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nympheagain · 1 day ago

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Oral History

clark kent x reader

Summary: Clark Kent is sweet. Respectful. Barely swears. Which is why you cannot stop thinking about what his ex drunkenly told Jimmy Olsen at trivia night: that Clark, apparently, is an oral god.

You try to ignore it. You spiral. You investigate. For journalism. Obviously.

Word count: 12k

T/w: 18+, mdni, reader is down horrendous lmao, Slow burn, friends to lovers, investigative journalism, a very thorough confirmation of the rumor, oral f. receiving, fingering, journalism banter, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mild dom!Clark, praise kink

“Wait. Clark?” You ask, staring across the bullpen unsure if you misheard or if Jimmy Olsen really just said what you think he did.

He doesn’t even look up from his slice of sad, congealed pizza. Just shrugs casually like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. “That’s what she said. The man’s apparently… gifted.”

There’s a full moment of silence where even Lois stops typing and starts processing what just left Jimmy’s mouth.

You slowly set your pen down. “Gifted,” you echo. “As in…?” But you already know. You’re just stalling. Hoping there’s a punchline. A twist. A clarification that doesn’t make your brain combust.

Jimmy, ever the menace, waggles his eyebrows. “Orally gifted.”

Lois makes a strangled sound behind her monitor. “Jesus Christ. Smallville? Really?”

“Right?” Jimmy says, too pleased with himself. “Trivia night. That bar over on Ninth. His ex got three margaritas in and just—boom. Confession central. She said she’s still not over him. Said no one compares. Said she…well, I won’t quote directly, but it involved sobbing and phrases like ‘life-altering’ and ‘transcendent tongue.’”

You stare at him.

“Clark Kent?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

Jimmy grins. “Clark ‘Aw Shucks’ Kent. Wouldn’t’ve believed it myself, but she was very convincing.”

Across the room, Lois mutters, “My therapist is going to love this.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy staring down at your notes, except your eyes are unfocused and your brain is a runaway train with no brakes.

Clark Kent.

Your coworker. Your friend. The man who still says “golly” unironically. Who blushes when the vending machine snacks get stuck and he has to ask for help. Who holds doors, compliments dogs, and types like he’s afraid the keyboard might get its feelings hurt.

That Clark Kent?

Gifted?

Like… mouth gifted?

You shift in your chair. Something about the word makes heat crawl up your neck.

You remember the way his lips part when he’s concentrating, when he’s reading a copy upside-down or over your shoulder. The way he bites his pen cap when he’s thinking. The way his mouth wraps around his spoon at lunch, slow and absentminded, like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing.

You shake your head. No. Absolutely not. This is a trap. A weird joke. There’s no way your sweet, clumsy, six-foot-four cinnamon roll of a coworker is secretly a sex god. It’s Clark. He blushes when you compliment his ties.

He says gosh darn it when he drops things or accidentally says something that could be perceived as even slightly mean.

But still…

Now you’re picturing it.

Clark on his knees, glasses slightly askew and fogged over, mouth open and reverent. Hands steady and strong. His voice low and coaxing. You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let me do all the work—yeah, just like that. So good for me.

You press your thighs together under the desk.

Lois is watching you. “You okay?” She asks.

You nod too fast. “Fine. Great. Normal. Completely normal.”

Jimmy keeps talking. Something about how the trivia night spiraled, how the bartender had to cut the ex off after she started rating Clark’s technique by category: pressure, consistency, enthusiasm.

You barely hear it. Your ears are ringing loudly. It’s like your brain is buffering.

You suddenly remember every time Clark has murmured something soft near your ear, every time his voice dipped an octave when he said your name. The time he caught you in the rain without an umbrella and insisted on walking you home, water soaking through his shirt, hair curling against his forehead. And you didn’t even look. Like a saint.

But you’re looking now. Retrospectively. And respectfully (sort of). In high definition.

Lois snaps her laptop shut. “Okay, I’m leaving before this spirals into something I can’t un-hear.”

Jimmy is laughing. You don’t move.

Clark texts the group thread a few minutes later:

Press conference ran long. Want me to bring back snacks?

You stare at the message. It might as well say Want me to ruin your life with my mouth?

Lois types back chips and anything chocolate. Jimmy sends a GIF of a raccoon stealing an entire pizza.

You don’t reply. You literally can’t. Your hands are slightly shaky and your brain has conjured up a very detailed image of Clark Kent’s head between your thighs under your desk, barely fitting his large frame beneath the wood, and now everything’s ruined.

Later, when Clark shows up holding a grocery bag, rain-damp and smiling like he didn’t just waltz into the middle of your psychological unraveling, you can barely look at him.

The newsroom door swings open with a quiet hiss, wind curling at the threshold. He steps through it like something out of a slow-motion montage. Glasses fogged at the edges, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, coat shoulders darkened by rain. He’s flushed from the walk, a faint red climbing his cheeks, and he’s got that same boyish, bashful look he always wears when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.

He’s holding a grocery bag like it’s an offering.

You sit very still behind your desk, fingers stilling over your keyboard as he approaches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still here,” he says, voice warm and slightly breathless, like he jogged the last block. “But I figured… just in case.”

He reaches into the bag, rustling plastic, and pulls out a bottle of your favorite drink. The obscure seasonal one you can never find. The one the gas station down the street practically only stocks one of since you can rarely get your hands on it.

“They were almost out,” he says, smiling as he hands it to you. “Got the last one.”

(What you don’t know is that he flew to several different gas stations just to find you that one drink.)

His fingers brush yours when you take it. Just the barest contact. Skin against skin, warm and calloused and impossibly gentle. Like even now, even after however many late nights and coffee runs and shared glances across the bullpen, he’s still afraid he might hold you too hard and scare you off.

And that shouldn’t do anything to you. It’s just Clark. Sweet, considerate, hopelessly dorky Clark.

But your brain, traitorous and hungry, flashes to the way Jimmy said it. Gifted. The way she apparently sobbed at trivia night. The way Clark’s mouth looked just a little pinker than usual, lips parted as he caught his breath.

You don’t meet his eyes. Your grip on the bottle tightens like it might anchor you back to sanity.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong in your own throat. Too soft. Too high. Like someone caught in the middle of a daydream they really weren’t supposed to be having. “That’s… really nice of you.”

He smiles wider. “You always look for it when we do snack runs. Figured I’d do the legwork.”

You nod and think you might pass out at the thought of giving him some leg work.

You don’t hear what Lois says as she stands to pack up, taking her snacks from Clark. You don’t hear Jimmy teasing something under his breath. Your ears are filled with static and Clark’s presence. His warmth, his scent (something clean, like rain and cedar and laundry detergent), the faint scrape of his nails against the paper bag as he adjusts it in his arms.

“I’m gonna…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom.”

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your palms flat to the cool porcelain of the sink and lean in hard. You don’t look up yet. Not when your chest is still heaving like you ran a mile and your thighs are clenched tight in a desperate, involuntary ache.

You turn the faucet on and thrust your hands beneath the water, cold and sharp as it rushes over your wrists. It bites your skin, a jolt to the nerves, but it does something. Not enough to make you sane again, but enough to stop your knees from giving out.

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

You’re flushed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy with thoughts that have nothing to do with press conferences or deadlines or articles still sitting in your drafts folder.

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

You are not going to let a dumb rumor derail your professionalism. You are not going to picture his mouth anywhere near your thighs. You are not going to think about how big his hands are or how good he is with them or how they’d look spreading you open or how his ex apparently still cries when she thinks about the way he—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are a grown woman. You are a professional journalist. You have deadlines and standards and no time for spiraling horniness over your best friend’s mouth.

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

You open your eyes and stare yourself down in the mirror.

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

You sip your coffee to avoid elaborating. It’s cold. Empty. You’ve just been pretending to drink it for three minutes. You can feel Lois’s stare over the rim of your mug like a sniper scope.

You try to play it cool, but cool is a word you no longer understand. Not when Clark shows up each morning with damp curls and soft smiles and low “mornin’, sweetheart” murmurs that hit you like a fucking tranquilizer dart to the spine. Not when he hums while stirring sugar into his coffee or pushes his sleeves up to the elbow to carry a box of papers and you catch yourself staring at the veins in his forearms like a woman unhinged.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. If anything, he’s being his usual Clark self! So sweet and soft-spoken, relentlessly considerate. And maybe that’s the problem. You’re not used to your best friend occupying space in your head like this. Not used to the way your thoughts stutter every time he bites into something juicy. A peach, a plum, the fucking cherry from Lois’s yogurt cup. You’re not used to the way your thighs ache when he accidentally sucks a bit of pen ink off his finger and you catch the briefest glimpse of tongue, pink and wet and God-fearing.

You try to be normal but you overcompensate. Hard. You bring him drinks. Compliment his shirts. Tease him for being a square like you always do, except this time, when you say, “God, you’re such a Boy Scout,” it comes out breathless and weird and he looks at you sideways like he heard something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’re careful. Okay. You try to be careful. But it only takes a few days for your brain to short-circuit permanently.

At one point, you and Clark are drafting headlines side by side, shoulders brushing, low banter, his voice soft in your ear, and when he leans in behind you to whisper a suggestion, your whole body shivers. Visibly. Pathetically. Like a haunted Victorian maiden.

He pauses, his voice warm at your nape as he whispers, “You cold?”

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

He doesn’t press. He never does. He’s too polite. Too good. Too Clark.

The mirror is once again your enemy. Cold water on the wrists doesn’t help this time. Nothing does.

You try to last a few more days. You try not to think about it. You fail every hour. Every time he smiles at you. Every time he tugs his glasses down a little to rub at his brow or frowns in concentration or licks the salt off a pretzel. You are haunted. You are in hell. You are wet at work and it is his fault.

That night, you fold. You press your face into your pillow and slip your hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts and imagine. His voice. His mouth. His hands gripping your thighs, firm and reverent. Whispering things into your skin. I got you, baby. You just let go for me. Want to be good for you. And when you cum—fast, hard, embarrassingly desperate—you feel the shame roll in like thunderclouds.

Clark is your friend. Your coworker. He looks out for you when you’re sick and once helped your grandma reset her water heater because he just knows how to do stuff like that.

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

But then your brain does what it always does when it can’t stop obsessing. It reframes. It rationalizes. It weaponizes curiosity.

You are, after all, a journalist.

You chase leads. You vet your sources. You fact-check until your eyes bleed. You are trained to notice patterns and contradictions, to sniff out truth from noise, to dig through dirt and disinformation and find the core of something. And what you have now? What you’ve been given?

Is a lead. A whispered rumor. A salacious, staggering, potentially life-altering claim.

Clark Kent. Clark, your walking golden retriever of a coworker, the man who once blushed because you said he looked “nice” in navy blue, is apparently a legend with his mouth. A God-tier, Olympic-caliber, “no one else compares” type of lover.

You’ve heard it now. Can’t unhear it. Can’t unknow it.

You’ve run the mental diagnostics. Tried to make the data match the subject. Tried to rewatch the internal slideshow of Clark in his natural habitats: pressing his glasses up his nose, saying “golly,” covering your coffee tab with a sheepish shrug like it’s a felony.

None of it aligns. None of it should align. And yet…You’ve seen his hands. Long fingers. Gentle touch. Steady grip. You’ve seen his lips. Full. Soft. Focused. You’ve heard that voice, when it dips low and careful, when it wraps around your name like it’s something holy.

And maybe, maybe, the puzzle pieces do fit. Not in the way you’d expect. Not in any way you’re prepared for. And that’s when it hits you like the crash of a wave you didn’t see coming: the sheer, staggering need to know. Not want. Not wish. Need.

It’s practically professional at this point.

You sit at your desk in the ghost-quiet newsroom, half-eaten takeout beside you and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, and your brain starts composing headlines like it’s on deadline.

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

“Clark Kent and the Case of the Devastating Cunnilingus.”

You rub at your temples. You’ve lost it. You’re gone. Broken. The Pulitzer’s never coming now. God, at this rate you might never come either. Not without thinking about Clark Kent’s mouth.

But still, you lean back in your chair, heart thudding against your ribs like a warning bell, and let the thought settle. There’s only one way to know for sure. No secondhand testimony. No assumptions.

You need evidence. A primary source. First-person observation.

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

The phrase echoes in your skull like a siren song: Clark Kent eats pussy like a champ. And somewhere in the deepest, most depraved corner of your mind, a little voice. your inner editor, probably, says, Well… if you don’t report this story, someone else might.

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

You whisper it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like a final descent into madness, God help me.

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

You are going to investigate his mouth and you are going to write the hell out of this story.

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

You start small.

A skirt hem an inch shorter than usual. Nothing scandalous, just enough to make you feel aware of the breeze against the backs of your knees. A touch of lipstick, warmer than your usual shade. The kind that makes your lips look just a little bit bitten.

You start brushing your fingers against him in passing, accidental, then… less accidental. A casual hand on his forearm when you pass him a printout. The press of your fingers at his wrist when you reach for the same notepad. A palm flat between his shoulder blades as you squeeze by behind him, your body lingering just a second too long before you move on.

You stretch at your desk, arms overhead, spine arching. Completely overexaggerated, very theatrical. You sigh dramatically. He glances up and you pretend not to notice.

You lean over his desk during edits, purposefully slow, aware of how your blouse dips, how the fabric gapes just a little at the neckline when you angle your shoulders forward. You feel his eyes. See them flicker, just for a moment to your breasts, and then dart back to his screen.

It’s subtle at first. Barely a flutter in the newsroom’s carefully balanced ecosystem, but it’s deliberate. Calculated. A controlled experiment in desire.

You lace conversations with carefully planted landmines. A well-timed, “I just think communication is everything, you know? Especially when it comes to giving, not just receiving. It’s important when writing, too, duh, Kent.”

A “good partners are the ones who really listen. Just like good interviewers.”

A “sometimes, it’s not about how fast you go. It’s about how thorough you are. In an investigation, what else would I be talking about?”

All dropped like casual observations. All while sipping from your coffee cup like you haven’t just flung a match into dry brush.

Clark always blinks. Always takes just a moment longer than necessary to respond. He hums, or nods, or tilts his head like he’s considering it. Like he knows you’re playing a game and hasn’t quite decided whether or not he wants to play it too.

Clark plays dumb. At first.

He says things like “Gee, you think so?” when you compliment him in front of Lois. Grins when you call him charming, like he’s never heard the word and is still trying it on for size. He shifts in his chair when you lean close, laughs under his breath when you call him a goody two-shoes, and taps his pen against his knee like he’s working something out.

But then he starts doing things back. He starts calling you sweetheart again, but slower now. Smoother. He says it when no one else is around. Says it like it’s a question, like he’s waiting to see what it does to you.

He starts brushing his hand along your lower back when he passes you in the hallway. Not every time. But when he does, it’s always just enough for you to notice and ache.

And one day, after a long stretch of shared silence, you’re chewing on your pen cap, brow furrowed over copy edits and legs crossed tight in your chair, and he leans over your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck.

“Careful with that,” he murmurs, voice low, soft as felt. “Dangerous habit.”

You freeze. The pen slips from your teeth. His voice curls around the back of your neck like smoke.

You turn your head, look up, and he’s smiling. Soft. Knowing. The kind of smile you’ve seen him use exactly once before when a source lied straight to his face and he already had the receipts.

Your stomach flips.

Because he knows. He knows. And what’s worse? He’s letting you think you still have the upper hand. He has to be. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You spiral. Quietly. Elegantly. Desperately. You start watching him even more closely. The way his mouth curls around vowels. The way his tongue darts out when he’s thinking. The way he drinks from his water bottle, tilting his head back, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. You stare at his hands when he types. When he peels an orange. When he passes you a napkin with one corner folded like a triangle for no discernible reason.

You start dreaming about him.

Not always dirty. Sometimes it’s just him. Holding your hand. Brushing your hair behind your ear. Whispering your name in the dark.

But other nights it’s his mouth. Hot and firm and everywhere. Between your legs. On your stomach. Lapping into the soft place where your thigh meets your hip and telling you things like you taste so good, sweetheart, and don’t you dare run from me now.

