—or maybe just you. A pleading for you to answer it. To answer him.
You blink a few times to make sure this is real. You think that maybe you should pinch yourself. He says your name again, and you spare a glance at your eager friends who seem all too pleased by the situation.
“Uh—okay.” You finally choke out, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips. He doesn’t seem pleased by that answer, though.
Pedri takes a small step forward, “gonna need a real response, cariño.”
“Yes!” You can already hear the jokes your friends will be making for years over this.
His hands, so soft and gentle, cup your cheeks moments before his lips collide with yours. It was hesitant for a moment before it melted into something better. You felt the smile prick at his lips when his tongue prodded at your lips, seeking entrance without forcing it.
Gut churning and cheeks ablaze, your lips part for him. He takes the chance, tongue swiping your lips before he takes his fill of you.
Holy hell—or maybe heaven. Because it sure feels like you’ve ascended into some other—much better place.
Time passes, how much you aren’t really sure, before he pulls back. Your ears ability to hear comes back at the same time, hoots, hollers, whistles, and cheers fill the room.
Your face hurt from blushing, and you can’t quite get yourself to meet Pedri’s gaze as you reach for your mug. “I hope you’re all real happy with yourselves.” You grumble to your friends who seem far too prideful for your liking.
“Hot-damn.” Leandra claps, “Pedro, I was unfamiliar with your game!”
“Shut up.” Pedri rolls his eyes, yet humor fills his voice as he brings one cup of cocoa to Fermín before settling into his spot on the couch once again.
The rest of the night passes in a blur, yet you weren’t sure you were fully present for any conversation after the kiss. Your eyes seemed to find his every chance you found and it was reciprocated.
There were a few small instances where you found his touch lingering when he passed you, a hushed, ‘excuse me’ along with it.
Or when he had plenty of space to grab a cookie from the plate beside you, but his shoulder brushed yours all the same.
It wasn’t until people started trickling out that you found yourself alone with him.
The kitchen sink was soapy and warm as you cleaned dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher, a half-assed attempt at keeping yourself busy.
You felt his presence before you saw him. “Everyone gone?” You ask over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for the first time in conversation since before the mistletoe.
He hummed out a reply, “mhm.”
Your hand felt heavy as you set a wreath-patterned cup into the dishwasher. “Ah, are you on the way out as well?”
His footsteps were heavy on the tiled floor as he walked over to the counter a few feet away, leaning his back against it and crossing his arms. He didn’t speak for a moment and when he did it came rough and quiet.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
The simple sentence shouldn’t have been so nauseating, but your stomach churned violently. “About earlier? The—uhm, the mistletoe?”
“Yeah.” Pedri confirms, rubbing a hand over his jaw like it could sooth him somehow.
You didn’t know what to say. If you should laugh it off, if you should try to change the topic, or if you should confront the growing, longing ache in your heart that came with every glance of him that had only grown impossibly stronger over the past year.
Wiping your hands on a rag, you turn to face him to confront him head-on. “What about it?”
He almost seemed baffled. “What about it?” He repeats, taking a long breath, “fuck—I..” Pedri trails off, his mouth opening and closing twice before he finds the ability to speak again. “I didn’t imagine that’s how our first kiss would be.” He admits through a breathy laugh, “I was hoping for something not so… public, I guess.”
He’d thought about those things?
“Pedri—“
“No, wait—“ Rubbing his temples, Pedri steps around the dishwasher, crowing you back into the counter. Your back presses against the wooden countertop, leaving you little room to escape.
Not that you wanted to.
His head cocks to the side, eyes examining you with a sort of reverence you’d never seen from a man. “Did you.. feel anything?”
The desperate twang to his otherwise confident tone had your heart melting into flowing lava. “Besides your unnaturally soft lips?” You tease, not to make light of the moment, but to ease the tension and worry lining his face.
It works, too. His eyes crinkle slightly, lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Besides that.”
“Yeah.” You answer honestly. “I did. I do.”
