leossmoonn

[leossmoonn]

My Friend, Superman

Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start.

Word count: 16k

T/w: 18+, mdni, Friends to Lovers, Filthy Sweet Smut, Praise Kink, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Cowgirl Position, Clark getting jealous of himself, Clark Kent is So in Love It’s Embarrassing

The rooftop is cold this late, even in spring. The kind of cold that wraps around your ankles like smoke and settles in your bones, unnoticed until it’s already made a home there. The wind comes off the river with a low, lonely howl, threading its way between the buildings, tugging at your sleeves, chilling the tips of your ears.

The glow from the Daily Planet’s rotating globe above casts a soft gold halo over the rooftop, broken in places by rusted beams and pigeon-shadowed ledges. It makes everything look softer than it is. You sit near the edge with your knees pulled up, mug cupped between your palms, fingers curled tight around the chipped ceramic. The coffee is reheated, burnt, far too bitter. It sticks to your tongue like ash, but the warmth helps.

Your legs dangle over the ledge like a dare. The city hums below, alive and indifferent. Sirens scream in the distance. A car honks and doesn’t stop. Neon flickers against the glass of neighboring buildings. A billboard across the avenue cycles through three rotating ads, each brighter and more ridiculous than the last.

You close your eyes. Let your head tilt back. Let the noise blur. It’s been another long day, endless edits, typo corrections that weren’t yours, layout arguments you weren’t invited to fix but were expected to solve. And then, of course, there was him.

Clark Kent passed you in the hallway again this afternoon. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. He smiled that sweet, bashful smile that always makes your chest feel too small and kept walking. Like nothing flickered. Like you didn’t want to stop him. Like he didn’t carry the weight of your attention in every step.

You sigh.

You stay late a lot these days. At first it was about deadlines. Then it became about space. Solitude. Stillness. Avoiding the sound of your neighbor’s latest “guy,” or the way your apartment echoes too much when you’re alone in it.

And then, somewhere along the way… he started showing up.

You don’t hear him land. It’s more like you feel it. The air shifts. The rooftop pressure dips like a storm rolling in, only calmer, warmer, like a held breath finally let go. Then the sound: a barely-there thud of boots on concrete, subtle enough to mistake for imagination if you weren’t already listening for him.

You open your eyes just as the wind stills and there he is.

He stands against the backdrop of the sky like he belongs to it. Silhouetted in starlight. Backlit by the city’s glow. Red cape stirring in the wind behind him, long and silent and soft like a sigh. The blue of his suit catches flecks of gold from the globe above, glinting like embers trapped under fabric.

He’s not smiling yet. Just watching you. That steady, unreadable expression he wears when he’s reading the wind. Reading you.

By all logic, you should be awestruck. He’s a myth made flesh, a force of nature walking on two legs, a god who could turn the Earth if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t look like a god. Not tonight.

He looks like a man who’s tired. Gentle. Steady. Someone who knows how to carry things without making you feel their weight.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s always quiet with him. Low and smooth, with something careful threaded through it. Like he doesn’t want to break the stillness you’ve built.

You exhale, your breath curling visibly in the air between you. “The longest. The Planet rewrote the front page layout for the third time today. I think I’m legally married to my keyboard now.”

That makes him smile. Not the heroic, picture-perfect smile the world’s seen on the front page. This one’s smaller. Warmer. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, just gives it.

He laughs under his breath, a sound so rare it always feels like it was meant for you.

You shift over on the ledge without thinking, and he moves just as naturally. Sits beside you with one knee bent up, the other hanging over the edge. The cape pools behind him like a banner at rest.

You don’t dare look too long, but you feel the heat of him beside you, unnatural in the cold. Like he carries the sun in his chest and lets you borrow some of it when you forget what warmth feels like.

“You always show up when I need someone to talk to,” you murmur, sipping your coffee.

He hums. “Just lucky timing.”

But when you glance over, you catch the way he’s looking at you, soft, focused, and unblinking. Like maybe he knew you’d be here. Like maybe he was already halfway across the sky and turned around when he heard your footsteps.

Like maybe he’s been listening for your heartbeat all night.

You pretend not to notice. Pretend not to care that his shoulder is inches from yours. That if you leaned just a little closer, you could rest your head against the emblem on his chest and hear the steady beat beneath it.

He looks back out over the city. You do too. The quiet settles between you, not empty, not awkward, just full. Full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud. All the truths you haven’t worked up the courage to voice yet.

It’s been a few months now. Of this. Of him. Of late nights turning into quiet rituals. He never stays too long. Never explains why he comes. But he listens. Always listens.

You’ve told him things you haven’t told anyone. About your childhood bedroom wallpaper. About the first article you ever published. About the funeral you didn’t cry at, and the birthday you still can’t bring yourself to celebrate.

He never interrupts. Never offers false wisdom. He just… stays. Present. Real. And that matters more than you can admit.

“I think I’m getting too used to this,” you whisper, barely above the wind.

He glances at you. One brow lifted. “Used to what?”

You smile, soft into the rim of your cup. “You. Dropping in like this. Talking to me like I’m not just some reporter who yells at politicians and gets coffee orders wrong.”

His head tilts. That unreadable look again. “You’re not just anything,” he says. “Especially not to me.” 

The words fall heavy. Solid. You don’t know what to do with them. So you look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The softness of his mouth. The way his eyes, those unearthly, unforgettable blue eyes, don’t look through you. They look at you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like you’re something he’s memorized from the inside out.

Your heart trips over itself.

You look away. You don’t know why he comes here. Or why he stays. But you’ve stopped questioning it. Because somewhere between deadline nights and rooftop coffees, between quiet smiles and colder hands brushing too close, you’ve found something here that you didn’t know you needed.

Something that feels like peace.

And for now…

That’s enough.

-

You don’t know what pulls the words from you tonight. Maybe it’s the stillness, how the rooftop seems to hold its breath when he arrives. Maybe it’s the way the wind dulls, the chaos of Metropolis softening at the edges, as if even the city knows to hush when Superman lands.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he listens. Not with the kind of vacant patience people use when they’re waiting for their turn to speak, but the real kind, the kind that makes you feel like your voice is the only sound left in the world worth hearing. Like what you say matters.

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, ceramic warm against your chilled palms. The bitter scent of burnt roast curls into your nose, the taste still lingering on your tongue like old pennies and late nights. You focus on the swirl of it, watching steam rise into the cold air, hoping it might offer you grace. Or courage.

“There’s this guy at work,” you say at last, voice soft, hesitant. Barely audible over the distant rush of traffic. “Someone I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this much.”

The words feel like they’ve been trapped in your chest for weeks. Maybe longer. You half expect them to get stuck in your throat, but they fall out too easily. Too real.

Superman’s head turns slightly toward you, just enough to catch the shift in his attention. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just waits, still as marble, quiet as snowfall. Only the flick of his cape in the breeze betrays that he’s anything more than stone.

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, tucking a knee beneath you, curling inward. “Kind of dorky. Like… charming in a way that shouldn’t work, but does. Nervous ordering lunch if there’s a line behind him. Stammers sometimes when he talks too fast.”

“Sounds charming,” he says with a soft huff beside you. More breath than laughter, but it’s there. 

You let out a low groan and lift your coffee to hide behind it. “He’s impossible.”

“Oh?” he says, amusement warm in the single word.

“I flirt, and he just gives me this wide-eyed look like I’ve offered him a kidney. I complimented his tie once and he turned red all the way to his ears. Like I’d said something indecent.”

You shake your head, laughing into the rim of your mug. It’s easier to talk now, the thread pulled loose and unraveling.

“I brought him coffee every day for a week,” you say, voice quieter. “Put smiley faces on the lid. He said thank you. But not like, ‘thank you beautiful I love you so much’ thank you. It was more like I handed him his dry cleaning and he was thanking me.”

Superman’s lips twitch. Barely. But you catch it. The faintest hint of something, humor, maybe. Or fondness. Or something heavier under the surface.

“He blushes if I so much as stand too close,” you add, half into your cup. “I told him he looked handsome once and he looked like I’d just told him his fly was down in front of the White House press corps.”

“And what’s this mystery man’s name?” Superman asked you. 

You pause. The steam from your cup rises, fogging the bottom of your lashes. You can feel the heat blooming in your cheeks before you even say it. Shame coils around your ribs, sharp and a little humiliating, but there’s no point holding it in now.

“…Clark Kent.” The name slips out like a secret. And maybe it is.

The rooftop shifts. Not the wind. Not the world. Him.

He stills beside you. Not visibly. Not obviously. But something settles in his spine. Like the air around him goes denser. Like gravity tugs harder on his frame. Like the whole night narrows.

“Ah,” he says.

Just that.

You glance at him, but his gaze is fixed out on the skyline, jaw set, expression unreadable. The light from the city paints his profile in gold and shadow, and you can’t quite make sense of the tension in it.

You start to regret saying anything. You forgot that Superman and Clark… they know each other. Clark’s the only guy in all of Metropolis to get an interview with Superman, afterall. 

“And… he hasn’t made a move?” he asks, but his voice is different now. Quieter. Tighter. Like he’s holding back something sharp in his throat.

You give a small shake of your head. It’s meant to be light, casual, but it doesn’t land that way. Not with the ache behind your words.

“Nope. He probably doesn’t see me that way.” You force a laugh. “I’m background noise. The coworker who won’t shut up about punctuation and calls him out when he leaves his press badge in the copier.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like the weight of something unspoken is pressing against both of your ribs. 

You shift again. Tuck your hands tighter around your mug. Try not to look at him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Lower. Rougher. “I think you’d be surprised.”

You blink. “What?”

His gaze hasn’t moved. His face still turned toward the skyline. But the edge of his voice has changed. It’s softer, yes, but more certain now. Like every word is deliberate. Measured. Carved from truth he’s not supposed to say aloud. “I think… he notices more than you realize.”

The wind brushes past your cheek. Your pulse kicks behind your collarbone. 

You stare at him, searching his profile for something you can’t name. “I’ve worked beside him for two years,” you whisper. “He’s never looked at me like…” Like you do, is what you almost say. But you don’t. You can’t.

His throat moves as he swallows. His jaw clenches, subtle. Barely a flicker of tension in a face the world trusts. And you realize, suddenly, that he’s still not looking at you. Like if he does, something will give.

So you don’t push. Just sit beside him. The city below, alive and uncaring. The mug cooling in your hands. The scent of ozone and air and something warmer than either hanging between you.

And Superman, quiet and still beside you, breathes slow. Deep. Like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of something that might, if he isn’t careful, unravel him completely.

-

The next morning, Clark drops his coffee. It’s not the first time, but something about this one feels more tragic than usual. The lid pops clean off on impact, and a swirl of tan foam splashes in a perfect arc across the bullpen floor, darkening the tile and sending up a scent that’s almost comically specific: oat milk, cinnamon, and the quiet grief of wasted caffeine.

“Shoot,” he mutters, already kneeling to mop it up with a stack of napkins he must’ve grabbed on reflex from the breakroom.

You move without thinking, half-awake and still carrying your own coffee, already reaching into the mess beside him, crouched close enough to feel the residual heat coming off his skin.

Your hands brush and it’s like touching live wire. Just a flicker, skin on skin, the edge of your pinky against the side of his thumb, and he jolts, hands jerking back like you’ve burned him. The napkins flutter to the ground.

You blink at him.

He clears his throat, face already flooding with color, not just his cheeks, but his ears, the back of his neck, the hollow beneath his jaw. All glowing red, like the heat of your touch raced through him and caught fire on its way out.

“I-I’ve got it,” he stammers, not meeting your eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin your shoes.”

You glance down at your boots. Scuffed, cracked, streaked with old ink from a long-forgotten protest assignment. You’d had to sprint through a barricade once in those boots. You’ve poured coffee into storm drains in them. You’ve climbed scaffolding. Sat cross-legged in back alleys. Run from gas canisters.

“Clark,” you say dryly, “they’re already ruined.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear you. Or he’s pretending not to. His attention is fully locked on the floor, hands sweeping in wide, erratic strokes like his whole sense of balance depends on fixing this one, dumb mistake.

You step back slowly. Your coffee cools in your hands as you watch him move. Something in your chest pulls. Tightens. Because he’s been like this all week. Not just awkward. Not just shy. This is different.

This is haunted. Quieter than usual. Smiling too long, like he forgets to stop. Laughing a beat too late, like he’s processing everything on a delay. Tripping over words he used to wield like second nature, like the language itself has turned to static in his mouth.

He’s dropped pens when you brushed past him. You called his name yesterday, just “Clark,” just a greeting, and his voice cracked so hard it drew a stare from Perry across the room. And twice now you’ve looked up to catch him watching you from across the bullpen. Not admiring. Not casual. Not distracted. Just watching. Pinned. Focused. Quietly wrecked. Like you were a flame he couldn’t afford to get closer to and couldn’t look away from.

And yet… he’s everywhere. Holding elevator doors. Pulling out your chair. Leaving an extra muffin, your favorite kind, on the edge of your desk with a Post-It that says “just in case.” Walking you to your car with that sweet, bashful smile, his hands shoved too deep into his pockets like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’d think he was avoiding you. You would think that if he weren’t in your orbit every day like he doesn’t know how to leave it. And you don’t understand it.

Not after last week. Not after the rooftop. Not after you told Superman, told him that Clark Kent barely knew you were alive. That he didn’t see you, not really. That your crush was doomed from the start.

But now? Now Clark looks like a man undone. Like he’s holding something in his chest so tight it’s splitting him open from the inside, and all he knows how to do is mop coffee and run away.

Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut. Maybe Superman said something to Clark. Because now, everything’s shifting.

You feel it in the way he lingers at the corner of your desk. In the way he fumbles over simple questions. In the way his gaze drops to your mouth mid-sentence before he curses himself for it and looks away.

Something’s unraveling.

Some invisible line between you, tugging tighter every time he glances at you like he’s terrified you’ll see what he’s hiding, and even more terrified that you won’t.

-

“Somebody’s flustered,” Jimmy singsongs, materializing behind your desk like the chaos goblin he is, grinning around two fingers full of instant photos and an open packet of jelly beans.

You blink up from your laptop, still trying to blink sleep out of your eyes from the late night. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward Clark’s desk, where the man in question is currently hunched over a spreadsheet like it personally insulted his intelligence. He’s squinting with such intensity, you’d think the cells were written in code.

“He nearly walked into the copier when you complimented his blazer,” Jimmy says, plunking the photos on your desk and popping a red jelly bean into his mouth. “That’s new, right? The blazer?”

You glance across the bullpen. Navy wool. Soft plaid. A perfect shoulder line and slightly-too-long sleeves that he keeps rolling up mid-morning. You’d said something innocent when he passed your desk earlier, Looks good on you, Kent. Real sharp. Just a kindness. Familiar, warm. Like always. And he’d flushed to the roots. Mumbled something that might’ve been thank you, dropped his papers, and nearly backed into the copier trying to get away.

You cringe a little. “Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable.”

Jimmy snorts so hard he nearly chokes on a jelly bean. “Oh yeah. Uncomfortable people always look like they’re one compliment away from asking for your hand in marriage.”

You shoot him a look.

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I’m just saying. If that boy looked at you any longer earlier, we’d have to slap a warning label on it. Caution: prolonged eye contact may lead to heart palpitations and poor balance.”

You roll your eyes and push his photos back toward him, but his words stick like burrs. Because it’s not just Jimmy.

Lois has been watching you. Watching him. Watching the space between you like it’s saying more than either of you are brave enough to.

She hasn’t said anything directly, Lois rarely does when it comes to other peoples business, but she’s started clearing her throat very pointedly whenever the two of you are in the same room. She’s also taken to referring to you as “Kent’s emotional support columnist,” which you’re not convinced HR would approve of.

And Clark… Clark’s unraveling. His smiles linger too long. His hands fumble around you. He hovers at your desk like he’s building up to something and then chickens out at the last second. Like he’s balancing on the edge of a confession he can’t let go of.

And meanwhile… the nights haven’t stopped. You still find yourself pulled to the rooftop. Coffee in hand. Laptop bag abandoned in a corner. Hair tangled by the wind. Shoulders stiff with the weight of another day trying not to stare at a man who looks at you like he doesn’t know how to stop. And he’s still there.

Superman. He doesn’t come every night but you always hope he will. He lands in silence, always behind you, always just far enough that you hear the wind shift before his boots touch down. The air changes when he arrives. It gets warmer. Quieter. Fuller.