You wake sweating and shaking, your sheets twisted and damp.

You think about calling in sick. But then you think about Clark, warm and smiling in the elevator, holding your favorite coffee, saying “morning” like it’s a secret, and you go in anyway.

You’re in too deep. You’re too far gone. And the thing that’s unsettling you the most is that you’re starting to like it.

You keep pushing.

A weekend happy hour turns into one too many drinks, one too many shared plates, one too many half-flirtatious “cheers” that clink too close to comfort. You’re buzzing, warm and slow in the limbs, your body syrupy with good whiskey and bad decisions, slouched into a booth with Lois and Jimmy while the bar spins softly around you.

Clark had been invited but he’d been sent on a last-minute assignment and couldn’t make it. You’d pretended not to be disappointed. You’d definitely pretended not to imagine what it would’ve felt like to slide into the booth beside him, legs pressed together, your thigh warm against his in that tiny, accidental way that would’ve driven you insane.

Instead, you’re nursing your third drink and laughing too loud at something Jimmy said about a printer jam when your phone buzzes in your hand. A text from him. Clark, asking if everything went smoothly with the event write-up.

You glance at the screen and smile.

You mean to text Lois. You really, truly mean to text Lois.

Your fingers are slow. Sloppy. Buzzed and traitorous as they move across your screen. The keyboard slides a little and autocorrect isn’t on your side and… your drunken hands are no longer attached to your fucking brain. They’re attached to your traitorous cunt.

Clark Kent texted me. The Oral God. It’s the glasses. I know it is.

You hit send.

Your brain doesn’t process what’s happened at first. It takes a second, two, maybe three, for the fog of whiskey to clear just enough to read the blue bubble again.

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

You freeze. Horrified. Paralyzed. You stare down at your phone like it’s just grown fangs. Your entire body flushes with heat. Scalp prickling, chest clenching, stomach plummeting like a trapdoor just opened beneath you.

“No,” you whisper. Out loud. “No no no no no.”

Jimmy’s talking. Lois is laughing. The world carries on like you haven’t just detonated a bomb in your own lap.

You watch the message sit there. Taunting. Bright and unedited and unmistakable. And then the fucking typing dots appear. Three little dots. Bouncing. Mocking.

You press a hand to your mouth like that might somehow physically keep the scream in. You are going to pass out. You are going to combust. You are going to become legendary newsroom lore.

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

You want to melt into the floor. Crawl under the table. Launch yourself into the sun. Anything would be better than sitting here red-faced and holding your phone like a live grenade.

You try to fix it. You fire off a string of panic-texts that only make it worse

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

You punctuate the shame spiral with not one but two cry-laugh emojis. Two. A war crime. Something you’ve never done in a professional setting. You should be disbarred from journalism on principle.

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

You stare at it. A single winky face. So casual. So simple. So loaded. You don’t know if you want to scream or faint or cry into your mozzarella sticks.

He doesn’t follow up. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t drag you. But he also doesn’t let you off the hook.

You toss your phone face-down onto the booth bench and press your hands to your eyes. You are never drinking again. You are never texting again.

And most importantly? You are never showing your face at the Daily Planet again.

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

Not crudely, he’s still Clark, still gentle, still maddeningly polite in that Kansas-boy kind of way, but there’s a new edge to it. A weight behind the way he says your name. A flicker in his eyes when you lean a little too close. He lets your touches linger now and doesn’t shy away. Doesn’t flush and stammer and change the subject. No, now when your hand brushes his arm or rests against the small of his back in passing, he holds still. Leans into it. He lets it happen long enough to feel it.

There’s something else, too.

A change in his voice when you talk about relationships, especially when you let your sentences trail, when you say things like “I just think… being understood is more important than anything. In a relationship, I mean. Someone who listens, someone who pays attention to details. Someone who…”

You don’t have to finish the thought because when you look up at him, his gaze is locked on your mouth. Focused. Intent. Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your lips, like he’s picturing them parted. Open. Responding.

It rattles you. But worst than that? It excites you.

The tension stretches between you like something alive. Something volatile. You poke at it with your words, and he starts poking back.

And then, one afternoon, it breaks a little more.

You catch him in the hallway, fresh off a phone call, tie loosened, hand raking through his hair in quiet frustration, and something in you tips. Maybe it’s the way he exhales. Maybe it’s the way his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he cradles his phone in one hand. Maybe it’s the residual heat of that winky-face text still echoing in your bones.

You press your palm to his chest, flat. It’s curious but it’s more than that… it’s deliberate. Not playful anymore.

The cotton of his dress shirt is warm beneath your hand. You can feel the slow, steady thump of his heart under your fingers, so solid and unbothered. Like he’s entirely in control. Like you’re the one who needs a reality check.

“Why do you always disappear during breaking news, Clark?” you ask. Your voice is light, but there’s something behind it. Something quiet. Something investigative.

He freezes, but not in panic. Not in fear. No, it’s calculation. For a second, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise. Awareness. Sharp. Focused. Like a wire pulled taut.

His brow lifts slightly, mouth quirking at the corner. “You asking as a friend…” His voice dips. Just a touch. “Or a reporter?”

You tilt your head. You’re still touching him. Your palm is still flat to his chest, your fingers curled slightly against the fabric. He smells like clean soap and newsroom paper, like rain and static and something inherently Clark. Familiar. Steady.

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

He chuckles, but it’s quieter than usual. Rougher. The sound curls low in your stomach. “Thought you were investigating the mouth thing, Bernstein.” He smirks a bit, leaning closer to your personal space, “Or Woodward. Whichever one was better at getting to the bottom of things.”

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

“So you do know about that,” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Hard not to,” he replies. “After the wrong text thread.”

The silence between you thickens. You swear he’s looking at your lips again. Or maybe that’s your imagination. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s—“It was for science. Or, investigative journalism?” you blurt, cutting off your mental reverie.

His grin doesn’t falter. “I’m sure it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tease or press. But as you start to walk away, your pulse still thrumming in your ears, you feel his heavy gaze slowly land on your back.

And when you glance back over your shoulder you catch him looking. Boldly, openly. His eyes flick down your body, then lift to meet yours. No apology. No embarrassment.

Just interest.

Intention.

It’s subtle, but it undoes you. Because Clark Kent knows.

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

Then comes the charity gala.

It’s a haze of champagne flutes and low lighting, all glittering gowns and polished marble floors. The kind of evening where you’re supposed to make nice with board members and whisper the right things to the right people and maybe snag a quote for Monday’s column. You’d worn something new, sleek and dark and fitted, maybe a little too bold for a work event, but tonight feels… different. The air is charged, and Clark’s in a black suit that fits too well and smiles too softly every time someone compliments your dress.

You lose him for most of the night. You’re working the room, laughing at half-interesting jokes, trying not to check the door every time someone walks in.

You don’t remember how it happens. Who reached first. Who asked.

One moment you’re sipping the last of your champagne near the edge of the dance floor, your heels aching and your body buzzing from a flirtation that’s been running on fumes for weeks and the next, there he is.

Clark Kent. In his tux. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. A crooked smile on his mouth as he holds out a hand.

“You look like you need rescuing,” he says. His voice is warm. Steady.

“Wow, a real superhero,” you tease and take his hand before your brain can catch up to your body.

The music is soft. Something old-fashioned and slow. Strings and piano and a rhythm that tugs you gently into his space. His hand slides to your waist, broad and warm through the fabric of your dress, and your palm finds his shoulder as he pulls you in, easy and unhurried, like you’ve danced together a hundred times before.

He hums along under his breath. Not words, just the melody. Low and rich and dangerously close to your skin.

You’re close enough to smell him. Something like cedar and soap and quiet rain. Something that sinks into your bones and stays.

With every sway, your chest brushes his. Barely there. Barely touching. But it makes your breath hitch all the same. His thumb traces a slow, absent pattern over your hip, lazy, circular, grounding, and it should be innocent. It should be.

But it’s not.

Your skin is on fire. Your lungs are tight. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, blooming low in your stomach, dizzying and slow.

“Careful,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. Your lips barely move. “You keep holding me like this, people are gonna talk.”

Clark’s hand shifts slightly at your waist, holding you closer, firmer. Still gentlemanly. Still polite. But there’s a message in the way his fingers press through the fabric. A message you’re desperately trying not to file under Exhibit A: Intent to Destroy Me Gently.

“Let ’em,” he says, smiling like it’s harmless, dimple popping cutely. Like you’re not melting from the inside out. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. People might already be talking.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how your knees are already halfway to gone. “Just doing my job.”

“That so?”

“I’m a journalist, Kent.” You tighten your grip on his shoulder, lean in like it’s casual. It’s not. “It’s my duty to investigate rumors.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“Mm-hm.” Your voice drops, low and pointed. “I’m looking into a particularly… compelling story, as you know.”

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

A flicker of something darker shines in his eyes. He leans in, mouth brushing just behind your ear now, and you can feel him smile.

“Well, then,” his voice is velvet. “On the record… I’m a very good listener.”

Your heart skips. You keep your voice steady, but barely. “And off the record?”

His breath hits your skin. “Off the record…” His grip tightens ever so slightly. “You’d never doubt it again.”

Your knees buckle. It’s involuntary. Embarrassing. Heat rushes to your face, down your spine, straight between your legs, and he knows. He catches you instantly without faltering, without blinking, like he was waiting for it.

You’re clinging to his suit jacket like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

You manage, somehow, to breathe out, “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, lips still too close to yours. “Off the record,” he murmurs again, “I can say whatever I want, Ms Journalist.”

And then the song ends.

He releases you slowly, deliberately, like he’s rewinding time. Like it never happened. Like he didn’t just crack open your ribcage and whisper into your soul.

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

And you stand there, dazed, vibrating, ruined, clutching your recorder of a brain and praying it got it all down.

Later that night, you find yourself nursing your drink at the edge of the ballroom, your body still humming from the dance and doing your absolute best not to replay every second of it on loop like some starry-eyed teenager with a crush.

It’s not working.

“Okay.” Lois slides up next to you, wine glass in hand, smirk firmly in place. “You’re gonna let him take you to dinner at least, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Jimmy appears on your other side like a devil on your shoulder, expression matching Lois’s far too well. “She means Clark,” he says, popping a grape from the cheese table. “Mild-mannered reporter. Looks like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. Just slow-danced you into a different dimension.”

“I-,” you start, then stop, heat crawling up your neck. “It was just a dance.”

Lois raises her brows. “Sure. And I’m just a Pulitzer finalist.”

“She was glowing,” Jimmy says, eyes wide like he’s narrating a true crime reenactment. “I’ve seen less sexual tension in French film noir.”

“Her knees buckled,” Lois adds helpfully. “I saw it happen.”

You groan, bury your face in your hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“Wrong,” Jimmy says brightly. “We’re your friends.”

“And friends don’t let friends ignore when their soulmate’s ready to risk it all in front of a nonprofit board of directors.”

Before you can respond, snark, deflection, a halfhearted plea to please never say “soulmate” again, Clark reappears.

His cheeks are flushed. His curls are damp at the temples. His bowtie is slightly askew. And there, thank God, is the version of Clark you recognize: the one who looks like he’s never felt fully comfortable in formalwear, who gets bashful under group attention, who still straightens his glasses like a nervous tic.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head as he approaches. “What’d I miss?”

Lois practically pounces. “Nothing major. Just Jimmy and I dissecting the devastating sexual chemistry between you and our dear friend here.”

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

Jimmy claps him on the back. “Relax, Kent. We’re just saying, if this journalism thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a solid backup career as a ballroom heartthrob.”

Clark’s face turns scarlet. He fiddles with his watch. Shrugs. “I-I was just trying not to step on her feet.”

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

Because this is the Clark you know. The one who gets flustered when you compliment his writing. The one who nervously adjusts his tie at press events. The one who talks to dogs on the street like they’re people and never lets you carry your own coffee if your hands are full.

This is your best friend.

But tonight, on that dance floor… that wasn’t just your best friend. That was someone else too. Someone confident. Grounded. Intentional. A man who pulled you into his arms and whispered things that still have your thighs clenching hours later. A man who knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted.

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

And not just in a he’s hot and sweet and might be secretly incredible at oral way. Though, yes. That is a factor. But it’s more than that.

It’s everything.

It’s the way he dances. The way he listens. The way he catches you before you fall, even if he’s the one who made your knees go soft in the first place.

You want to know all the pieces of him. Not just the sweet ones. Not just the blushing, too-big-suit-jacket-wearing-wearing ones. You want to know what else he’s been hiding. What else he’s capable of. You want to know the man behind the glasses and the one behind the whisper.

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

Clark smiles at you then, small, warm, a little nervous, and your heart actually stumbles.

You smile back.

But god help you, you might be in love with your best friend.

The night after the gala, you don’t go home right away.

Instead, you and Clark end up where you always seem to find yourselves when everything else quiets down. Up high, away from the newsroom chaos and the noise of the city below. The rooftop of the Planet is half-rusted and windswept, the skyline cut clean against the dark. You’re both coming down from a half-botched stakeout. No source. No leads. Just cold fingers and coffee gone stale in your thermos.

The wind tugs at your coat, slipping under the hem to bite at your legs. You burrow into it a little tighter, eyes on the streetlights far below.

Beside you, Clark stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, coat unzipped like the chill doesn’t touch him. You wonder if he feels it at all. Probably not. His cheeks are pink from the air, hair tousled from the wind, but he looks relaxed. Calm. Like he could stand there all night.

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

You glance sideways at him. “You’re holding out on me.”

He turns his head, brow furrowed, lips twitching. “About what?”

You lean back against the ledge, arms crossed. The city stretches behind you like a live wire. “Your legend,” you say simply. “Oral God Kent. I’ve yet to confirm any findings.”

For a second, his expression doesn’t change. But then his mouth curls like he’s surprised you’re still playing the game and maybe a little impressed that you haven’t flinched yet.

He looks away again, back toward the skyline. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”

You pretend to take notes. Flip your little pocket notebook open dramatically and click your pen. “Clark Kent: evasive source. Potential deflection tactic,” you glance up at him, all mock-seriousness, “flirtation.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. It’s low and short and curls in your stomach like smoke.

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

That silences him. For a minute, all you can hear is the wind rushing over the rooftop, rustling the collar of your coat, tugging at the edges of the moment like it wants to unravel it completely.

Then he looks at you. His eyes are soft. Glasses catching the reflection of a passing plane. Lips parted like he wants to say something he hasn’t let himself say before.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it’s the stillness around you. Maybe it’s the honesty in his voice, calm, certain, without bravado.

He flirts with you. You know that. You’ve been baiting him to. You’ve been bending this line so far for so long you almost forgot you were the one holding the tension.

But this? This isn’t teasing. It’s a confirmation.

An invitation.

You feel it in your throat. Tight. Hot. You hold his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna stop until I get a quote.”

He tilts his head. “A quote about what?”

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

His breath catches, just barely. You catch the shift, the subtle way he stands a little straighter. The faint glint of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

“I’m a journalist,” you say, voice light, tone not. “I believe in sourcing my claims.”

“And you think I’m going to just give that to you?” he murmurs, stepping a little closer. “Off the record?”

“Not give.” You look up at him. “Prove.”

The wind swirls between you, sharp and cold, but you barely feel it anymore.

Clark’s close now. Not touching, but enough that the air feels thinner. His coat flutters around his knees. His hands are still in his pockets. He’s not doing anything. And yet, you can feel him.

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

And then he does something that makes your pulse spike. It’s barely a movement, but enough. He tilts his head slight and smirks.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and careful and ridiculously effective, “If I gave you that story…” His eyes drop to your lips. Stay there. “You wouldn’t have the words left to write it.”

You swallow loud and hard. Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

His gaze doesn’t leave your mouth. “You sure you’re ready to find out?”

Your heart stutters. And then, as if some cruel part of him knows you’re right at the edge, right at the tipping point, he steps back half a pace. His hands are still in his coat pockets. Smile soft. Eyes gleaming.

