emerald-evans

[emerald-evans]

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 10k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again. 

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated. 

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened. 

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be. 

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing. 

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly. 

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second. 

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling. 

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place. 

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?” 

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long. 

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment. 

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place. 

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days. 

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.” 

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that. 

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself. 

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept. 

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were. 

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark. 

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.” 

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced,  and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word. 

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date. 

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through. 

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections. 

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face. 

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest. 

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off. 

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in. 

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed? 

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered. 

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead. 

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair. 

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore. 

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead. 

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark. 

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck. 

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries. 

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow. 

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together. 

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him. 

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while. 

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating. 

Not that it was anything special. 

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry. 

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates. 

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip. 

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass. 

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow. 

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts. 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark. 

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened. 

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk. 

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared. 

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh. 

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing. 

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning. 

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream. 

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took. 

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real. 

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Golly, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself. 

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort. 

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation. 

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly. 

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.

[emerald-evans]

mush <3

[emerald-evans]

Adventures in the making of Superman – David Corenswet

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DAVID CORENSWET as SUPERMAN SUPERMAN (2025) Dir. James Gunn

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David Corenswet as Clark Kent and Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane

Superman (2025) | Adventures in the Making of Superman | Warner Bros. Entertainment x

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"yo bro who got you smiling like that?" my delusions.

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papa's multitaskin' (x)

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"It's a dog!"

"Yeah, he's not even a very good one. But he's out there alone, and probably scared."

[emerald-evans]

[emerald-evans]

baby fever

clark kent’s nearly one year old daughter just simply loves to babble. wonder where she gets it from? (spoiler alert it’s her dad) clark kent x female!mom reader

warnings: female reader and barely proof read (i have being an adult and checking my writing! yippy!) otherwise, if i missed any major ones please let me know!

authors note: when i was working today the cutest little baby strolled by in a cart and was just yapping incoherently with a pacifier in their mouth. i was like period, speak your truth babe! (then i thought about clark kent being a girl dad and i melted)

authors note part two: alsoo little fun fact, in this fic you and clark’s daughters name is april because that was the month that the first superman comic was published!

“da-da.”

“yes angel?”

clark’s scanning over the baby food aisle. those big, baby blue eyes of his mindlessly scan the options. he already knows his daughter, april martha kent, would absolutely throw a fit if she had anything with carrots in it. can’t even mix it with peas or apples- she will know. instead, he reaches for pack of six little jars that have cartoon blueberries drawn over them.

“da-da.”

clark doesn’t look up at first, he’s trying to read the simple font on the back of the packaging to triple check that it’s suitable for his baby girl. but, he doesn’t want april to feel ignored. so with his free hand he pokes her chubby belly.

she babbles repetitively, “da-da, da-da,” and poorly attempts to clap her hands.

nodding along as if he pretends to understand, clark reaches around where april sits in the front of the cart, kicking her sock covered toes, and drops the baby food into the cart. a boyish grin widens clark’s lips, full pearly teeth on display. a lot of what april is trying to say is muffled by the pacifier in her mouth, but clark thinks he picks up on “da-da,” and her attempt on saying blue. however, it sounds more like “ew.”

he crouches down a bit, gently grasping april’s foot and rubs the outer part before pressing a loving peck square in the middle. she squeals, trying to wiggle her foot out of clark’s hold.

“are you ticklish?” clark does it again and april squeals some more. a spill of giggles spew out causing her pacifier to suddenly drop from her mouth.

clark watches it all happen, how april stops giggling. her eyes, identical to yours, widen and her little lips part in shock. it breaks his heart when she starts to shake her head, whining, “no, no, no,” and keeps repeating it as tears start to form.

of course clark can’t handle his baby girls sadness, his heart shatters in half! he scoops up the pacifier from where it’s wet with drool in april’s lap, carefully slotting it in her mouth.

“there, it’s okay angel. daddy’s got you.”

he likes to believe april is thanking him but all she really rattles on is, “bababababa,” and continues.

clark nods along, sort of similar to when perry is talking to him but clark really isn’t listening. he begins to push the cart further down the aisle. “hm, yeah. i see what you’re saying.” he hums in agreement as april goes on. when he stops to put some diapers into the cart, he glances at april. “oh, really? the pacifier just fell into your lap? how did that even happen?”

clark’s trying to be as serious as he can, but it’s so hard when his baby girl just talks, and talks, and talks away like she has all the time in the world. his very own adorable chatterbox; clark wouldn’t give it up for the world.

you round the corner and spot clark with his hands on his hips, staring up at the array of bubble baths. he looks like he’s in deep thought, every now and then turning towards your daughter to reply back to what she’s trying to say.

you hear him go as you inch closer, “you know, what’s the point of pacifier’s if they won’t stay in your mouth? i know, it’s crazy.”

“what are you two talking about?”

clark perks up at your voice, his head whips towards you so fast that his glassss nearly topple off his face. he pushes them up clumsily with his finger before he smiles at you. “oh, you know, how pacifier’s are a cheap scam in this economy.”

you arch your eyebrow, unable to hide the toying smirk on your lips. “really? and i’m guessing april told you all of that.” at the mention of your daughter, she stops her babbling and looks up at you. already squirming to get in your arms and of course you obey. the two of you perfectly fit like the right set of puzzle pieces.

clark shrugs innocently, “said it all herself babe, should have heard her. she was quite passionate.” he leans in to press a loud, smacking peck to april’s cheek and she bashfully hides her face into the crook of her neck.

“you know where she gets it from?” you begin to sway from one foot to another, soothing your giddy daughter that won’t stop moving in your hold. trying to squish her face further into your neck.

clark smirks, already knowing the answer. but he can’t refuse to hear you recall his playful tactics before april was born.

“you. ever since i got pregnant, every night you would talk to my stomach even when she was the size of a peach.” you dip your chin to kiss the top of april’s spouting curls, then turning back to blush at clark. the way he stares at you makes your heart skip a beat. you know he loves to hear your retelling. “and i think that’s why she loves to talk. because you do it oh-so much.”

clark leans in closer to you, crouching down so that the two of you are face to face. a step closer and his nose might brush the tip of yours. even his voice lowers, it’s deeply sweet like honey. “is that so?”

you nod shyly, clinging to april as if she might shield the heat rising across your entire face. “but, i don’t mind.”

“you don’t?”

you shake your head and then finally, clark kisses you with perfect ease. there’s no one else in the aisle, or even at the grocery store at all. that’s why you let the kiss linger for a second or two, otherwise you would hide away from the public display of affection. clark knows that. he respects it too. the two of you live a private life for the sake of your daughter.

the world knows superman is married to you, but they don’t know where you live, what you do, or even your maiden name. and they most certainly don’t have a clue that april exists besides your closest friends and family. it’s quiet the life you and clark live outside of the rambunctious adventures superman finds himself in. your very own pocket of peace. perfect.

when clark pulls back, he eyes april staring between the two of you. clark whispers as his hand reaches up to brush away the few curls that fall over april’s face. “hi baby.”

“da-da.”

“yeah, i know angel,” clark’s gaze flickers to your own. a look personalized for you that reads, i love you to the moon and back, before he draws his attention back to april. “we got a little more shopping to do, but why don’t you tell mom your new idea for pacifiers. i think she would love to hear about it.”

[emerald-evans]

Kiss interruptions

Clark kent x reader

in which he keeps kissing you while you talk

You were perched on the edge of the couch, legs folded beneath you, hands moving animatedly as you tried to finish your train of thought.

“I’m serious, Clark. I’ve been thinking—”

He leaned in and stole a soft kiss from your lips.

You blinked, your words catching mid-sentence. “—about maybe taking that offer Bruce mentioned, you know, the one about—”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Lingering.

Your brows furrowed, but your lips still tingled. “Clark.”

“Yes?” he asked, the picture of innocence, his hands resting warm and casual on your knees, as if he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you going to let me finish a sentence tonight?”

He nodded solemnly. “Of course. I’m listening. Proceed.”

You gave him a look, but took a breath. “Okay. So I was saying, Bruce mentioned this R&D initiative they’re setting up in—”

He kissed you again.

You stared at him. “You did that on purpose.”

“I truly have no idea what you mean,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a very smug smile.

You leaned back a bit, poking him in the chest. “Clark.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised in mock-surprise. “Yes, my love?”

“I swear to god, I will activate the Kryptonite paperweight Bruce gave me as a joke.”

“First of all,” he murmured, leaning closer, “you would never.”

“You wanna test that theory?”

Another kiss.

You shoved his shoulder, laughing now, half-exasperated and half-melting. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, clearly proud of himself, dimples on full display. “I just really love when you talk,” he said softly, “and I really, really love when you stop talking to kiss me back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You're an idiot”

“Your idiot,” he said cheerfully, already leaning in again.

You gave him a long-suffering sigh, but your arms were already sliding around his neck. “Fine. But after this, we are actually going to have a conversation, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, kissing you again—soft and slow and warm, like you were made of starlight and he wanted to savor every flicker.

“And after this one,” you murmured against his mouth.

“And this one,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your lips, then the edge of your jaw, then the tip of your nose like he was tracing a map only he knew by heart.

You tilted your head back with a breathy laugh, your hands in his hair now. “Okay, that’s it. I’m talking. You’re listening.”

He pulled you into his lap without resistance, settling you across his thighs like you belonged there—and maybe you did. His arms slid securely around your waist, grounding you in a way that made it impossible to be annoyed, even when you were trying to be.

“Deal,” he said, his voice lower now, more sincere. “Just… let me hold you while I listen.”

You leaned into him, your forehead resting against his. “Fine. That’s acceptable.”

“Even if I steal a few kisses while you talk?”

“…We’ll negotiate,” you said, lips twitching.

Clark smiled like he’d just won the lottery and tightened his hold around you, hands warm on your hips. His thumbs traced lazy circles there as he nuzzled against your temple, finally—finally—quiet.

You exhaled slowly, brushing your nose against his jaw before settling your head on his shoulder. “So… I’ve been thinking about that R&D offer Bruce mentioned. I wouldn’t do it full-time—just consulting. A couple days a week.”

His grip didn’t falter. No teasing now. Just the solid weight of him listening, really listening, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

“I love the Planet,” you continued. “I do. But I miss building things. I miss solving problems with my hands, not just with headlines. I miss creating something that doesn’t get printed in black and white and tossed in the recycling bin a day later.”

He was quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

Then, “You’d be incredible at it. You already are.”

You smiled into his chest, your fingers finding his again. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said, and you could hear the certainty in his voice, not a shadow of doubt. “You could build a space elevator in a week if someone gave you a whiteboard and decent coffee.”

You laughed. “Two weeks. Tops.”

He tilted his head, kissing your forehead, then your temple, then the spot just behind your ear that made you shiver. “Do it. You shouldn’t ever stop being brilliant just because you’re also happy.”

That gave you pause.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “That’s… weirdly poetic, Kent.”

He smiled gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s easy when I’m talking about you.”

You stared at him, heart twisting in that full, blooming way it always did when he stopped being a dork for two seconds and said something that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Thanks, Clark.”