He doesn’t speak at first. Never does. He waits until you do. Until your shoulders drop and your hands stop trembling from typing too much, caring too much, feeling too much. And then he folds into place beside you, a god rendered down into something human, into something yours. Not rehearsed. Not formal. Just… present. Like a ritual neither of you want to name.

You’ve started wondering if he looks forward to it the way you do. The stillness. The city stretched beneath you like a breathing thing. The wind tugging at his cape, the occasional flicker of sirens far below. Sometimes you wonder if you’d even know how to fall asleep without these nights. Lately, though… he’s been asking about Clark.

Not directly. Not enough to raise alarm. But there’s a shift. His silences are longer. His questions softer. Slipped in between sips of coffee and quiet laughter, between stories about Metropolis weirdos and the latest editorial disaster.

“Rough day?”

“Is he treating you well?”

“Has that punk said anything to you?”

You answer honestly. You always do.

Tonight, your mug is balanced precariously on the edge of the ledge beside you, both hands clasped around your knees. The wind threads through your hair. The chill touches the inside of your sleeves and curls behind your ears, but you barely notice it anymore.

“I don’t think he even sees me,” you say. Your voice is barely above a whisper, like if you say it too loud it’ll finally be true. “He looks at me like… like I’m glass. Like I’m going to break if he touches me. Or maybe like he’ll break if he does.”

Superman says nothing at first. Just watches the skyline with those quiet, unreadable eyes. The light from the globe behind you paints him in shifting golds and blues. His cape flutters. The night breathes around him like it belongs to him.

Below, the city pulses. You can hear the muted beat of club bass echoing through the alleys. A woman’s laugh rising somewhere in the distance. A radio playing soft from a cracked window a few floors down, some tired, romantic song about wanting someone who never looks your way.

He turns toward you slowly. “He’s never been good at letting people close,” he says, finally. His voice is low. Strained around the edges. “Sometimes he worries that if he opens the door… the whole house will fall down.”

You frown, studying him. “That sounds… oddly specific. You two must actually be friends, after all.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. Eyes so blue they look painted. Like rain and lightning and old sky. There’s something burning in them tonight, something bright and breaking beneath the surface.

He swallows. Barely. “It’s not hard to recognize fear when you’ve lived in it,” he murmurs. “Even when it wears glasses.”

Your breath catches. But before you can say anything, before you can make sense of the words, or the look on his face, or the way your heart thunders suddenly in your ribs like a warning bell, he moves. Rises. One smooth motion. The wind catches his cape, lifting it like a banner. His silhouette darkens against the glow behind him.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice soft. Warm. But weighted. And before you can respond, before your tongue can wrap around the questions you don’t yet know how to ask, he’s gone. Up. Away. Gone like he was never there at all.

You sit there long after the breeze settles. After the heat leaves the space he stood in. The sky blinks with planes and stars and satellites. The wind has teeth again. You feel small. And for the first time, you start to wonder if maybe Clark Kent has been looking at you this whole time.

You just didn’t know what you were looking at.

-

You’re colder than usual tonight. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. Just one last draft, one last paragraph, one last search for the perfect headline. You’d meant to go straight home, swing by the corner bodega, heat up leftovers, maybe fall asleep to something senseless on TV. Something that wouldn’t make you think of him.

But instead, your feet took you here. Just your bag slung over your shoulder, your thermos in hand, and that quiet, persistent tug in your chest that’s been pulling you to the roof more nights than not. You didn’t bring your coat. You never do when the air feels like this, biting, honest, but so alive. The wind is sharper than it was last week, slicing along your arms in cold ribbons, sneaking beneath the hem of your sleeves and lifting strands of your hair to whip across your cheeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and lean against the edge of the rooftop wall. The city stretches out below  silver and gold and humming. Neon reflections ripple in puddles on the street like melting stars. Cars honk. Voices blur. A siren cuts the night, two blocks over, and fades.

And then he’s there. The air stills. Pressure shifts. The rooftop tilts, not physically, but in your body. In your blood. You turn your head slightly, already knowing what you’ll find.

He’s landing behind you in silence, as he always does. The wind swirls at his heels. His cape flutters in a long, slow wave. The light from the Planet’s rotating globe skims across the high planes of his face, painting soft highlights in his hair and casting shadows down the hard set of his jaw.

He’s already walking toward you. His steps don’t make a sound. But your heart does.

His brows knit the moment he sees you properly, hair tousled, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly against your chest.

“You’re shivering,” he says, voice quiet and laced with concern.

You inhale through your nose. “I’m fine,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your teeth from clicking. “Didn’t realize how cold it got.”

He doesn’t move at first. And then, his hands lift.

Your breath hitches as he reaches up to his collar with a slow, practiced ease, fingers sliding beneath the gold insignia at his shoulder to unclip the cape in a single, effortless motion. The weight of it drops all at once, a sweep of red that catches the wind like silk dipped in fire. The hem kisses the ground beside him as he steps closer.

You don’t move.

You’re not sure you can.

He takes one more step, and you can smell it before you feel it, the scent of him. Not cologne, not aftershave, just the strange, clean weight of sun-warmed metal and wind. Air after lightning. A kind of warmth that doesn’t belong to earthbound men.

Then, carefully, like you might startle, he drapes the cape around your shoulders. It’s heavy. So much heavier than it looks. Dense, heat-soaked fabric that settles against your back like gravity. Like memory. The inside is impossibly soft. Lined with something smooth and brushed, like worn-in velvet or sky-cured cotton. The warmth of it sinks straight through your skin, down to the aching hinge of your spine.

You look down at it, stunned. At him. He’s still close. Closer than usual. His boots barely a breath from yours. And that’s when his hand comes up, gentle, deliberate. Not rushed. Just his knuckles, brushing along your jaw.

A featherlight stroke, the back of his hand tucking the cape tighter beneath your chin, like he needs an excuse to linger. Like it matters to him that you feel protected. Covered. Kept.

Your breath catches in your throat and doesn’t come back because he’s never stood this close before. He’s taller than you remembered. Broader. The space between you contracts under the pressure of his presence. His chest nearly brushes yours with every breath, and each exhale from him is warm and steady, a living current wrapping around you like a second skin. Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. You wonder if he can hear it even though you know he can.

Your chin tips up. Instinct or need, you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. And his eyes are already on you. Not politely. Not blankly. Burning.

And then his voice drops. “Does he know,” he asks, slow and low, “how lucky he is?”

Your lips part, breath escaping in a visible puff. “Who?”

His gaze doesn’t flicker. “The man you told me about.” There’s no game in his tone. No mask. Just that same deep gravity you’ve felt in him since the very first night he landed here, coatless and patient and endlessly kind.

“Clark?” you ask, your voice a thread of sound.

“Does he know what it means to have your attention?” He asks while nodding. 

Your skin feels too tight. Too aware. The cape is clutched in your fingers now, bunched between your knuckles, and still it’s not enough to anchor you. You shake your head, barely. “He doesn’t seem to want it.”

And that truth, raw and quiet and far too vulnerable, lands between you with all the weight of gravity. A small confession. But sharp.

His throat works once. Then again. He swallows, visibly. His gaze travels from your eyes to your mouth, where it lingers a second too long before flickering back up to your eyes.

The air gets thick. Charged. Like a storm is about to break in the sky. Or inside him.

You think, for just one heartbeat, that he might kiss you. His lips part. But instead, his voice roughens, like the truth is scraping its way out.

“He wants it,” he says. “Believe me.”

You can barely breathe. He’s still watching you, like he can’t stop. Like your silence might fill in the answer he isn’t allowed to give. And you, wrapped in his cape, standing in his heat, breathing his air, don’t know what to do with your hands. Or your heart. So you say nothing. You just let the quiet stretch between you, trembling and hot and precarious, as if a single word would shatter it all.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to release you from the grip of his proximity. Enough to leave the ache behind.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just rises, slow and unhurried, into the sky. The wind tugs at his cape, lifting the edges from your shoulders, but you hold it tighter. And then he’s gone. Up. Away. Silent as ever.

And you stand there in the dark, wrapped in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the ache of him, wondering how long this can go on before the truth spills out of someone’s mouth and ruins everything. Or makes it real.

-

You realize it slowly. Not all at once. Not like a switch being flipped or a line being crossed. But in the spaces between sentences. In the hushed air between thoughts. In the moments where he doesn’t speak, just watches you with that carved-stone stillness, that impossibly patient calm that feels less like restraint and more like reverence.

You notice it in the way he lets silence breathe. Doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t try to solve it. Just lets it hang, heavy or light, whatever it needs to be.

And in the way he listens. Really listens. The kind of listening that feels like being held. Like your voice is something he doesn’t get anywhere else. Like your thoughts carry weight. Like your day matters. Like you do.

It doesn’t hit you all at once. It comes in waves. Realization blooming slowly under your skin like something long dormant waking up.

It sinks in one night when you’re talking about something stupid. Trivial. Work drama. An editorial you fought for, again. The way Perry’s notes clashed with the layout. The headline Lois rewrote over your shoulder with a red pen like a scalpel. You’re venting more than storytelling, sentences peppered with sarcasm, words tumbling loose because it’s late and you’re tired and he’s here.

You sit cross-legged on the rooftop ledge, shoulders hunched slightly from the wind, palms wrapped around a lukewarm thermos. Your legs have that faint ache from a long day, that tension that says you should’ve gone home hours ago. But he’s sitting beside you, and so you didn’t.

Superman is as still as ever. But not in a way that feels distant. It’s the stillness of someone utterly tuned in. Shoulders relaxed. Elbows resting loosely on his knees. Fingers curled near his thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands unless they’re catching someone. Holding something.

His cape shifts when he breathes, deep, quiet, full-bodied breaths that move the air around you. The red fabric stirs in soft waves across the rooftop, occasionally brushing your ankle, like a heartbeat you’re not supposed to notice.

His mouth is curved into that private smile. The one you’ve never seen in photographs. The one he only wears with you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer advice. He just listens. Watches. Quiet and open and focused like you’re telling him the weather patterns of your heart and he doesn’t want to miss a single cloud. 

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of it. How much you’ve told him. Not just tonight. Not just recently. But over the weeks. The months. One late night at a time. 

Your job. The daily grind. The politics. The moments you feel seen, and the ones you don’t. Your childhood. The wallpaper in your bedroom, the way your mom used to hum while folding laundry. 

Your heartbreak. The one that gutted you quietly. The one you never tell anyone about because it wasn’t dramatic enough to justify the pain. Your favorite books. The one you reread every winter. The one you lied about liking just to impress someone. Your fears. Driving. Water. Getting close. 

Your loves. Thunderstorms. Orange peels. Songs you’ll never admit make you cry. Clark. Sweet, dorky, utterly-unaware Clark.

You’ve told Superman everything.

And not once, not once, has he pulled back. Not once has he made you feel small. He doesn’t flinch when you speak. Doesn’t glance away. Doesn’t soften your edges to make you easier to digest.

Some nights, he says almost nothing at all. Just nods. Hums softly. Maybe says your name in that low, near-sacred way of his, like it’s a prayer he’s memorized. But he never leaves. He never looks bored. Or burdened.

He just stays.

And that matters more than you can explain. Because no one stays.

But he does. And now… you’re looking at him differently. Not like a symbol. Not like a god. Not like the man in the sky who breaks the sound barrier and holds tectonic plates steady with his hands.

But like a man who knows your laugh. Who remembers your favorite movie. Who lets you rant. Who makes space for your silences. Who carries your stories in his chest like they’re precious cargo. Who gave you his cape without thinking twice. Who touched your jaw like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And maybe that’s what unravels you. Not the fact that he’s Superman. But the fact that he feels more real to you than anyone else in your life. Not larger-than-life. Not untouchable. Just real. And right here. And that realization?

It’s starting to feel like falling.

-

The night is warm for early spring. The kind of warmth that clings not just to your skin, but to the air itself. Heavy and intimate, like a whispered secret. It seeps into your sleeves, wraps around your ankles, settles between your shoulder blades like a held breath. It makes your heart race without quite knowing why.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the ledge, the cape he gave you still draped over your lap. The fabric’s weight is familiar now, dense and soft and slightly creased where your fingers keep fisting in the hem. He hadn’t asked for it back. Just showed up with a different one. So, you haven’t offered to return it. It feels like something borrowed, yes, but more than that. Like something left.

Superman is beside you. Boots planted. Elbows resting on his thighs, back slightly hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he doesn’t trust what might happen if he really let himself take up space next to you.

He’s closer than usual. Not touching, but not far. If you leaned the slightest bit to the left, your shoulder would brush his bicep. If you exhaled too sharply, your knee might nudge his. You keep your spine rigid.

You’re not looking at him. You can’t. Not when you know he’s watching you.

His gaze is a weight you’ve come to recognize. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just steady. Open. Unyielding. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you vanish. Like you’re the only anchor he’s allowed to hold onto.

You take a breath. Your voice comes soft. Tucked between heartbeat and hesitation. “Sometimes I think,” you murmur, not looking at him, “if I met you first… things would be easier.”

The words come from somewhere low in your chest. Somewhere bruised and tender and aching with the question you don’t want answered. You don’t even know why you say them. You only know that they’re true. They hang there in the dark. Fragile. Bare. They make the space between you feel suddenly infinite.

You finally glance over. His eyes are already on you and he looks wrecked. Not in any way most people would notice. Not in any way he would ever allow. But you see it.

You know what it means when his jaw stills like that. When the cords in his neck draw tight. When his eyes dim like a stormcloud passing over the sun.

His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough. “You think,” he says, voice low and rough, “you didn’t?”

Your pulse stutters. You blink. Turn toward him fully, heart climbing into your throat. “What?”

His gaze drops for a second, to your mouth, then to your lap, where his cape is still clutched in your fists, and then rises again.

When his eyes meet yours, they are unshielded. Wide open. Pleading. Quiet. Raw. And suddenly, you realize how close he is.

His thigh presses against yours now, light but solid. His knee nudges the side of your folded legs, grounding you, like he’s trying to anchor you in place. And you can feel his warmth radiating outward in slow, low waves—the heat of him seeping into your skin, into your chest, into your pulse.

He burns.

And you’re burning too.

The rooftop goes still. The wind holds its breath. The world softens to nothing but sky and concrete and you and him.

You don’t know who leans in first. Maybe you both do. But suddenly, he’s closer. And so are you. Your noses nearly brushing. Your lips one breath apart.

You stop breathing. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your gaze falls to his. His exhale fans against your cheek, hot and steady. Everything stills.

“I—I should go,” you say, the words cracking in the back of your throat as you jerk back a fraction too fast. “I should… yeah. I’ve got work early.”

It’s a lie. You know it. He knows it. But you can’t stay here. Not when everything inside you is straining toward him like gravity. Not when you’re wrapped in his cape, bathed in his warmth, and trembling with the almost of it all. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. Just sits there. Still. Burning. Quiet. He nods once. Slow. Like it costs him something. But his eyes don’t leave yours.And the look on his face? He looks like he wants to follow you. Like if he could just reach out and touch you again, the world might break open. Like he’s waiting, begging, for some rule to shatter so he can finally cross the distance he’s been holding back from all this time.

But he doesn’t speak.

So you stand. Your legs are shaky beneath you, but you manage. You hold his cape tighter around your shoulders like it’s armor, or a secret. And you walk away. Not because you want to. But because you do want to kiss him and you don’t know what it means yet.

Not when he’s Superman.

And not when the other man who you’ve wanted for months, the man who gives you bashful smiles and spills his coffee at work, sits across from you every day like he doesn’t already own your heart.

And then he says it. Quiet. Fractured. “I’m him,” he whispers. “I’m Clark.”

You stop breathing. You stumble. Not like a graceful backpedal. Not a clean retreat. You falter, feet catching on the uneven edge of the rooftop, where rough concrete meets rusted metal, and you reel. Your hand shoots out, catching yourself on the freezing ledge. Stone bites into your palm, rough and sharp. You barely feel it.

You’re too busy drowning. Because no—no, he can’t be. He can’t.

You look at him. At Superman. But it’s not just Superman anymore, is it?

It’s Clark.

The curve of his mouth. The way his shoulders hunch like he’s afraid he’s just ruined everything. The blue of his eyes, familiar, even now. Especially now. You know that look. You’ve seen it across desks, over cheap coffee, in elevators and quiet newsroom corners where his hands would twitch like he almost reached for you and then didn’t.

And now it’s him.

All along, it’s been him.

It’s like all the air’s been sucked from your lungs and replaced with something heavier. Something that won’t let go.

The night tilts around you. The city below blurs. Headlights streak like comets across streets that no longer feel tethered to the world. A horn honks in the distance. A siren wails. Somewhere, down there, life goes on. Unchanged. Unknowing.