“Let me know when the story’s ready to run,” he says simply. Then he turns, walking back toward the stairwell.

You’re left at the ledge, breath shallow, body trembling, notebook still open in your hand. The wind cuts across your cheek.

You don’t move for a long time because Clark Kent just flirted with you like it was breathing. Because Clark Kent just promised something without touching you.

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

It was supposed to just be your weekly run. Perfectly innocent, your regular post-work run. Originally it had been Clark’s idea after you complained about not enjoying running alone because of nerves. And it wasn’t his first idea either. He’d had plenty of others, especially recently. Like walking home instead of taking the train. Like splitting a coffee and pretending it isn’t a date. You’d said yes too quickly, barely thinking, like your body trusted him more than your brain did.

You’d forgotten what it feels like to run next to someone like Clark. Like gravity shifts to make room for him.

The first half is completely harmless. You’re sweaty and breathless. The run is filled with the kind of laughter that feels safe in your chest. You keep pace with him on principle, even though it’s killing you.

And then the storm breaks. No warning. No distant rumble. Just the sky cracking open above the skyline, sharp, fast, and angry.

Sheets of rain slam down, soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your tank top sticks to your skin. Your sports bra gives up entirely. Leggings glued to your thighs. Your shoes squelch with every step. Water beads down your face and into your collarbones.

Clark doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for your hand, quick, firm, and steady, and pulls you with him.

You’re laughing as you run. Laughing because this is so stupid and so cold and so unlike you. But he’s laughing too. Mouth wide, glasses fogged, hair darkened and dripping across his forehead as he tugs you around a corner and into his building’s stairwell, both of you panting, soaked, and more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

By the time you make it to his apartment, you’re shivering. The door clicks shut behind you, and your whole body jolts from the sudden change. The heat inside presses close, wrapping around your limbs like a towel just pulled from the dryer.

His place smells like him. Cedar. Warm laundry. A faint note of books and something darker, something earth-deep and low and safe. You’ve been here before, but tonight it hits different. Tonight, it feels like stepping into his chest. His heartbeat. His gravity.

“You’re gonna freeze,” he says, already moving, always moving. He disappears down the hall and you hear him rummaging through drawers. You picture him pulling out towels and clothes until he returns with something soft that looks like a flannel in one hand and a towel in the other. “Here. Get out of those. I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

You start to protest. Some nonsense about modesty. Boundaries. Sanity.

But he turns to you, his eyes soft behind fogged lenses, hair curling at his temples, holding out the flannel that’s threadbare and worn at the collar. “I won’t peek,” he says earnestly, voice so kind it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

You peel your clothes off one piece at a time, the fabric sticking to your skin. You keep your back to him, just in case, even though he’s already disappeared into the other room. You towel off quickly and slip into the flannel. It’s soft and worn, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. The hem hangs low enough to skim the tops of your thighs. It clings in places from the leftover rainwater on your skin. You don’t bother with pants. It doesn’t occur to you to feel shy in this moment as your damn ovaries seem to override your rational thought processes.

You roll the cuffs up and sit on his couch. You try to breathe through it. Down girl, you think to yourself. But the scent of him is everywhere. On your skin, in your hair, wrapped around you like a second body.

His body could be wrapped around you, an evil little voice whispers in your mind. It sounds suspiciously like Jimmy Olsen, who started this whole damn mess.

Taking a loud deep breath, you tuck your legs under you, fingers pressing into the fabric at your stomach like maybe if you hold it tight enough, it’ll quiet your heart.

When he returns, he’s drying his hair with a towel. His sweats cling low on his hips, and the shirt he’s wearing is the same soft gray cotton, rain-soaked top he had on outside. And it’s clinging. It’s so thin it might as well be a second skin. It outlines the lines of his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle along his arms like a sketch.

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

You look up, flannel riding high on your thighs. Your legs bare. Damp in places that have nothing to do with rain and everything to do with him.

His breath catches.

You stare at each other, and the silence hums between you. It’s electric.

You could speak. You should. You could joke. Could make a crack about the weather. Could talk about how soaked your socks were, or the way your mascara probably looks like war paint. You could thank him. You could ask for your clothes.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve been pretending for weeks. Laughing through it. Flirting through it. Circling this thing like it hasn’t been waiting for you to make the first move.

But now? Now your skin is buzzing. Your lungs are tight. And the way his eyes flick from your face to your bare legs and back again makes you ache.

Because this is the moment. You feel it. Something inside you snaps and this time, you don’t stop it.

So, you say it outright.

“I want to know.” It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. The words come softly, barely above the crackle of rain still ticking against the window, barely enough to cross the space between you. But they land like a drop into still water.

Clark stills, and for a moment, you think maybe he won’t move. That maybe you’ve said too much. Pushed too far.

But then slowly he crosses the room. His steps are quiet. Unhurried. Like he doesn’t want to spook you, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He just sinks to the edge of the couch beside you, body close but not crowding, and lifts one hand to your jaw. His fingers are warm and steady. They brush against your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’re real. His thumb drags along your bottom lip, feather-light. You feel his breath before you feel his mouth, and by the time he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours you’re already shaking.

“I don’t want to wonder anymore,” you say, quieter now. “I don’t want to guess.”

He’s so close now, his knee brushing yours, his other hand settling carefully on your thigh. You feel the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way the air around you seems to shift just from his presence.

He searches your face slowly. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s trying to find the edge of your breath. The line between teasing and truth. He licks his lips and swallows. His thumb strokes once more over your cheek before his hand drops to your waist, firm and steady.

“If we do this,” he says gently, “we don’t go back to pretending we’re just friends, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a vow. A choice you’re both making now that the thread between you has been pulled too tight to ignore.

You can’t think about anything except his hand on your leg. The way he’s watching you. The memory of your fantasies about his mouth between your thighs is like a livewire just beneath your skin.

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you for another second. “You’re sure?”

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t flirt. You don’t deflect. You just meet his gaze and say the only thing that feels true.

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

It starts slow, tentative, and testing. A soft press of your lips to his, like a question you’re terrified to ask. He’s warm, gentle, steady beneath your mouth. Familiar in the most unfamiliar way.

And then he answers. With his hands. With his mouth. With the quiet groan he lets slip as he deepens the kiss.

His grip tightens on your waist, and you gasp softly as he shifts, pulling you into his lap. One smooth movement, like it’s instinct, like he needs you there. Your knees come up to either side of his hips, and suddenly he’s beneath you, solid and sure, and your chest is pressed to his.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this. Like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do since the moment he met you.

You roll your hips once and he groans against your mouth, full-throated and unrestrained, like the sound’s been buried deep for too long.

His lips drag along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. “You don’t know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

Your breath shudders out of you. “Then show me,” you whisper. “Please.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown. His cheeks flushed. His glasses are fogged at the edges and slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Off the record?” he asks.

You nod. You’re light headed already and barely breathing.

“Then lay back,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, voice low and certain. “And let me give you the evidence you’ve been looking for.”

Your body obeys before your mind does. You shift back onto the couch cushions, heart pounding, limbs loose with want. The flannel slips down your shoulders and pools beneath you like soft surrender. You’re left in just your panties, chest rising and falling as he kneels between your legs like you’re something he’s about to worship.

He takes his time. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t gloat. Just eases his hands up your thighs like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His glasses are still on, slipping slightly down his nose, fogging faintly, but he doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s been dying to see you like this. Like he’s starving.

He bends and kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then again. Again. The kisses climb your thigh, slow and warm and open-mouthed, until his breath ghosts over the thin, damp fabric of your panties. You jolt. His grip firms on your hips.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice steady.

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. He mouths at you through the fabric, and you gasp, body arching, hands flying to his hair. The first long lick sends a bolt of heat down your spine, and the second has your thighs clenching around him instinctively. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. Just licks again, slow and certain, like he already knows exactly what you like.

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

He slides your panties down, slow and careful like he’s unwrapping a gift before tucking them into the pocket of his sweats. And then he sees you, completely and totally bare, and groans. It’s a low and wrecked sound. Like he wasn’t prepared.

“Gosh,” he whispers. “You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just lowers his head and presses his mouth to you like he’s been aching for it, like the world won’t spin right until he gets his tongue on your cunt and learns the shape of your pleasure by heart.

Your gasp isn’t just a sound. It’s ripped from you, involuntary, like the air itself gave out. Your hips jerk. Your legs tense. Your hands scramble for something, anything, to hold on to.

His tongue licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your whole body arches like it’s being tuned to him. He groans at the taste like he’s just had the first bite of something forbidden and holy.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again, until you’re shaking, until your thighs are trembling against his broad shoulders, until your head tips back and your breath leaves you in soft, shattered little moans that don’t even sound like you.

When his mouth closes over your clit, it’s gentle at first, testing, teasing, reverent. But the flicks are so precise. So rhythmic. So confident. Like he’s listening to your body, your breath, your broken little cries and following each one like sheet music.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. He groans into you and the vibration makes you see stars.

His hands tighten. One anchors your hip, grounding you with strength that borders on desperate. The other presses firm and steady against your lower belly, holding you down like he knows you’re about to fly apart. That you need something to keep you tethered when it happens.

And it does.

You shatter.

Not slow. Not soft. You come like he’s pulled the truth out of your body with his mouth. Like your soul recognized his tongue and decided to rise to meet it.

It hits like heat lightning, sharp and sudden and white-hot, flashing behind your eyes and ricocheting through your limbs. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. Your back bows off the couch as his mouth never leaves you, riding the wave with you, through you, for you.

And even as your breath hiccups, as your muscles spasm and your voice breaks around a ragged moan of his name, he doesn’t stop.

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

It’s slow and careful. The thick press of one finger first, his thumb stroking your hip, voice low and grounding, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Then a second, stretching you open so gently you feel like you might fall apart just from the patience in it.

And when he curls them, your hips buck. The pressure is perfect. Devastating. His tongue finds your clit again in the same moment, suckling, circling, teasing you until your thighs shake and your mouth falls open with a choked sound that could be a sob.

He hums when he hears it. He likes it. You feel the low vibration of it in your core, feel it echoing against his fingers buried deep inside you. His pace doesn’t change. It builds. Grows. Deepens. Like he’s tuning you to the edge of something greater.

You’re clinging to his hair now. His shoulders. The couch. Yourself. But it’s too much and not enough and please don’t stop, and he doesn’t, not even as you pant, “Clark, oh my god, Clark! Please! ”

He lifts his head just a fraction, lips slick, voice hoarse.

“One more.”

You don’t think you can. You try to tell him, your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your body is already shaking. Too much. Too sensitive. Too everything.

But he just whispers again, mouth hot against your thigh, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can. You’re doing so good. Just one more. Give it to me.”

You break again. The second orgasm tears through you. bigger, deeper, dizzying. Your spine arches. Your thighs quiver. Your eyes blur with tears you hadn’t even realized were coming. You cry out for him, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say, like it’s your anchor to the earth.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. His fingers keep curling inside you, working you through it, coaxing more and more and more until you’re sobbing, full-body, hiccuping sobs that melt into moans.

You think he says your name then. You think he kisses your hip. You think you say something too, about wanting him, but it’s a blur, everything soft and shuddering and electric.

And then he lifts his head. His glasses are fogged, hair mussed, lips red and wet and slightly parted. His hands are still on you. One at your hip. One cupping your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

He looks at you and brushes his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You just said…” he starts, voice hoarse, quiet, wrecked. “You said you’ve wanted this forever.”

You freeze. Your heart stops in your chest. You blink. Blink again. “I did?” you breathe, barely above a whisper.

He nods, gaze steady. Gentle. “You did.”

You should lie. Say he must have misheard you. You should laugh. You should say it was the orgasm talking, that you didn’t mean it, that this was just about the rumor, the curiosity, the investigation. But the truth is in your skin. In your chest. In the way you’re still trembling beneath his hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

His smile is soft. Not cocky. Not surprised. Relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally, finally, gets to exhale.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs.

You look at him. This man who knows your take out orders at more restaurants than you can count. Who saves your favorite snacks from the vending machine. Who leaves notes in your desk drawer when you’re having a bad day. Who just brought you to your knees without asking for anything in return.

“I did now,” you say, voice cracked and full of something else now.

You reach for him again and this time when he kisses you, slow and deep and filled with promise, you don’t pretend it’s about anything else. You’re the one who sighs into him this time. Loosens. Melts. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and his arms slide around you. The heat of him seeps into your skin like sunlight.

He pulls back, forehead to yours, and whispers, “Come with me?”

Your nod is barely there, but it’s all he needs. He lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a breath. One arm under your knees, the other across your back, and his eyes never leave you as he carries you down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale him, letting yourself be held.

His bedroom smells more like him than the living room did. The rain still taps against the windows, soft and rhythmic now as opposed to the heavy sheets earlier, as he sets you down on the mattress with the kind of care that makes your chest ache.

He kneels beside you. Fingers brushing your cheek. Still a little breathless. Still looking at you like you’re a miracle he didn’t believe he deserved.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says quietly, like it hurts to get out. “You. Us. For a long time.”

You blink, throat tightening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, and ducks his head, sheepishly. “Because you’re… you. And I’m just… well, me.” His hand curls at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you saw me that way. And then…” He looks at you, brow furrowed with a tenderness that floors you. “You started teasing about the rumor. And I didn’t know if it was real. If you wanted me, or just… the idea.”

“Clark,” you start but he silences you with a chaste kiss.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we have.” His voice is low now. Barely there. “Didn’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

You sit up and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I didn’t want to risk it either,” you whisper. “But I’ve been falling for you the whole time we’ve been friends.”

His blue eyes go soft, shining lightly behind his glasses. He leans in and kisses you like the world outside the bedroom doesn’t exist. And when he pulls back, voice wrecked and reverent, he whispers, “Let me love you now.”

“Please,” you nod.

He kisses you again like he’s learning your mouth from the inside out, deep and slow and filthy. Tongue sweeping against yours, steady and patient, even as your nails catch at the hem of his damp t-shirt. You’re reminded in that moment how you’re already bare and trembling. Still wet with everything he’s already given you. And he’s… completely clothed.

And now, you want him. All of him.

“Too many clothes,” you whisper against his lips, panting as your hands tug his shirt up.

But he doesn’t let you pull it off just yet. Instead, he pins your hands to the bed, gently and firmly, and drags his mouth down your throat.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips warm against your pulse. “I like seeing you like this.”

You shiver.

“Completely bare,” he says, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Completely mine.”

You groan, arching up into him. He still hasn’t taken a single piece of clothing off, and the contrast is killing you. Your naked body against all that soft cotton, his glasses still on, his shirt sticking to the curve of his back.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he says, dipping his mouth lower. Kissing between your breasts. Down your ribs. “Every time you smiled at me like you didn’t know what you were doing. The shorter skirts. Touching me in the office.”

“I did,” you breathe. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He laughs quietly, the sound coming out completely reverent, and kisses your hipbone. “Mmhm,” he murmurs. “Knew you did.” Then he moves back up, crawling over you with slow, deliberate grace, until he’s above you again, his body a solid heat over yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. How many nights I had to stop myself.”

You reach for him again, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweats. “Then stop stopping,” you whisper. “I want you inside me. Now.”

His breath hitches but he listens. He stands, eyes never leaving yours. and finally strips. T-shirt peeled off over his head. Glasses set gently on the nightstand. His sweats and boxers sliding down long, muscular legs until he’s completely bare in the low lamplight.

And God. You’ve imagined, sure. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him like this. All smooth skin and broad shoulders and hard cock standing flushed and heavy against his stomach, thick and aching ans curved and already leaking at the tip.

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

He kneels on the bed again. One hand stroking his cock with slow, lazy pumps, while the other caresses up your thigh.

“I’ve thought about this every night for so long,” he says, breath ragged. “What you’d feel like. Sound like.” He lines himself up and looks at you, one last question in his eyes. One last chance to stop.

“Please, Clark,” you whisper with a nod.

And then he slides in, one slow inch at a time. So painfully slow, stretching you open like he’s trying to carve his name into your body.

