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jinkiezzsstuff · 5 days ago

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let me out (I’m starving)

warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON, implied NONCON, woc!reader (south asian coded but yk), office worker!reader, toxic workplace, obsession, manipulation, possessive behavior, forced intimacy, Lex sucks but what's new, implied murder (blink and you'll miss it), workplace abuse, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 6k

summary: Your job as one of Lex Luthor's corporate drones sucks, but at least the paycheck is steady. So when Lex asks you to care for his newest prodigal monster, you think nothing of it. The thing about monsters, as you come to find out, is they don't only exist in the dark.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

ultraman's anakin allure got me a little bit... please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!

Lex asks you to care for Ultraman.

“At least make him think you do,” he says dismissively.

He takes another cursory look over the file in hand before he slides it to you, uncaring of how some of the papers spill out. A photo loosens from the paperclip, and you catch a glimpse of the masked figure that is now slated to be Superman’s rival. Marketing must’ve had a hand in this given the white background and his stiff demeanor. You wonder if he’s smiling behind the mask—if he knows how to smile—then shrug off the thought.

You take the file, straightening the paperwork inside by tapping against his desk obnoxiously. Lex’s left eye twitches, but he says nothing as you shuffle through the admittedly sparse file. It has little past his basic information.

“You want me to be his friend?”

Lex chews over this for a moment. And then he gives you a half-nodding, half-shrugging gesture. “Essentially.”

It is only the two of you in his office. You’re sure that goes against HR protocols, but Lex has never been the sort of boss to give a fuck about proper channels and all that.

“For how long?”

Lex lets out a heavy breath. “For however long it takes,” he emphasizes, glaring at you. “It’s not that hard of a task.”

Years of working underneath and now alongside Lex has taught you how to pull off the illusion of patience. A smile will gain you sharper vitriol whereas any visible dissatisfaction will earn you an increased workload. You press your lips into a line, not because you care to give Lex the impression you are overlooking the venom coating his tongue but because disappointment haunts Lex’s every step, and you love to give him a reminder.

“My apologies for wanting a deadline, Mr. Luthor,” you say flatly.

From how Lex explains it, your new role sounds much simpler than the current one he has you doing. But you’re not sure of the ethics involved in befriending a creation of his and taking a paycheck for it. Nor are you sure you can pull this off.

He presses his fingers on either side of his nose. “Don’t call me that.” It takes concentrated effort for him to loosen his shoulders and unclench his jaw. “I’m sorry. Things have been a little…stressful on the social media front.”

You relax your own defensive stance. Lex is an asshole, but he’s never been unreasonable with you. The history you two share is too storied for him to treat you so carelessly. He’s consumed with not only getting rid of Superman but tanking his reputation, so that all that’s left is a tarnished legacy and a vacuum of power Lex can take advantage of. You’ll cut him some minor slack. You get paid more than enough to do so.

“The monkeys aren’t ragebaiting properly or what?”

His eyes close for a moment and then reopen with a sigh. “They are. But public opinion is still quite high,” he admits.

The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced, and his cuticles have been torn to shreds. The red of his eyes is from days-old exhaustion, but you would not be surprised to find out he cried right before calling you into his office.

“And you think giving Ultraman a friend will help because…?”

“Because he’s a fucking idiot,” he finishes, throwing a pen at the door.

You glance back down at the picture now peeking from the top of the file. No, he doesn’t know how to smile, you decide. With Lex as his creator, there is nothing to smile about.

“This is Ultraman.”

It’s strange to say you are impressed Lex has provided him an apartment. It’s within the LuthorCorp campus, and you assume his freedoms are severely limited, but it’s much better than those pocket dimension prisons Lex is entirely too fond of. For as rancorous as Lex has been about Ultraman in the short time you’ve learned of him, he must hold some derivative of fondness for him if he’s willing to also include furnishings to Ultraman’s home.

“Hi,” you greet with a wave.

The man looks to Lex.

“You see what I’m saying?” Lex says out of the corner of his mouth. He clicks his tongue, motioning towards you. “Say hello.”

“Hello,” the man says robotically.

A slight chill touches the base of your spine, sending threads of unease reverberating up your back. His instant obedience is nothing to marvel at, your stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight.

Lex waits a beat then snaps his fingers. “Be polite. Take off your mask.”

Immediately, he goes to unclasp whatever mechanism connects his mask to the suit. There’s a brief moment where his fingers spasm as if reluctant, but it’s gone before Lex notices.

The file had informed you he is a clone, but you are still not prepared for how much he looks like Superman. His hair is longer and greasier with eyes not quite as bright, but other than these minor differences, he’s an exact copy of Earth’s strongest defender.

“Impressive, right?” Lex says. He’s watching you with rapt interest.

The knot in your stomach begins to crawl up your throat. You thought you’d be able to think of Ultraman as an identical twin of sorts but seeing him in front of you like this is more horrifying than you could have imagined.