“Present tense?” He lifts an amused eyebrow.
“Pedri, I’d be a fool not to feel something for someone as amazing as you.” The confession slips from your lips without much thought. It was easy because it is the truth.
He’s a gentleman, but not condescending. He’s caring without expectation. He remembers your favorite snack even though it changes so often. He gives you the time of day even when he’s busy beyond belief.
And he did it all as a friend.
Pedri’s touch burns your skin as his hand trails up your arm, over your shoulder, finding its resting place against your cheek. “And I’d have to be the stupidest man on the planet to not feel something for a person like you. I’ve been a goner since I first locked eyes on you in Mr. Garcia’s class.”
Laughter bubbles in your chest at the thought of him seeing a thirteen year old version of you with your crooked glasses, braces, and scared-as-shit face when you stepped into the class. You’d been new to town and he’d been the first to approach you.
“Why’d you wait so long?” You ask quietly, leaning into his touch.
Pedri chews on his cheek. “Wasn’t really sure I deserved you, for one. And two? I was scared of rejection and losing the only person who had the ability to make or break me.”
The rosy tint to his cheeks and nose would have had you swooning if you weren’t already drunk on his words. It’s hard to comprehend that Pedri—your Pedri, didn’t think he deserved you.
“You more than deserve me, Pedri. Christ.” You laugh, “I guess we, unfortunately, have Lamine and Marco to thank for this.”
That draws a small chuckle from the brunette before he’s pulling you in with a hand on your waist and tipping your head up with the hand still on your cheek. “We can thank them later… for now, though.. I’d like to kiss you.”
“Who would I be to deny such an offer?” You gasp dramatically, grinning wide when he shakes his head in silent laughter, his head dipping down to meet your lips.
Likes, comments, and reposts are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts.
PLOT! You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.
WARNINGS! corenswet!clark. gotham!reader. clark is kinda submissive in this... sorry. overstimulating. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v (wrap b4 u tap). kinda service top clark? but he gets submissive.
NOTES! i watched superman with my boyfriend and i need to dick down clark with every bone in my body. i had sm fun writing this. thank you to my baby girls out there, i see u. word count is 7.2k btw!
1. You hate that he’s always late.
Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom.
You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.
He’s late.
Every. Damn. Day.
You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.
You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”
Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”
There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it.
You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence.
But you?
You are not charmed.
You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.
Again!
“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”
He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask.
Almost.
Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”
He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.
And most of all?
You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.
2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.
If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it.
Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.
People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him.
You do not.
Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.
You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.
So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:
“Oh, give me a break!”
Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”
You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”
His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”
He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”
You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”
“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.
You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”
Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.
You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”
He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.
He is harmless.
And that somehow makes it worse.
Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.
You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.
And that makes you want to scream.
You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.
There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman
But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.
Every. Fucking. Time.
He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.
It’s infuriating.
You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!
But the next morning?
There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.
You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.
“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.
Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”
Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”
You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.
A few times?
Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.
You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.
Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”
Trusts him.
Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.
You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.
You hate it.
You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up.
No one sees Clark talking to Superman.
And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.
You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.
And you don’t believe in luck.
You hate that he doesn't talk shit.
Newsrooms run on gossip.
That’s just a fact.
You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.
Except Clark.
Clark doesn’t talk shit.
At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.
Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.
Nothing.
He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”
You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”
Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”
You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”
He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.
It keeps happening.
Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.
When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.
You don’t get it.
You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.
Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.
It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite.
You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.
Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.
He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?
Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.
When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.
When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.
You hate how it makes your chest tighten.
You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.
You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.
You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.
You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.
You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.
You shake yourself.
No.
This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.
It’s not.
You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.
You hate how he remembers everything you say.
You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.
You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.
Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.
You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.
The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”
You blinked at him
“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.
Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”
You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.
Because the pattern kept happening.
You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”
You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”
You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.
He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.
You don’t know how to feel about that.
Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.
You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.
And maybe that’s what bothers you most.
Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.
Not really.
Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.
And you despise it.
You hate that it makes you feel seen.