His gaze softened. “You light up when you talk about this stuff—like, literally. I’ve seen you glow in low lighting. I’ll start carrying sunglasses.”

You snorted, giving his chest a playful push. “You’re ridiculous.”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “Ridiculously in love with you, maybe.”

Your heart tripped a beat.

“And if I start spending more time with Bruce again,” you teased, trying to steer yourself away from the emotional spiral he was very much causing, “you won’t get jealous?”

“Oh, I’ll get so jealous,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I’ll just have to kiss you aggressively until the jealousy dies.”

You raised a brow. “Aggressively?”

“Inconveniently,” he amended, grinning. “In the middle of board meetings. While you’re on calls. During breakfast. Mid-sentence, preferably.”

You bit back a smile. “So more interruptions.”

“Only the good kind,” he said, brushing his nose against yours.

You leaned in slowly, letting your lips just barely graze his. “One more, then I’m finishing my pitch.”

“One more,” he agreed, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.

Spoiler: he did.

And he was going to spend it making sure you never forgot just how loved you were.

----

@animegamerfox

[emerald-evans]

tradition

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.8k

summary: clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.

warnings: established relationship, FLUFF, pregnancy themes (bonus), written in headcanon/multiple scenarios style.

- a/n: just a little something while i finish up my other works for the week! thanks for being patient ♡// (gif/photo creds: @olympain)

Clark often shared his childhood memories with you, little moments he held onto with quiet affection. You could tell how much they meant to him, the way his voice softened whenever he mentioned his parents or the farm.

So when he brought up how they used to film home videos—grainy footage, clunky camcorder, someone narrating everything in the background—you got an idea.  

You walked into the kitchen with the camera already rolling. Clark stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled way too good, completely unaware.

“It should be done in a few—” he said, then looked up.

His brows lifted the second he saw the camera pointed at him. A soft laugh slipped out, low and surprised. “What are you doing?”

“Continuing tradition,” you said, grinning as you zoomed in just a little.

“Tradition?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Picking up where your parents left off. Home videos—grown-up edition. We’re seriously lacking in flannel though, but we’ll work on it.”

That made him laugh, full and wide, his head tilting back slightly as it broke out of him.

And you made sure to catch every second of it.

One morning you pulled out the camera, letting it record as you stepped toward Clark’s side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled, his arm draped over the edge, morning light slipping softly through the curtains. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, sticking up in a few stubborn directions.

He stirred at the sound, squinting one eye open, voice gravelly. “You filming me?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling behind the lens.

A lazy smile tugged at his lips. He let out a low laugh, then shifted toward you, one hand sliding around your waist, hauling you back toward the bed.

“Wait!” you yelped, the camera slipping from your grip as he pulled you on top of him.

You laughed as you landed, tangled in the sheets and in him.

"Morning," he mumbled, pressing you closer to his chest.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. Then you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips—the kind that lingered. Somewhere on the bed, the camera kept rolling, quietly forgotten.

You hit record, camera aimed at the front door just as it opened with a soft creak. You were grinning already, half expecting to catch Clark mid-yawn, tie loosened, maybe muttering something about the coffee machine being slow again.

But the second he stepped inside, your eyes went wide.

“Clark!”

A streak of red and blue flashed across the screen as you gasped and fumbled with the camera, jerking it away just in time. The lens caught nothing but the trailing edge of his cape before it ended on a blur of drywall and your hand, Clark's low chuckle just barely audible in the background.

Of course you filmed the quiet days, the holidays, the special occasions. But Clark caught on quick—noticed how the camera was always pointed at him.

So naturally, he had to fix that.

You were standing in the doorway one night, camera in hand, watching him brush his teeth—shirtless, hair still damp from his shower.

He glanced at you in the mirror, foam at the corners of his mouth, and smiled around the toothbrush.

Without a word, he reached out, tugging you gently toward him. You laughed, stumbling a little as his arm wrapped around you. He took the camera from your hand with ease, flipping it toward the mirror until both of you were in frame.

“You’re supposed to be in these too, you know,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, voice muffled but amused.

You leaned into him, cheeks flushed with laughter, as he gave the camera a crooked little grin.

The camera caught everything—your laugh, the way he rested his chin against your head, the moment he kissed your temple, toothpaste and all.

And when you watch them all back—those quiet, flickering glimpses of a life stitched together with laughter and kisses half caught on film—he never fails to remind you.

Of all his memories, you’re his favorite.

⟢ bonus! 

The camera shakes a little as Clark adjusts it. You’re in the kitchen, one hand resting on your belly, the other reaching for a bowl on the shelf. Still wearing his oversized T-shirt.

He zooms in—softly, slowly.

And then his voice, warm and steady from behind the lens:

“And this one’s for you.”

A pause.

“That’s your mom. She doesn’t know I’m filming right now—she’d probably throw something at me if she did.”

He chuckles under his breath.

“But she sings to you in the mornings. Craves the weirdest food combinations I’ve ever seen. And she already loves you more than anything.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching him—and roll your eyes.

“Clark.”

“Just say hi,” he grins. “It’s for the baby.”

You shake your head, laughing—but your expression softens.

And then your voice drops, quiet and sure.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur to the bump, hand resting gently on your belly.

Then a whisper from behind the camera:

“You and her—my whole world right there.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @sophiethelesbian @floufli @yeonalie

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[emerald-evans]

Gainin' Control | Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel is always in command, both in and out of the bedroom, and you always surrender willingly to it. But just once, you want to see what it's like to gain that control over him instead.

Pairing: Old Man!Joel Miller (The Last Of Us) x f!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, pwp, dom!Joel turned reluctant sub!Joel, dom!reader, rope restraints, dry humping makes joel cum in pants!! cum eating, overstimulation, oral (m!receiving), ball worship, edging & orgasm denial, tiny little bit of ass play, unprotected piv for just a sec (wrap it in foil yall), old man Joel (late 50s-60s), reader age unspecified (is 18+), joel whimpering and begging is a warning in itself, no descriptions of reader other than female anatomy

A/N: i was working on my wips then had this sudden thought of old man Joel and i took a break to write it. this is just pure filth. it was supposed to be a quick under 1k word drabble, but like always i got carried away... really carried away. i love that old man. thanks to anyone who reads <33 dividers by @/saradika-graphics also starting a taglist, just ask!

Masterlist

You can’t stop thinking about it. About him.

About how he’s always in control. Even just in every-day life; he’s always steady, staunch, steadfast.

Thinking before he acts, a burning strength coiling around each of his limbs every time he walks out of your shared house. Like a maneuvering tank, broad and hefty despite his older age and his aching back, hauling a hunting rifle over his shoulder before he places a kiss against your temple when he leaves for patrols in the morning.

Joel Miller is always in control.

You wonder what it would be like for him to have to surrender it, to take instead of give. Just once.

To have him relinquish what he always holds within thick, clenched fists that he sometimes has to strain just to stretch out his fingers, even though he’ll still adamantly pump and curl two or three of those thick digits inside your sopping cunt just to watch you writhe for him.

Even in the bedroom, he likes to have control. And you always give it over to him easily, finding solace in the grasp of his hands on your tender skin, on the scratch of his brown and peppered-grey beard along your flushed neck and your kiss-bitten thighs. And he swallows it down like you succumbing is the sweetest, freshest juice he could hope to find. A caring, blooming, saccharine thing like you gleefully passing over the abundance of your trust with cupped palms like it’s an offering.

You rarely see him stumble in that control. But even he says you’ve always been a determined person.

He’s barely through the front door, his body sagged with exhaustion from the day, movements languid and slow, when your body is practically barreling into him just the same, hands rising to cup his stubbled jaw and lift your face to his, lips pressing to his chin, then his lips in haste.

“Missed you today,” you murmur. Like clockwork, his burly arms wrap around you and despite your blindsiding enthusiasm, he’s kissing you back with equal eagerness, mustache tickling your upper lip as your mouth slots over his.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he rumbles back against your lips, pulling away just barely with a sharp breath, swaying slightly when his knees ache after being on his feet all day. His brows are twitched inwards with slight dubiety, even if he isn’t at all repelled by your attention, just curious about your immediate eagerness. “What’s the occasion?”

You don’t keep your mouth off him for long, dipping your face down to litter kisses and short, sharp nips down his neck, eliciting a soft exhale from him, his head tipping back instinctively to allow you more access.

“It’s the end of the week. Meaning I don’t have any more early shifts at the armoury for a month,” you mumble into his skin, tongue whisking out to taste the lingering tang of his day, sweat and earth permeating comfortingly along your taste buds. Like melting wax of a candle, sandalwood and zest.

A grin ticks at the corner of his mouth.

“So we can go back to having regular morning sex?”

A snort of amusement falls from you, rumbled against his throat, along with a toothy grin as you retort back, “Yeah, meaning we can do all of Jackson a favour by making sure you’re not grumpy the entire day.”

Joel tsks as if offended despite his mirth, one of his hands splayed over your lower back sliding up to instead cup the nape of your neck and drag your face back up to him, lips carving over yours firmer this time.

“It’s a good thing, though,” he murmurs, mouth pulling away slightly, biting gently against your lower lip, “you deserve a break.”

You hum in concurrence, hands flexing against his cheeks before guiding downwards, around his shoulders, arms looping. You tilt your head back just slightly, eyes flickering between his, a swirling hunger you don’t bother to swallow down kindling in them.

“Think I also deserve something to celebrate, don’t you?” You suggest, fingers toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck, twirling through a curl. Continuing softly, “Like a reward.”

He pauses, a brow quirking with teasing gaiety, “Does it now?”

Nodding, you lift yourself up higher, deliberately dropping your tone to a coquettish lilt, eyes dipping to a heavy-lidded leer.

Your lips brush with his, a barely-there graze of mingled breath. “Yeah. Think you can help me, Miller?”

His lips are determinedly pressing against yours again. More intentional, purposeful as his hands glide over your curves, tracing your sides with calloused fingers. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, opening you up to him. Demanding it.

You conform easily, sighing with repose, shoulders slackening, allowing yourself to lose yourself in the rough movement of his mouth against yours, the taste of his tongue, tangling with yours in a dance that grows heavier and more prudent with each passing beat.

It quickly shifts into something thick, ungraceful- a groan travelled from his throat into your mouth, which you eagerly swallow down. His hands become forceful, urging you backwards until your spine gently meets the plastered wall by the stairs. Your chest arches against his, lower spine preening, his hands pawing at every part of you he can reach; along hips, stomach, upper abdomen, thumbs scathing at the underside of your breasts through the swimming material of his shirt draped over you.

“Upstairs,” you urge breathily against his mouth, never once breaking the kiss- not even as he grunts in approval, large hands sweeping down under your bare thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly. You beam against him, legs mechanically wrapping around his waist and squeezing lightly.

The journey up the stairs is a mess of heavy, panting breaths, grabbing hands and twisting fingers, messy kisses, aching knees, and an exceptionally sore back.

Wood creaks under boot until Joel is haplessly throwing you down onto the bed, joining you a moment later, his hefty body crawling atop yours with surprising speed for a man his age. His hands paw at your legs, clothed in just an oversized pair of his sweatpants, kneading at your thighs to spread them, lifting himself up onto his knees.