Memories are not stored in DNA, so you know without a doubt Ultraman does not hold a single connection to Superman outside of appearance and physicality. Did he wonder what he was rather than who he was when he opened his eyes for the first time? Did he inherently know he was different? Or was that shown to him through whatever cruelty Lex deemed satisfactory as a teaching tool?

“Don’t let Mr. Handsome hear you say that,” you say instead.

Lex scoffs at that, but his lack of argument is telling.

It doesn’t take him long to deem other matters more important and he leaves you with Ultraman, muttering about how he’ll leave a few PlanetWatch members to stand guard outside. His gaze lingers on Ultraman, a frown pinching his brows before he heads back.

You’re left standing in the middle of Ultraman’s living room. You gesture towards the couch, a question in your eyes. He nods, taking a seat on the ottoman opposite of you.

Sweat slicks your hands and you wipe them off, forcing a smile when he continues to sit there. He steals a glance at you. His bottom lip is chewed raw and the hair on the back of his neck sticks to his skin, dampened by sweat.

What do you even talk about with a man whose entire live revolves around Lex’s next order?

“How has your day been so far?” you ask, infusing cheer into your voice.

He turns to look at you fully. His expression is completely slack, and his hands sit in front of him. He looks neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

“Okay,” he says.

The corner of your mouth cramps. “That’s good! Have you been to training yet?”

He’s not due back to the lab until lunch, but it won’t hurt to ask. From what you can tell, it is one of the few things he does, so maybe he finds some enjoyment when he is able to go.

His face remains placid. “No.”

Well, you concede, it hurts a little to ask.

“Is there anything else you do other than train?”

And be Lex’s punching bag?

Immediately, you exorcise that train of thought. It’s a right of passage at LuthorCorp. If Lex hasn’t used you to vent out his frustrations, it does not bode well for your tenure at the company.

It takes Ultraman longer to answer this. The silence stretches between you two until it snaps, and you’re shifting on the cushion of the couch. The threads of your cardigan fray further underneath your twitchy fingers, unraveling a seam or two in the process.

“I sit,” he says finally.

You smile freezes in place. Lex is going to hell. He has to be.

“That’s” —you swallow, biting your bottom lip—��that’s definitely something you can do.”

The silence makes an appearance once more, and you desperately scavenge your limited small talk topics. He doesn’t go out often, so you don’t think bringing up the weather will spark any conversation other than a blank stare. You do not want to talk current events with him, and you’ve seen his schedule. He doesn’t do much at all. And you have never been that talented in making conversations out of nothing.

“Do you like being called Ultraman?” you ask without thinking.

You immediately bite your tongue. That is not the question you should’ve asked, but it’s the question that’s been at the forefront of your mind since Lex informed you of your new task.

You close your eyes and reopen them to find Ultraman’s head tilted as he takes in your question.

“I’m sorry. You do not have to answer that. I don’t know what came over me,” you say, holding a hand up. You wrack your brain for some common ground between you guys, but the file Lex gave you was fairly bare. “Um, I heard you—“

“I don’t like it,” he answers quietly.

“It’s a pretty shit name,” you agree heedlessly. For as smart as Lex is, he lacks creativity. And humanity. A correlation exists between the two but finding it won’t mean much in changing Lex. He likes who he is.

“What’s his name?” Ultraman asks suddenly.

You blink. There is no one else inside this apartment other than the cameras as far as you know. “Who?”

He points behind you.

You don’t want to turn around. From his expression, or lack thereof, whatever is behind you should be harmless, but in your line of work, anything can happen. If mutants are real, who’s to say ghosts aren’t? But you are being paid to follow Lex, and subsequently, Lex’s creations so you turn around slowly, eyes half-closed as if to stave off any fear that will close your throat.

Behind you is a picture. It takes up nearly the expanse of the narrow wall and if you were to guess, it’s at eye level with Ultraman. The photo is protected by a sheet of glass with a plain black frame surrounding it. It’s much simpler than you’d think it to be for being the only wall decoration in the apartment.

Superman stares back at you, eyes crinkled and teeth gleaming as he stands amongst the rubble. His hands are on his hips. Small tears rip at his suit, but the ’S’ is untouched, a hint of blood smearing the sharp corners. In the background stand cheering citizens, the sun shining brightly down upon them.

Your stomach churns, queasiness unspooling in your gut. There is too much to unpack here, so you decide to look away. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Superman?” you clarify, jerking your thumb behind you as you turn back to Ultraman.

He nods.

“It’s Kal-El. Supposedly.”

For all you know, the naming conventions of Krypton are more complex and Superman keeps it simple for the sake of it being an easy name on most tongues. It’s not a name used often anyway in regards to Superman. Lex has searched for every anagram iteration of Kal-El to see if it would yield any hints as to Superman’s alternate identity if such one exists. So far, his search has led him nowhere.

“Kal-El,” he repeats slowly. He thinks for a long time. “Can I be called Kal-El?”

This is above your pay grade.

“Do you want to be called Kal-El?” you ask hesitantly.

He studies you, searching you for an answer you cannot provide. Then he shakes his head.

“Is there something you’d like to be called?”

“I don’t know.”