But not here. Not in this moment. Not with him standing in front of you. 

“No,” you whisper. It’s barely a sound. Barely a breath. The word scrapes up your throat like broken glass. Your fingers clutch the ledge behind you as if it might keep you from flying off the edge of everything you thought was true.

He’s still standing there. Not just Superman. Not just Clark.

Both.

The duality of it fractures something in you. His suit is still darkened from the flight, the blue and red dulled beneath smears of ash, streaks of soot, faint scuffs of battle left behind. His hair’s mussed from wind, curling slightly at his temple, a little out of place. Too human. Too familiar.

His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm. Controlled. Heavy. Measured like he’s trying to keep the world steady by breathing for it.

But his face…his face is just him.

Clark.

Open. Quiet. Devastated.

“No,” you repeat, louder now, shakier. “No, you…Clark can’t. He wouldn’t lie like that.”

He flinches. It’s small, barely a twitch of the mouth, a pull at his brow, but you catch it. “I didn’t lie,” he says softly, the words fragile and frayed at the edges. “I just… couldn’t tell you.” His voice sounds like gravel and heartbreak. You can feel it sink into your chest.

Your heart’s thundering. Slamming against your ribs like it wants to escape. Your hands are trembling where they hang by your sides, fingers curling against your thighs as if you could hold yourself together if you just gripped hard enough. The cape he gave you what feels like forever ago rests over your shoulders.  Too much now. Too heavy. Too warm. Too intimate. It feels like wearing the secret. Like being draped in all the things you didn’t see, couldn’t name, wouldn’t believe.

You don’t take it off. You don’t know how.

“I told you everything,” you say, and it tears out of your chest, raw and wounded. “I told you how I felt about him…about you. I trusted you.”

He doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens. His shoulders lock in place. But he doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

“I told you things I don’t even tell my friends,” you go on, voice rising. “I told you things I don’t admit to myself. And you just…” You shake your head, disbelief washing over your skin like a fever. “You sat there. You listened. And you let me think…”

His voice cuts in, low and sharp. Pained. “That you didn’t matter to me?” His eyes are bright with it now, wild with something barely restrained. “That I didn’t want you? I never wanted you to think that.”

“But you let me,” you whisper. The words fall out like grief. You don’t scream them. You don’t have to. Because the pain is in the quiet. In the way your voice breaks open around the edges like glass fracturing under heat. “Every time I told you how much I wanted him,” you say, softer now. “Every time I said he didn’t see me.”

His voice splinters. “I saw you,” he says. “Gosh, I saw everything.”

And you believe him. That’s the worst part. You believe him.

You take one step forward. Only one. The wind brushes against your back, cool where the cape has fallen open. Your voice is a knife now. Precise. Controlled. Made of something sharp and trembling. “How could you sit there every night and-,”

He doesn’t let you finish. “I just wanted to be yours,” he says. “As him, as me, I didn’t care! As long as I could be here with you.”

The silence after that is scorching. It wraps around your ankles like fire. It climbs your spine like a scream caught in your throat. It burns through every inch of space between you and doesn’t stop.

You can’t speak. You can’t move.

His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching. Like he wants to reach for you. Like he wants to close the space, undo the damage, gather the broken pieces into something whole again. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, chest rising and falling, lips parted like he might still say more if you don’t run.

And you? You can’t run. But you can’t stay, either. Your whole body feels splintered. Rattling under the weight of everything you thought was real and everything that’s now changed.

He was there for every word. Every late night. Every secret. Every quiet ache you handed him under the guise of friendship. You thought you were speaking to someone else. Someone you trusted. But you were speaking to him. The other version. All of him, in some confusing way. 

The wind picks up just as you turn your back on him. It lashes up from the edge of the building like a living thing, tearing across the rooftop with a howl that cuts straight through your sleeves and raises goosebumps along your skin. It grabs at the hem of the cape still wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like him. Like warmth and home and sunlit wind. Like the person you trusted with every soft part of yourself.

Clark.

Superman.

You can’t look at him. You can’t even breathe around the twist in your chest. 

The rooftop blurs around the edges, gold light from the Planet’s globe warping against the swell of tears behind your eyes. The city spins beneath you, thousands of feet and faces and voices, but all you can feel is the pounding of your pulse. In your throat. In your ears. In your fingertips.

You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get away. That if you stay a second longer, you’ll either fall apart in front of him or worse, let him hold the pieces.

“Don’t,” he says. It isn’t loud. Isn’t commanding. But it slices through the wind like it’s cutting straight through bone.

Your steps falter.

“Please,” he says again, softer now, frayed at the edges like paper soaked through. “Don’t walk away.” There’s something in his voice, hoarse and unraveling, that hits a nerve you didn’t know was exposed.

Then his fingers brush your wrist. Not tightly. Not enough to stop you. Just a touch. A question.

Your breath hitches.

You freeze.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper, without turning around. Your voice shakes in your throat like glass. “Not after…”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You spin, fury catching like a spark in dry grass, the cape snapping around you with the force of it. It wraps around your legs like it knows it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Or maybe it never did.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t,” he says immediately, his voice rising, not in anger, but desperation. “I never lied.”

“You let me talk to you,” you say, stepping forward, teeth clenched. “You let me sit next to you and tell you everything I felt, everything I wanted, and you just sat there and watched me.”

“I couldn’t-,”

“You could have.” You cut him off as the words rip out of you, jagged and breathless. “You chose not to.”

His shoulders hitch with the effort of his breathing. His fists curl, uncurl. The muscles in his jaw flex like he’s grinding the truth down between his molars.

“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snaps suddenly, sharp and exposed. “You think it didn’t kill me every time I saw the look in your eyes? Every time you hoped for something and I couldn’t give it to you?”

Your heart stutters. But the ache won’t let you relent. “Then why?” you demand. “Why wait? Why let me think Clark was this sweet, shy guy who would never want me, when the whole time, it was you? When Superman looked at me like he wanted me. When, fuck Clark, when you have wanted me as long as I’ve wanted you.”

His mouth opens, then closes. His chest heaves once, like the truth hurts too much to force out. “Because I was scared,” he says finally, shouting. “Because if you saw all of me, you’d leave. I thought if I kept that part hidden, just a little longer… I could keep you.”

You stare at him. You burn in anger. He thought you’d leave? After he always, always stayed for you? 

The rooftop hums beneath your feet. The heat of him radiates in waves, too close and too far away all at once. 

“I told you everything,” you whisper, stepping in close now, voice unsteady. “I told you what he…what you meant to me. And you didn’t say a word. You never left. Why would I leave you?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He repeats, chest heaving. “I just know that I  kept every word,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “Every single one. Because they meant everything. Because you do.”

The silence that follows is so thick it aches in your ears. Your chest rises. Falls. Rises again. Somewhere below, the city keeps pulsing, car horns, distant sirens, a train echoing under concrete, but up here, it’s just the two of you. Just a rooftop and a mistake that doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.

Your hands curl around the edge of the cape. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, raw, reverent.

You whisper, almost against your will, “So every night I told you about him…”

“I was listening,” he says, voice ragged. “As both versions of me… who loves you.”

Your knees nearly buckle. He steps closer, slow like he’s worried you’ll vanish. The wind dies down again, or maybe it just stops touching you. Everything narrows. Your vision. Your world.

He’s the only thing in it now.

“You’re all I see,” he breathes. “Since the day you walked into the bullpen. You were arguing with Perry about a comma splice, and I remember thinking—God, she’s a spitfire. And then you looked at me. Not at Superman. Not through me. At me. Like I mattered.”

Tears crest at your waterline. You don’t stop them.

“I didn’t know how to handle that,” he goes on. “Because I’ve saved cities. I’ve faced gods and aliens. But nothing’s ever undone me like you.”

You step in. You don’t remember doing it. But suddenly you’re toe to toe. Close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. Close enough to see the freckles across his nose, the vulnerability in his eyes. The man inside the myth.

“You already had me,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to pretend to be two people to earn that.” He looks like he might break apart. “I still am yours,” you say.

And that’s all it takes. The air between you detonates. He surges forward and you meet him halfway, lips crashing together like two storms colliding. It’s not neat. It’s not careful. It’s need.

His hands are on your face instantly, cradling, reverent, thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. You fist the front of his suit like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like it’s sacred.

His body crowds yours without overwhelming you. His thigh brushes yours, his arm snakes around your waist. The cape wraps around both of you like it remembers who it’s meant to protect.

“I thought you’d never,” you gasp between kisses.

“I couldn’t,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Not until I knew you wanted…”

“I want you, Clark,” you say cutting him off, and it tears him in half. He groans, wrecked and low, and kisses you again. Deeper, hungrier. You feel it everywhere, like heat under your skin, like sparks running down your spine.

This isn’t just a kiss. This is a confession. This is every night you sat beside him, aching. Every touch you didn’t ask for. Every word you swallowed. This is the answer to the question you were too afraid to ask.

And he gives it to you with everything he is. He kisses you like you’re the only thing worth saving. Like no other world matters. And you kiss him like you finally believe it.

Because you do. Because he’s not just Superman. And not just Clark. He’s yours. And for the first time since this whole tangled, aching, breathless thing began, you let yourself want all of him.

The next kiss isn’t as gentle. It slams into you like a second confession, hot and unrestrained, a shattering thing made of teeth and tongue and all the silence you’ve held between you. It doesn’t ask. It claims. The kind of kiss you give when there’s no going back. When the dam finally bursts and all that longing surges out at once, tidal and wild and so, so overdue.

His hands are on your face before you can even blink, big and steady, palms spanning your cheeks, thumbs sweeping the corners of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the curve. He tilts your chin up, reverent and aching, and then he kisses you deeper this time, like he needs to taste every breath you’ve ever used to say his name. 

You gasp into him, and he doesn’t hesitate. He drinks it down like it’s sacred. Like he’s starving for it. For you. Like he’s been holding this want back so long it’s turned molten. There’s nothing shy in the way he kisses you now. No restraint. No hesitation. Only need, blistering and bright and alive in every touch of his mouth.

Your hands fist in the collar of his suit, desperate, clumsy, and aching. You drag him closer, grounding yourself in the heat of his body, the muscle beneath the impossible fabric. You can feel the taut stretch of his chest against yours, the flutter of his heartbeat too fast for a human man. You dig your nails into his shoulders just to feel something solid.

He groans when you do it, low and wrecked and surprised, like the sound’s been punched out of him. It jolts through you like lightning, crackling through every nerve ending. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, just for a second. The breath he exhales is shattered.

The wind rises again, as if it feels the shift, tugging at the cape still tangled around your shoulders, snapping it wide like a sail as it lifts behind you. But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It doesn’t feel like a reminder of what you didn’t know. It feels like being chosen.

And then, he lifts you. Not roughly. Not even consciously. Just a subtle shift, his hands sliding to your thighs, hoisting you into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. His fingers find the bend behind your knees, curl around your body with effortless strength, and you wrap yourself around him without a second thought.

You cling to him like instinct. Like gravity no longer applies. One of his arms supports your weight as the other pulls you impossibly closer, and your chest collides with his, heart to heart, soul to soul. You feel everything now. The heat of him. The tremble in his breath. The tension in his body barely held in check.

And God, he’s warm. He radiates heat like a furnace, like the sun. It bleeds through the fabric, through your clothes, into your skin, curling deep in your belly. Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, and he leans in to steal it again.

His lips move with yours, soft, then hard, then soft again, tipping into a rhythm that feels like home. His mouth finds your jaw. Then your neck. Then lower, open-mouthed and reverent. He trails heat down the column of your throat, and you shiver, clinging to his shoulders like your knees might give out if he wasn’t holding you already.

When his nose brushes under your ear, the sound he makes could level buildings. It’s wrecked. Unsteady. A groan dragged from somewhere deep, like kissing you is both a relief and a ruin.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, words shaped like worship. Like surrender. “In every name. In every form.”

The rooftop drops away beneath you in slow, gentle increments. A moment suspended between earth and stars. The skyline unfolds like a painting in motion, glittering and vast. You’re cradled against him, the wind swirling around your ankles, the city a blur of golden light and dizzying height, but all you see is him. His face. His eyes. The heartbreakingly earnest look carved into every line of him. 

You rest your forehead against his. Close your eyes. Feel the press of his breath against your lips. He groans again  this time quieter. Broken in a different way.

“I never wanted to keep it from you,” he says, and each word is a bruise, tender and aching. “I just… I didn’t want you to fall in love with the symbol instead of the man.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. The man you knew before you knew. The man who carried your coffee and read your work and smiled too long when you complimented his tie. The man who gave you his cape. Who listened to your secrets. Who never stopped showing up.

He’s both. He’s always been both. And you love him. All of him.  So you smile, soft and aching and sure.

“Too late,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair. “I fell for both.”

His breath hitches. Then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time, wrecked and desperate and so alive. It’s not polished. It’s not controlled. It’s wild and tangled and almost clumsy, because neither of you can stop now. Because this is the moment everything changes.

He kisses you like a man finally let off the leash. Like he’s been holding back for months. Like kissing you is both a promise and an apology, a confession and a vow. And you kiss him back like you’ll never let him forget what it means to be wanted like this. Fully. Completely. Every impossible part of him.

Because you do. You want every name. Every version. Every inch. Every impossible heartbeat.

And finally you know he’s yours.

-

The wind wraps around you like a secret. It rushes past your ears, a low, thrumming hush, and you can barely hear anything beyond the pounding of your heart. He’s carrying you, arms locked beneath your thighs, your body cradled to his chest like something precious, fragile, and known. His warmth surrounds you, shields you from the cool bite of the atmosphere, and even though you’re climbing through the clouds, you’ve never felt safer.

You don’t look down. You look at him. At the way his jaw tightens with focus. The furrow of his brow. The set of his mouth, determined and tense, like he’s still holding his breath even now, even after everything.

And then you’re descending. The city lights blur past, amber and blue and gold. A flash of neon. A billboard. A train. A million lives moving just beneath your feet.

Then it’s quiet again. His boots touch down with barely a sound, just the faintest thud of contact, the shift of air as he slows, and suddenly you’re home. Not yours.

His.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re still clinging to him, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. But then he steps forward, gently sets you down, and your feet meet solid ground. And you realize you're in his apartment.

The windows are open, letting in the scent of spring, cool earth, rain-soaked pavement, the metallic tinge of the skyline at night. The curtains ripple softly. There’s a shelf to your left, lined with worn books and framed photos. A navy-blue couch. A single coffee mug left on the desk beside folded glasses.

This is Clark. This is where he lives. Where he wakes. Where he dreams. You’re standing in the middle of it, barefoot and stunned, wrapped in the cape of a man who isn’t supposed to exist this way, tangible, warm, and so painfully real.

And then he turns and pushes you back against the glass. You gasp, startled, breath stolen, as your spine meets the windowpane. It’s cool, shocking against your overheated skin, and your hands scramble for something to hold. But he’s already there, already pressing in. One arm braces against the glass beside your head. The other finds your waist. His body is heat and muscle and reverence, crowding you in until all you can feel is him.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak and it’s not like before. It’s deeper now. Hotter. Less desperation, more claiming. His lips part over yours with fevered intent, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he wants to taste every breath you’ve taken without him. Your fingers find the collar of his suit and pull, and he groans into you, low and helpless, like the sound’s been trapped in his chest for too long.

Your hands shake as you work the suit off his shoulders. The fabric is cool and slick, too perfect for this world. It gives way beneath your fingers, sliding down to reveal the impossible lines of his body, smooth skin, golden and flushed. He shudders when your palms find his chest, and he kisses you harder, faster, like he needs this. Needs you.

Your shirt joins his suit on the floor. Then your pants. Your bra. His boots thud somewhere behind him as he kicks them free, then the last of his suit slips down, crumpling in a heap like the man inside it finally let go of the performance.

And now you’re both bare.

You stand there for a moment, staring. His chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls. His skin glows in the warm lamplight, all soft curves over hard muscle. His shoulders are broad, his thighs thick, his arms trembling slightly like he’s fighting himself from reaching for you too soon.

And his hair. Still mostly slicked back from the flight, but now…now it’s human. Disheveled. One single curl has fallen out of place, slipping down over his brow, and your throat closes around the sight.

He’s beautiful. Not because he’s Superman.

But because he’s Clark. Because he’s standing in front of you with reverence in his eyes and nothing left to hide.

He moves first. His hands find your waist, firm and warm and grounding. Then your back. Then your thighs, hoisting you into his arms again like it’s instinct. Your legs wrap around his hips. Your arms drape over his shoulders. He pins you to the glass again, skin to skin now, mouth trailing from your lips to your throat.