“Spread,” he orders in a mutter, darkened eyes hungrily roving over you. Dressed in his clothes like it’s the finest, estimable silk. His large shirt draped over you, white cotton panties peeking out from beneath the hem. And fuck, he swears his heart palpitates at just the sight. He’s positive one of these days you’re going to send him into cardiac arrest earlier than he anticipated.

He shrugs his jacket off unceremoniously, throwing it carelessly to the floor in a haste to get his hands back on you. Soft, pliable you. Then he’s lowering himself back down, hands bracing on either side of you, mouth lowering down to your flushed neck, sucking at the delicate skin, lathing kisses back over to soothe. His hips press flush to yours, letting you feel the effect you consistently have on him over the covering of your centre.

“I’ve.. I’ve been thinking,” you say ardently, caught in between a gasp in the tangled web of hunger.

“About what?” He replies distractedly, mouth moving over your throat, nipping by the flutter of your pulse, by your carotid artery.

“My reward. I wanna try something new,” you explain, pleading with your own volition to remain intact, to not back away.

“Mhm. What’s that, sweetheart?” He mumbles, tongue tracing out to dip by your neck where the collar of his shirt sits over your shoulder.

Your bottom lips purses with the smallest breath of hesitation, hands trailing up his sides, to his chest, splaying there.

“I wanna… wanna be in control this time.”

He pauses.

Head lifting from the crook of your neck to glance down at you, wondering if he heard you correctly. His brows pinch inwards, as though he doesn’t even know how to begin with interpreting the idea.

“You want to be in control?” He parrots dumbly.

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, wavers of apprehension curdling in your stomach at his reaction. You hadn’t expected him to immediately leap and cheer, sure- but you also hadn’t expected the way his face falls dubiously. Still, you swallow harshly, and nod.

His eyes tilt over your face, scanning, examining. Then they soften, something more tender ticking at his lips.

“You reckon you can?” He rumbles, a teasing curl to his tone, head cocking just slightly down towards you.

“Joel,” groaning his name, you tap your hand against his chest, insisting. “I wanna try.”

His amusement seems to subside there, realising how ardent you are about the idea, that you’re not just toying with his buttons. He looks unsure, multiple leaden beats passing before a heavy sigh falls from him, like there’s an anvil placed atop his spine.

“Please?” You try, desperately hopeful. His gaze flutters, then his lips thin; you see the intrigue murmur past his expression.

“Okay, then. Yeah, a’right,” He huffs, like he’s averse to the prospect of yielding to any control, like his cock doesn’t twitch beneath the zipper of his jeans at the thought of it being with you.

You beam, “Really?”

Affection crosses his features, that permanent furrow of trepidation between his brows smoothing out as he peers down at you. “Really.”

Adrenaline pulses through you all at once, having half-expected for the idea to be shut down. You hadn’t really planned this far ahead, and now you’re stuck with Joel atop you, suddenly uncertain where to go from here.

You hear him chuckle softly, dipping back down to press a kiss against your collarbone, then the curve of your breast over the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you want to do first?” He coaxes, virtually urging the reigns into your clammy palms.

You exhale shakily, mind soaring through an arrangement of crude, potent ideas.

“Get, um.. get on your back,” you direct, nodding your head in gesture towards the empty space of bed beside you both. Joel’s mouth ticks again, as if entertained by your blatant apprehensiveness stepping into this newfound role. You’re determined to stifle that amusement.

He acquiesces, a sighed groan falling from him as he strenuously rolls off you and around onto his back, spine flexing and shifting to adjust himself comfortably on his strained, aching bones.

“Like this?” He murmurs, eyes tracing back around to you, that familiar warmth he reserves for only very few settled comfortably in his gaze.

“Mhm,” you agree, drawing in a final, shaky breath to conceal your nerves and upright your voracity. Rolling around, you flick your leg up and over to straddle his waist, thighs bracketing him. You peer down towards him beneath you, his hands automatically settling on your waist without thought. His chest rises and falls steadily with a strength you’ve become so familiar with.

His body feels newer lately.

Since you both arrived in Jackson, you were gifted the freedom of security, of safety. You were able to let yourself relax, and so was Joel. He didn’t have to be consistently on guard like he always insisted on being, didn’t have to always be astute and keeping a keen eye out for danger- he could let himself be pliable, content.

Present, with you. Instead of with the threats that always loomed when neither of you had confirmed security.

And with that contentment was comfort. A plush, soft bed at night, wrapped in warmth in a place you can call home. And steady, consistent meals. He’s grown softer. His belly slightly rounder, gentler, curving over his belt that he complained is beginning to feel too tight lately.

You adore it.

You’ve always loved how broad he is- how firm and steady beneath your palms he’s always been. The veins in his forearms flexing each time your hands trail along it, how his stomach flexes and clenches with the drag of your fingertips. He once scowled at the idea that he’s grown more plush, but you just beamed in satisfaction, more than pleased to press the curve of your nose against the slope of his tummy where the coarse, graying hairs of his happy trail begins, leading down to slightly unruly curls that disappear beneath the hefty buckle of his belt.

You hook your fingers under the hem of his grey cotton shirt, tugging firmly once. He lifts his hands away from your waist and raises them above his head to assist you, dragging the material away and discarding it carelessly to the floor. Your hands fall back to his plush stomach, and he hisses softly at the light chill of your touch, his jaw tensing once.

You glide your hands up the expanse of him, feeling up his sides, his ribs, along his chest again- and before he has a chance to lower his arms, you drag your touch up his biceps, then his forearms to his wrists, holding them above his head still.

“You trust me?” You murmur, anticipation burning alight through your veins. He peers up towards you, a noticeable flutter of confusion passing his features, before it softens.

“Always,” he answers.

You send him a lopsided grin, then shimmy your body off his lap, climbing off the mattress and towards your backpack stashed by the dresser. You can feel his gaze burning into you from the bed, slinking smoothly over the bare expanse of your legs from behind. You unzip the pack as you crouch by it, hand shovelling around briefly and curling around a frayed, scratchy line you stored in there days ago when this idea first began to forment.

You straighten, turning towards him, a bundle of rope secured in your hands.

It’s not hard to spot the instantaneous uncertainty that crosses over him.

“Baby-” he starts, eyes fluttering sharply between the brown threaded rope in your fingers and your determined face. You trot back towards him, crawling back onto the bed to straddle his hips once again.

“Please?” Your eyes search his face, settling into the hesitation lingering through the air, through his expression.

His bottom lip purses in that way it does when he’s deep in thought, that doubt swirling like wires in his mind. You lean forward slightly, and press your hand to his chest, just beside the frantic pace of his heartbeat, your fingers splaying out, brushing with such reverence it makes his face slacken.

And for one of the first times since you met Joel Miller, you see his shoulders fall, his jaw relax, fingers twitching and unclenching from his fists. Like he’s easing his own grip on the reigns, carefully passing them to your dutiful care instead. Entrusting you with it.

He exhales heavily through his nostrils, like the weight is physically lifting away from him, then he nods.

You tilt yourself forward, fingers brushing over his wrists, before you’re tying them together with slow, meticulous knots, brows pinched together in focus. You secure them to the headboard, tugging softly to ensure it’s steady enough. The rope is frayed and digs into his skin slightly, but it’s steady enough to keep him held.

“Okay?” You murmur, checking in. He grunts in acknowledgement, nodding again, shifting beneath you. Immediately feeling the bulge of him against his jeans, the firm press of his arousal he’d outwardly deny if it wasn’t pressing into your centre so insistently.

You smile lopsidedly, pleased, and trail your palms back down his arms, fingertips brushing over the strain of his neck, tracing over his bobbing Adam’s apple as he swallows, then lower. Over his stomach, brushing through the silver curls of his happy trail. You shift yourself downwards, your fingers tangling with the buckle of his belt. The clink of metal rings out in the room along with Joel’s shallow breaths as you slide the leather through the loops, before working at the buttons of his jeans, keeping your movements slow.

You drag the denim down his legs, tugging off his boots as you go, discarding each item off the bed with a clatter as they hit the floor. Leaving him in only his boxers, you climb back over him, settling down onto his lap, both of you sounding simultaneous sounds as your covered centre meets the firmness against his boxers- him grunting whilst you exhale sharply.

“Look good like this,” you comment, hungry, rounded pupils trailing over him, up the slope of his tummy, the heave of his chest with hoarse breaths, the broad stretch of his shoulders and the flex of his neck and jaw. His dark eyes peering up at you with a mixture of curiosity and blatant lust, and his wrists tied above his head, wrists straining against their binds, his forearms taut with tension.

You lean yourself forward, and in a moment of gifted benevolence, lay a gentle kiss against his lips. Fleeting, making him huff as you pull away, just to brush your lips over his cheekbone, then his jaw, lips pursing against his stubble, grazing over the brown and grey strands that tickle your upper lip.

“You’ll tell me if it gets to be too much?” You muse, and he nods stiffly. You chide him by nipping once at his jaw, stern.

“Say it.”

His eyelashes flutter with surprise, another breath drawing from him, but he relents. “I’ll tell you.”

You hum with triumph, your tongue softly smoothing over the place where your teeth sunk into his pliable skin, coaxing and reverent. You reward his compliance by slotting your hips more firmly over his, rolling down once into his jutting erection, feeling his pelvis twitch at the feeling, his arousal already bundled-up, sitting heavy in his balls yet confined in his boxers.

Like him, you don’t shy away from marking his skin. You apply more pressure to your kisses as you move down the length of his neck, licking just above where his carotid artery sits before parting your lips and sucking. Feeling the gentle stretch of his skin in your mouth as you suckle firmly, teeth barely scraping against the pliable flesh. You pull away with a soft pop, watching with victory as the skin quickly begins to bloom in a blush of maroon and purple.

You continue downwards, kissing along his collarbone, the stretch of golden-tanned skin, your tongue sliding over the dip between his shoulder and the crook of his neck, over the small swoop of the bone there. Your need pulses and writhes, but you keep your movements steady, slow.

“Been thinking about this for a while,” you admit against him, slightly muffled. Nose dragging up the line of his throat, kissing reverently at the erratic flutter of his pulse, feeling it jump beneath your lips.

“Yeah?” He rumbles, and you inhale softly, body preening into his familiar scent. Like woodchips and something heavy- something that smooths over you like the slow flicker of a candle, wax dripping heat down the curve of your spine. You can smell the fresh waver of his shampoo, letting it soothe you as you swipe your tongue over the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear, feeling him tense with a short shudder beneath you.

“Yeah. About giving you what you always give me,” you murmur, one hand returning to his chest and gliding down smoothly, tapping against his ribs until you reach the waistband of his boxers, fingertips teasing over the edge of the fabric. “To have this control.”

His chest inflates with a hefty intake of breath as you let your index finger barely graze over the prominent tent in his boxers, tracing the outline of his length over the fabric, feeling it jolt beneath your touch before you pull it away just as swiftly.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles beneath his breath, and you lift up to settle more promptly on top of him, hands steadying yourself against his chest, gaze flickering back up to his face. Your chest constricts with joy at his expression- he already looks ruined, his lips parted with curter breaths, the coffee brown of his irises swallowed by the inky darkness of his pupils, swimming with hunger.