His honesty splits you at your fault lines. There is no weight to his words. He has no opinion which is natural given what Lex has done to him but unnatural to his humanity. And despite how Lex portrays him, Ultraman is as human as you are.

“Would something similar to Kal-El work?” you offer. “We can always change it later. It’ll be like a placeholder until you find a name you like.”

He thinks this over. He looks ridiculous without his mask on in this suit, and the sight touches something tender in you.

“Okay,” he agrees, quicker this time.

Off the top of your head, you cannot think of any names similar to Kal-El. Kal seems too on the nose. Kyle does not suit him whatsoever along with any other K name that crosses your mind.

You settle on one after a few minutes.

“Does Kol sound okay?”

He brightens.

You smile, relieved.

“Kol it is then.”

It gets easier the more time you spend with Kol.

He’s not talkative by any means, but he no longer blinks as a response. Getting him to voice an opinion, however, is akin to pulling teeth.

“Do you want to watch one of my favorite movies then?” you ask after waiting a full five minutes for him to speak.

Seeing how regimented Kol’s life is, you opt to give him choices whenever possible. The first few days were incredibly boring given Kol doesn’t have many likes or dislikes and seems disinterested in finding out what those things could be for him. The only interest he has is watching you work, carefully placing himself behind you so he can watch over your shoulder.

He nods, a careful tuck of his chin, and hands the remote to you. You hold you hand out, palm flat and fingers relaxed. Sometimes, when your patience runs thin and you breathe in deeply and repeat your question for what feels like the nth time, Kol’s attention will involuntarily flick to whatever object is nearest to you. His shoulders will straighten slightly, and his jaw will jut out as he bears down on his teeth.

You take to quiet breaths and neutrally asked questions.

“I don’t think I’ve shown you a romcom yet, huh?” you say, more to fill the air than get an answer.

Predictably, he says nothing, but he watches intently as you scroll through the options before settling on a tried and true. You haven’t heard Kol laugh in the few weeks you’ve known him, so you’ll be pleasantly surprised if this movie earns a chuckle from him.

The first ten minutes are slow as the story finds its footing, but Kol’s attention is fully on the TV. At the beginning, Kol expected you to quiz him after each and everything you guys watched together. He’d sit at the dining table with his back stiff and straight against the uncomfortable wood, hands placed in front of him. It was unnerving to look up and find him in that position after throwing all of your things onto your couch.

It took seventeen times before he broke the habit.

Your stomach grumbles, and you place your hand over it. Kol tears his eyes away from the screen.

“Are you hungry too?” you ask sheepishly.

He considers this for a moment and then nods. It takes two minutes for you to order at the Thai restaurant down the strip that he likes so much, and then another two minutes to order some ramen for yourself. Once that’s done, you turn the movie back on and resist the urge to check your phone mindlessly.

The first time you saw Kol’s meal prep in his fridge, you thought he had provoked Lex to punishment. The food was bland, and it was rows of the same thing in his shelves. It took more questions than you expected for Kol to confirm this was how he always ate.

You took it upon yourself to order from every restaurant in a mile radius, curating each dish chosen to what you knew you and your friends enjoyed.

He had been overwhelmed by both the amount of food showing up at his door and the smell of it. It took some coaxing for Kol to eat the food, most of it given to him by your hand, but he seemed surprised by how much he enjoyed it.

It’s easy enough for you to get his meals changed, but he still vastly prefers the food prepared by a restaurant than whoever his personal chef is.

It will take fifteen minutes for the food to be dropped off, and he opts to wait to restart the movie until it does come. His fingers tap against his thighs as you guys wait, eyes flicking to the preview the movie has taken to play. He answers whatever questions you throw his way, but it takes him longer to come up with a response whenever the preview replays the moment when the main leads kiss in front of the male lead’s apartment. The scene cuts right before the male lead drags the female lead into his apartment, hiking her dress up her thigh and slipping his tongue into her mouth.

Kol watches as you unpack the food when you come back after grabbing the delivery from Langdon—your very own PlanetWatch bodyguard. His eyes trail after you, darting to your mouth for a too long second before dropping down to the food you place in front of him.

You don’t want to share your ramen, so you take a seat far from him.

“Ready?”

With his approval, you press play.

As the movie moves into the second act, Kol becomes more invested. He all but abandons the last of his food, leaning in closer as the two leads argue on screen. Worry furrows his brow when it seems the argument is spilling into territory that should be unexplored until the male lead swoops the female lead into a kiss. The fight leaves her all at once, hands going up to pull him closer.

Kol’s eyes widen as their breathing gets heavier. The male lead breaks the kiss just enough for his lips to brush against hers as he whispers something adoring. She smiles, nearly teeth to teeth with him as she teases him.

Having watched this movie more times than you can count, you know this scene is the calm before the storm. It never gets old, but you are finding Kol’s rapture far more interesting.

He doesn’t move until the movie finishes, eyes flitting all over the screen as the credits roll. The couch creaks underneath his weight as he turns to you, wonder making the blues of his eyes especially bright.