Your breath stutters when he presses closer, hips slotted between your thighs, his skin hot and flush with yours. You can feel the tremble in him now, subtle, buried under muscle and strength, but there. Not from fear.

From restraint.

His mouth drags along your neck, slow and open and reverent. “I thought I could be patient,” he murmurs, voice frayed. “But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

The confession sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging lightly, and that one loose curl falls again, curling over your knuckles as you tilt his face toward yours.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes. He shifts, effortless and practiced, and suddenly you’re weightless again, your back sliding higher up the window, glass cool and unyielding behind your shoulder blades. You cling to him instinctively, thighs tightening around his hips, heart thrashing against your ribs like it’s trying to reach him before you do.

He exhales like a man drowning finally given air. “You feel like gravity,” he breathes. “You’re the only thing that’s ever kept me still.”

“Then fall,” you say as you bite your lip. 

His eyes darken into something that reflects heat and ache and something dangerous, and he kisses you again, deeper now, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starved for it. For you. 

When he pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his gaze is wrecked. “Tell me you want this,” he says.

“God, I do,” you pant. “I always have.”

And it’s true. You don’t want the distance anymore. You don’t want the waiting, the almosts, the ache of not knowing. You want him like this. Right here. Right now. Skin to skin. Name to name. All of him.

So when he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Then I’m yours,” the words brand themselves across your skin. And you believe him because he says it like a vow. Like something he’s waited his whole life to give.

He kisses you like the world is still ending. Like if he stops, it’ll splinter apart. Like nothing outside this window matters. Not the blinking cursor on your half-finished article, not the skyline pulsing with sirens and starlight, not even the cape still pooled at your feet like a red ripple of everything you thought you knew. Just his mouth. Just your body. Just the soft, unraveling sounds you keep making into the heat of his lips.

You’re breathless already. Drunk on him. And then he adjusts you. Not in a rush. Not rough or frantic. Just slow. Steady. Like a ceremony. Like he’s afraid to jostle something sacred.

His hands are under your thighs, spreading warmth that seeps into your bones, fingertips curled just enough to make your breath stutter. Your arms lock around his neck tighter and without hesitation, fingers tangled in his hair, cheek pressed to the side of his head, heart thudding wild and open against his.

He rises off the floor like he doesn’t even notice gravity anymore. You don’t, either. You’re floating, suspended in the hold of a man who could catch planes midair and stop bullets with his chest but chooses to hold you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world. His chest is a furnace, pressed tight against yours, every heartbeat pounding in slow, powerful rhythm beneath his skin. You can feel it. You can feel him. All of him.

The apartment blurs around the edges as the wind stirs gently, coiling around your ankles, brushing through your hair, pushing open the bedroom door like it, too, has been waiting for this. And then he lands. Soft. Like a promise.

His knees touch the edge of the mattress first. Then he lays you down, slow, reverent, arms still wrapped around you like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Like he needs the grounding of your body beneath his, your breath fluttering across his collarbone, the softness of your thighs caging his hips.

The sheets are cool against your back. His body is fire against your front and everything in you aches.

You feel undone just from being looked at like this.

The weight of his gaze as he hovers above you is unbearable and electric and necessary all at once, like sunlight held in place, golden and scorching and all-consuming. His eyes roam over your face, your chest, your parted lips, drinking you in with the slow hunger of a man who’s been starving for years.

His palms glide over your ribs, your hips, your thighs, long, unhurried strokes that leave sparks in their wake. Every touch is mapped with intention. Every inch of skin he brushes feels claimed. Worshiped. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to lay his hands on you and can’t quite believe he’s finally allowed.

And then his mouth. It moves like it knows exactly where to go. He starts at your collarbone, soft and lingering, then down the center of your chest in a line of kisses that feel like punctuation marks to every word he can’t say fast enough.

“Gosh,” he whispers, voice shaking, breath hot against your sternum, “you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver as your hands find his hair, thicker than it looks, soft at the roots but mussed now, wild from your fingers. One curl falls forward again, brushing your temple, and your heart aches with how human he looks like this.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmur, but even you don’t believe it.

“I do,” he says, instantly. Fervently. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, reverent. “I need you to know what you are. What you’ve always been.” His voice is low. Wrecked. Like it’s crawling up from somewhere deep and fragile.

“I’ve watched you walk into the newsroom a hundred times,” he says, “with your chin up and your hands full and that look on your face like you’re two seconds from telling someone off, but your eyes…” He lowers his head. “You smiled at me once,” he says, mouth brushing your jaw. “That first week. You don’t remember it. But I do. I’ve never stopped.”

You arch into him, neck exposed, breath trembling. His lips drag lower.

“I memorized you,” he says, kissing down your throat. “In daylight. In shadows. In every storm and silence. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

Your nails scrape down his back, over bare shoulder blades and taut muscle and the smooth dip of his spine. He gasps into your skin, voice stuttering like a skipped heartbeat.

“I used to come home and wonder how I’d survive another day pretending I didn’t want you.” He mouths at your shoulder, then lingers at the hollow between your collarbones.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, each word hotter than the last, “but it never came close. You’re more than I ever let myself imagine.”

His hands slide lower, palms dragging along the underside of your thighs, up to your hips, splaying wide at your waist like he’s trying to memorize your shape by feel. You’re so aware of every inch of skin he touches, the press of his chest to yours, the strength in his arms braced on either side of your head.

And his voice breaks again, soft and desperate. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, breath falling into your mouth like a confession. “You undo me.”

And you do. You see it in every tremble. Every kiss. Every sound he makes. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just release.

It’s ruin. And he wants it. He wants you.

All of you.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, spread out beneath him, bathed in the low golden hush of the bedside lamp, your fingers tangled in his hair and your breath rising in time with his.

He looks at you like he’s praying. Like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like every kiss is a test to see if you’ll disappear.

“Clark,” you whisper, brushing your fingers down the flushed slope of his cheek, across the trembling line of his jaw. His skin is fever-warm beneath your touch, soft in places, rough with stubble in others. Tangible. Human. Yours. “You’re allowed to want this.”

“I do,” he says, barely a breath. His lashes flutter, dark and damp, clinging together from sweat or tears or both. “I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, hips tilting up, subtle and slow, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are. His eyes flutter closed at the contact, a stuttered gasp catching in his throat. His arms shake slightly, trying to brace. Trying not to lose control.

“I used to touch myself,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his ear, “after you’d leave.”

His breath catches, sharp and wrecked.

Your teeth graze his earlobe. “After you flew off. After you walked me to my car, all shy and soft-spoken like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”

He makes a sound you’ve never heard before, half groan, half whimper, like the words are unraveling something deep in his chest. His hand tightens on your hip, and he lowers his head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone to your breast.

“I imagined your hands,” you murmur, dragging your nails up the back of his neck, “your mouth. I thought about your voice while I came. Thought about how you’d sound if I let you hear me.”

“God,” he moans, mouth vibrating against your skin. His hand slips between your legs, slow and reverent, dragging through your slick. When two fingers push into you, you arch instantly, moaning loud enough to make the windows tremble.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with awe. “You’re so…baby, you’re perfect.”

“All for you,” you pant. “Only you.”

That breaks something in him. He kisses his way down your stomach, dragging his mouth over every inch of skin he can reach. His palms splay across your hips, holding you still, and then he’s burying himself between your thighs, tongue warm and slow, lapping through your folds with careful, aching need.

You cry out, high and shaking, fingers gripping his hair as your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against your clit, making your thighs tremble around his ears.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “You sound so good.” He adds a third finger and you sob, eyes rolling back, body twisting. You grind against his mouth shamelessly, chasing the pressure, the heat, the rhythm. He’s moaning like it’s his own orgasm building, like your pleasure is unraveling him from the inside out.

“Clark, fuck. Baby, please.” 

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. “Please. I need to feel you break.”

You splinter like glass in sunlight, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name again and again. He holds you through it, lips soft against your inner thigh, murmuring praise so low and full of want it sounds like worship.

When he finally climbs back up your body, you’re shaking, boneless, breathless, slick and ruined. You reach for him. Your hand wraps around his cock, hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. He jolts at the touch, body going rigid above you.

“Wait. please.”

You stop. Look up. His cheeks are red. His lashes low. His hips twitch in your grip.

“I just,” he bites his lip. “I want you on top.” You blink. His hands slide to your waist, gentle. “I want to feel all of you,” he says softly. “I want to watch your face. I want,” his voice cracks “I want to be good for you.”

Something hot and tender curls in your stomach. You shift. Press a kiss to his jaw. Then his throat. And then, carefully, slowly, you roll him onto his back. He lets you. He exhales like it’s a blessing.

You straddle his hips, watching the way his chest rises, watching the way he looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. You reach down, guide him to your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your folds, wet and hot and aching.

“Is this what you dreamed about?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, please.”

You sink down slowly. He groans, head thrown back, throat taut, hands flying to your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You take him inch by inch, stretching around him, moaning at the fullness, at the way his eyes flutter and his chest arches and his lips part around a helpless sound.

“Oh, you feel,” he gasps. “You feel like…like home.”

You bottom out, sitting fully in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands reverent on your skin. You haven’t even moved yet and already he looks wrecked. Because you’re everything he’s ever wanted, finally his, and there’s nothing left to hide.

You don’t move at first. You just sit there, straddling him, full, breathless, and trembling. Your thighs quiver where they press to his sides, your hands spread wide over the endless warmth of his chest. His heart pounds beneath your palms, thrumming like thunder, like a war drum in the silence between you. Too fast. Too strong. Too much for any man.

But not for him.

You know this heart. You’ve felt it before, soft against your shoulder during late-night walks, pulsing warm through the rooftop air when he stood too close. You’ve felt it through every brush of his hand, every quiet smile, every almost.

Now it’s yours.

And it’s racing.

Your lashes flutter as you look down at him—his eyes wide and glassy, flushed all the way to his ears, mouth parted like he’s still trying to breathe through the heat of being inside you.

You shift just slightly. Tighten around him. His body jolts, hips twitching up in pure reflex, a broken sound bursting from his lips like it was torn from his chest. His hands fly to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Baby,” he gasps, voice thick with awe, “please.”

You lean forward, chest brushing his, nose skimming along his cheek. “I could stay like this,” you whisper, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “Just like this. Forever.”

He whimpers. A real, helpless, soft sound. It hits you low, makes your core throb where you hold him, pulsing around him like your body’s already begging for more. Your hands rise to cradle his jaw, and you kiss him slow. Deep. Languid. Your tongues slide together, hungry and slick, and you feel him tremble under you. His fingers grip tighter, possessive and sweet, reverent like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you like this, even now.

You start to move. Your hips roll slow, dragging over him with obscene friction, and his breath catches in a low, strangled moan. He’s thick inside you, stretching you open perfectly, his cock dragging along every nerve ending like it knows where you’re weakest. The base of him rubs right against your clit with every grind, his pubic bone nudging it just enough to make you shudder.

“Oh my god,” you whisper into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

His grip on you stutters. “You’re so warm,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “So tight, so perfect.”

“You are,” you murmur, hips circling. “You feel so good, Clark. I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”

A groan cracks out of him, full-bodied and deep, like the sound was buried under years of restraint. He tilts his head back, jaw clenched, eyes glazed with disbelief.

“I can feel every inch of you,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re so deep… it’s like you’re under my skin.”

He cries out when you clench around him, and it’s not even intentional, it’s just how your body reacts to him. To his size. To the way he fills you completely, every stroke rubbing right up against the spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs tremble. His hands flex and slide up your back, down to your hips again, dragging you harder against him. The pressure builds with each deep grind, slow, dragging, and thick.

“You ride me so good,” he pants, wrecked. “Like you were made to do it. Like…like you knew.”

“I did,” you moan, nails sinking into his shoulders. “I knew. Every time you touched me. Every time you looked at me like I was something precious. I knew I could be so good for you if you’d just let me.”

He looks like he could cry. You keep rolling your hips, slow and deep and aching, chasing your high with the kind of devotion that feels holy. The friction against your clit is relentless now, dragging against the ridge of his body with every glide, heat blooming fast behind your ribs, down your spine, between your legs.

Your rhythm falters. You bite your lip and cry out his name. 

His eyes fly open. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Let me feel it please.”

You break. Your whole body locks, back arching, nails clawing down his chest as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy clenches around him, soaking, pulsing, dragging another wrecked moan from his throat.

He grabs your hips, tight, trembling, and thrusts up into you. Hard. Again. And again.

He can’t stop. Won’t. Your thighs are still shaking, your body still fluttering around him, and he’s fucking up into you with open desperation now, hips snapping, cock pounding into you with each gasp of your name.

He’s not even trying to hold back. He’s completely undone. His head tips back, his neck straining, jaw slack.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “You’re perfect. You're everything. I can’t, oh gosh, I can’t.”

You lean down again, your chest pressed to his, lips at his ear. “Cum inside me,” you whisper, voice soaked in heat and need. “Fill me up, Clark. I want to feel you. Want all of it. Please.”

He shatters. His thrusts lose rhythm, stuttering, gasping, almost violent with how hard he jerks beneath you. He moans your name as he spills inside you, deep and hot, cock pulsing again and again as his arms crush you to his chest.

You cling to him, shaking, slick and overstimulated, every inch of you pulsing, his body buried inside you like it’s where he belongs.

His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, kissing, panting, whispering your name over and over like it’s a promise. And in that breathless silence after, nothing else matters. Because you’re still joined. Still trembling. Still his. And he’s yours. In every name. In every form.

You don’t move for a long, long time.

You just stay there, straddling him, body flushed and heavy, every inch of you slick with heat and sweat and the kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. Your cheek rests against his chest, and beneath your ear, his heart is still racing, loud and erratic, faster than it should be, but steadying with every breath he takes.

The sheets are tangled beneath you. Warmth radiates off his skin. Your thighs still tremble from the way he touched you, how deeply he filled you, and his hands haven’t stopped moving. One spreads over the small of your back, thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. The other is cradled between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, holding you like a precious, delicate thing he’s still scared to break.

His cock is still inside you. Not fully hard now, but not soft either, just there, nestled deep in the heat of your body, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like you both are. You’re sensitive. Wet. Tender and raw and sore in the best way. The way that says he’ll still be inside you long after you’ve pulled apart.

And God, you don’t want to move. Not yet. You hum softly against his chest, the sound barely audible over the soft rise and fall of his breathing. The golden light from the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, painting you both in honeyed warmth. The air smells like sweat and sex and skin. Familiar. Safe.

He shifts beneath you, just enough to press a kiss into your hairline. His lips linger. Stay.

“My girl,” he murmurs.

You smile sleepily, feeling more content than you have in years. 

“I am yours,” you say softly, trailing your fingers over the broad line of his ribs, feeling the rise of each one beneath your palm. You press your hand flat over his heart and feel it jump beneath your touch. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says, his voice a whisper against your temple. “I think I’ve always known.”

You tip your chin slightly, kiss the underside of his jaw. “You’ve never said that before. My girl.”

He stills for a moment, then smiles, shy and crooked. “Felt right,” he admits. “Hearing you call me Clark while you were wrapped around me like that… I just,” he breaks off, breath catching. “You’re the only person outside my parents in this world who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere.”

Your heart clenches. You lift your head, look down at him. His face is flushed, hair mussed and curling, lips still kiss-swollen. The curl of his smile is dazed and boyish, eyes glassy with the remnants of pleasure. And beneath all that is hope. Fragile and shining.

“Clark Kent,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You’re still inside me. You don’t have to sweet-talk me right now.”

He laughs, quiet and startled and disbelieving. “Can’t help it,” he says, wrapping his arms tighter around you, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “You’re here. You’re with me. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up.”

“You won’t,” you promise. “I’m real. This is real.”

He swallows thickly. Nods. “I’m still not over it,” he says quietly.

“Over what?”

He hesitates. The hand on your spine pauses. “You’d come to me on the rooftop,” he says, his voice soft, “after everything. And you’d talk to me. About your day. About your coworkers. About how Jimmy kept stealing your snacks and Lois left you on read.”

You smile. “She always leaves me on read.”

“And I’d just sit there,” he continues, “listening to you, watching you, and all I could think was how jealous I was.”

You blink. Lift your head again. “Jealous?”

“Of me,” he says, sheepish. “Of Clark. I wanted to be the one you gave that smile to. The one you leaned against. The one who got to touch you without gloves.”

You stare at him Then burst out laughing.

He groans and hides his face in your neck. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You were jealous of yourself?”