He looks nearly desperate beneath you. Cock jumping where your covered centre drags over it when you shift, hips tilting. You can feel wetness pressing into you, and it’s not only from your own arousal already staining the gusset of your panties- but his boxers, dampened where his tip is flush with it, leaking beads of precome onto the worn material.

“Think you like this idea more than you want to admit, baby,” you purr teasingly, a knowing brow quirking towards him. He clicks his tongue, chin jutting upwards like he’s going to defy your suggestion, but he doesn’t quarrel.

“Yeah, know you do,” you tease. Then, finally relenting just enough, you grind your hips down more securely, soaked panties dragging against wettened boxers, over the persistent throb of his cock beneath you. He grunts, fingers flexing where his wrists are bound atop his head.

“Know he does too,” you purr, thighs tensing around his hips, hips ticking forward again, watching his eyelashes flutter.

You don’t give him a chance to respond before you’re continuing, leering down at him,

“Think I should play nice, honey?”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately, hips flexing up towards you with a nod towards his boxers, attempting to assert his own control despite his position beneath you. “Take ‘em off, sweetheart.”

You cock your head at him with a mock expression, unamused.

“Do you ever play nice with me?”

You see the immediate flutter of bemusement that flashes across his face, his eyebrows threading together.

“Don’t be a cocktease,” he scoffs back gently, hips rolling up into you, seeking friction.

You tut, letting him see the sardonic roll of your eyes, and shift yourself back so you’re not slotted so promptly over his clothed erection.

“No, you don’t,” you answer for him, fingers flicking around the hem of his shirt craning over you, tugging it up over your head. You let it fall away, discarding it to the foot of the bed as your arms twist behind you to unclasp the clip of your bra. His eyes instantaneously snap down to your chest as you allow the material to peel off your body, letting it join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, left in only the simple, delicate white cotton panties.

You watch his eyes darken further with lust as he takes in your breasts, sitting against your chest like the most inviting prize he can’t reach, nipples already pebbling in the frigidness of the air that’s stifled with the heat of your arousal swarming through your veins. You see his neck tense as your own hands lift to cup your tits, squeezing the supple flesh, letting it bulge between your fingertips.

Inviting, sweet, a cruel smile stretching along your face. His face is slack, his tongue unconsciously swiping out to dampen his bottom lip.

“You want something, Miller? Gotta speak up,” you urge, coax, fingers tightening around your own breasts, breath stumbling as your thumbs brush over your peaked nipples.

“You know what I want. Jus’ give me a taste,” Joel grunts back, his inky gaze never leaving your chest.

You tut, chiding, tongue clicking against the upper ends of your mouth.

“That’s not how this is working tonight, baby. You’re not calling the shots.”

He frowns deeply at the reminder, unimpressed, his wrists tugging experimentally against the bounds around his wrists, testing. To your relief, they don’t budge.

“Think I like you like this,” you tease, hands coiling, wrapping around his sides then pushing upwards to his pecs, smoothing over his warm chest, up his arms raised above his head.

“Like what? Tied up and desperate?” He huffs, eyes narrowed at your importunate, persistent teasing, his hips tensing in an effort to not buck up into you.

“Exactly,” you breathe, tone like honey dripping from your tongue, breathy, body leaning forward to press your bare chest to his, breasts squishing to him. His eyelashes flutter with a strained breath as your mouth brushes over his bottom lip, “All mine to do what I please.”

“Baby-” Joel groans, chest lugging upwards with another strangled breath, but you promptly cut him off by settling your waist back onto his lap. You grind down, hips rolling, the outline of his thick cock through his boxers pressing to your underwear.

“Can tease you for as long as I want with you like this,” you continue, ignoring his needy breaths puffing against your lips as your fingers brush back down from his arms, your hips keeping a slow, steady pace, not applying too much pressure as you rotate your hips above him, over him. “Could make you ache and beg for it like you always do with me.”

His eyes narrow at the threat, his thighs tensing beneath you. You can feel the pulsing heat of your cunt pressing against him through your panties, drenched and sticking to your puffy, soaked folds. He throbs beneath you, so unremittingly it must be painful, his face flushing with harsher pants, pre-come staining his boxers, leaking steadily from his tip that must be so sensitive and needy.

“Not gonna beg,” he gruffs out, and you straighten, a cocky grin lilting up your lips.

“We’ll see,” you tsk back quickly, coyly, keeping up the grind of your hips. You fix yourself atop him, your ribs constricting with need as a rough, guttural moan slips from his parted lips, his eyes glazed over as they dart downwards to where you’re both connected, hips rolling, covered core sliding over his straining thickness.

You hum, bringing your hands down to his stomach, nails raking over his skin gently to coax his attention back up to your face, quickening your pace slightly. His bleary gaze snaps back up, and now you notice the sheen by his temple, the cover of sweat quickly gathering over his skin.

“Untie me,” he scowls abruptly, his features firming, seemingly fed up with your toying acts, playing with him, his muscles straining in his arms whilst his wrists tug resolutely at their restraints.

You beam down at him.

“No,” you chirp, far too pleased to deny him, the roles so swiftly reversed between you both. You feel his cock jump again, the fabric of his boxers sticking tightly to the length of him, the space between you both growing sticky with your combined arousals sticking to your underwear. His hands ball into tight fists above his head, his eyes rapidly flickering over you like they don’t know where to settle on your body first.

“Sweetheart- let me out of these,” he echoes again, wrists tugging at rope, his brows furrowing with disheveled concentration.

You smirk, lopsided and relentlessly cruel, the thrill of finally seeing him like this beneath you scourging through your veins like ecstasy, the adrenaline it gifts you filling you nearly the same way his length would. Full, brimming with bliss. You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, letting it snap out, before you’re lifting up just to drag them down your legs, throwing them off to the side.

He groans like he’s in pain. Hips bucking up towards nothing.

You circle your waist back down to settle back on him, a soft moan slipping from your lips and your head lolling forth as your sopping pussy makes contact with the dampened material of his boxers, rough and wiry, dragging over your puffy, slick folds.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel grunts, low and hoarse, his head falling back into the pillows behind him with a rasped breath.

“Feel good, baby?” You tease, rolling your hips in a devastatingly slow grind, sliding with how much your arousal has collected on his boxers. He twitches beneath you, hips jerking upwards again, seeking more friction, needing the contact.

“Gonna regret this when I get out of these, sweetheart,” he promises, his eyes dark and forbearing. But you’re formidable, and you can spot the desperate glint of his gaze as he stares down towards where your bare, glistening folds drag over the straining pulse of his cock over his boxers.

You swallow down a whimper, your nails scratching up his belly and ribs to his chest, curling against his collarbone.

“If you get out,” you muse, half-mirthful and half-earnest, an emphatic grin ticking at the edge of your mouth. “Might just keep you like this- laid out for me to use.”

A noise akin to a growl rumbles in his chest beneath your palms. Deep, formidable. But you’re relentless, only responding by quickening your pace, swallowing down a whine as your sensitive clit catches on the damp material of his boxers, your arousal dripping steadily from your hole.

“Baby..” Joel rasps, gaze raking up your body. He looks vulnerable, raw, stripped open for you, unable to do anything but endure the torturous roll of your hips down into his. You clench your thighs around his waist, grind, swivel- and a whimper tears from him.

You want to swallow the sound, let it fester in your ribcage until it’s synonymous with the rush of your blood swinging through your veins.

“I know, honey. Know you want more,” you croon, hands smoothing over his chest, hips never ceasing in their relentless grind against him, your clit puffy and swollen with each wanton roll down into him. He gasps out, his lower back bowing upwards in a jolting motion.

“Baby- I can’t-” he chokes out, a panicked look crossing his face for a beat, his inhibitions cast aside, and you feel his cock jerk nearly violently beneath you.

“You can,” you correct sweetly. His bottom lip trembles like he’s biting back a wail, your name coiling out instead in a shaky, rasped tone. It sends a shudder up along the expanse of your spine, and you only press harder into him, thighs spreading wider to frame his waist entirely.

Another whimper. Wrecked and needy. His arms bulge, veins flexing prominently, hips bucking up.

A strangled groan as his head falls back, his chest heaving with effort, and you see him lock up, his entire body tensing abruptly beneath you-

Then you feel it.

A pulse, heat, his cock jumping erratically beneath his boxers, firm and damp, sticking to the fabric. You feel the drool and wash of warmth below you, a liquid that’s thick, sticky- more than just your arousal or his pre-come.

Oh, fuck.

You still, your breath stumbling in your chest as you watch his throat convulse around a desperate gasp of air, his cheeks flushed over with heat, burning, sweat smeared over his forehead, his greying curls sticking to his skin.

He just came.

Inside his boxers, just from you rubbing yourself over him.

“Fuck,” you breathe shakily, pelvis tightening and churning with arousal. He shifts, an uncomfortable expression pulling like a grimace over his face as the realisation tips over him.

“Joel-” you start, and he responds with a grunt that sounds devastatingly more like a whimper, his hips squirming beneath you and his eyes diverting downwards in a reaction akin to shame. You feel him slacken beneath you, the fabric against your cunt entirely drenched, the outline of his cock prominent, still twitching with aftershocks. But not as firm, softened with his orgasm.

It’s not difficult to see the mortification stretched along his winced features, his jaw set in a firm grind, molars pressing inwards together. Something nearly malicious tugs in your chest, a burning satisfaction curling up through your body to your mouth, curling it upwards unconsciously.

“Oh, baby..” you purr, coo, keeping your waist still as you lean down to meet him, face hovering over his. You brush your lips over his cheekbone, which burns beneath your touch, your breath casting hotly over his skin. “Already?”

His head turns away, his jaw flexing as he bites down against the tip of his tongue, pupils blown wide with a mixture of chagrin and lust, like a reflection of what he usually reduces you to. And each time, he does it without mercy.

“Don’t gotta be embarrassed,” you hum sweetly, ignoring his shame, casting it aside as you dip your face to his neck. Licking a stripe up the side of his throat, tasting his sweat on your tongue, melting against your tastebuds like ash and salt- you can almost taste his humiliation.

“Did so good f’me, coming like that when I haven’t even touched your cock properly yet,” you continue in a pleased rumble, laying a kiss against the crook of his neck. He’s silent- or at least trying to be, his breath coming in short, heavy pants by your ear, arousal swelling thickly through you. Cunt throbbing in neglect, but you ignore it, sliding further down his body, pressing your lips in fleeting kisses over his sweat-slicked chest. His stomach twitches as you kiss over it, a hitched breath cramping his chest when your fingers hook over the waistband of his boxers.

Then, unhurried, seeing as it’s at your leisure, you pull his boxers down. Peeling the drenched material away from his skin, watching as it stretches away from the softened line of his cock.

Your eyes widen taking it all in. His limp cock stuck to his pelvis, pulsing still, and saturated in sticky, white release. It coats over his base, along his inner thighs, sticking obscenely to his heavy, sensitive balls you’re eager to make full again. The coarse silver curls at the bottom of his length damp and flush with his flesh. There’s so much come.