You hate that it makes you feel real.
You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.
You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.
You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.
You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.
You remember way too much.
So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.
You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.
There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.
Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.
But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.
Just you.
And it drives you batshit crazy.
Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.
It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.
But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.
And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.
You hate how nervous he makes you.
You’re not nervous around people.
You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.
But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.
Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose.
And lately… you’ve been messing things up.
You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.
You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.
You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.
When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.
You like him.
God, you like him.
You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.
You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.
You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.
Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.
You hate how he’s Superman.
You almost died today.
Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.
You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.
But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.
It didn’t.
It was coming right for you.
And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.
He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—
Him.
Superman.
He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”
You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.
He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.
He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.
That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.
You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?
It rattled you.
And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.
The way he looked at you.
Like he knew you. Like he saw you.
And then your fingers stopped moving.
Because you’d seen that look before.
Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar.
Clark had looked at you like that.
You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.
You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.
Your heart sank.
No.
You looked again.
You zoomed in.
And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see.
Clark Kent is Superman.
You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.
Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.
You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.
And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.
You hate how he touches you.
You told yourself it was for the story.
That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”
But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.
Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.
He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”
“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”
And God, you said his name like a test.
Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.
You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.
You kept waiting for him to lie.
He didn’t.
So you forced his hand.
You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”
Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.
He didn’t deny it.
He didn’t laugh it off.
He just looked at you.
And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.
“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.
“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”
He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.
“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”
“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”
And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.
Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.
And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.
You hated it.
You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“I should be.”
He swallowed. “Are you?”
You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.
Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.
And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.
You stood.
He stood too.
You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.
But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—
His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.
You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.
You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.
Him.
Clark.
You pulled him closer.
And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.
You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable.
But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.
Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.
Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.
No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.
You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.
“You’re such a fucking liar.”
His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”
You cut him off with your mouth.
And that’s all it takes.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.
You push him toward the bedroom.
He lets you.
You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.
You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.
When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”
His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.
“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”
“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”
“I hate you, Kent.”
And then his hands are everywhere.
He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.
“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.
You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”
His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.
His mouth is on you in seconds.
Hot. Wet. Perfect.
You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.
“Fuck—Clark—”
He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”
He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.
The thought makes you whine.
It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.
He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.
“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.
“I’ll die happy.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.
You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.
He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”
And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.
And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.
You blink. “Jesus Christ.”
He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”
You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch.
You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.
“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”
“You dreamed about this?”
He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”
You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.
You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.
“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.
You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.
“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.
His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.
You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”
You glare at him, frustrated and needy.
“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”
His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin.
Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.
He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.
“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”
You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.
His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.
He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.
His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.
He looks up, eyes pleading.
You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.
You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.
Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.
You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”
His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.
He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.
“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken.
Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.
He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.
Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry.
You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.
You hate that you love him.
You told yourself it wasn’t possible.
Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.
And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.
You hate him.
You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.
You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.
He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.
You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”
He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”
Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”
He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”
You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”
He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”
He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.
“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”
You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”
He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”
He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”
A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.
But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.
You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”
He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”
Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”
He nods. “In five seconds.”
You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.
In that moment, all the hate evaporates.
“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”
He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.
And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.
Hey! Lamine meets a baker girl who is about 5 years older than him.Love at first sight.Shy teenager Lamjne.I would really like to see this.If it's okay with you, can you write such a request? Have a nice day.❤️🎀🍓
hey.. so thats actually pedophilia …. that’s a hard pass for me💔
clark shouting "people were going to DIE" in the face of the "think of the consequences of your actions" argument is so fucking important to me bc it really IS that simple you can't look at a genocide and just twiddler your thumbs bc you're a afraid of the consequences ESPECIALLY when you can do something about it and THATS WHAT CLARK DID. WITHOUT HESITATION. WITHOUT CONSIDERING HOW IT COULD HURT HIM. bc hes a good person and in his brain its really just people were going to die so i had to step in bc what else would it be. superman i love you i love you i love you
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