“I didn’t say it made sense,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can see his face. “Clark, that is-,”

“Don’t say it.”

“The most romantic and stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

His cheeks are flushed. “I just…I wanted your attention like that. All of it. I wanted your mornings. Your evenings. Your jokes. Your voice. I wanted to be the one who made you laugh in the elevator and flushed when you got too close and…Golly, I wanted this.”

You study him. Let the smile fade into something softer, warmer. “You already had me,” you whisper. “I was already yours.”

His breath catches like it hurts.

You kiss him slow. Then start pressing long, melting kisses that leave him trembling beneath you. You press soft kisses to the corner of his mouth, then down his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear, to the curve of his throat.

His breath stutters. His hands tighten on your waist. “What’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough.

“Leaving marks.” You suck gently at the side of his neck, slow and steady. His hips twitch beneath you and his cock stirs slightly inside you, still too soft for more, but warm and twitching with every brush of your mouth. “Since you were so jealous of yourself,” you murmur, “I figured I’d give you something else to be jealous of.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” you whisper, kissing lower, “just making sure everyone knows who you belong to. Including you.”

You suck another mark onto the curve of his shoulder, deep and dark and possessive, and feel his breath hitch beneath you. His whole body is pliant now, muscles loose and ruined, chest rising in slow, shaky breaths.

His cock gives one last twitch inside you.

“You good down there?” you tease. “Or are you going to be jealous of your cock too?”

“Hush,” he groans into your shoulder, face bright red at your words. 

“Or maybe the blanket because it’s on me, too?”  You glance down. The cotton is bunched low around his hips, sticking to your thighs, damp and tangled.

“Sweetheart,” he warns. “You’re real cute when you try to give me guff.” 

You laugh, quiet and smug, and settle against his chest again, your arms around his ribs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds you like he’ll never let go. And maybe he won’t. Because after a long pause, he exhales slow, and presses one last kiss to your temple.

“My girl,” he whispers. The words ripple through you like heat.

You press another kiss to the pulse at his throat and whisper what you’ve known for a long, long time.

“Yours.”

-

The breakroom smells like burnt toast and freshly ground coffee, too much char, not enough cream. The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly, cold and unforgiving, a little too bright for how wrecked you feel inside. There’s a smear of something sticky on the counter no one’s bothered to wipe up, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin sits abandoned near the sink.

You lean against the cabinets in your yesterday blouse, buttoned all the way up this time, tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt, trying to fake normal with every careful inch of fabric. But your legs still ache faintly from being wrapped around him. Your throat’s a little sore from moaning his name. And your skin hums like it hasn’t fully come down from last night’s altitude.

Clark stands at the counter, frowning at the coffee machine like he’s trying to will it into compliance. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with the faintest bruising at the knuckles. His tie is crooked. His hair is damp from his morning shower, curling faintly at the nape of his neck, with one stubborn curl already starting to fall over his brow.

He’s still flushed. Still bashful. Still trying so hard not to look at you. And yet, he does. A lot.

You cross your arms loosely over your chest and watch him, your shoulder brushing the doorframe as you tilt your head.

“You’re really going to pretend everything’s normal?” you ask, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smile.

“I made coffee,” he says, quiet but hopeful, lifting the carafe like it’s some kind of peace offering. “I figured that’s… normal.”

“Clark.” You arch a brow and step forward, slow and teasing, until the hem of your skirt brushes his shin. 

He stills. The air between you tightens. Sharpens. He turns to face you fully, mug still in one hand.

And there he is.

All of him.

Clark Kent. Superman. The man who pressed his mouth to your neck like it might save him. The man who made you come with his fingers buried deep, who whispered your name into your skin like he could make a home of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he still looks like the sweet, clumsy guy who brings extra muffins to the bullpen and blushes when you call him “Kent.”

You reach for the mug he’s holding, fingers brushing his. His hand is warm as always, but rougher than usual. You catch sight of the scrapes on his knuckles, red and fresh, a little dried blood along the cuticle. A mission. A fire. A fall. You’ll ask later. But for now, you just let your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary before taking the mug from his hand.

He watches you sip like he’s worried it’s too hot. Like the coffee might hurt you and he’ll never forgive himself if it does.

You lower the cup with a slow exhale. The taste is terrible, over-brewed, too bitter, but it makes your chest ache, anyway.

“How’d I miss it?” you murmur.

His brow furrows. “Miss what?”

You nudge him with your hip. Playful. Testing. “That you were Superman.”

He gives you a small, sheepish smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess I’m just a really good reporter.”

You shake your head and set the mug down beside the sink. “No,” you say, voice quiet but sure. “You’re a really good liar.”

Something flickers across his face. Guilt, regret, something heavier than either. His shoulders slope slightly. He looks down.

“I never wanted to lie,” he says softly. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

Your heart catches. You step closer again, your hand rising to smooth his crooked tie. Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, warm from the heat of his chest beneath. He smells like soap and cedar and ozone.

“Clark,” you say gently, fingers settling at his collar. “I know.”

He finally looks at you, eyes wide and blue and full of something that hurts to hold.

You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek, just beneath his eye, where the skin is soft and warm and still slightly flushed. The kiss lingers longer than it needs to. When you pull back, his eyes flutter closed for half a second like he’s anchoring the moment.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you whisper.

His throat works on a swallow. The flush deepens, rising high into his ears. He smiles  small and wrecked and completely undone.

“I really am,” he says. Then, quieter still, he adds, “I’m so in love with you, it scares me.” The words hit somewhere deep. Behind your ribs. Beneath your skin.

You pick the coffee back up, sip again just to steady yourself, and glance at him over the rim. “Good,” you say, voice light. “Now you know how I felt all this time.”

He huffs a laugh, almost disbelieving. His hand finds your hip. Light. Tentative. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you in this setting but can’t help needing to.

You lean into it. Into him. He presses a kiss to your hairline. His thumb strokes lazy circles at your waist.

There’s a sound outside the breakroom, someone laughing, printers firing up, but none of it touches you. Not here. Not in this quiet corner of morning. Not with his lips brushing yours, slow and reverent, like he’s thanking you for something he doesn’t have words for yet. The coffee. The newsroom. The bruise on his knuckle and the blush in his cheeks.

This is Clark. Yours. And for the first time since all of this began, he’s letting himself be.

[leossmoonn]

Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s even remotely proud of, but desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately. 

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, probably about the most recent trade, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months. That’s long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin. He realizes that this might not have been the smartest choice. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The lack of a response is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a definitely a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

His laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

 “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet. 

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in. 

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous. 

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly, cautiously, and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not too fast, but enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him, and enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, his arms suddenly feeling too long on his body. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp, so one of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker. 

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work. 

-

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later. 

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

-

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents. 

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears. 

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle from Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky. 

-

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?” 

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building. 

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it, but tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes. 

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, he thinks, and now might be his only chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,” 

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation, gesturing around you. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line. 

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

-

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “In the News world, I called her illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

“You literally can’t get more ‘there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.” 

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters. 

“Stay strong, brotha!” 

Now alone, he groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this. 

-

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out. 

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact. 

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You squint.

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything. 

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens. 

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart. 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips. 

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest. 

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first. 

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him. 

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin. 

Clark thinks his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection. 

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.”  And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

---

A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!

[leossmoonn]

Reader is weakkk for some Clark neck kisses while pregnant. Praises her on everything she’s done for him a whole heartfelt praise on giving him a family, something to come home too… no smut just some fluff neck kisses 🥺 the kitchen scene is embedded in the mind lol ( I don’t know if I doubled sent this too you?!) if I did I apologize!

Superdad in training

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: I would also let him impregnate me ngl

No warnings or spoilers for the film! Word count: 1.4k

The rooftop belonged to the two of you. Not officially, of course, because the building had its rules, its lease clauses and common space policies—but over time, the rooftop had quietly become yours. Strung fairy lights danced across the concrete railing, a cozy bench sat in the corner with a slightly threadbare blanket tucked over the backrest and a few struggling potted herbs lined the edge like hopeful, green confetti. 

It wasn’t much but it was yours. 

You were bathing in the afternoon sun, one hand resting absentmindedly on the curve of your belly, when a familiar low whoosh hit the air, followed by the gentle scrape of boots touching down and a gust of wind that curled around your ankles like a welcome-home greeting.

Clark landed behind you with a box in his hand and a look on his face that said he’d been flying too fast and too far for you. After all, a car ride was rarely an option.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asked, voice warm but already threaded with concern. “It’s not safe.”

You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was so him. “Clark,” you said, turning slightly, hand still protectively resting on your bump, “you literally reinforced the railing…twice and tested it. I couldn’t fall off this rooftop if I tried.”

His brows tugged together. “I know. I just…” His eyes flicked downward for a beat to your stomach, then your feet and finally to the box of donuts in his hand before meeting yours again. “I worry.”

“You always do.” You smiled.

“And I always will.”

You stood and stepped toward him. He closed the distance in the way he always did, with gentle touches and that quiet, whole-body sort of love that made you feel like the center of the galaxy.

“I got the ones you like,” he murmured, lifting the box. “From that place in Chicago.”

You gasped, dramatic and delighted, reaching for it. “You flew halfway across the country for powdered donuts with cream filling and rainbow sprinkles?”

“I’d fly across the universe for you,” he said easily, walking you toward the stairs with a gentle arm on your lower back.

You snorted through a smile, letting him lead you. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you keep falling for it.”

By the time you were inside the apartment, barefoot and glowing from fresh air, you were already halfway through your second donut. Clark trailed you into the kitchen like a shadow made of soft cotton and love, peeling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

You stood there chewing thoughtfully with a few rogue sprinkles dotting your shirt.

He stepped up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist with the reverence of someone holding the whole world. His hands splayed gently over the curve of your belly, thumbs brushing idle circles like a lullaby for the little one growing inside you.

“You’re really doing this,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing skin with featherlight care. “You’re creating a whole person…a whole life.”

You tilted your head slightly, offering more of your neck without meaning to. He took the invitation with a smile and another kiss.

“Didn’t do that one alone…”

“I know, I just–” His voice cracked a little and he pressed his lips against the same spot again, like anchoring himself to the moment. “I still can’t believe it. That I get this…you, this baby and a home to come back to.”

You stayed quiet, chewing slower now, blinking back something soft and messy from your lashes. He kissed the shell of your ear and kept talking, low and steady, voice wrapped in honesty.

“I grew up thinking I'd always have to be two people. That there’d never be space for both, but somehow…you found room for both of them. You don’t just love the reporter or the cape, you love me and you gave me a family.”

You turned slightly, donut still in hand, neck warm from affection. “You make it very easy to love you, Kent.”

He chuckled softly and kissed your jaw once more, then rested his chin on your shoulder and swayed you gently back and forth. “Even when I hover like an overprotective nurse?”

“Especially then.”

A beat passed. You finished the last bite of your donut and licked powdered sugar off your fingers.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

He hummed. “Anything.”

You nudged him lightly. “Can you take a peek in there? Just…let me know if the baby’s got the middle finger up or something.. You know, like those memes? I swear, ‘baby of steel’ kicked me with an attitude earlier and it’s really not my fault I couldn't stop sneezing. I don’t want this to be our first fight.”

Clark pulled back slightly and laughed, that deep, honey-warm laugh you loved. His eyes flicked downward for just a second, long enough for a discreet scan before he smiled again.

“She’s smiling,” he said softly, hand still rubbing circles against your belly. “Kind of.”

You blinked. “...She?”

His smile froze and your jaw dropped, sugar-dusted mouth hanging open. “You said she!”

Clark looked like a man caught in a courtroom cross-examination. “I didn’t say—well…I didn’t mean–”

“You totally did! Clark, I’m pregnant, not deaf.”

You could read the apology on his face but you were already squealing, eyes wide and half-laughing, half-crying, as you bounced on your toes in pure, unfiltered joy.

“She?!” you shouted again, holding your belly with one hand. “Clark, she?! Oh my god! We’re having a baby girl?!”

You started to do a little victory hop,  just a tiny one…a celebration bounce but Clark’s arms immediately shot out in alarm, hands hovering like airbags.

“No jumping!” he yelped, already trying to steady you. “Feet on the ground, sweetheart! Flat. Both feet!”

You only laughed harder, utterly radiant with happiness, tears springing into your eyes and powdered sugar still dotting your mouth. “I’m fine! I’m just happy! I’m so happy!”

Clark didn’t answer, he was already walking briskly toward the living room, opening drawers and scanning the shelves like a man on a mission, while muttering under his breath. “Where’s the book? The baby one with the illustrations, the index and the emergency checklist. You were jumping…That counts as an impact, right? I don’t know. Where is it?”

You followed, half-laughing, half-concerned, as he located the dog-eared maternity guide and flipped through it with the intensity of someone researching a potential alien invasion.

“Clark,” you said gently.

“One second, baby.”

“Clark.” you said again, grinning and slightly breathless. “How long have you known?”

He froze mid-page flip and answered sheepishly without looking up. “A few days, you kept tossing in your sleep.” He paused, “Couldn’t help it, my eyes wander when I’m worried.”

Your chest tightened around the affection and the swell of something too big for words but he was already talking again before you could say anything. 

“Sweetheart, maybe put on your shoes.”

You blinked. “My shoes? Are we getting celebration donuts? I’m kinda hungry.”

“We’re taking a trip to the hospital,” he said, still flipping pages at hyperspeed. “Not for anything bad. Just a precaution…soft precaution. We’ll call first, I’ll carry you and get you more donuts after but we’re going.”

You burst out laughing again before crossing the room to him and throwing your arms around his body from behind—the powdered sugar from your face leaving a faint print on his back.

“She’s fine, okay?” you whispered. “And so am I.”

He stilled, then slowly lowered the book and turned in your arms. Big, warm hands finding their place once more over the life you were both months away from meeting.

“She’s fine,” he repeated. “And so are you.”

You hummed and leaned forward, resting your head on his chest, cheek pressing against the soft stretch of his shirt now. There, beneath your ear, was the steady thunder of his heart, only not so steady right now.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you murmured.

Clark stilled for a beat. Then gave you a tight, nervous hum that sounded like it came with too many spiraling thoughts.

You grinned into his chest, patted his back and caved. “I’ll go put on my shoes.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for the last three minutes, head tipping back in blessed relief. You pulled away slowly, still laughing under your breath as you padded out of the room, voice lilting just loud enough for yourself.

“Good thing you didn’t see the backflip I did to get out of bed this morning—” You joked.

“What!?” came Clark’s alarmed voice behind you, sharp with concern.

You froze mid-step, grinning. “Nothing, Smallville!” you called sweetly but he was already following, half-panicked and full of love.  “You said a backflip?!” He asked, and the apartment echoed with your laughter and the warm, overprotective footsteps of the man who loved you more than gravity.

----

Likes, reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated! ❤️

[leossmoonn]

just clark eating you out to the point of tears…

the air was thick and almost humid. your fingers curled around the bedsheets, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing you could do. it was. your chest was heaving, your nipples taut as your back arched off the bed. you were practically sticking to the sheets, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“c-clark…” you gasped out, your body shaking and writhing — just the way he liked to see you. your clit was throbbing against his tongue, overstimulated and over worked. but he wasn’t done. clark never was. when he got like this, completely lust drunk on you, he could please you for hours. it was like he never got tired.

“come on, baby, one more. you can do it for me.” he purred, his voice soft and almost innocent like his tongue wasn’t deep inside your pussy right now. clark looked up at you with those big blue eyes, his tongue withdrawing from your fluttering cunt to flick at your clit. your eyes rolled back again, a strangled moan ripping from your throat. clark smirks, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you, his tongue flicking just right against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“that’s it, baby, just let it happen.” he coaxed as he alternated between sucking your clit and flicking it with this tongue. “god you taste so good.” he moans against your folds, making your body jerk. you were teetering on the edge of another orgasm, your clit throbbing and aching and making it hard to focus. your fingers threaded through his silky hair, tugging and pulling on the dark, curly strands.

“p-please clark… i can’t…” you whimpered, your abdomen aching from the constant clenching and unclenching of your muscles. clark looked up at you, a dark curl falling down his forehead. “oh you can. and you will.” and you knew you were fucked. you knew clark wasn’t going to stop until you had another orgasm. as if the other 6 weren’t enough. he was greedy. and this was the only time he allowed himself to be greedy.

“i know, sweet girl. i know it’s hard, but you can do it. you’re so strong. i know you can do it. just come for me, sweetheart.” he praises you as if he himself isn’t superman. the man with literal super strength was stroking your ego, telling you how strong you were.