“Fuck.. so messy,” you murmur beneath your breath, which casts just barely over his overwrought flesh, making his hips twitch against the mattress. You drag his soiled boxers down further from his tarnished body, dropping them away to the floor with a wet plomp.

Your attention is rapt on him, his matted curls at his pelvis, the grey darkened with his spend, his skin flush and glistening with it. Your mouth waters at just the sight, and you can’t help yourself, quickly dipping down to swipe your tongue out- starting from the base of him, and licking one smooth, slow stripe up the side of his length until you reach his sensitive tip. Tasting the smear of salt and musk on your muscle.

He sounds a choked version of your name, his cock jumping weakly at the overstimulation.

“I know,” you coo, swallowing with a satisfied noise, eyelashes fluttering as you dip back down, but avoid his cock this time- instead licking at his pelvis, feeling the thick stickiness of his come pool on your tongue in a glob, before you’re curling your tongue up and eagerly swallowing it down.

“See how it feels, hon? Achin’ and unable to do anything about it?” You mock, though your tone sings with feigned innocence, a flint grin sent up to him. Taking in his dishevelled appearance, his hair damp with sweat, chest heaving and flushed, his blown-out pupils locked on you between his thighs, lathing wicked torture on his come-soaked flesh.

Exhilaration burns through you- seeing what you’ve been able to reduce him to. His muscles trembling when you lower yourself to them at lick at the sensitive skin at his inner thighs, cleaning up the mess he made with a complacent hum before nipping at his flesh and making him groan, his spent dick palpitating with interest.

You drag your nose up by his pelvic bone, inhaling slowly, smelling the salty headiness of him, able to taste his lust, his desperation. You wonder if this is the same thrill he so often procures with you- this control clutched and spilling out from between your fingers, hanging on so tightly whilst the other can do nothing but squirm and plead for reprieve.

Sickly sweet, you smile.

Mocking his usual deprived remorseless acts he bares on your body.

Dipping your head down again, your hand rising to press against the base of his dick, worn-out and weary, but slowly gaining thickness once again with the lewd sensations. You angle the soft skin upwards, parting your lips, then wrap them around his engorged head, purple and swollen with sensitivity.

You suckle, and he moans; a ragged, ruined sound.

“Too- s’too much,” he stumbles out from above you, hips jerking downwards into the bed like he’s trying to escape the warm embrace of your mouth. You only suck harder, cheeks hollowing to pull inwards and bring more of him into your mouth, tasting his release directly from the source. He nearly wails as your tongue swipes over him, lilting through his overly-sensitive slit, his thighs quivering and wrists jerking adamantly at his restraints.

“Can’t- baby, stop. It’s too much,” he slurs like he’s inebriated, drunk on lust. You suction him in further, swallowing him down until you reach halfway, his cock stiffening unconsciously in the wet warmth of your mouth, tongue lathing over the underside of him, tasting his smear of release.

“Jesus fuckin’- gonna fucking regret this so much when I get out of these, shit-” he sputters out, all in one breath- hopeless and rushed. He’s cut-off with a wrecked whine, his head slinging back and hips jerking upwards, not of his own accord. His body attuned to you, achingly seeking out more despite the churning wants and needs of his mind.

Allowing some surrender, you pull off his half-hardened dick, which slaps wetly up against his pelvis, base quivering with reactive tension. You purse your bottom lip, blowing a stream of cool air against his sensitive tip, watching in awe as it twitches, pulsing purple and angry.

“Want me to stop?” you croon, coquettish gaze lilting up to him, like the very epitome of a demonic creature posing as an angel, sent to this plane just for his sickened demise. He stiffens, his thick thighs flexing and relaxing rhythmically, jaw churning and chest heaving.

You wait, a brow lifting expectantly. You spectate the bob of his throat, the flick of a greying curl sticking flush to his forehead, and then the tilt of his stubbled, silver and brown chin as he shakes his head from side to side. Wordless, and so, so needy.

You grin up at him, pleased. Effervescent at how you’ve waned this staunch, stalwart man down to something shameless, loose.

Maybe unmercifully, you crane your neck downwards, seeing his cock jump once with intrigue as you lower down further between his thighs. Curling your tongue out with licentious intent, wrapping it along the underside of one of his leaden, sensitive balls.

An obstructed, smothered cry of your name tumbles from his spit-swollen lips. His eyes nearly rolling back into his skull as you repeat the action, tasting the slick of his come on the base of your tongue, before you’re hollowing out your cheeks and suckling the heavy sack into your mouth. Moaning around him, the vibration reverberating up along his spine, making him jerk, then moan- anguished and hasty.

You let his ball fall away from your mouth with a wet pop, angling his cock upwards with two fingers and reaching your head back up before dropping your hand back to his thigh. Wrapping your lips around his tip, a smear of his pre-come splayed out over his pelvis where it dribbled.

You swallow his gradually hardening cock down, down to halfway, then further, relaxing your throat as he nudges at the back, fists curling to reduce your gag reflex. You feel his length twitch against the walls of your throat as you glide your head down, lower, until your nose is pressing against the slope of his tummy, buried in the slick, silver curls of his happy trail.

“Oh, shit..” he breathes hoarsely, his hips instinctually rising to grind up against your mouth. You gag, spluttering slightly, but swiftly retaliate by lifting your hands and splaying them over his thighs, nails raking sternly, warning him to be still. He stiffens, groaning lowly at the sharp pierce of crescents into his skin.

You swallow around him, feeling him thicken, growing girthier against your tongue, a vein pulsing along the muscle, his scent thick and heady, wading through your senses like the drip of a cool lake over your tired bones.

Drooling happily on his cock, eyes slipped closed in content.

You lift your head, cheeks sucking inwards, tongue swirling rapidly over his swelled tip. There’s an obscene slurp as you dip back down, repeating the action languidly, slowly bobbing your head up and down over him. Taking him into your throat, swiping your tongue along the underside of his length, moaning in awe as he hardens, despite his creaking knees and his resisting stamina.

You drag your mouth off him with a wet pop, but don’t give him a moment to protest before you draw in a hasty breath of air and swoop back down to his balls, greedy tongue lapping out on his other come-smeared sac, sucking it firmly into your mouth. He whimpers, pelvis jolting upwards, then grinding down. You decide not to chide him, too lost in the feeling of his heavy, salty balls sitting sluggishly on your tongue, full and sensitive.

You lap and suckle and moan, alternating between each ball, lathering attention on each one, licking up his prior release until they’re both shiny and slick with your saliva instead. One hand drags slowly up from his thigh to curl around his spit-coated cock, nearly entirely hard in your grip now, stiff and throbbing when you squeeze at the base. Veins prominent and pulsing along the length of him, your thumb drags over them as you slowly pump up and down. Continuing to suck firmly on his balls, daubing recognition on either of them, dribbling on his sensitive skin like it’s the sweetest candy you’ve tasted, attempting to suckle them both into the wet pressure of your mouth at once like some twisted game of chubby bunny.

“Tha’s it.. keep on sucking on ‘em like that, sweetheart,” he crows out from above you, rasping and drawling like the drag of a chisel along wood.

Just to deny him, you pull away, his chest constricting with the efforts to huff back a groan of frustration, lamenting. Your eyes dart up towards him, glossy with your arousal, his own inky black with need, wrists tied above his head, cock perched and weeping at full-mast.

You move. The shift barely even registers in your mind, your body moving of its own accord, led entirely on lust and a depraved desire to see him squirm- your chin tilts, dark eyes perched on his to gauge his reaction when you move lower. Press your face forward and experimentally curl your tongue out, letting it swipe over the pucker of his asshole, wet and hot and filthy.

You see his entire body go taught, his thighs tightening and his breath stumbling in his throat like he’s been punched. His eyes widening and pooling round, dumbfounded and he stares down towards you.

“Baby-” he croaks, shaky, his hips grinding down in one swift roll down against the bed sheets like his body is unsure if he’s trying to keen closer to the sensation or climb away from it. Your hand stills around his cock, drumming a frantic pulse and leaking in your touch, your hot breath casting over his tight back entrance.

But you spot it. That flutter of uncertainty in the pull of his bottom lip, his jaw clenching with hesitation no matter how far his eyes darken. Yours search his with a heated sincerity, scanning over his weariness.

You reluctantly pull back. Allowing him reprieve, not wishing to push too far without a rawer conversation, aware of the freshness of the act and how many barriers he’d have to relinquish to release his tension for something of that unknown territory. You don’t entirely abandon the idea, instead just allowing it to settle, thick and coiling through the air like promise, stashed away but present. But you don’t continue, not this time.

Instead you just flutter your eyelashes up towards him, swarmed with understanding and a quiet acknowledgement neither of you speak aloud. You lift your head back up, and wordlessly take his cock back into your mouth, lips wrapping around him and sucking him in deep. Moaning softly with equal need as the primal, gruff sound that rips from his chest when you sink down to the hilt. Swallowing to stave off your gag reflex.

His face twists with tension, deprived and desirous, hips rolling up once again.

You let him this time, the both of you falling into a sloppy, obscene rhythm where you bob along his length, and he meets you with sharp, unceremonious thrusts, lower back preening off the mattress towards the wet embrace of your mouth.

His moans and grunts meet your ears like something sinful, something delicious, your nose bumping against his stomach with each drop downwards, eagerly accepting him into your throat even when you splutter and drool, tears spiking at your waterline with the short cramping of your ribs.

“Feels so- oh, fuck- swallowing me down so good. Baby, ain’t gonna- shit, ain’t gonna last long like this,” he curses, heaving out like it pains him, his eyes lidding as he watches you zealously choke down on his cock like it’s your redemption, pelvis meeting your mouth with enthusiastic puffs from his parted lips. Fucking into your mouth as his wrists strain against the ropes, the frayed material digging reddened marks into his skin that his mind doesn’t even register.

You pull off abruptly.

He groans in protest, whilst you draw in a desperate gasp of air, blinking away the tears that gathered in your vision, a few dripping down your cheeks, slipping from your chin as your eyes meet his.

“You wanna come, baby?” You rasp, palm curling back around him, pumping his slick flesh slowly, seeing his dick drool in your hand, pre-come beading copiously from his tip with just the smallest squeeze.

He nods, firm and quiet, sweaty throat bobbing with his grating swallow.

“Ask for what you want,” you demand, eyes set assertively on his, waiting, expecting.

“Told you I’m not begging,” he gruffs resistantly, pupils narrowing towards you defiantly. It almost makes you want to laugh- how he still refuses despite the position you’ve placed him in, body nearly curdling with throbbing arousal against your hand with every slow drag of your fist.

Your tongue swipes over your bottom lip with an ironical glare towards him.

“I can stop,” you threaten dreamily. Hand stilling around him.

He grunts, like he’s devastated, drawn from his chest with a piercing fish hook. His hips press up into your stiff, unmoving hand to no avail, which he quickly realises. His chest rises and falls, tummy raising with harsh breaths.

His nostrils flare, eyes glistening like he’s going to deny you, refuse to yield. But his lips work with an opposite agenda, forming the words, tongue loose and wanton.

“Please.”

It’s sharp, bitter. Like he has to physically lasso it out from his throat.

“What was that?” You purr, pushing and coaxing.