You gasp. legs trembling, hands clutching his back. He moans as he bottoms out, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus baby, you’re so tight. So, so wet. Fuck,” he pants. You’ve never heard him swear like that. It wrecks you almost as much as his mouth had earlier.

He stills inside you, breath trembling, body shaking. “I’m not gonna last long,” he whispers. “You feel too good. too perfect, I’m sorry. I want to last longer for you.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, his words making you clench around his thick cock, causing you both to let out loud groans. “Just move. Please, Clark.”

And when he does it's not fast. It’s not rough. It’s everything you’ve ever needed. Each stroke is deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His mouth never leaves your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. One hand cradles your head. The other slips between your bodies to rub slow circles over your clit again. And it’s too much. It’s perfect.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs. “Been in love with you since the first time you smiled at me.” Your heart stutters. Your body arches. He thrusts deeper. “Wanted you every damn day,” he says, voice shaking. “And now…now you’re under me, around me, and I just,” you clench harder, nails digging hard into his back as you arch up into him, legs wrapping tightly around his hips, ankles locking against his ass. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t… don’t do that, not if you want me to last.”

You gasp his name. Tears prick your eyes again not from pain, not from pleasure. From everything. From him. “I love you,” you whisper, the words falling out like a confession you didn’t mean to speak. You cling tighter to him, snapping your hips to meet his in perfect time.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes soft and devastating. “Me too.”

And then he kisses you through your next orgasm. Kisses you like he’s sealing it in your skin. Like he’ll never let it go.

His thrusts start to falter shortly after your orgasm. You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath catches on a broken moan against your throat. His hands tremble where they hold you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

“Oh gosh,” he gasps, “baby…sweetheart, so good. Feels so good, all for me.”

You press your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper, wrapping around him tighter, wanting to feel every second of him unraveling.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice frayed and reverent, your fingers stroking up the nape of his neck, threading through damp curls. “Want to feel you. Want to keep you.”

That does it. He breaks. With a choked cry, your name torn from his throat, he buries himself to the hilt one final time and cums hard, his whole body tensing above you as he spills inside you. Heat floods you, thick and warm, and you hold him through it, clutching, kissing, whispering his name over and over until the tension melts from his limbs.

He collapses on top of you, full-bodied and shaking and undone, forehead resting against yours, sweat-slick skin pressed to yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it.

You stay like that for a long time. Breathing each other in. Letting the room tilt gently back into quiet.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek. Then your nose. Then your jaw. He shifts off of you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break, but only long enough to pull you against him again, your back to his chest as he spoons around you.

You sigh in content. You’ve never felt so warm, or full, or safe. And then he moves you again a few minutes later, like that wasn’t a good enough way to feel you against him. He turns you, gently guiding you onto his chest. You go willingly, melting against him like it’s your favorite place in the world. Which it might be now that you’ve experienced it.

His arm wraps around your back, hand stroking lazy, soothing lines up and down your spine. His other hand rests on your thigh where you’ve thrown it across him like you’re staking a claim.

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

“Yours now, Ms Journalist?” he murmurs, teasing.

“Was there ever a question?” you mumble, lips brushing against the curve of his pec as you press a slow, possessive kiss there. He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost a prayer. His fingers slide into your hair. Stroke gently. Lovingly.

You close your eyes.

The rain outside softens to a whisper and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, you fall asleep on his chest, warm and full and his.

The morning unfolds in amber. Sunlight pours through the slats of the blinds, casting lazy golden stripes across the room and over the tangled mess of limbs on the bed.

His skin is warm under your lips. Muscle and softness and the kind of impossible heat that still hasn’t left your bones. He smells like sleep and cedar and you. Like the sweat and slick and sweetness of the night before still clinging faintly to his skin.

He’s already awake.

You can tell by the way his thumb is tracing the bare line of your hipbone in slow, lazy loops. The way his chest rises and falls with practiced calm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear, strong and grounding, like it always is.

“You drooled on me,” he says, voice gravel-rough and low.

You smile against his chest. “Price of admission.”

A soft chuckle rumbles beneath your cheek, not just amused, but fond. Full of something heavier. Something real. His hand slides higher, smoothing over your back, fingertips drawing invisible shapes along your spine.

Eventually, he coaxes you out of bed with a promise of hot coffee and warm breakfast, his flannel shirt exchanged for one of his oversized tees that swallows you and smells like him. You grumble. He grins. And while he disappears to the shower, you wander barefoot into the kitchen, already planning to steal another kiss the moment he returns.

You don’t have to wait long.

He heads straight to the stove when he’s done, barefoot on the tile, hair wet and curling softly over his forehead, the collar of his tee damp from where he towel-dried in a rush. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to be unfair. The hem of his shirt rides up every time he stretches for the spice rack, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.

You cross the room without a sound and your arms around his waist from behind. Then you stretch on your toes and press your lips to the side of his neck, right where his pulse kicks up immediately beneath your mouth.

Clark drops the spatula.

You smile against his skin, teeth just barely grazing. “Oops.”

“You’re distracting me,” he says, breath catching mid-word.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Just because you can. Tongue darting out to taste salt and warmth, breath pooling over damp skin. You feel him shiver.

“I’m trying to make you breakfast,” he mutters.

“And you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you whisper, words curling with amusement as your hands slide up under his shirt, palms skimming hot skin. “Five stars for effort.”

He exhales slowly. Then turns. There’s that smile again, sleep-soft, crooked, so damn pretty it makes your stomach flip. You can still see the crease from the pillow on his cheek. His lashes are wet at the tips. His eyes, though, are clear. Bright. Fixed only on you.

“You always this handsy after Pulitzer-worthy investigations?”

You bat your lashes up at him. “Just trying to… fact-check my findings.”

One brow arches. He steps in closer, nudging you gently against the edge of the counter, towering over you, voice dropping an octave. “Anything I can help clarify?”

You drag your fingers down the front of his shirt, stopping just above the waistband of his sweats. “Might need a follow-up interview.”

He hums, like he’s thinking about it. Then lifts you in one smooth, effortless motion, hands warm under your thighs as he settles you onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all. The marble is cold beneath you, but he steps in between your legs, and suddenly all you feel is him, his thighs, his hands, his heat.

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

He kisses you then, slow, teasing, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is warm, familiar now, but it still makes your stomach flutter like the first time.

“I have excellent retention,” he murmurs against your lips, “if you want to review last night’s data.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and bite his bottom lip. “You’re cocky.”

He leans in closer, nuzzling your jaw. “I’ve been reviewed. Oral God confirmed.”

You smack his shoulder. “Stop reading my texts.”

“Mmhm, like you actually mean that,” he grins and kisses you again. Deeper, this time. Filthy and slow. Like you’re the only thing he wants to taste for the rest of the day.

Behind him, the toast burns. Something beeps. Neither of you notice. Or care. Because Clark’s hands are on your hips. You’re tugging at his shirt. And breakfast, apparently, can wait.

Weeks later, you’re back in his lap on a Sunday morning, both of you tangled up on the couch with the news playing in the background, a half-drunk mug of coffee cooling on the table.

You’re thumbing through one of his old notebooks, pretending not to read his scribbles, even though they’re suspiciously detailed for a guy who always claims he “just got lucky” with the Superman exclusives. His arm tightens around your waist. You glance up.

“You still investigating me, Bernstein?” he asks, eyes warm behind his glasses.

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always,” you say. “But don’t worry. This one’ll take me a while.”

And maybe it will, because right now, you have no idea he’s Superman.

You just know he’s your best friend and the man you’re in love with. But you will.

Eventually.

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nympheagain · 2 days ago

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omg

Thinking about Clark buying his pretty gf Superman merch with the 'S' on it because I'm in love with that man!!

Cw: smut, fluff, petnames, Clark literally loves youuu, dry humping, creampie

The first time hes privy to your liking of his merch is when he comes home one day to see you in your pj's on the couch. Silky shorts hugging your soft skin with your hair put in rollers and a big familiarly colored 'S' on your v-necked tank. But it's not just any 'S', its Superman's symbol. His symbol.

That kickstarts him getting you matching sets and boxer shorts decorated in the red and yellow symbol. More pj tops, v-neck tanks with the symbol planted straight in the middle to accentuate your perky tits, hair clips with the symbol contrasting so prettily against your hair. Red, blue and yellow bows that you clip onto anything and everything you can, not just your hair —Clark came over one day to your apartment to find Krypto with one clipped into his fur.

You often joke about how you've always been Superman's biggest fan and now you look the part. He even got you a custom made suit just for you to play around with and dress up all cute for him.

He'd be lying if he said it didn't make his heart beat just a little bit faster when you're dressed up in his favorite set of all; a blue v-cut top that wears his symbol right across your tits, and a pair of blue pj shorts littered in the red and yellow symbol with little red and yellow hearts.

Clark pulls you into his lap at the foot of your bed as soon as you're within his grasp – he can feel his cock fill out at the plush of your ass pressed up against him.

With your back to his chest, he moves your hair to rest over your shoulder, pressing kisses up the column of your neck as you use his thighs for leverage, rocking into him.

"Look so pretty," he murmurs against your soft skin, "look so pretty n'smell so good," he pulls the middle of the 'v' of your top down to reveal your tits.

"Clark...," you hum, arching back into him and reaching a hand up to rest at the nape of his neck.

"Mhm," he hums, slipping his hand past the fabric of your top to squeeze and cup your tits, "what is it, sweetie?'

You give a soft moan, running your tongue over your soft lips, "Clark, please touch me."

Clark hums, moving your hair again to kiss the other side of your neck this time, licking a long stripe to your ear, "I am touching you, baby."

Fighting the urge to whine, you rut yourself into him, holding back a moan at his choked gasp when his cock slips into the curve of your ass.

Clark immediately finds purchase at your hips, helping to move your body against his own. Somewhere in the heat of it, he pulls his cock out of his boxer shorts to let the flushed pink tip rest against the curve of your ass, groaning when his pre spills onto the fabric of your pj shorts.

The weight and heat of his cock is delicious against you, pulling a choked whimper from your lips. "Please," whisper, reaching to take ahold of his length to press up against your soaked folds through your pjs.

Clark hums from behind you, "Shhh, I got it, baby." And you're reminded of just how big he is when he slips your thighs over his forearms so that you fall back against his chest. He pulls your pj shorts to the side and slips his cock into your heat in an instant, the vibration of his groan thick against your back.

Youre sobbing in his hold at the stretch of him –rendered immobile and cock-dumb as he splits you open – his corded length running up against your gummy walls in such a way that you keen, throwing your head back against his shoulder in which he meets you halfway, pulling you into a wet and sloppy kiss.

Clark pulls away to watch as your brows furrow as he continues to pump into your cunt –your eyes wide and lashes strewn together with tears of pleasure.

"Aren't you just the prettiest thing," he keeps your legs pushed up against your chest, reaching his hand to your jaw to slip his thumb past your soft lips. "Superman's biggest fan, isn't that right, pretty girl?"

You almost cum on the spot, nodding dumbly and letting out a hitched gasp when his balls tap against your swollen folds with the pump of his cock.

"Yeah, there she is." Clark smiles in such a way that your heart skips a beat, his baby blues softened by his dark lashes and pouty lips. "There's my girl," he presses a kiss to your hair, spreading his thighs beneath you to pump deeper into your heat.

"Clark, oh my god." Your eyes flutter shut at the stretch and your mouth waters at how impossibly deep he is, "Clark–" you try to warn him that you're near your peak, that the band wound tight in your cunt is about to snap.

He's always so in tune with you and there's nothing but the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek and the circle of his thumb against your clit in his responsiveness to you.

"Can feel y'holding back." He changes positions so that one of your thighs rests against his own, holding you propped up in his arm as he continues to circle your clit, "Just cum fr'me, baby. M'right behind you."

And when you do, its so intense that your legs feel numb for a moment and your heads gets all foggy in the perfect way. You reach for him in the fog of it – sobbing as your cunt tightens around his pulsing length.

Clark shushes you softly, cooing and guiding you through it. "I know, I know. Doin' so good fr'me... I know... M'right here." He cums with a soft grunt, burning himself into your hair, and pressing soft kisses to your clammy skin, laughing exhaustedly into the thick air of your room.

"You can't be wearing this shirt around me," he pulls at the fabric of your top, covering your breasts back up. "You hungry?" He asks, pecking your lips softly.

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nympheagain · 2 days ago

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Front Page (Masterlist)

#nympheagain #clark kent #clark kent smut #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent imagine #clark kent x reader #superman x you #superman smut #superman fanfiction #superman x reader #invincible smut #mark grayson smut

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nympheagain · 3 days ago

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nympheagain · 3 days ago

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Hey girly, I wanted to ask if you had any tips for someone that's starting their own blog, and isn't really sure on how to go about writing. How were you able to improve your writing (especially in smut scenes), so that your work wasn't just porn with no plot.

Hiii. I’m honoured to get this question. I hope this helps:

1. Just write— literally. Write anything that comes to mind, write inspired works or original. Write everything you can think of.

2. I’m not so sure how exactly I improved my writing (or if it’s really improved) but I think with practice comes betterment. Don’t hesitate to post your work now because you think it’s less than. Just post it, then write another one, and another, and you’ll be sure to see improvement

3. As for writing smut with plotlines, I tend to spend most free time daydreaming haha. Think up any scenario, it can be domestic, fantasy, etc. imagine how navigating the different situations would go.

4. Use visuals. I just go on Pinterest, do a study on the character, look at photos of where the story will be set, etc. When I’m done with the main plot, I’ll then go and sprinkle these little details in between.

I’d love to read your work when you publish!! Hope this was useful, and goodluck <3

#nympheagain #smut blog #invincible smut #mark grayson smut #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #clark kent x female reader #clark kent smut

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nympheagain · 4 days ago

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me lately

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nympheagain · 5 days ago

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Pairing: Clark Kent x Camgirl!Reader

Summary: In which Clark Kent has a dirty secret. And it just so happens to be you.

W/c: 3.5k

Tags: Smut, Clark edges himself, sub!Clark i think, exhibitionist!reader, clark is a yearner (naturally), not edited

A/n: I have finals next week but I cannot stop thinking about Clark Kent. I need that man. Under me. Now.

Also i wrote like half before tumblr decided to fuck me over so don't mind the kinda lazy ending (screaming on the inside)

The job scene was almost as barren as your love life, you think. It’d been two months now. Two months without a job. Two months of endless interviews and questions and scrutiny. You were sick of it. Tired. You’d resign to stripping soon, but you reckon you don’t even have the core strength for that either.

You’d begun to wonder if you’d ever be able to put your journalistic education to use.

But then, a beacon. A light in the sea of darkness. Right there on your 7 year old MacBook Air. A flashing sign: MAKE UP TO 6000 DOLLARS A MONTH FROM HOME!

You scoffed at the idea of it, but something in the back of your head told you to just click on the link. And so after praying that you wouldn’t install a million viruses onto your beloved ancient device, you did.

- - -

Clark Kent was noble. He was humble. He picked up litter he didn't throw on the way to work. He ordered coffee for everyone on the floor, even when he was late. When in his red and blue suit, he rescued kittens for little children and put out burning buildings. He was good. In the very sense of the word, he was good.

But Clark Kent had a dirty secret.

A filthy indulgence. One no one else knew about.

He'd stumbled onto the site accidentally whilst formulating a dating profile that Lois and Jimmy had coerced him into. Much too sheltered, they'd called him. Need a good fuck, they'd said.

As he was filling in hobbies and interesting things about him and whatnot (superman identity excluded), he'd accidentally clicked on an advertisement for some sketchy site. In the midst of fumbling with his laptop trying to shut the off the sudden cacophony of moans and whimpers, he'd scrolled down onto your page.

And there you were. Like an angel among devils, soft thighs plush in some work tights as you greeted the camera, supple voice tingling in his ears as you worked your way out of your work clothes.

They were nothing special. Just some black tights, a midi skirt and a white shirt. Classic. Something he'd seen hundreds of women in Metropolis don. But there was something about the way your hands grabbed at the cloth.