“i… fuck!” you cried out, clark’s tongue licking from your entrance to your clit before suckling gently. he could tell you were so fucking close, the way your pussy was clenching, your body hot and tense with impending orgasm. he was trying to be gentle knowing how overstimulated you were right now, but gosh he just wanted ravage you and make you cum harder than you ever have before. and trust me, he’s made you cum hard several times. it was like a competition with himself each time.

tears were rolling down your cheeks and onto the pillow beneath your head. the pleasure was overwhelming and the way your body worked extra hard to come again had sent you into oblivion. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your hips bucking against clark’s mouth as you whimpered and cried out his name like a mantra. clark groaned as he watched you come undone, your body convulsing as you rode out your high. clark flicked his tongue gently along your clit, drawing out your pleasure while trying not to crumble you more than you already have.

clark presses several soft kisses to your clit as he watches you tremble with aftershocks of your orgasm and he swears you’ve never looked so beautiful. your chest is heaving, breathing heavy and a completely blissed out expression on your face. “you did so well for me, sweetheart. i’m so proud of you.” clark presses a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body and letting you taste yourself on his lips. “you taste yourself?” clark mumbles against your lips, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. you nod your head. “you taste like an angel straight from heaven.”

[leossmoonn]

what a nerd

( synopsis ) — based off this cute video of david rambling about star wars. he’s so loveable, i love u david corenswet.

( warning ) — none! just a lot of star wars talk.

( tags ) — @dumbbandpoetic [to be added]

“You know… Obi Wan wasn’t originally supposed to be the one to train Anakin in Star Wars,” Clarke murmured from where he lay sprawled across you, arms wrapped comfortably around your waist, his chin resting lightly against your chest as he gazed up at you.

You smiled, glancing down at him, your fingers gently combing through his hair as if he were a puppy. “We’re doing this again, huh?”

“Just let me have this,” Clarke said with a grin. “I need to get it out of my system. It should’ve been Qui Gon. He had the instinct, the experience, he understood Anakin in a way the others didn’t.”

You nodded quietly, watching the way his face lit up as he spoke, the familiar warmth of his passionate rambling filling the quiet of the room. These moments weren’t rare between you, Clarke’s impromptu nerd related lectures were practically routine.

“Qui Gon loved Anakin,” he continued, more softly now. “Not in a way the Jedi Order condoned, but still! He saw something in him. He believed in him. That love could’ve changed everything.”

“But Obi Wan made a promise,” you replied gently. “To Qui Gon. When he died, he asked Obi Wan to train him. So even if Qui Gon should’ve been the one… Obi Wan was the next best person. Maybe the only one who could have even tried.”

Clarke looked up at you, eyes wide with admiration and surprise. “Wait, how do you even know that? Every time I put on a Star Wars movie, you’re asleep before the opening caption finishes.”

You laughed, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I pick up more than you think. Mostly from you rambling like this.”

He huffed a quiet laugh as you playfully tapped the tip of his nose, pushing his glasses slightly askew. But before he could respond, a sudden boom echoed from outside the apartment, a sharp interruption to the quiet moment.

Clarke sighed and sat up, his body already shifting into alertness. “Sounds like I have to go.”

Your fingers found his hair once more, brushing it back gently. “Alright,” you murmured, offering a teasing smile. “Go save the city or something.”

He leaned down to press a quick kiss to your lips, giving your waist a soft squeeze before standing and beginning to unbutton the top of his collared shirt.

“Wouldn’t be worth saving if you weren’t here,” he said softly, flashing a crooked grin as he attempted a wink.

“I’ll be timing you,” you called after him with a smirk.

“Then I better hurry!” he laughed, and with a sudden burst of motion, he vanished through the open window, leaving behind only the faint breeze and an unbuttoned shirt in his wake.

[leossmoonn]

Just some “Clark Kent who” thoughts about having him as your soft boyfriend 🫶🏼 bc I can’t stop thinking about him since watching the movie.

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Clark Kent who sends long voice notes instead of texts, rambling about his day because “I like hearing your voice, so I thought you might like hearing mine.”

Clark Kent who gets distracted mid flight while fighting some monster, because he heard your laugh from three blocks down when he passed through your neighborhood.

Clark Kent who loves to take you to small business fairs, filling his tote bag (and yours) with unnecessary amounts of things because “supporting local is punk”. Buying you multiple jars of honey because “the lady said it helps with allergies, she gave me a sample and I couldn’t say no after that.”

Clark Kent who says “be safe” and “call me when you’re home” when he can’t go with you because he has to stay late finishing an article, while he knows very well he’s gonna track your heartbeat every step of the way until you reach safely to your apartment.

Clark Kent who cries in every disney movie and tries to hide it by blaming “season allergies”. You just smile to yourself when you see the single tear rolling down his cheek, because superman definitely doesn’t get season allergies. But you still give him some of the honey he got you and kiss it better.

Clark Kent who casually does things like lift the couch to help you clean under it and doesn’t say a word about it, but then acts like he just did the most impressive thing when he parallel parks on the first try.

Clark Kent who stares at you so deeply while he memorizes every part of you, your laugh, your voice, the way you move, the way you’re his. So he can remember it when the world gets too loud and lonely while he’s on the other side of the globe.

Clark Kent who talks to Ma about you like you’re already part of the family, like he sees a future where he brings you home as his wife. So she sends you a jar of peach jam with a note that says “he’s always been a gentle boy, but he’s never been softer than he is for you.” Pa just tears up when he hears his son talk about you with so much devotion.

Clark Kent who still wears one of the friendship bracelets a kid gave him months ago, and he gave you the other one so “you can match with me”. That kid totally sees you at the grocery store at some point wearing the bracelets she gave to superman. Huh. Weird.

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

[leossmoonn]

LOVESICK

yearning!clark kent x journalist!reader | note: clark is a lovesick, obsessed puppy in this (just how i like them😛) also, this may be one of my favorite writings ever

clark kent didn’t consider himself a yearner. he wasn’t one of those tragic types who were moon-eyed and love-drunk, penning sonnets in the margins of his notepad. no, he was practical, maybe quiet. a man with responsibilities bigger than himself. but then there was you and suddenly he was bringing two coffees to the office each morning just in case you hadn’t had time. suddenly he was standing every time you entered a room. suddenly he was rearranging his schedule around yours without a second thought, following the sound of your laugh like it was a goddamn north star.

lois called it whipped; jimmy called it pathetic; clark just called it tuesday.

he could hear the click of your shoes from downstairs. he pauses writing mid stroke, eyes zeroed in onto the floor. using his x-ray vision, he saw you tap the elevator door. his chair spun as he sprung out of it. he moved fast—not super-speed fast, not cape-and-crisis fast, but fast enough that jimmy raised a brow from the bullpen and muttered something under his breath about puppy dogs and lost causes. clark ignored him. he straightened his tie (even though it was already straight), swiped the extra coffee off his desk, and positioned himself at your workspace with the same intensity most people reserved for emergency landings. by the time the elevator dinged, he looked casual and effortless. like he hadn’t just rerouted the last five minutes of his life to be exactly where you were about to be.

“hey, clark,” your voice was enough to make him feel lightheaded. he turned his head to meet your gaze and the world shifted under him. you were clad in kitten heels and those pants that accentuated your curves. his jaw fell slack. “is this for me?” you smile, motioning to the coffee in his hand.

he blinked, caught in the orbit of your mouth, your eyes, the way sunlight caught in the strands of your hair. “uh—yeah.” his voice cracked like a teenager’s. he cleared his throat. “yes. i mean, if you want it.”

your smile deepened. “i always want it.” your fingers brush his as you grab the cup. he feels an electric bolt where you touched. “you’re the best.” he swore his knees buckled a little. he didn’t even respond. he just stared at you with that dazed, lovesick look—eyes soft and dreamy, mouth parted and cheeks red. lois, somewhere behind him, let out a very loud jesus christ.

as you put the cup to your lips, it became harder to watch. he swallowed hard, watching your lips wrap around the lid like it was the most important review of his life. you hum in approval, lipstick staining the paper, and clark had to look away before he did something humiliating. like sigh or propose.

“y/n, can i get your opinion on this headline?” lois called from across the office, already spinning her monitor toward where you stood. you turned your head, casual as anything, but clark swore—swore—there was a breeze that hit just right. your hair moved like you were walking off a film set, backlit and glowing, and the smile you tossed over your shoulder nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“of course,” you said. and just before you turned, your eyes caught his again. one last glance. “bye, clark.” two words. simple and completely harmless. yet, they landed like a truck.

“b-bye,” he stammered, too fast, too breathy. “yeah. see you—later. or, uh in five minutes. depending—probably.”

you laughed—you laughed—and kept walking. jimmy snorted so hard he nearly choked on his granola bar. “dude.”

lois didn’t even look up. “we get it, clark.”

he sank back into his chair, cheeks burning, heart thudding out some ridiculous rhythm he was pretty sure wasn’t FDA-approved. but still, he smiled. you’d said goodbye like it meant something and he’d spend the rest of the day pretending it wasn’t the best part of his morning.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty @bewitchedarchive @yelqze

[leossmoonn]

SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT! │ clark kent

You and Clark have a fight. You leave his house and go to the Daily Planet after hours to work and calm down. Clark finds you there and helps ease your mind.

CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, oral sex (fem!receiving ofc,) vaginal fingering, hair pulling (rawrrr his curlsss,) arguing, playful banter, TEASING, & no use of y/n.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: been thinking about making this little fic since i watched the movie and i finally finished it! i need this midwestern goober so bad. it’s not even funny. on that note, i hope you enjoy this horny concoction!

"You're giving me a headache," you sigh, taking a deep sip of your water as you lean against Clark's kitchen sink, watching him hurriedly untie his tie. Your voice is tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

"Oh. Am I?" he replies, sarcastically tossing his tie onto the coffee table.

You set your glass of water down on the counter and massage your temples. "Clark, I know you care about me. You want to keep me safe, but I feel like you're suffocating me," you say earnestly.

He walks over, his voice firm and unwavering. "I'm trying to protect you. You don't understand the risks."

You shake your head with a humorless laugh. "For Christ's sake, Clark, you secretly arranged for someone to escort me home after brunch with Jimmy. You didn't even ask if that's what I wanted. That's not trust,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark mimics your stance, crossing his arms over his chest, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I trust you; you know that. I just don't trust most other people.”

“You’re interfering with my work,” you accuse.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he responds, tilting his head.

“No?” you answer, your tone sharp. “You’re still trying to convince me to drop my exposé on that crime ring in Gotham because it’s too ‘cliché.’ But I know you’re really just worried about me getting hurt,” you say, giving him a knowing look.

He bites his tongue before speaking again. “Do you honestly believe those criminals wouldn’t come after the pretty news reporter who put them on blast?”

You give him an unamused look, your anger simmering just beneath the surface. "What about the other night? When I was walking home from the library, and you swooped in out of nowhere, 'coincidentally' walking me home. You didn't trust me to take care of myself then, either, even though I'm perfectly capable," you assert, your displeasure evident.

"I'm not saying you're not capable," he replies, spreading his hands in a placating gesture.

You take a deep breath, eyeing him for a moment before uncrossing your arms and resting them at your sides. "It just… it feels like you're more concerned with protecting me than actually being with me."

"That's not fair," Clark’s voice rises, his jaw clenched with tension.

"Fair? You're the one who's being unfair. You try to keep me in a bubble and control every situation." You flail your arms to emphasize your point. Clark opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "And for the love of God, do not blame that on Superman. Just don't."

"In case you forgot, I am Superman. He's a part of me. You knew that going in," he declares confidently, lifting a finger to point at you.

You roll your eyes and push off the counter, your feet padding around him. "Whatever, Clark," you mutter, feeling fatigue take over.

"No, no. Don't 'whatever, Clark' me," he says, turning his head to fix his piercing blue eyes on you as you walk toward the couch to grab your jacket. "Just—at least look at me," he pleads, his voice tinged with desperation.

You spin on your heels to face him, scowling slightly. “Just tell me—are you my boyfriend or just Superman trying to protect a civilian?”

His lips press into a flat line, clearly showing his frustration. “Don’t do that,” he replies, his voice strained.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Do what, Clark?”

He twists his head and closes his eyes in a display of impatience. “You always bring that up when we argue,” he snaps.

As you adjust your jacket and stride toward the front door, you mutter under your breath, “It’s hard not to.” You look up to lock eyes with him; his gaze is already fixed on you. “I just... I need some space.”

“Okay,” he nods lightly, wiping the exhaustion from his face before lazily pointing to the couch. “I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed.” He turns on his heels toward the couch, swiping a pillow off the cushion. 

“No, Clark,” you begin, your voice catching in your throat. “I just—I need to be away from you.”

He turns around, a pillow in hand, a stunned expression on his face. “You’re leaving me?”

You take a deep breath, trying to muster more courage. The way he looks at you, his bright blue eyes sunken and sorrowful, makes you want to run and jump into his arms, but you resist.

You need him to respect your bodily autonomy.

“I just need to be alone,” you say firmly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “At least for the night.”

He stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Okay, fine,” he replies, glancing away as he tosses the pillow back onto the couch. “Whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle. “Goodbye.”

“Will you—can you at least text me when you get home?” His voice is so soft that you almost miss it. “So I know you’re safe?”  

You pause, caught in a moment of indecision, your silence lingering in the air.  

The door swings open and then closes with a soft, definitive click.  

You should have responded, but the fear of breaking down in his kitchen left you speechless.  

Clark's gaze remains fixed on the front door until he catches a whiff of your perfume, making his vulnerability crack through.

At that moment, he realized he couldn’t hide behind the bright cape or the shiny name. 

He could feel the full weight of his humanity, and it was crushing. 

The Daily Planet, although it is your day job, has always served as a sanctuary during times of unrest after hours. However, being here now is giving you an even bigger migraine than you already have.

You feel the strain in your eyes as you stare intently at your computer screen for the third hour. Your fingers tap anxiously against the keyboard as you struggle to find the right words.

The cursor blinks ominously behind the few words already on the page, a silent mockery of your writer's block. Doubt and frustration seep in, clouding your thoughts and making it even harder to focus.

Your mind keeps drifting back to your fight with Clark. 

The look on his face when you turned down his offer to stay over feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. His expression was filled with pain, as if he believed you would never return to him.

You stretch your fingers, trying to stave off the creeping carpal tunnel, before sinking back into your chair with a soft squeak.

"Thought I'd find you here," a deep voice booms from beside you, making you jump and whip your head around to see who spoke.

"Shit," you curse, holding a hand over your heart, and find Clark standing there, still dressed in his white long-sleeve shirt and black slacks. "You scared me," you admit. "What are you doing here?"

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his pants. "I came here for you."

You exhale a sigh and turn to look back at your computer screen. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Clark," you confess, squinting to read the few words on the page.

"You don't have to, sweetheart," he says, taking a few steps closer. "Just hear me out, okay?"

Your eyes remain fixed on the screen until you feel your chair being spun around, forcing you to face him. "Clar—" you start to say, but he interrupts you, his hand still on your chair.

"You're stressed. I get that," he begins, looking at you with intensity. "You work too hard and don't sleep enough."

"I also have a boyfriend who doesn't trust me to take care of myself," you interject, raising an eyebrow.

He pulls back his head in faux shock. "Hey, who's this other boyfriend? Do I need to fight him?"

A smile breaks through your lips as you playfully push against his chest. "Shut up, you dork," you tease, your tone light.

Clark smiles as he glances at your computer screen. "Let me see this," he says, already moving behind your chair to take a closer look.

You turn to him, aware of him hovering over your shoulder. "I'm just working on this exposé. It's nothing."

"Mhm. Nothing is right," he teases with a playful smile, his dimples showing. "There's hardly anything on here."

"Hey," you point to the very few words on the page. "Don't you see the top line?"

He leans in closer. "Oh, yeah," he replies with a sardonic tone. "I have to keep an eye on you. With just those three words, you'll have me out of a job in no time. Very hard-hitting stuff," he jokes.

You turn to look at him, perhaps to throw another playful jab, but instead, he seizes the moment to kiss you deeply. His lips are warm and soft, and the taste of his breath takes your own breath away.

"You didn't text me," he murmurs against your lips.

You almost don't register what he's saying. "I didn't say I was going to," you reply with a dry mouth. "I thought that implied I wasn't going to."

“Oh, is that what you thought?” He presses another kiss to your lips, pulling back slightly to speak. “I know you can take care of yourself. You’re my tough girl, right? But it puts me at ease to know that you’re safe.” He kisses you again.