His jaw works, chewing over the words with blatant vexation. You squeeze around him, fist swiping up to drag your thumb promptly through his weeping slit, his cock jerking violently against the touch.

“Jesus- fuckin’- please, baby- gotta come in your hand, in your mouth-” he scowls harshly, then whimpers, his pelvis tight and rolling upwards, seeking more. Messy and haphazard. Cock leaking like a faucet, nearly drooling down onto your fist wrapped tight around him.

Abandoning all false pretenses, grating, his heart pulsing in a raucous beat, “Let me come, please.”

Triumph swims like blaring, calamitous fireworks in your chest. You nearly purr with your delight, a gratified grin stretching along the swollen, wet expanse of your lips. You tilt, and lay a single kitten-lick to his tip, swallowing down another bead of pearly-white pre-come.

Then you’re crawling up the expanse of his body.

“I’ll let you come, honey,” you promise sweetly, hand releasing his cock as you climb up over him, coming to straddle his hips once again. His breath cracks in his chest as you lower yourself, your sopping, drooling cunt pressing down against the underside of his slick cock.

You both moan simultaneously at the warm, firm contact, your head lolling forward with a tremble that strikes down your spine like electric shocks. Finally placing some stimulation on your abandoned, needy pussy.

You grind down just barely, your folds spreading over him, coating him in your arousal, dragging up and down with a distant squelch.

“Please- take me inside you, shit, let me feel you,” he nearly babbles, eyes glazed over, wrists twisting in earnest against his rope confines. “Gotta feel that sweet cunt wrapped around me.”

Joel’s chest burns with a deep, unfiltered sound, his cock jerking beneath you, his head falling backwards with a rasped whine when his red tip catches at your clenching entrance. Your hands glide up, over his chest, one settling gently on the side of his neck, the other coming to delicately cup his jaw. Holding him in your palms like he’s something fragile, cradling him like he’s precious- which he is, to you.

You soften, heart throbbing with an affection only he has bestowed upon your weakened psyche, an endless stretch of fervour and want you’ve never experienced before. Not with anyone but him. With his firm body that softens in the middle, his stubbled jaw and the wrinkled crow’s feet by his glossy eyes your thumb strokes smoothly over now, his face mechanically tilting into the warmth of your touch despite his haste.

Lowering down, you press your lips to his. Gentle, tender, breathing into him like a life source, exhaling into his mouth the same way his fondness and devotion has for you. He’s still for a beat, before he’s kissing you back with a surprised but careful intimacy, melting into it like second nature. A reverence coiled like a secret between you.

“Gonna give you what you want. Did so good for me,” you mumble into his lips, tongue dabbing gently at his bottom lip as you pull away. You tilt your hips up, the hand against his jaw sliding down between you to curl back around his stiff cock, angling to line him up with your aching entrance.

You notch him against your drooling hole, then finally acquiescing- you sink down. Slow, taking your time, letting you both feel each ridge and drag of him against your wet and warm walls, embracing him like a slick, tight vice.

A groan and a whimper mingling in the air, conjoined like your bodies as you lower, until your hips press flush down with his, thighs bracketing him, his forearms flexing like his hands itch to guide the pace, to settle on your hips with firm intent. He sighs like he’s finally been granted something divine and sensational, his length nudging deep within you, the angle pressed to make it feel as though he’s in your stomach- exactly where you always crave for him to be, and to never leave.

Your body adjusts quickly, your slick sliding briskly over him, mind foggy with relief at the feeling of being so full of him.

You brace your hands against his chest, eyelashes fluttering and head dropped forwards as you tardily drag yourself back up, lifting, your arousal clinging to his pulsing girth and your cunt clenching around him, relishing the feeling of him dragging over your sensitive walls.

Right as you’re about to sink back down, you hear a vague, distant shift, then a noise akin to stretching rubber, unravelling. Then a rumble, deep and low-

The ropes binding Joel’s wrists snap.

"If you can't fight and you can't flee, flow." - Robert Elias M.D

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[emerald-evans]

I have a villain laugh.

PEDRO PASCAL The Fantastic Four: First Steps | Close Friends Only by Instagram

[emerald-evans]

okay wait POOKIEBEAR my absolute godfess i need you and your fantastical brain with me right now

remember that scene where luthor released the full translated message from clarks birthparents

he was shaking, he was breathing heavily he was having a panic attack, i know he was about to cry he was LOOKING AROUND all scared at the people and they literally yelled and insulted and assaulted him i know it broke his pure heart

in comes guy and goes “dude you have a secret harem?” and clark just explodes

now now imagine

IMAGINE you, his beloved girl come in, he doesn’t know what to do. he kinda just wants to run away but at the same time he wants to run into your arms, fall to his knees in front of you, bury his face in your abdomen and weep

but he sees your wary eyes, your hesitant steps, your wavering voice and when you ask “is that-true?” his heart breaks, he lets out a sob, or whimper before he can compose himself and even though his voice breaks he tries to tell you he is not the monster they wanted him to be

i need to know your thoughts queen, and if you’re still up to requests or anything of the sort i would die for you to write something along those lines <333

(ily i’ll be back in your inbox with more lol)

ugh omg yes. please enjoy! slight spoiler warning

-

The silence after the broadcast is deafening.

Not the kind of silence born from peace, but the heavy, guttural hush that follows something devastating. Something that can’t be taken back.

Clark stands in the middle of it.

Still in his suit, though the red cape hangs limp, the crest on his chest feeling like a brand now. His fists shake at his sides. He can’t seem to breathe past the tightness in his ribs. Every breath tastes like ash.

His parents’ voices had filled the screens. Cold. Calculating. Words translated by Luthor’s machine, twisted for effect.

There’d been gasps. Accusations. A bottle thrown. Guy’s voice cut through like a whip about a secret harem.

Clark almost exploded.

Instead, he turned his back and shut down. His shoulders curl inward. His vision tunnels. He hears everything. Every whispered insult, every shifting heartbeat, but it all becomes white noise. He doesn’t know where to go. Doesn’t know if he should run or scream or fly to the moon and never come back.

And then he hears your heartbeat. Slower. Hesitant. Near the doorway.

His eyes snap up.

There you are. Standing just inside the room, the doors swinging closed behind you. You’re still in your work clothes. Jacket wrinkled. Eyes wide. Not angry. Not yet. But not certain, either. There is no sign of fear, not yet, but hesitation. Concern.

Hope.

And that’s worse.

He doesn’t know what to do. His whole body jerks like it wants to bolt. He wants to run to you. To collapse into your arms, fall to his knees, bury his face in your stomach and sob until the pressure leaves his lungs.

But he sees the way you hesitate. You don’t run to him. You don’t throw your arms around him and tell him it’s okay. You just… take a step forward. Tentative. Careful.

“Clark,” you say, and his name on your lips almost undoes him. He flinches. Like it hurts. You swallow. Your voice trembles. “Is that…” you pause.

It shatters him. A broken breath slips from his lips. Not even a full sound, just a whimper, high and helpless. His hand clenches at his side, his mouth falls open like he wants to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out.

“I’m not,” he tries, and his voice breaks. A sob curls in the back of his throat, swallowing his next words. He lowers his head, ashamed. “I’m not what they said I am,” he finally whispers. “I swear. I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know what they said until today.”

Your eyes shimmer. You take a step forward. He sinks. Literally folds at the knees. He drops to the ground in front of you like his strength has given out, like the only thing keeping him upright was the hope that you’d believe in him. His forehead presses to your abdomen. His hands grasp at your hips like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“I’m not a monster,” he whispers, broken. “Please…don’t look at me like they do.”

Your hands tremble as they reach for him. He feels it. He feels you hesitate again and then he feels your fingers thread into his hair.

And he weeps.

He folds like he’s been shot. One breath he’s Superman, the next, he’s Clark, breaking open at your feet. His knees hit the tile with a thud that makes your chest seize, and then he’s curled into you, forehead pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s trying to hold the world still.

You freeze. Only for a second. His fingers tremble against your sides, clutching the fabric of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the planet. And then you hear it again. A sob. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just a sound, guttural and wet and terrified, torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. His shoulders jerk with it, and your own eyes sting in response.

Your hands move instinctively. One slides into his hair, his soft, sweat-damp curls, and the other cups the back of his neck. He’s warm. Too warm. Like his skin doesn’t know how to regulate his grief.

You hold him. Gently. Firmly. The way you would a child who’s just seen something they shouldn’t have. You bend low and whisper, “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t lift his head. Just shakes it, forehead still pressed into you like he can’t bear to look you in the eye. His grip tightens. “I didn’t know,” he chokes. “I didn’t know they said that. I never wanted…they think I’m something I’m not.”

Your voice is quiet but sure. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sucks in a broken breath. “You looked scared.”

“I was,” you admit, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “Not of you. Never of you. I was scared someone had twisted something beautiful and made you think you had to carry it alone.”

That gets him. He lifts his head just enough to look up at you. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the blue of them stormy with shame and desperation. He looks like a man about to crumble again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers.

“You won’t.”

“I’m not what they want me to be.”

“Good.”

He blinks. “What?”

You kneel down slowly, sink onto the floor in front of him, and cradle his jaw in your hands. You wipe the tears from his face with your thumbs, even as more spill over.

“Let them want a god. Let them demand a king. I only ever wanted you. Clark. Not their symbol. Not their weapon. You. The boy who apologizes to pigeons when he startles them. The man who listens to every voicemail I leave, even the ones I end with, ‘Don’t call me back, I just wanted to hear your voice.’”

His mouth wobbles.

“I know who you are,” you whisper. “You love hard. You try harder. You never stop believing the world can be good, even when it’s cruel to you.”

He closes his eyes and exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. His forehead presses to yours, hands cradling your waist now, like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“They said I was born to dominate,” he murmurs.

“And you were,” you say, “but not the way they think.”

He pulls back, just a little. Brows drawn.

“You were born to dominate hearts,” you continue, “with kindness. With that ridiculous, stubborn hope. With how much you care. That’s your power. Not just your strength.”

His lip trembles and then he kisses you. It’s messy. Wet from his tears. Breathless from his crying. But it’s him, vulnerable, aching, desperate to feel something real. Your hands fly to his face and hold him there as he kisses you like he’s sorry, like he’s grateful, like you’re saving him from drowning.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is almost gone.

“Will you stay?”

You nod, your hands never leaving him. “Always.”

And when he finally lets you pull him into your arms—his massive frame curling into yours like he’s trying to disappear, you hold him for as long as it takes.

Until the shaking stops.

Until the pain quiets.

Until he believes you.

[emerald-evans]

just one ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie

notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21621

- Clark - 

“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says. 

Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.” 

Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.” 

Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says. 

“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.” 

“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.” 

“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee. 

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years. 

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you. 

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too. 

It’s always you. 

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s. 

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?” 

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second. 

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.” 

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts. 

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly. 

But why? 

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited? 

Do you... like him? 

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes. 

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices. 

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.” 

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud. 

He wishes he wasn’t. 

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is. 

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said— 

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out? 

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing. 

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building. 

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely. 

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day. 

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that. 

He can’t risk losing you. 

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night. 

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see. 

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff. 