They way you peeled them off. Fingers in no rush to unbutton your top. Clark was entranced. Now his Ma had taught him to never objectify women, and his Pa had showed him how to be a true gentleman. So why couldn't he click off?

Mesmerising wasn't even the way to describe it. It was like he was in a trance. Sucked into the black hole that was your stream. Your pull too gravitational to allow him to blink, nevermind move his fingers to click off.

So he watched. Like a dog watches a bone. He didn't move, didn't unzip his pants, didn't reach to stroke himself. He just watched as you did your thing. As you moved your hands. He memorized the way you touched yourself. The way your breath hitched and your back arched.

Your face covered meticulously by a masquerade mask, plush lips held into a pout as you blinked at the camera.

“Had three interviews today, and not one call back.” You sigh, shifting back into your bed. You lean against the pillows, head falling back as you trace your body with your fingers.

You pause. Just for a beat. Then, you sit back up and crawl towards the camera. “I don’t know. Do you think I deserve to cum today?” And Clark feels like you're talking just to him, but the rapid influx of comments are proof that you’re not.

Jonny6inch: of course you do, sexy

Needsasubby: yes, cum for us

Anonymous69: please, need to see it

You hum, happy with the collective decision. Clark feels his pants tighten. He’s sweating, and his heart is beating abnormally fast compared to his usual alien physiology.

You’ve still got those stupid tights on, and Clark is torn between wanting them ripped off and licking you right through them. Your legs are parted as you rub slow circles on your clit, and it’s both not enough and too much for him at the same time.

When the live stream ends, Clark feels like he's walking on air as he clicks the big red SUBSCRIBE button. He grins at the username he chooses for himself, partly because it’s so stupidly obvious, and partly because no one one would ever suspect it was actually him.

After all, what would Boy Scout Superman be doing on a site like this?

---

After that, it becomes a ritual.

Slow and steady. After long days at the Planet, he's kicking off his shoes and clicking on your latest stream, cock neglected and rock hard in his pants as he watches you with careful intent. Like he's studying you.

One weekend, you stream wearing nothing but a baby tee with the superman logo and soft blue cotton panties. He almost comes untouched.

Truth is, Clark aches to touch himself. He's been so hard recently it's becoming difficult to hide. He thinks of you in especially inappropriate circumstances, having to hunch over himself in the newsroom meetings when his mind wanders to the way you hiss when your fingers finally come in contact with your cunt. He glares at his bulge in the bathroom whenever he remembers the small whimpers that leave your mouth when you're close.

He aches to pull them out of you.

You're becoming so distracting that Clark doesn't even realise when he runs head first into the new hire, almost knocking her down with his comically gigantic frame.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," He's murmuring, voice surprisingly soft for someone so large.

You smile up at him, shaking your head dismissively. "Ah no worries, I’m very easy to bump into.”

He laughs at that. Loud and deep chested. Like he means it. It makes something inside of you twinge.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Clark Kent." You shake his hand, watching the way it engulfs yours.

Clark is unsurprisingly sweet. To everyone. He includes you in his morning coffee runs, somehow having memorised your order despite having mentioned it once. He reads your drafts, singing your praises whenever one of your articles hits front page. He makes you feel. Things that you don't know how to describe. Almost homely. Like you've always known Clark. Like he's someone you'd go home to. Cook a dinner with. Sleep next to and smile at the sound of his snores.

It was a scary feeling to have. Firstly, because you have no idea if he'd ever feel the same way, and secondly, because you swore off relationships after a particularly nasty one that had you questioning much about both yourself and the state of the world.

And Clark was such a gentleman. What would he think of your...side job? It was truly less of a job and more of a hobby at that point. You'd been paid more than enough to sustain a living by the Planet, but you found a secretive sort of enjoyment in being watched.

In knowing how you made people feel. And oh did they let you know. You'd keep the chat box on during your streams just to let the comments flood in.

woman_lovr469: just like that ma

jacksss112: fuck, you're so hot

deeznutzzz: the things I would do to you

You skim through them, eyes glittering at the thought of all these different people behind the screen, drooling at the sight of you undressing. The power you held hummed underneath your skin.

But then there's one comment. One that stands out among the others. It's less desperate. More raw. Like there was actual intent behind those words. Actual meaning.

superman112: You look gorgeous like that.

You pause. Blinking at the screen. You don't know what to make of it.

"Superman, huh?" You giggle to yourself, imagining the real man with the captial S on his chest making time to watch and comment on your little streams.

"I'd let Superman take me," You muse, mostly to yourself. Clark sits up at that, pants painfully tight as he leans in. But the comments don't seem to like what they're hearing.

jacksss112: he sucks. i could fuck you better than he ever could.

anonymous6969: superman is the worst. he wouldn't know how to handle you.

11incher: i bet his dick is small. that's why he wears his undies on top of the suit.

Clark would protest all of the comments if he wasn't watching you giggle. The sound was like water to the fire he didn't know you'd set his heart on. He'd take any joke at his expense just to hear you laugh again.

He feels bold. A bit funny. Completely unlike himself.

superman112: Would you like to find out?

When he hears you chuckle, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

---

"Hi Clark!" You're smiling at him, that cute smile that makes his heart ache in a way that he didn't know was possible. He's smiling back, stumbling over himself and almost dropping his coffee.

"Hi," he says sheepishly. You laugh softly. Nothing loud, almost like you hadn't meant for anyone to hear, but Clark had. Of course he had. And he could feel the hairs on his arms rise at the sound of it.

It couldn't be...

Your laugh sounded so familiar. Like silk. Or maybe honey. Like warmth wrapped around him. Images of his masked seductress pop up into the back of his head. There's no way, he dismisses. You were just so different in the office. All bubbly, voice high and jittery, like you'd had one too many coffees. Not like her. All sultry and confident, like she knew exactly what she did to everyone.

Clark felt like a pervert, comparing you to the lady in black. He felt disgusting. He knew it was wrong, but still he couldn’t stop staring at the pout of your lips as you squinted at the screen like it owed you something.

Then he brushes it off. Shakes his head and goes back to writing his article. Because that would be crazy. A huge, crazy, dirty, filthy coincidence.

---

Clark has a once-in-a-blue-moon day off, and he decides to use it to the fullest. He sleeps in for once in his life (wakes up at 9AM), stretches and actually gets to make his own coffee at home. The city is quiet, so his friend in blue and red doesn't even have to make an appearance.

It's peaceful. The day waxes and wanes as he soaks in the feeling of having absolutely nothing to do. But then again... he might as well get some drafts polished up. He was just on his way to do so when a notification popped up on his laptop.

You were online.

Drafts and articles abandoned, Clark carries the laptop with him to bed, setting on top of his thighs as he relaxes and waits for you to begin.

You show up in the frame, one heel off as you trip out the other. You greet the camera, sounding more tired than usual. Suddenly, Clark starts to feel the shame of it all. Of watching you, even though you seem to enjoy being watched. He doesn't want to be confined to just watching. He wants to rub your feet after a long day. He wants to be the one undressing you. He wants to feed you warm food and tuck you in bed and crawl right beneath the sheets next to you.

But that would never happen.

So he remains resigned to watching you from the sidelines. Wishing he'd get to know you. Knowing that it would never happen.

---

It's extremely early in the office when Clark gets in. The sun is yet to rise, and there's no sign of life in the office other than your keyboard clacking away at your cubicle.

You're yawning when he sets a coffee down next to you. You smile up at him, hands reaching towards the warm mug,

"Late night?" He asks.

You blush like you don't know how to answer him. You open your mouth to respond, then close it, deciding to opt for a nod.

He nods back in understanding, heading back to his desk to get an early start on the day. You seem to be murmuring to yourself, eyes locked onto your phone. It rings, and you pick up immediately, whispering your friend's name.

"I'm at work." Clark knows it’s wrong but tune's his hearing onto your conversation anyway.

"Mmm, yeah." You respond.

He strains, but he can't hear what your friend is saying on the other line.

But then:

"Think superman might be following me." You say suggestively, giggling.

He blinks once. Then he blinks again. Because it all comes crashing down at once. The way you draw out the syllables of his alias. Your voice, of course, the sweet syrupy voice he drank up almost every night. How didn't he notice?

Clark Kent has to rush to the bathroom to collect himself. Okay. It was real. This was real. You were real. Not just his coworker. Not just the girl who smiles at him real wide when he brings her a cup of coffee, appreciation never dwindling. Not only the friend who he'd share laughs with over lunch. You were her. The woman who could take him apart without even touching him.

Straight away, Clark knows that he's not going to get much work done today, no matter how early he came in. He spends the rest of the day in the clouds (metaphorically), wondering how he ended up so lucky as to have both his crushes be one person. And also plotting how to get you in his sheets. What?!? He had his… needs.

Now Clark had an even dirtier secret. He got his rocks off to the sight of his coworker touching herself. And she doesn't even know.

Early morning turns to late night at the planet. It's quiet, though there's a certain hum to the building that never quite dies down. The lights are dimmed, and the last of the stragglers are packing their things up to head home. The only two cubicles with their overhead lights on are yours and Clarks.

You had no doubt he was working hard on another front page article. And your source, always unreliable, had just gotten you the evidence you needed to nail a LuthorCorp ally for corruption. You'd imagined that you'd be here all night. Your regulars would be waiting for you to start your stream right about now, and you can't say you wouldn't miss unwinding in front of the camera tonight, but you had more important things at hand.

An impulsive thought crosses your mind. You decide to head down real quick and grab a bite for yourself and Clark. Y'know, to repay him for all his kindness.

You rush to the restaurant across from the Planet, ordering your usual and the same order that Clark gets whenever you two come down here. Grabbing the bags and uttering a quick thanks, you head back up to the newsroom.

Clark's still typing away when you make a beeline for his desk, setting the food in front of him and smiling cheekily. His eyes light up at the sight, and you think for a second you see him check you out. You wave it off, crediting the dim lights and the fact that you had gotten 4 hours of sleep last night.

You turn around for a second, reaching back to where you dropped some napkins, bending down to grab them.

Clark gets the final confirmation he needs.

Those tights. The pink panties underneath. He'd recognise those anywhere. The image you stripping them off yourself was burned into his eyelids.

"Let's eat at mine." He blurts out. You whirl round, shocked by the sudden suggestion. By the urgency behind it as Clark packs up his desk.

"You sure?" You ask.

"Yeah, it's not too far from here. And the couch is more comfortable than this stiff chairs." You nod in agreement, walking back to your desk to collect your items.

You're not quite sure what to make of his eyes trailing you. It certainly didn't feel bad, and it had been a while since you'd gotten off with something other than your hands, and Clark Kent was built like a tank, and you were getting ahead of yourself.

---

Clark's apartment looks exactly like how you'd expect. It was neat. It was homely. It was comfy and not clinical like most apartments in metropolis. He had a few photos hung up, and a couple of lamps to give the room some nice lighting.

You head further into the living room, shrugging your shoes off and heading towards the couch. Clark was right, you did need a nice comfy seat.

Then you hear a thud. You turn around, shocked at the sight of Clark in front of you.

He'd dropped to his knees. It's entirely desperate, and you gasp at the sight of your dorky coworker with his eyes blown out. You almost crumble into him when his arms wrap around your waist, face tucking into your stomach.

"You're her." Is all he offers as explanation.

You gulp. Hands at your sides. You try, only for a second, to think of the logistics of the situation. Clark was your coworker. You see each other every day. Think. Be smart. Don't be- ahhh fuck it.

Clark was sniffing you. You don't know whether to call him a pervert or pull his hair. You decide to do both.

He moans into your touch. Still, while appreciative, you wonder what could have triggered this sudden onset of lust.

"Clark," you inquire. "What's this all about?"

He's got a hungry look in his eyes. "Watched you for months," he begins, voice hoarse and lashes wet. "Watched you for months, and didn't touch myself once. Just watched. Fuck, you're so beautiful."

And then you understand. You know who he is. Without even asking, you know who he is.

"Oh, so you're my superman." You scoff slightly, tugging his hair to urge him upwards. He obeys easily.

“Poor baby.” You sigh, hands pushing him backwards onto his couch.

“When’s the last time you’ve been touched, hmm?” He groans, skin wet with a sheen that you can only describe as need. It shocks you. The way it radiates off him. Like he's unashamed, or maybe like he's already felt all the shame there is to feel.

You straddle him, skirt tight around your thighs. You drag your nails down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. He's got his eyes shut tight, and his hands and clasped tightly into fists at his sides. "Clark, open your eyes," you nudge softly.

He does, and the black of his pupils almost swallows his blue irises. You finally finish unbuttoning his shirt, pushing back to encourage Clark to remove the rest of it. You sit back on his thighs, enjoying the look of his glasses pushed to the tip of his nose, his eyes hooded and watching you. The rise and fall of his chest.

You drag your eyes down, down, down to his pants. You place a palm on his bulge, eyes widening at the feeling of it jumping against your touch. “Is this how hard you’d get while watching me undress?” You ask, genuinely curious.

Clark whines. A full fledged, too-far-gone whine.

You decide you can tease him about it later.

Fumbling with his zipper, you're about to stand up to let him take his pants off when he's lifting his thighs up, pulling them off from underneath him like you weighed nothing.

You see his bulge even clearer now, and you'd be intimidated if not for the puppy eyes Clark was currently giving you. It was big, and bigger even when you pulled him out of his boxers.

"Shit, Clark. You just walk around with this in your pants?" He's panting now, hands sitting at your hips, loose as he rubs circles, they tighten on you when you grab his leaking cock, and he hisses when you spit down on it.

You set a rhythm of pumping him, twisting your fist around the base, relishing in his noises, and the way his hips jerk when you thumb at his tip.

“Fuck, does that make you feel good?” You not so sure why you're asking, seeing as the way he was acting told you all you needed to know.

Clark feels dizzy. He thinks he might’ve died and entered heaven. God, you looked like a vision above him.

You look lost in thought, and his cock twitches at the sound of your giggle. Superman, you think. Imagine that. You’re still unaware of his status. He thinks he might have to let superman take you for a ride sometime soon.

You keep at it, eyes locked on his as you listen intently to the squelching sounds filling the room. It almost felt nastier than any time you streamed. More forbidden. You feel heat rising to your cheeks at an idea.

Would your viewers object to a guest star?

---

Can you tell I had fun making up the usernames?

Taglist:

@l1zard-l3ague @needylittleprince @repairheartzz @cosmiiwrites

#clark kent x female reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent #clark kent smut #superman smut #superman fanfiction #superman x reader #superman x you #clark kent x y/n

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nympheagain · 5 days ago

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Pairing: Clark Kent x Camgirl!Reader

Summary: In which Clark Kent has a dirty secret. And it just so happens to be you.

W/c: 3.5k

Tags: Smut, Clark edges himself, sub!Clark i think, exhibitionist!reader, clark is a yearner (naturally), not edited

A/n: I have finals next week but I cannot stop thinking about Clark Kent. I need that man. Under me. Now.

Also i wrote like half before tumblr decided to fuck me over so don't mind the kinda lazy ending (screaming on the inside)

You’d begun to wonder if you’d ever be able to put your journalistic education to use.

But then, a beacon. A light in the sea of darkness. Right there on your 7 year old MacBook Air. A flashing sign: MAKE UP TO 6000 DOLLARS A MONTH FROM HOME!

- - -

But Clark Kent had a dirty secret.

A filthy indulgence. One no one else knew about.

He'd stumbled onto the site accidentally whilst formulating a dating profile that Lois and Jimmy had coerced him into. Much too sheltered, they'd called him. Need a good fuck, they'd said.

And there you were. Like an angel among devils, soft thighs plush in some work tights as you greeted the camera, supple voice tingling in his ears as you worked your way out of your work clothes.

Your face covered meticulously by a masquerade mask, plush lips held into a pout as you blinked at the camera.

“Had three interviews today, and not one call back.” You sigh, shifting back into your bed. You lean against the pillows, head falling back as you trace your body with your fingers.