“Mhm,” you hum against his lips, your lips brushing against his. “I just need you to respect my boundaries, okay? You can keep me safe without suffocating me,” you bring your hands up to touch his cheeks lightly.

He leans in closer, his voice low and husky. “Was that so hard?” 

You pull him closer by his cheeks, whispering, “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”

As soon as the command slips from your lips, he leaps into action. He kisses you with an intense passion, a fervent need that consumes you both.

His hands gently cradle your cheeks, deepening the kiss with each passing moment. They then slide down to your waist, pulling you closer as you find yourself pressed against the desk, the kiss never breaking.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, skimming across your bare skin and making you shiver. “Are we really about to have sex in the workplace, Mr. Kent?” you ask, breathless, as your fingers thread through his curls.

“I think we are, sweet girl,” he breathes, moving to pop open the buttons to your blouse.

He shoves the blouse off, pressing hot kisses against your collarbone. “I hate when we fight,” he murmurs into your skin, his hand gripping your ass through your pencil skirt.

“Certainly makes for an enticing night,” you say, tilting your head back so Clark can kiss up your neck.

He pulls back for a moment, fidgeting with his belt. You move your hand to stop him, locking eyes with him. “You want to take care of me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he replies without hesitation.

“Then, show me. Show me how well you can take care of me,” you say, biting your bottom lip as you slide onto the desk, opening your legs wide enough for him to see your red lace panties.

His eyes glance to look at your panties as he stands with his hands on his hips. “I thought you didn’t want me to do that anymore,” he darts his tongue across his lips, eyes still honing in on your cunt.

“Get on your knees, Clark,” you direct, voice low, letting your heels drop to the floor.

He smiles, his dimples appearing. “You’re demanding,” he accuses, with humor, as he sinks to his knees, big hands coming to rest on your thighs.

“And you’re not putting your mouth on me fast enough,” you whine, head tilting back as his grip tightens.

“Oh, you mean like this?” He leans in, pressing a deep kiss on your cunt, your panties rubbing against your clit gently. 

“Fuck—yes,” your hand drifts to rest on the back of his head, putting him where you need. “Just like that,” you encourage, pulling him closer. 

He brings a finger up, pulling your panties to the slide so he can feel your bare cunt on his lips, already twitching and wet under his lips. His tongue flicks against your clit, making you surge forward. “You’re sensitive,” he mutters into you.

“Well, your tongue is in my—ah, Clark,” you moan, back arching, feeling his tongue drag across your aching clit.

He pulls his head back slightly. “What was that, sweetheart?” 

Your hand rests on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Goddamn it—you… you,” you say, voice strained and breathless.

“Took your breath away, did I?” His tongue slides across your puffy clit, eliciting a whimper from you.

His hand braces impossibly tighter on your thigh, and you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your skin as his skillful tongue prods against your needy bud.

You're practically grinding against his face, trying to chase your high. Your finger in his hair pulls him up to look at you with one of his curls. “Give me your fingers,” you order, the thought of release burning away at your senses.

He obliges; naturally, he’ll do anything to please you.

“Mhm. See,” he tuts. “Demanding,” he hums as he brings two fingers up to push in and out of your greedy cunt, not allowing you time to respond. Your head is tilted back as your loud moans fill the office.

“Ah, listen to that. Music to my ears,” he says, eyes hyper-focused on his fingers plunging in and out of you. “They’ll hear you all the way in Gotham.”

“So, let them—fuck—so… so close,” you manage to choke out, his fingers making you fall apart faster than you expected. 

“Yeah?” he prompts through a breath. 

You nod your head, your lower stomach tight and skin sizzling as you come undone, your thighs trembling on his fingers as you come.

You glance down at him, your eyes heavy with fatigue. “Shit,” you curse with a dry laugh.

He makes you laugh as he moves to stand, watching you before brushing the hair out of your face. “How’d I do?”

“There’s always room for improvement,” you toy, your chest still heaving.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah,” he replies, stepping closer to dip his head to kiss you, sweet this time.

Well, aside from the fact that you can taste yourself on his lips.

He pulls back, studying the glint in your eyes, a silent conversation passing between you. “Am I still your Superman?”

“No,” you begin, wrapping your arms around his neck, making him raise a confused eyebrow. “You’re my Clark.”

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: i clearly got carried away with the dialogue, but it's always my fav part lmao i hope you enjoyed! muah!

[leossmoonn]

feels so good to know that superman fics are gonna surge especially now that we have the hottest superman ever

[leossmoonn]

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

[leossmoonn]

I hate it when you're right

(18+)

Pairing: Jake Peralta x Female!Reader

Warnings: Friends to lovers; LOTS of teasing, slow burn?, Smut; Creampie; Dirty talk.

Request:Could you do a Jake Peralta x Reader work partners to hookup? Like they’ve been work partners forever, until one night way too late at the bar they hook up? And realize “oh fuck maybe i do like him like that?”

A/N: Hi, my loves! I´m not dead I swear. Here's the first Peralta smut, hope everyone enjoys. 🍒

English is not my first language - My requests are open!

"How much longer is this going to take?" Peralta's agitated voice echoed through the dark alley as he paced back and forth, his restless energy practically bouncing off the walls.

I understood his frustration; we'd been waiting for what felt like hours, when in reality, it had only been about forty minutes. Compared to the nearby street, this alley was dark and dank; graffiti adorned the walls, and the air smelled faintly of waste. At the end of it stood an abandoned store, rumored to be a hotspot for illegal drug deals. After receiving a tip earlier this nigth, we had been staking out the area in hopes of catching distributors. Slowly, I watched as Peralta's impatience grew, and I couldn't help but wonder if our tip had just been a false lead.

Amidst the distant sounds of traffic and the faint hum of the city, Jake's distressed movements seemed amplified; every passing car and footstep only seemed to fuel his uneasiness. Honestly, I couldn't blame him; this place gave off major creepy vibes, but we had a job to do, and that meant keeping our cool and waiting for the right person to arrive.

"Hey, take a breather," I suggested, attempting to soothe his nervous demeanor. "You're coming off a bit suspicious."

He halted in his tracks, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that. I just can't stand waiting, you know?"

"I understand, but we really need to keep it together," I stressed, aiming to ease his tension. "Can you just stand there and act normal?"

"I'm tryiiiiiiing," his voice tinged with a hint of whining as he continued pacing.

"Well, try harder," I urged, "You look like a total cop right now."

His pacing halted abruptly, and he turned to me with wide eyes, a look of realization dawning on his face. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," he muttered frantically. "We look like cops, and we´re getting shot in the face."

"Relax, Peralta," I chuckled, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

"Y/n" He sighed deeply, standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets,"I don't want to get shot; my face is my prized possession." His brow furrowed as he confessed dramatically.

I tilted my head, "Come on, Peralta," I quipped, a playful grin tugging at the corners of my lips. "If you get shot, I think your face would be the least of our concerns. I mean, you'd be dead!"

"Man, I should've prepared a character for a cover-up," Jake exclaimed, shaking his head ruefully. "We can't just stand here looking like this... like cops."

"Well, it's a little late for that now,"

He let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing his arms in frustration. "Let me think of something," he declared, his hand moving to his chin and rubbing it thoughtfully as he pondered our predicament.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly as I glanced around at the dimly lit street nearby, feeling the tension slowly dissipate as Jake's panicked expression softened into one of contemplation.

But then, with a sudden clarity, Jake snapped his fingers, "I've got it!" he exclaimed.

His words were accompanied by his familiar, stupid, and playful smirk. It was a look that spelled trouble, and to be honest, although I knew nothing good would come out of his mouth, I couldn't help but feel intrigued.

"Spill it, Peralta," I said, my hands tucked into my jean pockets, adopting a casual stance as I awaited his response. With Jake, you never quite knew what you were going to get, but you could always count on it being entertaining, if nothing else.

"You see, Y/n," he approached slowly, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as his left hand found its place against the wall behind me, anchoring me as he leaned in. "I was thinking..." he trailed off, his tone dripping with exaggerated suspense.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes playfully at his teasing manner. "Oh, here we go again," I retorted gently, halting his advances with a hand on his chest. "Another one of Jake's brilliant ideas, right?"

"Come on, Y/N, don't be like that," he said, his tone a mix of amusement and pleading. "You know you love my brilliant ideas."

"Oh, absolutely," I replied with a touch of sarcasm. "They're right up there with 'let's infiltrate this wedding' and 'let's dress up as clowns for the undercover operation.'"

"Hey, those are classic moments in my detective history," he protested, a grin spreading across his face. "One day they'll make a movie about me."

I couldn't resist lightly patting his chest. "Sure, buddy, for sure."

As Jake leaned in closer, I couldn't deny the surge of warmth that spread through me. Despite my attempts to conceal it, his proximity was starting to affect me.

Jake and I had a playful dynamic, often flirting with each other, and he wasn't shy about expressing his interest; he even told me countless times how I was "missing out" on a chance to be with him.

And don´t get me wrong, while I did find him undeniably attractive, I was hesitant to entertain the idea of taking things beyond friendship. Our coworker-turned-friend relationship was something I cherished, and I didn't want to risk complicating it with romantic entanglements.

So, no, nothing ever happened apart from the casual, harmless flirting. Our banter kept things light and enjoyable, never crossing the line into anything more serious. Despite the occasional temptation, we both understood the importance of maintaining boundaries in our friendship.

"Seriously, hear me out on this one," he continued, "What if we… I don't know… pretend to make out? It's the perfect cover-up!" His suggestion hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence as we both processed the absurdity of his idea. His head fell to the side, awaiting my response with a playful smirk dancing on his lips.

"You wish, Peralta." I laughed and shook my head. "I mean, I know you'd do anything to steal a kiss from me, but making out in a dark alley? That's a bit too romantic even for you, don't you think?"

"Hey, it was worth a shot, right?" As he moved to step away from the wall, I caught movement at the beginning of the street behind him. Acting quickly, I grabbed him by the tie, the one he always refused to wear, and shot him a warning look. Understanding my silent cue, he lowered his head to mine, trying to appear inconspicuous as he whispered in my ear. "Is it them?"

"Maybe," I quietly answered, my heart pounding as I realized we were being watched. The figures stood at the beginning of the street, whispering to each other; they wore on to us for sure.

"Oh my god, they know, don't they?" he whispered, his voice tinged with worry. "What do we do, Y/L/N? I don't want to get shot in the face," he pleaded, his panic palpable.

Fuck I hate when he's right...

"Screw it," I whispered, my voice filled with determination. Pulling him closer, I crashed my lips into his. He immediately reacted, his arms encircling my waist as he pinned me against the wall. His lips were softer than I imagined, but his hands were rough as they traveled up my sides to rest on the back of my neck, pulling me even closer. Although the kiss was a desperate attempt to obfuscate the approaching perps, it was evident that Jake was definitely enjoying it more than it was intended. I couldn't help but give in to the moment as our kiss intensified as his tongue traced over my lower lip, kindly begging for more.

The footsteps grew louder, signaling the approach of whoever was out there. Without a second thought, his hand found its place on the back of my thigh, pulling me in closer. With my leg lifted around him, our bodies pressed together, and his fingers lightly held me in place.

Abruptly, the footsteps ceased and a voice cut through the moment. "Hey, what are you guys doing here?" one of the men asked, his tone cautious.

Jake broke the kiss. "Do you mind?" He retorted sharply, giving the guy a pointed look, before catching my lips again. I eagerly responded, letting my hands tangle up in his hair as he leaned closer to me.

The two guys just chuckled and exchanged knowing glances before sauntering off to the end of the alley. It worked; the stupid plan actually worked.

I waited until the footsteps were barely audible before breaking the kiss. I raised my head to get a better look, and Jake let his lips travel, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses down my chin and into my neck. I bit my lip as I suppressed a moan I knew I was holding, glancing to see the two figures waiting by the door. "Jake, they're just standing there." I breathed out.

"Keep your eyes on them," he ordered, as he pressed himself against me.

I fought to keep my focus, torn between the intoxicating sensation of Jake's lips on me and the need to maintain our cover. Despite the overwhelming desire to lose myself in the moment, I stole quick glances towards where the perps stood, ensuring we weren't drawing any unwanted attention.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a new figure emerged, a brown bag in hand, joining the other two with a casual greeting. My heart pounded in my chest; it was going down, and we were going to get these guys. "Jake... Jake," I whispered urgently, breaking our embrace. His eyes met mine, and he immediately understood. Without hesitation, we sprang into action, charging towards the unsuspecting trio.

"NYPD!" Jake's voice boomed, cutting through the tense silence with commanding authority as he brandished his gun. I followed suit, drawing my own weapon, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in my hand. The perps froze, their faces registering shock as they realized they had been caught red-handed.

—xx—

It had been a few days since that night in the alley. With the intel we extracted from the three guys Jake and I caught, we successfully dismantled one of the biggest drug operations in Brooklyn. And to top it off, we managed to nab the ringleader himself. It was a major win for the team and definitely a cause for celebration. So naturally, we found ourselves at Shaw's, ready to toast to our victory.

"To the Nine-Nine," Captain Holt's voice resounded with strength as he lifted his glass high in the center of our circle. "To the Nine-Nine," we all echoed, raising ours in unison. With cheers and the clinking of half-empty glasses, we celebrated our hard work.

"Now disperse," he announced, his tone carrying a hint of warmth. "I want you all to have fun tonight; you deserve it." and with a wave of his hand, he indicated for us to move from our celebratory circle, encouraging us to enjoy the rest of the evening.

With that, I abruptly turned to face the bar, my attention drawn to the array of bottles lining the shelves. Caught off guard by a sudden collision, I stumbled backward, my balance momentarily disrupted. As I blinked in surprise, I found myself locking eyes with Jake, his hands reaching out to steady me by the waist. A rush of warmth flooded through me at the contact, and for a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still as our gazes lingered.

"Whoa, sorry about that," I mumbled, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as embarrassment washed over me.

His expression turned sheepish as he offered a tentative smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. After a brief moment of silence, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey, no worries," he said lightly, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. Raising a hand, he scratched the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture. "Guess I should've watched where I was going, huh?"

Our eyes remained locked, neither of us willing to be the first to look or moove away. "Well, at least we're not in an alley this time," I blurted out, trying to break the awkwardness with a touch of humor. He chuckled softly, the tension between us easing slightly as we both shared a small laugh.

"Dark alley or not, this was a great case," he said, his tone softening as he spoke. "I loved working with you, and I think we did a great job." His sincerity warmed my heart, and his light squeeze on my side felt like a silent reassurance.

Taking a step back, I broke away from his hold, trying to compose myself. My heart raced with the sudden rush of emotions. "Well... um..." I stammered nervously, my mind scrambling for something coherent to say. "I think we should celebrate. I'll be with Rosa at the bar," I continued, my voice wavering slightly as I awkwardly backed away from where we stood. "I'll see you around, Peralta."

As I approached the bar, Rosa's amused expression was already evident. Her playful tone cut through the air as I settled onto the bar stool beside her.

"What the hell was that?" she quipped.

I offered a weak shrug, attempting to play it cool. "What was what?" my voice slightly shaking as I avoided her knowing gaze.

"Oh, come on," she teased, gesturing toward the table behind her where Peralta and Charles were now seated. "That little dance back there, the eyefucking," she continued.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, no eyes were fucking back there!" I held my finger up in protest, trying to suppress a nervous laugh.

She sighed and took a sip of her drink, her gaze thoughtful. "Man, what the hell happened on the stakeout? You guys have been so weird…the glances, the lingering touches..."

"Hey, we have been doing none of that," I lied, attempting to deflect Rosa's probing with a forced casualness. Deep down, I knew she wasn't the only one who noticed. Despite being preoccupied with the bust operation for the past few days, I couldn't ignore the subtle shifts in Jake's behavior around me. He looked at me more often than usual, sat closer, and his touches lingered longer. I understood it all too well. I wasn't oblivious. We shared a kiss, and it wasn't just any kiss. There was something there—something I couldn't shake off.

"Bullshit," she retorted, "I mean, I understand tuning Boyle out when he talks, but Jake is literally not listening to a single word."

I glanced from my drink to the booth where Jake sat, slumped against the leather cushions with his legs spread out. He appeared relaxed, toying with his whisley glass that sat on his thigh. His gaze was already on me, peeking through his lowered eyebrows.

Our eyes met, and in that moment, I found myself unable to look away from him, captivated by the intensity of his gaze. What the hell was this man doing to me? It was as if every fiber of my being was drawn to him, despite my best efforts to resist.

"See, you're doing it again!" Rosa exclaimed loudly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the bar.