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?” 

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.” 

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.” 

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.” 

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping. 

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?” 

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.” 

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—” 

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.” 

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him. 

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind. 

He raises a brow. “What?” 

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.” 

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters. 

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?” 

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.” 

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?” 

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.” 

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?” 

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control. 

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom. 

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?” 

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight. 

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…” 

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance. 

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.” 

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass. 

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?” 

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win. 

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly. 

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—” 

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?" 

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. 

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—” 

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.” 

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise. 

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving. 

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least. 

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap. 

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee. 

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect. 

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room. 

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.” 

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants. 

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps. 

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur. 

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing. 

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous. 

Then, of course— 

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe. 

“I was just trying to—” you start.  

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time. 

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists. 

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy? 

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild. 

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.” 

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk. 

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right. 

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf. 

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.” 

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.” 

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain. 

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm. 

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him. 

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped. 

You blink. “Gone?” 

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends. 

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance. 

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that. 

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete. 

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered. 

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you. 

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it. 

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him. 

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him. 

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one. 

“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?” 

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.” 

Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.” 

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory. 

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.” 

Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see. 

“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.” 

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her. 

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost. 

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.” 

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair. 

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with. 

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy. 

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—” 

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.” 

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast. 

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.” 

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece. 

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special. 

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom. 

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up. 

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become. 

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom. 

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist. 

And today is the longest Thursday ever. 

- You - 

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk. 

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it. 

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.” 

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are. 

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again. 

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.” 

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?” 

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?” 

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.” 

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat. 

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.” 

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.” 

“I know you’re delusional.” 

“Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.” 

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?” 

You nod. “He knows.” 

“How do you know he knows?” 

Well, that’s… complicated. 

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom. 

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.” 

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.” 

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs. 

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget. 

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when— 

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says. 

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is. 

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work. 

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep. 

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything. 

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair. 

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out. 

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you. 

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter. 

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints. 

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?” 

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.” 

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?” 

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.” 

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?” 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—” 

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you. 

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?” 

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.” 

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge. 

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma. 

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.” 

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.” 

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?” 

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel. 

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.” 

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.” 

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug. 

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?” 

“You counted?” Lois asks. 

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?” 

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire. 

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.” 

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.” 

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.” 

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.” 

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.” 

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms. 

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then— 

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly. 

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile. 

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?” 

Clark chokes. Your heart stops. 

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips. 

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.” 

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—” 

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.” 

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint. 

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder. 

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.” 

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.” 

God. If only he knew. 

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?” 

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?” 

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?” 

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk. 

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline. 

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth. 

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?” 

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.” 

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous. 

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.” 

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it. 

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee. 

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. 

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk. 

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.” 

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.” 

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue. 

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.” 

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?” 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark. 

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper. 

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it— 

“It’s chronological.” 

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”  

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.” 

“You didn’t knock.” 

“I figured you’d hear me.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” 

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—” 

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says. 

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?” 

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?” 

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird. 

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?” 

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.” 

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.” 

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?” 

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle. 

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.” 

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.” 

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?” 

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin. 

And, well, it could—technically. 

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.” 

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments. 

“What about the back breaking?” he asks. 

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. 

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function. 

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach. 

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.” 

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?” 

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?” 

Clark frowns. “Right.” 

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.” 

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.” 

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.” 

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.” 

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages. 

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze. 

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

And then— 

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.” 

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—” 

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room. 

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities. 

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.” 

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle. 

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf. 

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.” 

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door. 

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?” 

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.” 

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being. 

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks. 

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?” 

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.” 

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.” 

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.” 

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.” 

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.” 

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you. 

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack. 

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore. 

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you. 

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted. 

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close. 

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill. 

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this. 

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend. 

- 

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could. 

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed. 

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything. 

It’s perfect. 

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend. 

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately. 

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.” 

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything. 

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?” 

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.” 

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live. 

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical. 

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?” 

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.” 

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?” 

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile. 

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends. 

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board. 

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly. 

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.” 

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.” 

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand. 

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.” 

You frown. “An event?” 

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!” 

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—” 

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.” 

“Well—I mean, yes, but—” 

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!” 

You scowl. “Jimmy—” 

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?” 

You stare at him, mouth dry. 

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.” 

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.” 

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?” 

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.” 

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.” 

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.” 

You give him a look. “Jimmy—” 

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles. 

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.” 

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.” 

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode. 

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship. 

Right? 

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark. 

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch. 

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming. 

God. You are so monumentally screwed. 

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you. 

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements. 

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause. 

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes. 

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty. 

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen. 

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain. 

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual. 

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever. 

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door. 

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark: 

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late. 

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen: 

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis 

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come. 

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke. 

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry. 

What if this is the one time things go wrong? 

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up? 

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel? 

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door. 

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it. 

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more. 

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic. 

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up. 

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. 

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.” 

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life. 

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.” 

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?” 

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?” 

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery. 

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.” 

The camera pans out slightly. 

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—” 

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera. 

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.” 

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio. 

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.” 

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you. 

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench. 

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before. 

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe. 

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone. 

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.  

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.  

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”  

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.  

You freeze.  

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”  

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”  

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”  

He nods—then immediately shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter. 

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”  

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”  

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”  

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”  

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”  

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”  

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”  

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”  

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice. 

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. 

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”  

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”  

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing. 

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.” 

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.” 

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.” 

Your heart stutters. “What?” 

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.” 

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?” 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not. 

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.” 

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters. 

You blink. “What?” 

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.” 

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit. 

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling. 

Just one. 

Just... one? 

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil? 

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter. 

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous. 

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it. 

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it. 

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark. 

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything. 

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him. 

Okay. You need to stop freaking out. 

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system. 

And if you can’t do that? 

Then you need to distract him until it wears off. 

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head. 

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself. 

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow. 

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV. 

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?” 

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide. 

But not tonight. 

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.” 

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?” 

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.” 

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.” 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

“The microwave,” he mutters. 

Your brows rise. “The microwave?” 

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.” 

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.” 

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.” 

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.” 

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.” 

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago? 

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.” 

“Good. Next question, then.” 

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.” 

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.” 

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out. 

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when— 

“You,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink. “What?” 

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.” 

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing. 

He thinks about you. A lot. 

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it? 

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.” 

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?” 

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.” 

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now. 

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.” 

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.” 

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm. 

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?” 

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.” 

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore. 

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can. 

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?” 

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver. 

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. 

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

Your breath catches. “Me?” 

He nods. 

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—” 

“Is it Jimmy?” 

Your eyes go wide. “What?” 

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight. 

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up. 

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—” 

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.” 

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t. 

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?” 

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—” 

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.” 

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

Your cheeks burn. “How often?” 

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.” 

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?” 

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.” 

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.” 

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do. 

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?” 

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls. 

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating. 

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?” 

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again. 

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?” 

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand. 

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.” 

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.” 

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going. 

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.” 

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.” 

You blink at him. “You really don’t?” 

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world. 

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.” 

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot. 

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.” 

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked. 

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.” 

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it. 

You freeze. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.” 

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard. 

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears. 

Your breath catches. His does too. 

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear. 

And then— 

He grins. 

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you. 

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything. 

It steals the breath from your lungs. 

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent. 

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap. 

And then he kisses you. 

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you. 

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel. 

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer. 

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.” 

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him. 

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp. 

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.” 

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard. 

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.” 

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again. 

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—” 

You do—grinding down, slow and precise. 

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.” 

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?” 

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—” 

You press your hips down again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Tell me.” 

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.” 

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence. 

Clark Kent just said a bad word. 

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips. 

“Did you just say… fuck?” 

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again. 

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.” 

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?” 

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.” 

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark. 

And you love him for it. 

You want him for it. 

You need him. 

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.” 

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips. 

“You sure?” 

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all. 

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!” 

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.” 

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.” 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.” 

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?” 

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.” 

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.” 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs. 

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then— 

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie. 

He blinks. “Blue.” 

“First thing you ever noticed about me?” 

“Your laugh.” 

“What’s your biggest fantasy?” 

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?” 

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Say something filthy.” 

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.” 

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless. 

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin. 

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious. 

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.” 

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there. 

Because he does. He always has. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need. 

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time. 

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you. 

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.” 

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone. 

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips. 

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you. 

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore. 

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—” 

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest. 

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.” 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.” 

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin. 

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher. 

You can barely breathe. 

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed. 

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. 

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.” 

And then he lowers his mouth to you. 

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

Holy shit. 

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking. 

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread. 

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it. 

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer. 

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing. 

And then he starts to really eat. 

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark. 

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way. 

You startle. “Did you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it. 

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs. 

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder. 

And then he gives you more. 

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets. 

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.” 

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second. 

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—” 

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—” 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.” 

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do. 

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth. 

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together. 

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely. 

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—” 

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved. 

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head. 

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” 

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic. 

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.” 

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp. 

“Oh my God.” 

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence. 

“You—you okay?” 

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.” 

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless. 

“You’re massive.” 

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.” 

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.” 

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.” 

You blink. “Gosh?” 

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—” 

“Say it dirtier, Clark.” 

“What?” 

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.” 

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.” 

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.” 

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered. 

“Say something else,” you breathe. 

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.” 

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.” 

“I—I can stop—” 

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.” 

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.” 

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock. 

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—” 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.” 

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.” 

“Too late.” 

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything. 

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—” 

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear. 

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in. 

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills. 

Buried to the hilt. Inside you. 

Clark Kent, inside you. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move. 

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying. 

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.” 

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall. 

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.” 

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned. 

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest. 

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.” 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?” 

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.” 

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps. 

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more. 

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. 

And he’s so fucking pretty. 

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you. 

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful. 

But you don’t want careful. 

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart. 

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough. 

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear. 

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer. 

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.” 

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real. 

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go. 

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins. 

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle. 

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.” 

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate. 

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.” 

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—” 

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back. 

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.” 

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.” 

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. 

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing. 

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it. 

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress. 

“Clark—” 

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling. 

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out. 

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you. 

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself. 

And he’s watching all of it. 

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.” 

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you. 

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling. 

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard. 

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen. 

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you. 

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it. 

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you. 

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless. 

Then finally, he stills. 

You don’t know how long the silence lasts. 

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way. 

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks. 

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?” 

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.” 

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.” 

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.” 

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern. 

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. 

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly. 

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.” 

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again. 

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.” 

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?” 

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying. 

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.” 

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?” 

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.” 

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst. 

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?” 

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.” 

- 

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you. 

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt. 

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms. 

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too. 

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office. 

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut. 

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten. 

You glance up at him. “How will they know?” 

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.” 

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.” 

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.” 

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already. 

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you. 

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first. 

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin. 

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.” 

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.” 

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.” 

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance. 

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.” 

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.” 

You frown. “What does that even mean?” 

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. 

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat. 

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?” 

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.” 

Clark chokes on nothing. 