You grin smugly. “I have good taste, huh?”

The wonder quickly bleeds into anticipation, and he shifts closer to you. His lips part as if to speak but he remains quiet. Instead, he stares at you, waiting.

You frown, unsure why he has such an expectant look on his face.

“Do you want to watch another one?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.

You turn back to the TV and begin scrolling the available titles.

And if his shoulders slouch, you pay it no mind.

Kol begins to look to you for approval.

It’s a subtle change, one you don’t even notice until Lex invites you to observe his training. Kol’s intense training schedule usually left you with two to three hours to yourself during the work day, and you long to tell Lex no, but Lex isn’t asking.

Kol completes the sequence of moves flawlessly under Lex’s orders and immediately looks up to your viewing station. Lex is an arm’s length away from you, fingers curled over the railing until the skin over his knuckles are a bloodless white. He waves his hand towards The Engineer and a new sequence commences.

The kick thrown to Kol’s is dodged once he drags his attention from you which is only done when you nod at him encouragingly.

He reminds you of a dog, you think.

“He’s only good for following orders,” Lex mutters, hand pressed to his lips. He barks out a random assortment of numbers, growing increasingly frustrated as Kol does all of them. “Why can’t he think to do these himself?”

“Because no one is as smart as you, Lex,” you say dutifully.

Your answer doesn’t impress him.

Kol throws a truck at The Engineer. The metal crumples as it flattens her against the wall. A spare part—a broken part from the transmission perhaps—spears into her gut, pinning her to the wall. She spits something out, nanotechnology crawling across her skin to staunch the wound, but Kol’s not paying attention to her. He’s turned back to you. Even with his mask obstructing his face, you get the feeling he wants praise.

You suppose you’d find it impressive if he wasn’t a literal meta human. You count yourself lucky for not having to witness him crush a man’s skull between his hands as Lex had bragged about. Nonetheless, you give him a smile. He turns back, satisfied.

Lex is scowling when you look at him. One of his orderlies takes initiative and begins calling out numbers, but Lex brushes them off.

“What was that.”

The phone in your hand buzzes at that same moment. Helena from HR needs your help drafting an email to Lex about one of his preferred data engineers resigning for an opportunity at InfiTech.

Please, please, please!!!!

I’m scared he’ll throw a stapler at me again

The skin on the back of your neck prickles. Did Lex have undiagnosed phone telepathy?

“What was what?” you repeat tentatively. Is it less suspicious to keep your phone screen unlocked but with your palm covering the bottom half of the screen or lock your phone?

“Why did he do that?” Lex says. Each syllable sticks to the roof of his mouth.

It’s very rare for a competing firm to offer a salary higher than LuthorCorp or a benefits package as comprehensive, but you doubt either of those contributed to him leaving. Working for LuthorCorp as a whole is like any other large corporation: long hours, pay that sounds good on paper until they make you work for every cent, catered lunch, bullshit performance reviews, and the like. Working directly under Lex poses a different challenge and while many believe they welcome it, the reality of it is much worse.

Platitudes skitter around in your mind, too slippery for you grab onto one and hope for the best. Fuck, his nostrils are flaring.

“Why was Ultraman looking at you like that?”

“He wasn’t looking at me,” you deny reflexively. Then you process his question and its implications and amend with, “Maybe a little bit.”

“What did you do to him?” Lex snarls. He takes five fast and sharp steps towards you, chin tipped upwards and lips curled.

“What you asked of me,” you say evenly.

Your chest aches with how quickly your heart races. Luckily, he ignores your shaking fingers, entirely too focused on seeing if you’ll cower.

“I did not ask you to make him even more useless,” he says excruciatingly slow. His hand lashes out quicker than you can react, and he has your face between his boney fingers, turning your head to look down. He pushes your cheeks in harshly, forcing the soft flesh into the grooves of your teeth. “You are to be a companion. Nothing more.”

You meet his stare, trying not to blink too much. You’re hyperaware of your breathing and slow your breaths to match every second beat of your heart.

Lex tilts your head slightly and then seemingly appeased, he lets you go.

“He’s not human,” Lex says, stretching his fingers. He glances at you out of the corner of his eyes, bordering on dismissive. “Don’t think that you can make him one.”

“You won’t be needed today.”

Langdon holds his hand out to bar you from the entrance. His mouth twists uncomfortably as he relays to you Lex’s latest order.

“Mr. Luthor needs you to go over some videos of Superman.”

“Does he now?” you ask, intrigued.

You touch your tongue against the roughened imprint of your teeth on your cheek, mentally rolling your eyes. Yesterday must’ve done a number on his pride.

“He’d prefer if you worked from home today as well,” Langdon carries on, adjusting his watch. “As a precaution, of course.”

“Of course,” you parrot back, a disbelieving amusement weaving itself through you. He won’t even risk the chance of seeing you. All because Kol wanted some encouragement while he was working. Unbelievable. “I’ll see you later then Langdon.”

He rearranges his stance so his helmet obstructs his mouth from the cameras. “Good luck with Lex.”