I immediately shook my head, laughing nervously. "Oh my god! Doing what, Diaz?" I turned toward the bar, signaling for another round of drinks, hoping to distract both of us from the uncomfortable topic.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening as she leaned in closer. "The. Eye. Fucking," she punctuated each word.

"Rosa! No!" I exclaimed, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "No eyefucking going on," I added quickly, hoping to put an end to the teasing before it went any further.

"I know you kissed him," she said casually, her tone soft but firm, leaving no room for denial.

"What? No, that's not true!" My voice probably went up an octave, betraying my attempt at denial.

Rosa didn't waver, analyzing my reaction with a knowing look that seemed to cut straight through me.

"Fuck," I shook my head, looking to the side in resignation. "Okay, fine, I did, but it was only for the mission," I admitted reluctantly.

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Sure, sure, just for the mission."

"Oh, shut up," I lightly smacked her arm, playfully annoyed. "Who told you anyway?"

"Let's just say I have my sources,", a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Diaz!" I threatened, pointing my finger at her. "Spill it now or else!" My tone was half-joking, but there was a hint of determination in my eyes.

"Okay, okay," she conceded, raising her hands in defense. "It was Boyle."

"Boyle knows?" My eyes widened with shock. If Boyle knew, then everyone knew.

"Yeah, apparently Jake was glowing," she confirmed, "All smiles, couldn't stop grinning like a kid in a candy store." She took another sip of her drink, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "So Boyle insisted, and eventually, he spilled the beans."

"Man, that's so embarrassing," I groaned, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks as I buried my face in my hands.

"Why?" Rosa regarded me with a serious expression.

"Well, because, you know... it's Jake," I mumbled, struggling to find the right words. "I don't want to... to..."

She held knowing look in her eyes, like she could read my thoughts, "To what?"

"Well, you know... be with him... I don't want that," Despite my attempt at denial, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I wasn't convincing anyone, not even myself, that I didn't want Jake.

"Man, it's obvious you guys want to be with each other; just go for it," she said with a shrug, her tone matter-of-fact. "I mean, he's still eyefucking you across the room," she added, gesturing once again in Jake's direction, her point crystal clear.

"He is, isn't he?" I lightly smacked my forehead, as if to hide my face, letting out a chuckle. I felt a sense of relief wash over me; deep down, I knew she had a point.

Glancing over to Jake, it seemed like he hadn't moved an inch since I last looked at him.

"He's not the most subtle," she said, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

I pondered for a moment as I swirled my drink. Well, if Jake was willing to put himself out there to show his interest so openly, then maybe I should do the same. Maybe it was time to stop dancing around each other and just go for it.

"I have to fuck him, don't I?" I quipped with a smile, my voice low and filled with a hint of mischief.

Rosa burst into laughter at my bold declaration, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "Well, you don't have to, you know?" she replied between giggles, shaking her head at my blunt honesty.

I finished my drink and set the glass down with a determined nod. "I think I do," I admitted, my voice firm and resolute.

Rosa grinned approvingly. "That's my girl," she said with a proud nod.

"See you tomorrow, Diaz!" I said, giving her shoulder a friendly pat as I left the stool and made my way towards his table.

As I approached, Jake supported a knowing smile, his gaze unwavering from mine, completely focused on me, completely tuning out the random story Boyle was spewing about.

"Hey guys," I announced as I reached the table, "I'm not feeling really well," I admitted, but my tone lacked any hint of tiredness or distress making Jake's eyebrows perk up at my unconvincing excuse. "So I'll just head home, I think I can still catch the last train." It was a statement crafted with a specific purpose in mind—a subtle cue for Jake to follow me. So, I waited for the response I knew was coming, and Jake didn't disappoint.

Quickly drowning his drink, he stood up from his seat. 'No, no, train, come on!' His fingers motioned in an approaching gesture. 'I'll take you home.'"

"Oh…But!" Boyle exclaimed, "But you said you'd take me home…"

We stood in silence for a moment and watched as Boyle's expression shifted from confusion to realization in an instant. Standing up from his seat, he enveloped Jake in a bear hug, practically lifting him off the ground in his excitement. "You know what? It´s a great night! I guess I'll take a stroll along the river," he exclaimed cheerfully, patting Jake on the back before waving us goodbye.

The car ride had been silent so far, the only sounds filling the air were the gentle hum of the engine and the soft background music playing from the radio. Despite the lack of conversation, I couldn't shake the feeling of Jake's eyes on me, his scrutiny palpable, and I was keenly aware of the warmth creeping up my neck. Glancing over, I found Jake stealing glances in my direction, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Eyes on the road, Detective," I said, my finger lightly pushing his chin in the direction of the road, a playful smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

His grin widened, but he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand, his fingers tapping lightly on the weel. "So, you weren't feeling well, huh?" Jake quipped, "Must be that sudden wave of 'I-can't-resist-Jake syndrome,' huh?"

Raising an eyebrow, I turned in my seat to face him slightly. "Oh, you think you're so funny, don't you?"

"It's a burden, really," he added with an exaggerated sigh. "Having to be this funny all the time,"

"Sometimes I wonder if you're compensating for something with all that humor."

"Oh, please, like you're not secretly enjoying every moment of it." He let his head fall back sligthy as he let out a troathy chuckle. "I couldn't help but notice how your eyes kept wandering over to me tonight. Got a little crush, Y/n?"

"Please, Peralta, don't flatter yourself. I was just admiring the artwork on the walls" I remarked with a sly smile as I leaned closer, my arm resting behind his seat and my breath brushing against his cheek. "You, on the other hand, were really pushing it out there. I mean, could you have been more obvious?"

"Oh, come on," he glanced over at me. "You can't fool me with that excuse. I know you were totally checking me out."

"Maybe…" I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, a playful glint in my eyes.

"Of course you were," he replied, his hand moving from the steering wheel to rest lightly on my thigh. "And can you blame yourself? Of course not. I mean, look at me."

"Please, Peralta, you're not that irresistible." I scoffed while looking down at his hand, trying to maintain my composure despite the growing warmth between my legs.

"Oh, I beg to differ," he murmured as his fingers now traced gentle circles on my thigh, "Admit it, Y/N. You've been dying for me to touch you like this."

My breath caught in my throat, and I simply let out a chuckle as I slumped back against my seat. "You're trouble, you know that?" I shook my head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation in my tone, as I let my gaze drift out the window.The familiar facade of my building stood tall against the city skyline as the car gently came to a stop.

"Yeah, guilty as charged," he murmured as we stepped out onto the sidewalk.

With a coy smile, I glanced back over my shoulder. "You know that if you're guilty of something, you shouldn't be confessing your crimes to a cop."

"Well, lucky for me, Detective, you've been off the clock for..." He glanced at his watch as he trailed closely behind me, "...3 hours and 38 minutes now.

"I might be off the clock, but I can still cuff you, Peralta," I said, tapping the handcuffs at my waist.

As I turned the key and my fingers fumbled with the locks I heard him inching closer. I could feel the warmth of his body as he pressed against my back, with gentle precision, he lowered his head, and I felt his breath grazing the nape of my neck.

"Me, in cuffs, at your mercy?" His lips brushed against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Oh, but wouldn't that be the highlight of your night?" His voice was low and filled with playful suggestion.

With a soft laugh, I finally managed to open the door, turning to face him, my heart pounding with anticipation. "Are you projecting, Peralta?" I countered as I met his gaze, slowly backing away, inviting him in as he approached me at the entryway.

He quickly stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room felt suddenly smaller, warmer, with just the two of us. As he reached me, he circled his arms around my waist, pulling me closer "Mehh, maybe just a little,". His fingers deftly undid the zipper of my leather jacket, and his eyes didn't tear away from my chest.

"Like what you see, Peralta?" I quipped, letting my hands meet his own on his chest.

"Yeah," he chuckled as he leaned in to press a kiss on my collarbone. "You changed your curtains, didn't you?" He added playfully, his breath warm against my skin.

"Oh yeah?" I slowly started undoing the buttons on his shirt. "I can't believe you´d noticed that."

As we reached the sofa, his hands guided my jacket off, the leather slipping down my arms with a subtle force. Our eyes remained locked as the leather pooled at my feet.

I gestured with a tilt of my head for him to take a seat, and with grin he complied, his fingers skillfully undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt. I couldn't help but admire the way his muscles flexed under the fabric as he discarded it to the side. Then he eased onto the sofa, spreading his legs and letting his arms rest casually on the back of it, lightly tilting his head back.

As I removed my pants, he drew in a deep breath, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on me. Straddling him, I rested my hands on his shoulders, sensing his firm grip on the back of my thighs for stability. With my knees on either side of him, I gradually eased myself onto his lap, the heat of his chest pressing against mine, still covered by the random top I threw on this morning.

"No perps today?" he joked, his hands settling on my ass while his nose lightly brushed against my chest, inhaling my scent. "I kind of enjoyed the audience."

I shook my head as I leaned down to grab his chin, urging him to meet my gaze. "Just you and me, Jake," I murmured against his lips. "What do you think?"

"Well, Y/n," he whispered, "I think you should really kiss me."

"Yeah, I should," I nodded, but just as our lips were about to meet, I pulled back slightly. "Or maybe I'll just leave you hanging," I teased as I leaned back, keeping him at arm's length.

Jake's eyes widened in surprise. "You're playing dirty now, huh?" His hands cupped my flesh forcefully as he pulled me forward, spreading my cheeks slightly and pressing me against him. The sudden movement elicited a gasp from my lips, feeling the subtle grind of his crotch against mine. A soft moan escaped me as I surrendered to the satisfying friction rocking my hips against his bulge.

"Maybe," I teased once again, leaning in close before pulling back again. I intensified the grind of my hips as his hands moved to my shoulders, sliding the straps of my top down, the fabric gathering around my stomach, exposing more of my skin to his hungry gaze.

"You're killing me here," he protested as his fingers traced the delicate lacy edges of my bra.

"Oh, but where's the fun in making it easy for you?"

As his head fell back against the sofa, a deep exhale escaped him, a mix of frustration and pleasure. Seizing the opportunity, I pressed my lips against his neck, relishing the shudder that ran through him, accompanied by a low sigh of pleasure. My hand lightly closed against his throat, keeping him in place as I continued to kiss upward, tracing the line of his jaw with eager lips.

"You're driving me insane," he growled, his voice thick with need. Grabbing me by the nape of my neck, he pulled me into a kiss.

As our bodies pressed together, he skillfully unclasped my bra, freeing my breasts to his eager touch. His mouth descended upon my right nipple, and as he sucked and nibbled, I couldn't help but grind against him with more force.

I tugged on the hairs at the back of his head, urging him closer, craving more of his touch. His fingers trailed down my abdomen, teasing the hem of my panties before boldly slipping beneath them.

I gasped as his cold fingers met my warm skin. "Fuck, Jake," I breathed out, my voice trembling with desire.

"Oh, my name sounds so good when you say it like that," he confessed, his fingers moving slowly against my clit. My head rested on his shoulder, and his fingers continued to explore my soaked folds, "Yeah, just like that, doing so well," he praised as he lightly brushed my entrance, slowly dipping his middle finger inside of me.

With a desperate urgency, I moved my hands to his sides, tugging at the belt loops of his jeans. "Off, off," I managed to say.

He nudged his hips forward, lowering his jeans and boxers just enough for his cock to spring out. I immediately took him in my hand, stroking him lightly as a pornographic moan escaped his lips.

His hand then moved my panties to the side, allowing me to guide him against my clit before lining him with my entrance. Slowly, I lowered myself on to him, feeling every inch of him stretching me as he filled me completely.

His right hand met the back of my neck once again, pulling me into a kiss, as his left cupped my ass with force, aiding me with the up and down movement of my hips.

God, you feel incredible," he groaned against my lips, his voice husky with desire.

With a breathless laugh, I whispered back, "You're not so bad yourself."

A playful chuckle escaped him "Always got something to say, don't you?" He teased, his hips rising to meet mine with eager intensity.

My head fell back, overcome with pleasure, as the familiar coil of ecstasy began to build in the depths of my stomach. "Fuck, don´t stop.". His movements remained steady, his hand reaching out to play with my clit, intensifying the pleasure coursing through my body. "God, Jake... it's... it's too much," I gasped, desperation evident in my voice as my hands clung to his shoulders and arms for support.

"Oh, I can't fucking last with you sounding like that," he admitted, letting his forehead rest against mine.

"Then don't," I whispered, my voice barely audible amidst the sounds of our heavy breathing and the pounding of flesh. His pace quickened, pushing me closer as I arched my back. "I´m cumming.. Oh.. Fuck"

A moan escaped his lips as he watched me with intensity, his eyes tracing every contortion of my face as pleasure surged through me. I felt the wave of bliss crash over me, my body trembling with the force of my release.

In that moment, I could tell he couldn't hold back any longer. "Do it," I urged, locking my gaze with his and giving him a reassuring look.

"You sure?" His eyes searched mine, seeking reassurance.

I nI nodded eagerly, feeling my body tremble as I sensed him pulsating inside of me. The sensation of him nearing his climax, his moans reverberating through the room, was intoxicating and overwhelming in the most delicious way imaginable. As he released into me, I let out a satisfied sigh, capturing his lips once again.

We remained intertwined, his arms wrapped around me protectively, as his cock still throbbed gently inside me. His fingers traced soothing patterns on the small of my back, and I nestled closer to him as his lips found their way to my forehead, planting a tender kiss.

"You know? I hate when you´re right," I whispered, my voice soft against his skin.

"About what in particular?" He chuckled.

I smiled against his neck, feeling a warmth spread through me. "About... this," I confessed, lifting my head slightly to meet his gaze. "That I'd been missing out."

"Well, lucky for you, Y/n, we still have plenty of time to catch up,"

--XX--

Tagg: Hi my loves, I took the liberty to tagg everyone who liked my post about writing smut for peralta - Hope you enjoy <3

@haikyuuhoee @1dilflover @Airu_wu @gingersnap126126 @Gingersnap @her5 @bellaabee @bestnottoask @Taylorswiftsboatinglicense @tortelliniturtle7 @sabage101 @izzyyyyy777 @dilflover-3 @yomamacrusty @Outsiderslover @vintagevickyy @spencerreidmyst3ry @ikea2-0 @jj170623 @icybluefox @sxphiarz @syrk @raven-kroe @longlostishmael22 @joonbum @angrygirlloudvoice-blog @mandarinmoons @apple-dilf-shake @readingblogsstuff @m1keyj @luciferdelivery @hunter-ameliaredstone @laciruelaa @iloveslashers @bellaaggg @reiderrambles @strapsforyoonie @spencerreidmyst3ry

[leossmoonn]

Do you know any accounts that post Josh content

I think @janitorhutcherson posts the most jhutch content but @hutchersonsgurl @biblio-smia @diedoverahat and @/murdrdocs write content for his characters

if you haven’t, you can follow Josh hutcherson tag and posts will start appearing on the “your tag” tab if you have the app

[leossmoonn]

Ohh I see really did enjoy your work and will definitely miss it :(

Thank you! I appreciate it. Who knows, I’ll probably pop out a story here and there

[leossmoonn]

Miss your writing any upcoming stuff in the works

Unfortunately, no. I mean, technically yes I have drafts. But writing just isn’t as important to me, and I like to now view it as a noncommittal (is that even a word lol) pastime whenever I feel up to it!

I know I was like writing and writing and writing, but I’ve definitely past my prime on writing fics and just in general. Mostly bc my life is more serious now, but if I ever pick back up I’ll def send a post about it :D

[leossmoonn]

That’s good to hear I’m also good how’s college been

It’s been super good so far! I started my first day back yesterday and I like all my teachers so far. I’m going to this music convention in California next week too with some students from my college so I’m excited 😁😁

[leossmoonn]

It’s been a while just checking in how are you 😊

I’m good! How are you?

[leossmoonn]

I'm sorry that happened to you. I hope you don't see him again but maybe tell a manager at the gym what happened. Even if nothing happens anymore so they can be on the lookout and see if it happens to anyone else. And if they don't care about this man seemingly taking pictures or a video of you then maybe find a new gym because that could be very unsafe for you.

Oh you don’t have to apologize!! This message is so sweet <333

Yeah, if it happens again I will definitely speak to someone. Like I mentioned in the og post, I wouldn’t have had a problem w it bc where I was doing the specific workout was by a mat and people have the freedom to stretch and also workout in the space I am too. But it was just the fact that he was holding up his phone AND right after I was done, he left 😭

Like I thought he wanted to use the bar, so I tried to hurry up but it was super weird and creepy.