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look. 

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.” 

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.” 

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?” 

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage. 

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high. 

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.” 

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?” 

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—” 

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.” 

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around. 

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in. 

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are. 

Until— 

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts. 

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen. 

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!” 

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.” 

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is. 

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face. 

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride. 

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.” 

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.” 

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.” 

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly. 

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.” 

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.” 

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.” 

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.” 

You groan again. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.” 

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate. 

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.” 

You blink. 

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.” 

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow. 

“Thanks, Jimmy.” 

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.” 

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.” 

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.” 

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest. 

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you. 

And smiles. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[emerald-evans]

No Sex until Friday -C.K

cw: Explicit sexual content (18+), masturbation, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, marking (biting), creampie, praise/degradation mix, orgasm control.

It starts with a bet. A stupid one.

“Four days,” Clark says, leaning against your kitchen counter like the most smug farm boy in the galaxy. “No sex until Friday. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Oh, I can,” you lie. You cannot. It’s not that you’re addicted to him—it’s just… fine, okay, you are. When your boyfriend is literally Superman, restraint isn’t exactly your strong suit. But you were still going to try.

You cross your arms, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re forgetting something, Smallville. I’ve got self-control.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sipping his coffee like this is nothing. “You couldn’t even make it through Man of Steel Monopoly without—"

“That doesn’t count,” you cut in, cheeks warming at the memory. “You were cheating.”

“I was winning.” He tilts his head toward you, voice dropping low, “and you’re already thinking about breaking the rules.”

“I am not.” You absolutely are.

“I’m just saying,” Clark continues, “I think you’ll fold by Wednesday night.” 

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I’m making it to Friday. And when I win, you’re taking me to that seafood place in Metropolis. The fancy one.”

“Sure baby, if you even make it that long.” He said laughing, and it was warm and deep and did things to you that were going to make this whole “no sex until Friday” arrangement absolutely impossible.

“So,” you said, stepping closer until your chest brushed his arm. “If we’re doing this… what exactly counts as breaking the rules?”

Clark hesitated, his jaw tightening just slightly, which told you he hadn’t actually thought this through. “Uh… no sex. That’s all.”

Your smirk was wicked. “Define sex.”

“You know, sex.”

You tilted your head. “Right. But define ‘sex,’ Kent. Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got, like, Smallville Boy Scout definitions, and mine might be… broader.”

His eyes flickered down at you—quick, almost guilty—and then back up, “You know what I mean.”

“Mm. I don’t. Clarify.”

Clark sighed, that low, exasperated sound he made when you were purposefully annoying him and he secretly liked it. “No kissing where it counts. No touching where it counts. No…” His voice dipped lower, “…oral anything.”

You fought a grin. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Stop,” he warned, but his cheeks were pink now, which was almost as satisfying as getting him into bed.

“Stop what? I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page,” you said, running your finger in an absentminded little circle against his bicep. “So I could walk around the apartment in a towel after a shower, dripping water everywhere, and that wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”

“That’s… not—” He coughed. “That’s not technically sex, no.”

“Or I could sit on your lap during movie night. Totally innocent. No rules broken.”

Clark’s jaw flexed again. “…Right.”

“And if I… oh, I don’t know…” you leaned in so your lips were just brushing the shell of his ear, “…accidentally moaned your name in my sleep?”

He turned to look at you fully, and the shift in his eyes made your knees a little weak—like you’d just poked at the Superman side of him instead of Clark. “You keep testing me, sweetheart, and Friday’s going to be very, very long for you.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll regret winning.”

He hums, all calm and unbothered, but you can see it—how his hand lingers on the counter, knuckles whitening just slightly. “You remember what happened the last time we made a bet?”

You try to play innocent. “Nope. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Clark gives you a look, the one that says he’s running through every single memory in his superbrain and knows you’re lying. “You ended up handcuffed to my bed for three hours.”

You snort. “And you loved it.”

“Mm.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Not the point.”

“You’re right,” you say, sidling past him toward the couch, deliberately brushing against his chest on the way. “The point is that you’re going to be paying for my oysters and champagne by Friday night.”

He follows you—because of course he does—and drops onto the couch beside you. “And the point is that you have zero poker face.”

“Oh, please.” You grab the remote, flicking on Netflix. “I’ve got plenty of poker face.”

Clark doesn’t even answer—just drapes his arm over the back of the couch and lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your shoulder.

You last fifteen minutes before you start to squirm. He notices, naturally, and smiles faintly like the predator he’s pretending not to be. “Wednesday night, huh?” he murmurs, eyes on the TV.

You grit your teeth, leaning back into his arm like you’ve got something to prove. “Friday, Kent. I’m making it to Friday.”

And that’s when he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re good and restless until then.” You know, in that moment, you’re so fucked.

The next morning, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower, you tug on a thin silk night slip, one thaf is definitely not bet-friendly—and pad into the kitchen.

Clark’s already there, hair damp from his own shower, in a fitted blue t-shirt that makes your pulse do funny things. He’s sitting at the table, reading the Daily Planet on his tablet, coffee in hand, and working his way through a plate of eggs 

You pause in the doorway, catching his eye for just a second, then—without breaking contact—you reach for the hem of your night slip and tug it up. Over your hips. Past your chest. And off.

Clark freezes mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth.

“Morning,” you say breezily, tossing the slip onto a chair and padding over to the laundry nook, bare ass bouncing. You bend tossing in towels with your ass high, knowing full well he can see everything. The air’s cool, nipples tight and aching, and you swear you hear him exhale a curse under his breath.

Laundry done, you saunter into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a cup of coffee like you’re not putting on a one-woman burlesque show before breakfast.

You take the mug to the couch and plop down next to him, crossing your legs. “Whatcha reading?”

Clark doesn’t look. “News brief. Morning update for the Planet.”

“Mhm.” You sip. “How’s that going?”

He swallows, jaw tight. “Fine.”

The silence stretches. You shift, scooting an inch closer. Then another. Until your thigh brushes his. His voice is slightly hoarse now. “Sweetheart—”

“Can I have a hug?” you interrupt.

“Not a good idea.”

“Didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” You set your coffee down and slide into his lap before he can react, straddling him.

Clark’s hands fly to your hips—not to pull you closer, but to keep you in place—as if that’s somehow going to help. You loop your arms around his neck, leaning in until your breasts press against his shirt. “It’s just a hug, Smallville. Not breaking any rules.”

Clark’s eyes are locked anywhere but on you, like he’s memorizing the wood grain of the coffee table. His thumbs flex against your hips before he catches himself and goes still. “You’re—” His voice comes out rough, like gravel. He clears his throat. “You’re naked.”

You tilt your head innocently. “Am I?”

He gives you that look—the one that I’m two seconds from throwing you over my shoulder. “You know you are.”

“Right. Which… is fine.” You shift just enough that the movement drags your nipples across his chest. “Because being naked isn’t against the rules.”

The rest of Tuesday is… fun. For you. For Clark, it’s some kind of Herculean test of willpower.

By Wednesday morning, you’ve traded the silk night slip for nothing but one of his button-ups—and not much else. 

By Thursday, you can tell he’s hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why you push.

That night, you’re in bed together. You’ve been good—technically. No touching “where it counts.” No breaking the rules. But as he scrolls through something on his phone beside you, broad shoulders relaxed against the headboard, you get an idea.

You start slow—just sliding a hand over your own stomach under the blanket. Then your fingers drift lower. You bite back a sound, but the mattress dips as his head turns. “Sweetheart?”

“Hmm?” You keep your eyes closed, breath soft and uneven now.

Clark freezes. “What are you—” His voice drops. “Oh, no.”

“Not breaking the rules,” you murmur, lips curving. “I’m just… helping myself sleep.” Within seconds, your fingertips find slick heat, and your hips give a tiny involuntary roll. The sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy. You hum, teeth catching your bottom lip. You keep going, rubbing slow circles, your breath catching in quiet, uneven little gasps. 

His phone’s still in his hand, but his jaw is tight now. “You trying to get me to lose?”

“Mm,” you breathe, eyes closed. “Not… technically…”

The blanket shifts over you as your hips move again. Your whimper is quiet but not quiet enough. Clark groans under his breath, rolling to face the opposite direction like distance will save him. “You’re impossible.”

You smile to yourself, dragging your fingers lower, dipping into your own heat. The slick sound is filthy in the quiet room, and the next moan that slips out is louder. He inhales sharply through his teeth, but doesn’t move.

“Fine,” you pant, your own voice starting to shake with how badly you’re aching. “Guess I’ll just keep doing it myself… thinking about your cock instead of my fingers… about how big you’d feel inside me right now…” That does it. His free hand shifts under the blanket toward his own waistband, and a second later you catch the faintest movement of his fist working over himself. Your hips stutter. “Clark—”

“Don’t start,” he grits out, jaw tight. “You started this game.”

You let out another moan, high and breathless, and that’s it—his phone clatters to the nightstand. In one motion, he’s on his side facing you, catching your wrist under the blanket and pulling your fingers from yourself.

“Move ‘em,” he orders, you barely have time to inhale before he’s replacing them with the hot, thick press of his cock, sliding in slowly. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you full.

Clark braces one palm beside your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight you swear you’ll feel it later. “Four days,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. “I made it four days with you teasing me like that. You owe me.”

Your nails rake down his back, earning a low grunt. “Fucking… knew you wouldn’t last,” you manage between moans.

Clark’s laugh is dark and breathless against your skin. “I lasted,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “You didn’t.”

You gasp when his hips snap forward, the headboard knocking against the wall. “I—” you start, but it melts into a moan.

“Could’ve kept my hands to myself,” he goes on, driving the words between thrusts, “but then you had to sit there and—god—touch yourself right next to me.” His pace picks up, his fist bunching the sheets near your head like he’s holding back from just railing you into the mattress.

His forehead presses to yours, sweat slick at his hairline, and his voice drops to a dark murmur that makes you clench around him. “God—fuck—” you whimper, the words breaking into a moan when his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re so wet now that every snap of his hips is filthy and loud under the blankets, slick and obscene.

“You hear that?” Clark groans, fucking you harder. “That’s how fucking desperate you are. Four days, and you’re dripping all over me like a slut who can’t keep her hands to herself.”

He bites down on your shoulder, groaning like he’s just as far gone, hips jerking into you with mindless, hungry force. “Gonna cum in you,” he grits out. “Gonna fill this perfect little pussy so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” You choke out a cry, your back arching as your orgasm hits—sharp and devastating—your cunt pulsing around him, slick spilling down between your thighs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, his thrusts growing erratic.

When he finally eases back just enough to look at you, you feel the hot spill of him leaking out between your thighs. His fingers slip down, pressing against your swollen cunt pushing his cum back in making you jolt.

“Not done,” he murmurs, watching your face as he keeps moving inside you, slow and filthy. “I’m gonna fuck it deeper so you remember who you belong to.” And with that, Clark Kent—boy scout farm boy, world’s greatest hero—starts all over again, ruining you until you can’t even remember what day it is, much less who won the bet.

a/n: ive has the MOST stressful week but alas time shall go on and writing smut exists so staying alive can’t be that bad also super thankful for all of u whores