A wry smile curls the corners of your mouth. “Don’t I need it.”

“You want to try a matcha?”

Kol rolls the syllables on his tongue, raising his eyebrows at you when you say nothing else. He’s been attached to your hip since you were allowed back. He follows you around the apartment like a duckling as if fearing you’ll disappear the moment his eyes aren’t on you.

Your stomach swoops uncomfortably when you catch the moments of relief that cross his face when you are exactly where he expects you to be. As the only person who he sees outside of his mandated training and missions, the last few days must’ve been gut-wrenching. But perhaps it was a good thing. Codependence is good for no one.

“It’s a drink,” you explain.

You don’t think he’ll like it, but you’ve learned to not inject your beliefs into what you say even accidentally. Kol will act accordingly because he thinks it’s what you want rather than go along with his own tastes.

“Okay.”

You go to grab a hat and face mask for him. He spends so much of his time suited up, and you loathe to add to it, but his face is too recognizable to risk for an outing. You hand him the mask, laughing when he goes to tuck the strap behind his ear and gets confused when there is no hair to keep it from chafing against the thin skin.

You offered to trim his hair when you came back, having spent your unexpected week off watching videos on men’s haircuts. He had acquiesced, sitting motionlessly on the edge of his bathtub as you took careful snips of his hair. When you trimmed off the front pieces, he stared unapologetically at you to the point where you were beginning to feel shy.

You did a decent job considering your inexperience. Now that it has been a couple of days and his hair has grown out, the haircut is looking a lot better.

Not that Kol cares.

It’s a ten minute walk to one of your favorite cafes, and you talk his ear off the entire way. He’s unfamiliar with the area and will likely continue to be, so you try to give him a glimpse of the world outside of the small one Lex has provided him.

He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps himself angled towards you as he walks. It’s nice. You’re almost tempted to tell him about how much Metropolis Generals are pissing you off and genuinely ruining your day by killing their chances at the playoffs but keep it to yourself. Just because he’s a willing participant doesn't mean you should take advantage.

You leave Kol to loiter outside, unsure of what sort of reaction a small and crowded space will cause for him. When you turn to check on him after ordering, he’s nearly pressed up against the glass window staring at you, face shadowed by his hat. You make a subtle motion for him to back up, a quick flick of your fingers, but he remains where he is. Two passersby slow their gaits and exchange looks with one another as if trying to decide if something should be done.

Luckily your name is called and with two drinks in hand, you meet Kol outside. The passersby wait for a moment longer and you meet their curious stares over Kol’s shoulders with a small nod.

You hand Kol the matcha, amused by the gleam of distrust in his eyes when he lifts the drink up.

“It’s green,” he says.

“Pretty, right?”

He flattens his mouth into a line and then takes a long drink from the cup. When he finishes swallowing, he immediately hands it to you and takes the pineapple juice from your other hand. You’ve taken one sip but not nearly as a large of a one as Kol.

“That bad?” you laugh, accepting the trade.

He wrinkles his nose. “Grassy,” he grumbles, sticking the straw in his mouth.

“It can be an acquired taste,” you admit. “But I’m glad you tried it. Maybe we’ll try a papaya next.”

You lead him towards the park and sit yourselves on a bench. It’s a pleasant day with clear skies and no monsters in sight. For once, Superman is taking a break, so Kol hasn’t had to work at a breakneck speed. It might be nice for him to feel the sun on his skin and the breeze through his hair.

Kol sits close to you, ignoring the other side of the bench. His thigh is flush against yours. You move an inch over, and he follows you. You don’t know how to feel about it, so you choose to ignore it. It doesn’t work quite as well as you hope.

Moving again so you can brace your hand in the space you’ve forced, you lean back on the bench. “Being stubborn won’t get you what you want with Lex,” you say, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. The matcha goes down easy.

He sips the juice, lips wrapped around the straw. When he releases it, there’s the tiniest smattering of your lipgloss in the center of his lips. It’s so out of place, you can’t help but stare. You quickly look away from his mouth when he looks down at you, confused.

“He won’t bring me back to training just because you don’t want to impress him anymore,” you clarify. “He doesn’t believe in rewards.”

Charles, Langdon’s replacement after a sudden transfer, had let you know Kol threw his version of a tantrum the first day you were absent. He was less obedient than usual, and it sent Lex into such a rage Eve had begged you to let her crash at your place. You obliged, obviously, and lent her your phone, so she could spend the night with that Jimmy guy she’s been talking to.

Charles was reluctant to let you know of anything else no matter how much you pestered him. You can only assume Kol was difficult enough to warrant Lex giving you a thoughtful look when you dropped by his office. He had said nothing inflammatory nor insulting. His ‘welcome back’ hadn’t even been sarcastic.

Kol reaches out, brushing a knuckle against the phantom bruise Lex has left behind on your face. He’s gentle, exceedingly so, but you flinch before you can stop yourself. His mouth twists, eyes downcast as he keeps his hand still.

“He shouldn’t have done that,” he says. His voice is barely more than a breath.