Jonny6inch: of course you do, sexy

Needsasubby: yes, cum for us

Anonymous69: please, need to see it

You hum, happy with the collective decision. Clark feels his pants tighten. He’s sweating, and his heart is beating abnormally fast compared to his usual alien physiology.

After all, what would Boy Scout Superman be doing on a site like this?

---

After that, it becomes a ritual.

One weekend, you stream wearing nothing but a baby tee with the superman logo and soft blue cotton panties. He almost comes untouched.

He aches to pull them out of you.

You're becoming so distracting that Clark doesn't even realise when he runs head first into the new hire, almost knocking her down with his comically gigantic frame.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," He's murmuring, voice surprisingly soft for someone so large.

You smile up at him, shaking your head dismissively. "Ah no worries, I’m very easy to bump into.”

He laughs at that. Loud and deep chested. Like he means it. It makes something inside of you twinge.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Clark Kent." You shake his hand, watching the way it engulfs yours.

In knowing how you made people feel. And oh did they let you know. You'd keep the chat box on during your streams just to let the comments flood in.

woman_lovr469: just like that ma

jacksss112: fuck, you're so hot

deeznutzzz: the things I would do to you

You skim through them, eyes glittering at the thought of all these different people behind the screen, drooling at the sight of you undressing. The power you held hummed underneath your skin.

But then there's one comment. One that stands out among the others. It's less desperate. More raw. Like there was actual intent behind those words. Actual meaning.

superman112: You look gorgeous like that.

You pause. Blinking at the screen. You don't know what to make of it.

"Superman, huh?" You giggle to yourself, imagining the real man with the captial S on his chest making time to watch and comment on your little streams.

"I'd let Superman take me," You muse, mostly to yourself. Clark sits up at that, pants painfully tight as he leans in. But the comments don't seem to like what they're hearing.

jacksss112: he sucks. i could fuck you better than he ever could.

anonymous6969: superman is the worst. he wouldn't know how to handle you.

11incher: i bet his dick is small. that's why he wears his undies on top of the suit.

He feels bold. A bit funny. Completely unlike himself.

superman112: Would you like to find out?

When he hears you chuckle, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

---

"Hi Clark!" You're smiling at him, that cute smile that makes his heart ache in a way that he didn't know was possible. He's smiling back, stumbling over himself and almost dropping his coffee.

It couldn't be...

Then he brushes it off. Shakes his head and goes back to writing his article. Because that would be crazy. A huge, crazy, dirty, filthy coincidence.

---

You were online.

Drafts and articles abandoned, Clark carries the laptop with him to bed, setting on top of his thighs as he relaxes and waits for you to begin.

But that would never happen.

So he remains resigned to watching you from the sidelines. Wishing he'd get to know you. Knowing that it would never happen.

---

It's extremely early in the office when Clark gets in. The sun is yet to rise, and there's no sign of life in the office other than your keyboard clacking away at your cubicle.

You're yawning when he sets a coffee down next to you. You smile up at him, hands reaching towards the warm mug,

"Late night?" He asks.

You blush like you don't know how to answer him. You open your mouth to respond, then close it, deciding to opt for a nod.

"I'm at work." Clark knows it’s wrong but tune's his hearing onto your conversation anyway.

"Mmm, yeah." You respond.

He strains, but he can't hear what your friend is saying on the other line.

But then:

"Think superman might be following me." You say suggestively, giggling.

Now Clark had an even dirtier secret. He got his rocks off to the sight of his coworker touching herself. And she doesn't even know.

An impulsive thought crosses your mind. You decide to head down real quick and grab a bite for yourself and Clark. Y'know, to repay him for all his kindness.

You turn around for a second, reaching back to where you dropped some napkins, bending down to grab them.

Clark gets the final confirmation he needs.

Those tights. The pink panties underneath. He'd recognise those anywhere. The image you stripping them off yourself was burned into his eyelids.

"Let's eat at mine." He blurts out. You whirl round, shocked by the sudden suggestion. By the urgency behind it as Clark packs up his desk.

"You sure?" You ask.

"Yeah, it's not too far from here. And the couch is more comfortable than this stiff chairs." You nod in agreement, walking back to your desk to collect your items.

---

You head further into the living room, shrugging your shoes off and heading towards the couch. Clark was right, you did need a nice comfy seat.

Then you hear a thud. You turn around, shocked at the sight of Clark in front of you.

"You're her." Is all he offers as explanation.

You gulp. Hands at your sides. You try, only for a second, to think of the logistics of the situation. Clark was your coworker. You see each other every day. Think. Be smart. Don't be- ahhh fuck it.

Clark was sniffing you. You don't know whether to call him a pervert or pull his hair. You decide to do both.

He moans into your touch. Still, while appreciative, you wonder what could have triggered this sudden onset of lust.

"Clark," you inquire. "What's this all about?"

He's got a hungry look in his eyes. "Watched you for months," he begins, voice hoarse and lashes wet. "Watched you for months, and didn't touch myself once. Just watched. Fuck, you're so beautiful."

And then you understand. You know who he is. Without even asking, you know who he is.

"Oh, so you're my superman." You scoff slightly, tugging his hair to urge him upwards. He obeys easily.

“Poor baby.” You sigh, hands pushing him backwards onto his couch.

Clark whines. A full fledged, too-far-gone whine.

You decide you can tease him about it later.

Fumbling with his zipper, you're about to stand up to let him take his pants off when he's lifting his thighs up, pulling them off from underneath him like you weighed nothing.

You see his bulge even clearer now, and you'd be intimidated if not for the puppy eyes Clark was currently giving you. It was big, and bigger even when you pulled him out of his boxers.

You set a rhythm of pumping him, twisting your fist around the base, relishing in his noises, and the way his hips jerk when you thumb at his tip.

“Fuck, does that make you feel good?” You not so sure why you're asking, seeing as the way he was acting told you all you needed to know.

Clark feels dizzy. He thinks he might’ve died and entered heaven. God, you looked like a vision above him.

Would your viewers object to a guest star?

---

Can you tell I had fun making up the usernames?

Taglist:

@l1zard-l3ague @needylittleprince @repairheartzz @cosmiiwrites

#nympheagain #clark kent smut #clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x you #clark kent fanfiction #superman fanfiction #dividersbyanimatedglittergraphics-n-more #superman smut #clark kent imagine

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nympheagain · 5 days ago

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How I imagine Geto in the fics

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nympheagain · 5 days ago

Text

show stealer!

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nympheagain · 7 days ago

Text

Superman can hear you moan -C.K

Synopsis: You didn’t think Clark could hear you moaning his name while your fingers were buried deep between your thighs—until he knocked on your door and proved just how hard it was to ignore. Turns out Superman has super hearing… and zero self-control when you beg for him out loud.

cw: Unprotected sex, oral (f receiving). Creampie. Fingering. Mutual masturbation. Voice kink. Riding. Dominance/power play. Slight breeding kink. Possessive Clark. super strength use (light). Exhibitionism implications (he can hear you anywhere).

Metropolis rent was hell.

It was supposed to be just a financial arrangement—two broke twenty-somethings sharing a halfway decent apartment. You met him at some friend's birthday dinner and hit it off over cheap wine and sarcastic commentary about everyone else there. A month later, you were hauling your mattress into a shared two-bedroom.

The first few weeks were shockingly chill. You never really pried into his business—even when he vanished at weird hours or came back with tousled hair and a faint scorch mark on his flannel. You knew. Of course you knew. You weren’t an idiot. But you didn’t ask.

What he didn’t tell you? That he had super fucking hearing.

Scratch that—you had no fucking idea he could hear everything. The soft, wet glide of your fingers. The hitch of your breath. The whisper of “fuck, Clark” that slipped out before you even realized it.

So when you were tossing in bed one night, too restless to sleep, thoughts swirling with everything but rest—maybe it was the way Clark had walked out of the bathroom earlier with a towel slung so low you could see the V of his hips, wet curls dripping onto his shoulders—you’d let your hand drift under the hem of your sleep shirt.

It started soft. Lazy. Gentle. Just trying to calm your body enough to sleep. But your mind wandered. Images of Clark. His mouth. His hands. The way he said your name in that gravelly, sleepy voice when you passed him a mug of coffee in the mornings. Before you knew it, your fingers were slick, breath quick, teeth buried in your lower lip as your thighs squeezed together.

And Clark? Clark was two rooms away, jaw clenched so tight he thought he might crack a molar.

He’d heard everything. The soft gasp when you found that perfect rhythm. The quiet, desperate whimper of his name.

He gave you ten minutes. Ten excruciating minutes. But when you whimpered again—so fucking sweet and breathless, “God, Clark…”—he lost it.

You didn’t even have time to adjust your sleep shirt when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

Then silence.

You scrambled, fingers sticky, heart racing as you yanked the blanket up and tried to catch your breath. “Uh—yeah?”

Clark’s voice came low, strained, from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

You froze. “What?” you squeaked, already flushed.

A beat. Then: “I—I can hear you.”

Your entire body went cold. Then hot. Then achingly wet again.

“Clark,” you breathed, panic rising, embarrassment licking at your spine.

But when the door creaked open—just enough for his silhouette to fill the doorway—you saw the look in his eyes. Like it had taken every ounce of restraint not to burst in sooner.

“You—you heard me?”

His eyes dropped to the blanket still clutched to your chest. “I can hear a lot of things,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “But you? You were loud enough to drive me fucking crazy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when Clark stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, shutting the door behind him.

You were still holding the blanket to your chest, knuckles white. But Clark’s eyes were burning a hole straight through it—and you. “I tried,” he muttered, voice low. “I tried to ignore it. Tried to be decent. But you—you were in here fucking moaning my name like you wanted me to hear it.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” you whispered, lips barely moving. “I didn’t think—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to say my name?” he cut in, moving closer. Your bed creaked as he leaned a hand on the footboard. “Or you didn’t mean for me to hear you fuck yourself to the thought of me?” Your heart thudded so loud you were sure he could hear that too.

“I—I didn’t think—” you stammered, throat dry, skin fever-hot. “I didn’t know you could hear me.”

Clark’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry. “I always hear you.”

That made your thighs clench under the blanket. “Fuck.” Clark's eyes dropped, following the motion. He smirked—like he could see through the blanket. Honestly, maybe he could. “Can I please touch you?” He asked, almost a whine.

Your back hit your bed. He bent low, hands gripping the backs of your thighs and dragging you down the bed so fast the mattress squeaked. His head ducked between your legs before you could even moan.

Your head thrashed back, eyes rolling, and the second he sucked your clit into his mouth you came—hard—grinding helplessly against his face as he groaned and licked you through it

He pulled back only when your legs trembled uncontrollably, chin slick, eyes glazed over. “Get on top of me,” he growled, standing and tossing his shirt aside. “Ride me, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on me like you did with your fingers.”

You didn’t even think. You crawled into his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, bare and fucking carved from marble. Your fingers wrapped around his cock—it was huge, thick and heavy and throbbing—and your stomach flipped.

“You gonna fit?” you whispered, teasing.

He smirked darkly. “You’re gonna take it.”

And you did.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, your moans turning to whimpers as he stretched you open. His hands gripped your waist, helping you rock, bounce, take every inch with filthy, possessive murmurs.

“That’s it, baby—fuck—look at you, takin’ all of it.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Clark—Clark—”

“I know you did,” he growled. “Could hear how bad you wanted it. Hear it every night, baby.”

“Every night?” you cried, jaw dropping.

“Every time you touch yourself.” His thrusts were brutal now, bouncing you like a ragdoll on his lap. “Every time you think you’re being quiet. You think I don’t hear how wet you get when I walk around in just a towel? You think I didn’t notice the way you moan into your pillow when you think I’ve gone to bed?”

You gasped, fingernails dragging down his chest. Your orgasm slammed into you with a scream—tight, fast, messy—and you came gushing around him.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me—” he grunted. “I’m gonna cum—fuck” He groaned into your neck as he came, hard, gripping you tight as his cock throbbed deep inside your soaked, spasming cunt. The flood of warmth filled you up until it spilled down your thighs, your entire body limp in his lap.

You collapsed forward, his arms tight around your waist. Both of you, panting and sweaty. Until he exhaled a laugh and brushed your hair back gently from your face. “Guess I should’ve told you about the superhearing sooner.”

You blinked. Still hazy. “You think?”

He grinned. “You gonna stop now that you know?”

You smirked. “What do you think, Superman?”

a/n: sometimes I wonder if I’m too slutty

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nympheagain · 7 days ago

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ATTENTION!

Clark Kent x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, phone sex, ur both down bad, HR is calling!! (this is bizarre I’m sorry)

a/n: first time writing outside of the batboys I’m shaking in my boots..

wc: 1.8k | masterlist

“Clark.. you told me you’d log off for the night.” You can’t help rolling your eyes, sitting up on your bed slightly as you stare at your laptop, phone on speaker beside you “You’ll burn yourself out.”

Your coworker just shrugs, staring at his own screen as he leans back in his chair.

Overtime at the office hardly counts if he loves his job, right?

“You’re still online, too.” Clark points out, the slight smirk on his face is almost obvious through his voice alone.

“I’m not working.”

“No? I just saw you edit that document like.. three seconds ago.” Clark counters, arching a brow as he stares at the Word file in front of him.

“..well I’ll log off when you do.” You mumble, too tired to argue with him at this point.

“Okay, okay, fine. Just send me the draft for that column okay? I’ll leave you alone, promise!”

“Clark.” You blink, staring at your phone and then your laptop - of course, he’s still online. Very much lurking in that document. “It’s past midnight, go home to bed. You’re only human.”

That earns a small chuckle from the other end of the line, part genuine amusement.. part disbelief at just how wrong you are.

“Fine, just send it over okay? I wanna have a look over the sources.”

“You just want to stay up all night fangirling over Superman, don’t bullshit with me,” you mumble, though you find yourself scrolling through the files on your laptop nonetheless - of course you do.

“You’re the best.”

“I know. I’m just gonna send you a few source links, I’m still polishing that draft.” You mumble under your breath, sleepily pasting the link into an email.

“The whole point of a draft is that it’s unpolished and-”

“Stop talking.” You cut him off, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

“..yes ma’am.” Clark huffs, brows furrowing a little bit when he sees what’s just hit his already overflowing email inbox.

“..Twitter, seriously?”

“What?” You argue. Clark is almost sure he can hear you rolling your eyes, already able to picture your exasperated expression through the phone, “People have all sorts of opinions on this guy okay? We can’t be biased, even if you’ve got a little crush on the guy.”

“Excuse me, I do not have a crush on Superman.” Clark pouts to himself, adjusting his glasses as his cursor hovers over the link “..this better not be like threads upon threads of ragebait or something..”

He cuts himself off, line going silent as he just stares at his screen - like every word he’s ever learned has just decided to evaporate from his vocabulary entirely.

No, most definitely not ragebait.

“Clark?” your brows furrow, holding your phone a little closer to your ear, “Clark? Is your reception bad or something?”

“Uh,” he swallows, fingers digging into the material of his slacks, “yeah uh, I’ll call you back.”

Well and truly, he was expecting that dumb social media shit he’s used to. You know - #supershit, speculations and rumours all revolving around who the hell this whole Superman is, and maybe a thirst tweet here and there..

Yeah, no. This isn’t just a casual thread of thirst tweets. It’s a whole profile.

Hundreds of posts, no bio - a blurry profile picture. A burner account, clearly.

Clark in his seat slightly, eyes narrowing under his glasses as he leans in a little closer to his laptop - no, no way he recognises that blur of a person in the photo, no way.

He’s reading too much into this right? He’s getting distracted. You’ve obviously sent him the wrong link.

He just needs to see what the internet is saying and turn his laptop off. He promised you he’d log off.

But did a little bit of curiosity ever hurt anyone? He’s a journalist for gods sake.

Clark stares at his laptop for another moment, taking a small breath before moving his cursor and making the decision to scroll down and have a look at those god forsaken tweets.

might start standing naked by my window just in case that superman guy happens to be flying by ://

“Oh,” Clark blinks, tilting his head like a confused puppy before scrolling down again.

Seriously? This is what people use their own free will to post on the internet? Forever??