“Lex shouldn’t do a lot of things, and yet he does them anyway,” you shrug.

It’s a tale as old as time.

Nothing will be done to change it.

You wake up to an arm around your waist.

It’s early, so your brain is foggy and unable to process the strangeness of your situation with the urgency it necessitates. The weight around your waist is a chain, pinning you to the mattress when you try to shake it off.

Fear skitters throughout you immediately, your heart rate rising into something you almost can’t feel with how quick your heart flutters in your chest. You twist to try and loosen yourself from their grasp but find yourself in the same predicament no matter how you move.

They allow you only enough space to turn around.

“Kol?”

Your heart pounds heavier when you realize who it is in your bed. Something tight curls around your throat, preventing you from getting a full breath in.

He mumbles in his sleep, wrapping his arm tighter around you and dragging you to his chest. His bare chest. Which you do not have enough bandwidth to be thinking about, so you focus on what you can. His breaths are even, but you aren’t fooled.

“Kol, what are you doing here?”

In my bed.

He cracks open an eye, gauging how serious you are before committing to waking up. “I missed you,” he says, tender and terrible all at once.

“Kol,” you groan, bringing a hand up to press the inner corners of your eyes with your knuckles. It somewhat alleviates the pressure accumulating in your head. “That doesn’t meant you sneak into my bed.”

“I’m not in your bed,” he says plainly. “I took you home.”

“What.”

He adjusts you, so you are on top of him. There is a red crease line on his cheek and his hair is messy having grown out significantly in the past two weeks. His skin is hot, branding you where your shirt has ridden up. And alarmingly, he looks happy.

“Your bed is too small,” he explains. “I thought you’d be more comfortable at home.”

You sit up. He allows this but moves his hands upwards so they rest on your hips. You try to slide off of him, keeping the movements contained, but Kol catches on quickly and adds pressure until you are flush against his stomach. His expression hasn’t changed, but his fingers dig into you warningly.

“I was home,” you say slowly. “And I would like to go back home.”

“But you’ve already been away for three days,” he says, almost whining. “Charles said you’d be gone for another two.”

“Because I am on vacation, Kol,” you say, fighting to keep yourself calm. You are trying to keep your breaths measured but failing spectacularly at it. The room feels hot, your vision narrowing in until all you can see is Kol. Everything else is blurry and smudged.

“I missed you,” he says, disregarding what has just come out of your mouth. He tilts his head, eyes rounded out innocently. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“Okay, we need to talk about boundaries,” you say lightly. You blink away the spots dotting your vision and take a deep breath. It resets you just enough to focus. “You can’t just kidnap me, because you missed me.”

“I didn’t. I took you home,” he repeats. He loses some of that innocence, eyes hardening. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“My home is my apartment. This is your home,” you say. Bringing your hands down to one of his, you try to pry his fingers off of you.

“No. Your home is here,” Kol states firmly. He traces his name against your hipbone. “With me.”

Your breath does not seem to fill your lungs. You struggle to swallow over the lump in your throat as your fear swells. A shuddery breath is all you can manage as Kol stares at you, unyielding.

“Lex gave you to me,” he continues.

Bile burns at the back of your throat. As awful as Lex is, you do not think he would tell Kol as such. It goes against his plan to humanize Ultraman.

Right?

You shake your head, hand tightening on top of his, but Kol doesn’t stop.

“His gift to me for being good, for listening,” he stresses. “Superman will never have you.”

“Kol, I’m not—you can’t just—” Your tongue twists uselessly in your mouth. The thoughts scrambling in your brain are incoherent, and you can’t grasp at a single one to drag to the front. They fracture even further when Kol adjusts his hips slightly, and you feel how hard he is.

His hands then move, trailing up your body, reveling in all the places he has not yet written into memory. His touch steadily grows more bold as you still.

“Lex does whatever he wants,” he reminds you, his fingers tracing the underside of your chest. There is nothing human left in his eyes when he looks up at you.

“Why can’t I?”

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

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jinkiezzsstuff · 6 days ago

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seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

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jinkiezzsstuff · 8 days ago

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"Kal-El !"

────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

⋆·˚ ༘ .⋆𖥔 ݁ ˖۶ৎ clark kent/superman x reader

content warning!!: fluff + angst-ish | calling him by his name–his real one

🏷️: @chuuchuutrainn @angel06babysworld @rafeysvenicebitch @alize2007 | click here to be added!

masterlist!

────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

"Clark?" You whispered against his skin, cheek pressing against his bicep as you scooted closer to him on the bed, your legs moving to tangle with his beneath the blanket.

He had his nose buried into a book, squinting at the words even though he had his glasses on.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He replied, his eyes still on the page, his fingers fidgeting with the thin paper.

"Who's Kal-El?"

His arm suddenly tensed a bit under your cheek. Just barely but you felt it.

"Where do you–uh–Where did you hear that?" He replied, his voice suddenly shaky. Just slightly. But you noticed almost instantly.