I'm not joking the new guy at my job is so fucking hot I need to crawl under that desk NOW.

superman supertall (like 6’3????) so how big that superdick??

“I’m 6’4.” He mumbles under his breath, unable to keep a hint of a pout off his lips at the misinformation.

j*b application this, j*b promotion that well how about I hunt down superman and give him a BLOWJOB??????

“Huh,” He bites his tongue, eyes narrowing as he stares at that little profile picture in the top corner. He’s tired, he’s half delusional. No way in hell he recognises this blur of a person.

Okay, he can’t help himself.

He has to scroll down just a little bit further.

This superfan of his just caught his attention, alright?

Long story short it’s how he’s ended up down a rabbit hole - eyes all wide as he stares at his screen in front of him, lips slightly parted.

Okay, fuck. This little fan of his is stupidly hot and seemingly has no shame whatsoever, especially online.

Worst of all, he can’t stop scrolling, the tent in his slacks getting worse by the second.

He’s shifting around in his chair, one hand clutching his tie to try and keep himself together - he’s at the office for fucks sake. He can’t be pulling this shit here.

But one tweet. One singular tweet and he swears he’s having a heart attack.

lowkey stopped wearing underwear to work, just in case my coworker wants to fuck me over his desk :p

Paired with very compelling photographic evidence that has him fumbling with his god damn glasses, making sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

That’s you. It fucking has to be.

Bad lighting, legs pushed apart and taken right at the desk he’s sat at right now. On his own fucking chair.

He’d laugh at the fact you were accusing him of a crush on Superman if he wasn’t so painfully fucking horny right now.

He wants to log off and turn that stupid laptop off, he really does.

But he has to keep scrolling.

How could he have been so oblivious in the last few months?

Sure, you’ve always been nice to him. Maybe a little but flirty but fuck, this is something else entirely.

He’s always been able to play it off with an awkward huff, a stupid little grin under his breath as he adjusted his glasses.

He’d fidget with his tie, hide his flushed face behind his favourite mug you’d gotten him for a little office Christmas gift and act like he didn’t want to fuck you right then and there.

See, Clark really does like you.

Everything from how you colour code all your folders to how dedicated you are to your job - to the stupidly fucking tight blouse you wear that has him questioning his sanity and awkwardly pulling his chair closer to his desk so you don’t see his raging boner.

And now that he’s found your stupid little account? He can’t take it anymore.

It was an accident, surely you didn’t mean to send him that link. He should stop, log off. He can’t.

Not when he knows you’d crawl right under that fucking desk and take his cock down your throat if you could (your words, not his)

Now, Clark is a nice guy. He really is. He’s always got that little smile on his face that makes his dimples extra prominent around you, that one slightly loose curl falling into his eyes.

But you’ve reduced him to a panting mess, arching back against his desk chair as he desperately pumps his cock - and you’re not even there.

You’re probably asleep by now, maybe you’re still working.

Maybe you’re neither. Maybe you’re still up and in bed writing those stupid fucking thirst tweets - one-handed, hopefully.

“S-shit,” Clark hisses under his breath, one hand gripping the armrest of his chair as he tries to keep his voice down despite the office being empty at this hour.

He’s leaking badly, his hands shaking just a little as he grips his cock at the base, spreading his pre-cum down his length for some relief.

He could probably fly across Metropolis to your apartment and fuck you right now - if he could form a coherent thought, that is.

He’d find your little tweets funny if he wasn’t worse than you are. So much fucking worse.

He can barely recognise himself in the mirror when he has to run out to the bathroom to rub one out cause he felt your breath down his neck when you stood behind him to read something over his shoulder.

It just keeps happening. Every time your shoulder brushes against his, each time he tells some joke that has you pushing at his chest with an “Oh, you’re so funny, Clark!”

There’s nothing funny about this anymore.

“Ah, f-fuck,” He’s biting down on his tie so he doesn’t whine like a whore, glasses fogged up and almost falling off of his flushed face as his hips desperately buck up into his hand.

He couldn’t even put his thoughts about you into words if he tried.

At least you manage to be coherent when you do it.

Clark can’t. All he can do is pant and whine - fucking his fist so hard he could almost break down and sob right there.

He’s literally Superman. He’s meant to be the pinnacle of good in society but all he is right now is a pussy-whipped loser, Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat as he fumbles to reach for the phone.

He can’t cum without hearing your voice, even if it’s just for a second. He should feel bad, he might wake you.

But the thought of your voice all soft and sleepy makes his cock twitch in his hand, unable to hold back a shaky whimper as he rubs his thumb over his leaking slit.

“..Clark?” Your brows furrow as you accept the call, barely lifting your head from the comfort of your pillow “You alright?”

He’s far from alright, the sound of your voice making his back arch up off the creaky leather.

“Y-yeah,” he’s barely able to croak out an answer, nearly knocking the whole phone off the desk as he shakily grips the handset.

“What’s wrong? It’s late,”

He doesn’t know what to tell you.

It’s not like he can admit he’s jerking himself off in the middle of the night - at work, no less.

“M-misinformation, lies!” he manages a pant, teeth pressing into his bottom lip so hard it could bleed.

“What?” You rasp, sitting up slightly.

“M’not 6’3,” his voice is bordering on a whine, struggling to string a sentence together.

“S-six four, I’m 6’4.”

a/n: hi I’m gonna get “I <3 nerds” as a tramp stamp in the comic sans font I’m not joking.

Superman Superslut!! (Pls send me Clark ideas if u have em..)

Love u thank u for reading!!

309 notes · View notes

nympheagain · 7 days ago

Text

i have gotta stop giving a fuck about appearances and just write the shit i wanna read. like, nobody wants to fuck vigilante from peacemaker? how about tyler durden from fight club? westley from the princess bride? not even killian jones from once upon a time? god, nobody is yearning to be full of joy and whimsy anymore… i feel like i’m the only real lover girl (whore) around here these days 💔

26 notes · View notes

nympheagain · 8 days ago

Text

to whom it may concern

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent word count: 18k Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself. notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.”

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.

Then you go.

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait.

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know.

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you��re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

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nympheagain · 10 days ago

Text

fuck

MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE!

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─ ✮⋆˙PAIR: Clark Kent x fem!reader

─ ✮⋆˙WC: 5.2k

─ ✮⋆˙@polkadottprincess SAYS: on the clark kent agenda as well!!!! maybe a size kink?! or dare i say edging.

─ ✮⋆˙CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, reader is a journalist, established relationship, so much banter, clark kent is a FLIRT and a SLUT, a risqué interview, roleplaying…kind of, sub clark leaning, dirty talk, handjob, size kink YES, edging hehehe, superman’s super huge dick, hyperspermia, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙NAT’S NOTE: guys i genuinely don’t know how to describe the plot of this in a way that makes sense. okay so basically clark can’t get you a interview with superman, but he can get you the next best thing. himself. that’s it. i don’t think that makes sense but hear me out! it’s good i promise! i had so much fun writing my last clark fic that i needed to write another one. maybe i’ll write even more who knows… that’s code for i have three wips sitting pretty literally as we speak…anyway bye bye now hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you and clark have a conversation about superman…

There are certainly worse places to work than the Daily Planet office.

Sure, it's a little chaotic and the coffee machine spits out something vaguely offensive most mornings. Sure, it's a little loud and you tend to get migraines when you're stuck in the thick of it too long.

There are positives too, and they're pretty good ones. You get a beautiful view of Metropolis from your desk. You get the thrill of real, gritty stories right under your fingers. And most days, the company isn't half bad.

That is, except when Clark Kent gets yet another exclusive with Superman.

The bullpen is buzzing with the usual chaos that comes with mid-Monday mornings.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The sporadic clicks from dozens of mouses. The sharp sounds of high heels and fancy loafers against the marble floors.

You’re elbow deep in a piece on the harmful carbon emissions caused by LexCorp, a chai latte from the cafe across the street slowly melting beside your keyboard as you type.

You're on your third paragraph—halfway through describing a particularly egregious cover up involving offshore dumping—when Jimmy’s voice slices through the room, too loud and chipper for a Monday.

“Front page again, man.” Jimmy excitedly slaps a new paper on Clark’s desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He shoves Clark’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “You have Superman on speed dial or what?”

You glance up from your screen, fingers pausing over the keys.

Clark—sweet, modest Clark—smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. They weren’t even slipping down his nose. “Thanks, Jimmy. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Right place at the right time.

Bullshit.

That’s the third time he’s used that particular line in the last four months.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in your head, and lean back in your chair, attention shifting. “Man of Steel must have a type, huh?” You’re loud enough for Clark and Jimmy to hear you across the walkway. “He only ever talks to Clark.”

Clark catches your eye, the edges of his smile a little smugger than before when he tilts his head to the right just so. “Jealous, loud mouth?”

You scoff, eyes narrowing. “Of course I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Superman for weeks and he hands them out to you like candy. It’s blatant favoritism.”

Lois finally speaks up from her desk next to yours, not looking up from her screen. “And you’re Clark’s favorite. It balances out.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Jimmy cuts in before you can speak, holding his hands up in front of him. “I’m clearly Clark’s favorite. I thought everyone picked up on that?”

You suck your teeth, ignoring Jimmy. “If I was really Clark’s favorite he’d quit hogging Superman and put in an extremely gushing, ass-kissing word for me. Wouldn’t you, Clarkie?”

That earns a chuckle from Jimmy, and a slightly sharper one from Clark himself—but he still doesn’t rise to your bait. He just gives you that polite little Clark Kent smile, all warm and wholesome and harmless. The one that makes people underestimate him.

“I’ll find a way to work in the ass-kissing,” he nods, overly serious. You can see right through it. “Promise.”

You hum noncommittally, plucking a loose pencil off your desk. “Someone jot that down. I want it in writing.”

“Kiss my ass all you want while you’re at it, Clark.” Lois pipes up again, her bored tone underscored by the way her fingers fly over her keyboard. Click click click. “I’d throw myself off the top of the building if it got me an interview with Superman.”

“I’d kill for ten minutes with Superman,” you add, idly twirling the pencil in your hand as you sway side to side in your chair.

Jimmy snorts, shamelessly flipping through Clark’s notepad. “Who wouldn’t these days.”

Clark ignores him much like you did. He glances at you over the frame of his glasses, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that a professional request?”

“Very professional,” you say coolly, arching a brow. “Strictly for journalistic purposes.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“Extremely professional.” You repeat, tone dipping into something a little warmer.

Clark catches on, because of course he does. His eyes flash with something new that you can see even from where you’re sitting. He cuts his gaze to the way your thumb glides along the shiny edge of your pencil. Up and down. Up and down.

You watch his throat work around a thick swallow. The slouch he’s had all morning straightens out for a single breath, showing off just how broad those shoulders really are under that boxy suit.

The others don’t notice the sudden tension. Lois is too busy typing, fueled by the third sugar filled coffee cluttered around her, and Jimmy tends to be more oblivious when it’s this early.

“Well,” Clark says mildly, back to slouching in his chair. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re interested. Next time I see him.”

You arch a brow, pretending not to notice the curl of heat that slides low in your stomach when he says it.

“Next time I see him.” Like they’re neighbors. Buddies.

Almost like they share a mirror.

You let yourself smile, the barest hint of one. Clark still beams right back at you like the slight raise of your lips is the best thing he’s seen all morning. “You do that, Clark. I’ll be sure to wear my shiniest pair of readers, to make him feel more comfortable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and turns back to his screen, but you can still see the dopey grin on his face clear as day.

You bite your lip, stifling your own matching smile, and get back to work.

Your apartment is dim, quiet. It’s lit in that soft, late evening kind of way—warm lamplight pooling in corners. The faint hum of the city bleeds in through your half open window, the bustle of people walking the streets mixing with the low rumble of traffic three stories down.

You’re sitting on your couch, legs folded under you as your laptop rests on your knees. The loose sleep shorts you changed into as soon as you got home are riding up your thighs, an old Smallville Crows sweatshirt you stole from Clark hangs off your left shoulder as you try to work.

Try being the word of the night so far.

LexCorp isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, unfortunately, and offshore dumping doesn’t expose itself. So, the same article you were working on at the office stares back at your tired eyes, and it’s slowly starting to feel like it’s mocking you.

The cursor blinks steadily on the too bright screen, daring you to try and finish the pathetic excuse of a paragraph you’ve been stuck on for nearly twenty minutes. You chew the inside of your cheek, your nails drumming over the touchpad so you don’t start ripping the keys off in frustration.

You’re just about to call it and toss your laptop aside when there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t get up, you hardly even blink at the three quiet raps against the wood. You already know who it is.

The sound of a key, your spare key, sliding into your lock is loud in the quiet enveloping you. The door creaks open and Clark’s voice follows as soon as it’s closed.

“You forgot lunch today,” he calls from the doorway, toeing his shoes off. “I didn’t want you forgetting dinner too.”

You hum as the soft sound of socked feet make their way closer, not looking up from your laptop. “Isn’t that sweet of you.”

A bag is dropped next to you on the couch, heavy and warm against your bare thigh. “Falafel from the spot you like,” he says from somewhere behind you, bright and almost giddy—like he’s been waiting to tell you all day. “And a cream soda for the best reporter in Metropolis.”

“You’re such a suck up, Kent.” You tsk softly, shaking your head. “Cream soda? That must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

Strong arms close around your shoulders, and Clark’s scent washes over you. The metallic tang of ozone, of fresh cut grass and sunny warmth. “Mhm, it was worth it.”

Clark kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling. He presses another kiss to your temple. Sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear teasingly, the warmth of his breath sends goosebumps pebbling up your arms. “You were really giving it to me back at the office, you should do that more often.”

It's unmistakably husky, his tone. Husky and low and hushed next to your ear, letting you really hear the heat behind it.

Clark’s arms tighten around you, pressing himself into your back as much as he can with the couch still separating you both. Another kiss to the edge of your jaw. “You’re so sexy when you’re ticked off at me.”

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to give Clark more room to press kisses along your skin. “Me telling you off in front of Jimmy gets you hot?”

Clark chuckles against your skin, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything on you. He’d look terrible in a pencil skirt.”

You huff, closing your laptop. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

You finally turn your head, peering up at Clark hunched over you. He’s already looking back, eyes bright. You only get a glimpse of that perfect smile before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but chaste. It’s the first kiss you’ve had since he left your apartment late last night.

Clark tastes like sugar and salt—like the honeyed fizz of cream soda and the briny note of wind that clings to his skin no matter what time of day it is. He kisses like he does everything else, devastatingly earnest and impossibly sweet. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to his memory. Like he’s trying to leave your taste on his lips for days.

Clark kisses like he means it—every swipe of his tongue, every soft sound into your mouth, every gentle pull of your lower lip between his teeth.

His glasses bump your forehead with every move. He still has them on, even here with you where he doesn’t need them. You feel the press of them anyway, clunky and in the way, but it’s almost charming—so unmistakably Clark it makes your chest squeeze.

When his fingers curl into the worn down fabric of your sweatshirt, tugging gently as he deepens the kiss, you're the one who has to pull back for breath.

“You're not allowed to distract me,” you whisper, voice light, lips brushing his. “I’m supposed to be working.”

Clark just hums, eyes still slipped closed. “I missed you.” Another kiss. “Been thinking about this all day.” Another kiss. “About you.”

He kisses the smile right off your lips, his other hand sliding down your back slowly—mapping out the notches of your spine. He toys with the hem of your sweatshirt, sliding his touch under the cotton to find the curve of your waist. It’s not entirely innocent, the way his thumb slips under the waistband of your shorts.

Your lips are already swollen, you can almost feel the blood rushing to them. You pull back again, blinking like you’ve been spun in circles. “You saw me six hours ago, Kansas.”

Clark grins, cheeks flushed. “That’s six hours too long.”

You smile, your hand coming up to brush your fingers through his messy curls. “Well, I’m here now.” Your fingers trail lightly along the side of his face. Clark leans into your touch, kissing your palm before you’re squishing his cheeks together. “And you brought me falafel, so you can stay.”

“Don’t forget the cream soda,” he says, voice wobbly from the pressure of your hand smushing his lips together. “What do I get for that?”

You shake his head back and forth fondly, still smiling. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You plant one last, exaggerated kiss on his pouty lips and drop your hand. Clark smiles, squeezing your hip once before he’s straightening up and making his way around the couch.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He sits next to you, plucking your feet off the couch long enough to settle into the cushions before draping them over his lap. “Let’s get some food in you first.”

You sigh, but you’re reaching for the bag anyway. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until amazing smelling street food was brought into your apartment. “Spoil sport.”

You sit together like that for who knows how long, sharing bites of falafel and sips of soda.

The conversation is easy, just like it always is. You talk about the mess at LexCorp, Clark listens intently. Humming and nodding in agreement as he rubs your feet. He brings up some dull city council ordinance he’s been pretending to care about all week just to get quotes for Perry.

You let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the press of his thumb against your ankle as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the bone.

It's nice. Soft, domestic. The kind of evening you’d always imagined when things between you and Clark stopped hovering in the “is this flirting or am I insane?” phase and finally landed squarely in “he brings you dinner and has a toothbrush in your bathroom” territory.

It’s only when the lull sets in—comfortable and slow, your belly full and his fingers tracing the bare skin of your calf lazily—that you really let yourself look at him.

Clark is so handsome like this. Taking up space in your apartment like it’s second nature, squeezing into a space far too small for him just to be close to you, illuminated by the soft orange glow of your ancient thrift store lamp.

Handsome in that painfully earnest, infuriatingly humble, Midwestern farm boy way.

You feel a sort of possessive victory in it, getting to see Clark like this—in a way that very few people do. Here, with you, he can be himself. He doesn't need to constantly watch what he says, to reel it in in fear of compromising himself. He doesn’t need to put up a front.

He can just be Clark.

Not Superman. Not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter.

Just Clark. Your Clark.

It drives you absolutely crazy, it always has.

It makes you want to stretch him between your fingers like taffy, to crunch down on him between your teeth like hard candy. It makes you want to ruin him.

Then, somewhere between the food and the comfortable silence, Clark’s tone shifts.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “About what you said at the office this morning.”

You blink at him, raising your brow. “I said a lot of things at the office this morning. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About wanting an interview. With Superman.” Clark’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. “You said you’d kill for ten minutes with him.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “That was professional desperation.”

“Strictly journalistic?” he deadpans, echoing your words from earlier.

“Very serious. Pulitzer level serious, even.”

Clark grins, and you know then—he’s winding you up. Slowly. Deliberately. That warm Kansas boy charm tightening around your ribs like a silk ribbon.

“Well, bad news,” he says, forlorn. “Superman’s calendar is booked solid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yup,” he says with a pop of his lips, still rubbing slow circles over your ankle. “Big world. Lots of people to save.”

You sigh dramatically. “Shame. I had such good questions lined up.”

Clark shrugs one shoulder, smile sly. “He’s hard to reach, you know that. But I figured…if I can’t get you Superman, I could get you the next best thing.”

Your brows knit together, confused. “And what’s that?”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping, playful but unmistakably suggestive. “Clark Kent.”

You tilt your head, slow and wary. “Clark Kent?”

“Clark Kent,” he nods, eyes gleaming. “Superman’s number one source. His—let’s say—closest personal contact.”

You snort, but you’re already caught up in it. Already invested in the game. “You’re full of shit.”

He sits back, sprawling onto the armrest with theatrical ease, like he owns the place—and really, at this point, he kind of does. “Try me.”

You blink, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he stresses, adjusting his glasses like some parody of a news anchor. “You can ask me anything about Superman. His habits, his routines, his, uh…” he trails off with a twitch of a smile, “...personal tastes.”

Your lips part, breath catching just slightly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still want that interview, don’t you?”

The moment hangs. Warm, fizzy, a little dangerous. Clark and you both know a little danger is never enough to scare you away.

“Alright,” you murmur, still suspicious as you sit up a little straighter, swiping your notepad off the coffee table. “Just remember, you asked for this.”

Clark nods slowly, putting a hand over his heart. “Do your worst.”

You narrow your eyes at him, searching for some kind of catch. Clark just looks back, smiling.

“Okay.” You shrug, flipping your notepad open. You grab the pencil tucked behind your ear, raising it in front of Clark’s lips like a microphone. “Please state your name for the record.”

Clark clears his throat, dipping his head to speak into the eraser. “Clark Joseph Kent.”

You nod, jotting it down. “First question.” You tap your pencil on the paper, dragging out the suspense. “The suit—how in the world does it stay up if it doesn’t have a belt?”

Clark snorts, but his expression remains composed, playing his part. “Kryptonian tech. The fabric conforms to his body. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

You raise a brow. “And what about underneath?”

A pause. Then, calm as can be: “Nothing underneath.”

Your pulse skips a beat. “Huh.”

He watches you, tilting his head. “Next question?”

You try to keep your tone light, playful. “Let’s do an easy one. What’s he like…off the record?”

Clark hums, rolling his head on his shoulders like he’s really thinking. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Reads more than you’d expect.”

“Mhm. Nerd,” you tease.

“Bit of one, yeah,” he agrees.

You hum, writing. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark smiles but he doesn’t answer.

“Okay next…” You chew your pencil, thinking it over. “Is he single?”

Clark blinks behind his glasses, then laughs. “You’re seriously asking that?”

You nod, overly serious. “It’s a relevant question, Kent. The people want to know.”

Clark’s cheeks pink slightly, and his voice is quiet. “He’s…seeing someone. Secretly.”

“Oh?” You perk up, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Do tell. Is she beautiful?”

Clark’s voice softens, barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

You pause. That one lands. Hits something low and warm deep inside you. “Anyone I know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says softly, like a confession. “She drives him insane.”

You squirm where you sit, phantom flames lapping at your skin. “Does she?”

“She does.” Clark hums, nodding his head. His eyes never leave yours.

You aren’t even writing in your notepad anymore, too caught up in a game that’s starting to feel less and less like a game with each passing second. “How.”

He leans in just a little, his voice going husky. “The way she talks. Her brain. Her mouth. Her smart little attitude.” His hand trails along the couch behind you. “The way she looks at him like she knows he’s not invincible.”

“Sounds like she’s really into him.” You will your voice not to shake, but it doesn’t work. You’re too wound up. The tension between you and Clark growing thicker and thicker.

“Oh, she is,” Clark murmurs. “Says things sometimes that make him feel like he’s gonna burn through his skin.”

You lean in, tongue coming out to swipe along your bottom lip. “Like what?”

“She tells him she wants to get fucked by Superman,” Clark says softly, cheeks more pink. “Tells him she thinks about it when she’s alone. Thinks about how big he is. How he’d feel. If he’d wreck her.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “That’s what she says?”

He nods, eyes dark. You watch as his pupils grow, black stretching across blue like an oil slick over a lake.

“And what does Superman do?” you ask.

“Whatever she wants.” Clark breathes.

Your heart trips over itself three times over in your chest, breath caught in your throat. The fun of it—this game—it's suddenly edged with something even more molten than before, something dense and slow. You feel the buzz in your limbs, in the way Clark’s gaze sticks to your mouth now instead of your eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, wetness blooming between your legs to soak the thin cotton of your panties. “What turns him on?”

Clark blinks again, meeting your eyes. This time he’s a little less composed. “That’s not exactly a journalistic question.”

“I’m going for a different kind of profile,” you murmur. “Besides, I think we already blew through any journalistic professionalism.”

Clark lets out a breath. His voice is lower when he speaks next. “Well…he likes being in control. But he likes being teased, too. Likes when someone isn’t afraid of him. Likes being told what you want. What you fantasize about.”

You shift in your seat. “Do you think he’d like it if someone told him they touch themselves thinking about him?”

Clark’s jaw tenses.

You lean in, slow, until your lips are nearly brushing his ear. Your notepad and pencil are long forgotten, tossed somewhere beside you. “You think he’d like it if I told him I think about him bending me over my desk at work? Or flying me up to my roof and fucking me against the edge of the building?”

Clark turns his head to look at you. His pupils blown so wide all you see is black.

“I think he’d like that a lot,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I know he would.”

The moment breaks like glass.

You kiss him—hard. Hungry. Like you’re trying to tear him open and crawl inside.

And Clark lets you.

His hand flies up to cup your jaw, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is all tongue and filthy—hot and desperate and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it. Clark’s touch is firm, everywhere, his mouth wet and open against yours. He groans low in his throat when your hand slides down his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach through his shirt.

Your hand drifts even lower, between his legs, where he’s hard as steel in his slacks.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your lips, hips twitching into your palm. “You—you’re playing dirty.”

You press firmer, mapping out the familiar length of his thick cock with greedy fingers. “You started it.”

“You’re not seriously—”

“—taking your exclusive,” you whisper, working open his fly. “Since you’re offering.”

Clark makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as you pull down his zipper, your fingers grazing over the impossible heat straining behind it.

“You—you don’t have to—” he gasps, even as his hips rise from the couch, silently begging you to continue.

“Clark.” You look up at him, hand already stroking slowly over the thick outline of his cock through the drenched fabric of his boxers. “Be quiet.”

His breath hitches. He nods, biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a dent. But the way he’s trembling beneath your touch, the way his thighs tense—you know he won’t last long.

You slip your hand into his boxers, and that’s when you really feel him—bare skin to skin. Hot, thick, and heavy. Way too heavy. You nearly gasp as you pull him free, the head flushed a violent red, already leaking. The sheer size of him always takes you by surprise.

Big doesn’t even begin to cut it.

He’s not just long—he’s thick. The kind of thick that makes your hand look small in comparison. The kind that has no business fitting anywhere, and yet you ache to make him fit.

Clark groans when the cool air hits him, and louder when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up the length of his cock with a tight grip. You twist your wrist around the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the shiny mess of pre-come.

"You're so big,” you breathe, pumping him faster. “It’s not fair.”

He whines through gritted teeth, hips twitching, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Fuck, baby, please—go slow, I’m not—if you keep—”

“I barely touched you,” you murmur, transfixed by the way his cock twitches in your grip. It’s flushed dark, an angry red at the tip. You trace the thick vein along the underside with your thumb, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard just beneath the skin.

Clark whines, dropping his head on the back of the couch. His hands dig into the cushions, you can hear the seams straining under his grip.

“Oh, you’re gonna come like this? Already?” you tease, dragging your hand down slowly—so slowly—until you’re just barely grazing his balls. “From just my hand?”

“Mmph—fuck,” Clark whimpers, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll survive.” You kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re Superman.”

He groans again at that, like it hurts to hear the word coming from your mouth, like it unlocks something primal in him. You stroke him again, firmer now, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. Clark shudders.

“You gonna come for me, hero?” you ask, licking your lips. “Gonna soak my hand with that big load you’ve been holding in all day?”

Clark groans, his hands flying to your thighs—gripping, grounding. “Gosh—don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

You slow down. Stop, almost.

And Clark makes the prettiest little noise. Desperate. Just this ruined, strangled sound deep in his throat that shoots straight through you like lightning.

“You can’t what?” you coo, barely pumping him. “Can’t hold it?”

Clark shakes his head fast, eyes blown, body twitching like he’s fighting every instinct in his arsenal not to thrust up into your fist like an animal.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Clark?”

“Please—fuck—please let me come.”

You pretend to consider it. Drag your thumb under the slit of his cock again and marvel at the mess he’s made. Pre-come is coating your palm, sticky and hot and so much. He’s leaking like he hasn’t touched himself in weeks. It makes the slide of your fist that much easier.

You know it’s a side effect of his biology—Kryptonian virility turned all the way up.

Clark fills your mouth, drenches your stomach, floods your pussy every time you’re together like it’s the first time he’s come in years. And he always gets so sensitive, so feral about it. Like he hates how much he needs it and loves how much he needs you.

“You’re so full, baby,” you murmur, dragging your hand slow along his cock again. “You need to come that bad?”

Clark nods without shame, hips twitching. “Need it so bad. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about your voice. About your thighs. About your mouth—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” you whisper.

Clark whines.

It’s so soft, so honest, it almost makes you pity him.

Almost.

You kiss his throat, biting lightly at where his pulse jackhammers. “You’re not gonna come until I say so, Clark. You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna sit there and take it and be good for me.”

Clark’s hips buck at that—he tries to be still, tries to keep his eyes on you, but the pleasure is just too much. He nods like his life depends on it, gripping your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises blooming tomorrow.

Clark will feel guilty about it. You won’t.

“Good boy,” you purr, picking up the pace again—stroking him with both hands now, twisting, squeezing, making sure every stroke is just rough enough to keep him teetering on the edge.

Clark’s entire body is trembling. His lips are swollen and slick, pink blooming up his throat. His glasses have fogged up, and his brows are knit like he’s in pain—like this is the most torturous kind of pleasure he’s ever felt.

You jerk him faster, watching the way his body tightens, how his cock swells heavy in your hands. His stomach contracts like it’s about to cramp, his moans dissolving into open mouthed gasps as he bucks up into your palm like he’s chasing it.

He’s so close.

“Baby—please,” Clark gasps, gripping your wrist now, his huge hand covering yours where you stroke him. “Please let me come, I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” you whisper, biting your lip. “But not yet.”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t hold it—”

You stop again.

Clark sobs.

A real, wrecked, broken sound from deep in his chest.

His hands squeeze your thighs and he curls in on himself slightly, eyes flying open in disbelief. “No,” he gasps, hips twitching uselessly. “No, no, please—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his fluttering eyelids. “You’re doing so good for me, Clark. Just a little longer.”

He groans, miserable, but he still nods. So obedient. So eager to please—to give you what you want.

You don’t give him any warnings before your fists are speeding up, flying over his cock as fast as you can manage.

Clark cries out, his body jerking violently—like he doesn’t know whether to run from your touch or lean into it. “Christ, wait—ah! Wait, I can’t—”

You don’t let up—stroking him faster, tighter, rougher. The slick, obscene sounds of it echo in the quiet apartment. “You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

Clark nods frantically—barely a word past his lips before it hits him.

His whole body locks, like steel cables yanking taut. His head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry, and his cock explodes in your hand—thick, hot spurts of come spilling over your fingers, the couch, his stomach, everything. He comes so much it makes you moan at the sight of it, the smell of it, the obscene volume flooding your fist.

When it finally stops, Clark collapses back into the cushions, limp and trembling. His cheeks are flaming. Eyes glazed. Shirt soaked in streaks of his own come. His cock’s still hard, twitching gently against his belly, still leaking.

“Well,” you say, more casual than you feel. Your pussy aches between your legs, begging for a turn. “That’s definitely going in the article.”

Clark doesn't answer. He just drags you into his lap and stands before you can even grab hold of his shoulders. He doesn’t super speed the two of you to the bedroom, but it’s close.

You laugh the whole way down the hall.

Later, after the sheets are damp and the room smells like sex, Clark kisses your shoulder and whispers, “So…when’s that article coming out?”

You smile sleepily, curling into him. His chest rises and falls under you with breath he doesn’t need, his hands draw shapes along your sweaty back.

A circle. A star. A heart. A figure eight. A heart. A heart.

“I think I’ll keep it off the record.”

MINI NAT’S NOTE: thank you again for sending in this ask! i have the superman brain rot baaad and this is NOT helping it’s def making it worse but that’s okay that’s what i want! i need people to enable me! i was writing this fic in my head before the ask came in and i was like YES DONE and i wrote it and now we’re here. i hope you like it @polkadottprincess!

thank you so much for reading, love you!

5K notes · View notes

nympheagain · 12 days ago

Text

everyone adores you (at least i do)

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here! word count: 10.2k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist

It starts with a spill.

Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy.

The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window.

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover.

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence than all of these other assholes kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need.

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos.

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama.

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T!

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal.

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity.

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again.

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor.

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries.

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser.

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano.

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast.

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away.

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice.

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped.

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now.

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern.

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys.

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes.

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much.

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too.

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it If he stays.

(He will.)

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