He tried to maintain calm, now skimming over the words in his hands instead of actually reading them, but he could see the suspicious look on your face through his peripheral–and he knew you could tell something was wrong. You always could. No matter what.

"You said it. In your sleep," You started, gently taking his hand in your own, only to feel it trembling in your palms. "You said–Hey, are you okay?" You cut yourself off when you saw the nervous look on his face, immediately disavowing your words from before.

"I'm alright, don't worry about me I just.." He trailed off, reluctantly closing his book and placing it on the bedside table next to him before finally facing you. Properly. Something shifted in his expression then–a softness that cracked into vulnerability.

"Is it bad? Is Kal-El bad?I don't..I don't get it. Were you having a nightmare?"

He couldn't lie to you. Not when you were filled with so much genuine worry for him–He just couldn't do it. It was impossible.

"Kal-El," he took a deep breath, rubbing his lips right before speaking again, "Is my name."

An awkward silence filled the room as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, your lips parted–but nothing left them.

"Isn't–? isn't Clark your name?"

"No. It isn't." A beat. "Well I mean it is. It is my name it's just I have... another name. Kal-El."

"Kal-El." You repeated, slower this time, the name simply rolling off your tongue.

The sound of his name on your lips made something in him ache–in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being known. Maybe not completely. Not yet. But this? This was something. It was different.

It felt like he didn't have to hide himself as much anymore–given you still didn't know he was the one saving people–that he was Superman, but this little thing? His name? It made him feel...something that he couldn't even begin to put into words.

"I like it. I like Kal-El." You whispered, not asking questions, not prodding. It was better not to. You felt it in the way he stiffened when you touched him.

"He likes you too." He smiled, slowly relaxing, letting himself go soft again, leaning back into your touch like he craved it. Because he did. Clark needed you. And so did Kal-El.

line dividers: @/hyuneskkami

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jinkiezzsstuff · 8 days ago

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Please release a long screentime movie about SUPERMAN goofing around and laughing on set 😍😍

This made me feel so warm, dizzy and shaky 😭😭💞💞 MY SUPERMAN!!!

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jinkiezzsstuff · 8 days ago

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in heat!clark kent whose heat syncs with your ovulation

clark kent doesn't have a refractory period...

...and you thank the heavens for it everyday.

because having sex with a super-human slash kryptonian clark kent with no refractory period meant going on for rounds and rounds until all the sounds coming from your mouth become meaningless cries and the gargling of the saliva that pooled at your throat.

it's been... how many orgasms again? honestly, you don't even remember when you lost count, and clark didn't even count at all. no, he was more focused on pounding all his cum into you because he could smell your fertility.

surprisingly, it is the first time this has happened—clark's kryptonian heat had synced with your ovulatory phase... and it's peak was coincidentally on the same day as your ovulation.

he's been holding back for the past few days, but he felt it. he felt the sensation of his heat creeping up on him, he felt your body preparing for fertility, he predicted the date.

but he didn't say anything.

he knew he didn't need to.

because when the day of your ovulation came around, you always clawed at him. using a voice that went an octave higher and telling him "clark... need you, baby..." with that enchanting look of yours, those cute, soft lips sticking out to pout and fuck, he can smell the sweat on your skin and he can hear everything, and feel everything and—

it didn't take long before he was pouncing on you. instincts, he justified the next day.

so, back to now, where your knees are pressed up against your chest and your entire body is rocking back and forth with each of his thrusts. he's been moving for a long time now, way too long. yet, your body is aching for more and your entire being is begging for him to give you everything and he listens.

clark has always been a good boy, of course he listens.

"y-you hear it, sweets? it's... fuh- hmm.." and he's holding back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he tries, really tries, to not completely destroy you. "s-she's.. she's speaking to me, love..." he says, looking down at where the two of you sloppily connect.

it's gushy, and wet, and it feels so damn good. "w-who..?" you manage to sigh out, barely lucid.

he doesn't reply—instead, he chuckles, low and deep, before bringing one of the hands he used to push your knees against you to circle your clit, making your eyes widen in overstimulation as you cried out. "t-too mu–" he interrupts you with a shush, his grin dangerous.

"listen..." he looks mad, eyes unfocused as he focuses on his hearing. he's listening. he's zeroing his senses on the wet sounds of your pussy accommodating him, stretching and pumping out enough juice to take him like it needs to. and it does, anyway.

"p-please, c-clark! hmmm, clark- fuck! i– holy f-fuck.." you attempted to beg, to speak, but the sensation of his tip banging against your cervix rippled throughout your entire body, leaving you a dumb, numb puddle of pleasure.

even if none of your sentences were correct, he understood. he didn't listen to what you said, he listened to your body. he obeyed your pheromones, he gave into your clingy pussy, he succumbed to your warmth.

"n-needa breed... need to.. g-gotta.." he trails off when your shaky hands use their last ounce of strength to reach up, grabbing his head and pulling him down. "puh–lease... c-cum inside again– hmm.." you pleaded before smashing his lips into yours.

the kiss was messy, heated, nasty. a clash of tongue and teeth, a sloppy exchange of saliva, and a testimony of your longing for him all at once. his eyebrows furrowed when he deepened the kiss, pressing you into the pillow as his long tongue caressed the humid back of yours, a sensation that made you let out a moan that he immediately swallowed, his hips stuttering at the proximity.

he kept his mouth on yours and you were slowly losing air, the feeling of being lightheaded only heightening the pleasure, your cunt squeezing as much as your lungs.

finally, clark pulled away and you gasped for air, the sudden oxygen giving you newfound clarity.

cataclysmic. ruinous.

if you had been able to think, those would have been the words you would have used to describe your orgasm.

it crashed into you the same way clark did when his orgasm overtook him, slamming his cock inside of you while pressing his chest to yours, folding you in half.

you screamed and your eyes rolled back when the pulsing of your walls became something much, much more.

"fffuck! oh shit, shitshit–" you tried to make sense of it, but your delirious mind lit up with glee when cum squirted out of your pussy, spraying all over his pelvis and abdomen.

your body shook with his, his tip squeezing out load after load after load into you.

he was determined to breed you, and his biology was helping him.

because clark, when in heat, could pump out way more cum than he usually does—which is already alot.

so the squirt that shot out of you did nothing to lessen the feeling of being filled to the brim with his spent.

finally, both of you came down from your highs. slowly, softly. he paused inside you for a moment, eyes wide and staring at your glossy orbs.

your chest could barely heave with how much he was pressing into you, but you had no desire to complain.

"baby..." you both began at the same time.

"a-again?" he asked, hopeful.

and when you nodded, he wasted no time before thrusting into you once more, already chasing another high.

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jinkiezzsstuff · 8 days ago

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Summary: You were hired by a private company to teach, simple as that. But you didn’t expect your student to be him. A man treated like an experiment. And you definitely didn’t expect something tender to bloom between you. [1.4k]

Pairing: Ultraman x Reader

Warnings: NONE!!! no pronouns used, just a tiny bit of angst bc i’m evil like that <3

A/N: BEAR WITH ME YALL!!! i just watched the movie n i was thinking of writing something and idk why out of ever character he’s the one i wrote for i dead ahh don’t know 😵‍💫 it’s so bad i had a dream about this and wrote it… i lowkey wanted to do guy but it’s cool … i’ll do him next hehe anyways!!! most of this im pulling out my ahh i tried to look up his character and was just showing me the comic so idk 🤷🏽‍♀️ don’t come for me but umm this is very self indulgent but i spent 4hrs writing this so uhh…ENJOY <<33

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

You honestly hated your job.

The long hours, your boss—but the pay was good. Really good. And it came with perks.

One of them being the man that sat in front of you.

You never knew what made you so qualified for this job.

Before this you were just an elementary school teacher. You just figured it was because you were from a small town, and didn't have a family…it would have been easy to take care of you if you ever stepped out of line.

Honestly, you remember your first day like it was yesterday—because it was definitely a day you’d never forget.

As you approached him, you gave him a small smile. He quickly smiled back. As you got closer, he reached to touch you, as he always did, but you quickly whispered "Don't," tilting your head towards the guard.

It took him a second to realize what you meant. You always thought his confused face was the most adorable thing. Then it hit him. He quickly nodded, and gave you small thumbs up.

After saying your hellos, mostly you talking, which never bothered you, he listened. He always enjoyed the sound of your voice.

You pulled out a small packet from your bag before looking over at the guard clearing your throat.

“Do you mind?” you asked, pointing at the hand cuffs around his wrist.

The guard stepped forward and unlocked the cuff. You spoke again.

“Daniel, do you mind—” you paused, thinking carefully about what you were going to say, “You know how shy he is. Can you wait outside the door? I’ll let you know if I need anything.” then you flashed him a smile.

He groaned as he made his way to the door, letting out a scoff and mumbling, “Your funeral.”

Once the door was closed, and you were sure it was closed, you turned to him.

Before you could say anything, he quickly pulled you into a hug. A tight hug. A little shocked yourself, you let out a small yelp.

When he let you go, you immediately turned to his hand, rubbing the irritated area.

He was busy placing kisses along your neck and face.

“Does it hurt?” you ask. All he did was grunt back

You turned back to him, lightly grabbing his chin so he’d faced you.

“Use your words.”

His eyes closed for a moment before he spoke, very carefully and softly.

“N..no.”

A wide smile spread across your face as you cradled his cheeks in your hands, pulling him in for a kiss.

His lips were always so soft, soft enough to catch you off guard every time.

You knew what you were doing was wrong. If anyone ever caught you, you knew your job wouldn’t be the only thing that you’d lose.

You pulled away to catch your breath for a moment before slowly running your fingers through his long hair. Also, surprisingly soft.

You always felt a sense of relief just being around him. And that always made you feel even worse about your whole situation.

Then your attention fell back to his wrist.

Still confused, you lightly rubbed the irritated skin, genuinely concerned about what caused it. There wasn’t much that hurt him. Not much that left a scar.

Your face crinkled up, trying to make sense of it.

He lightly placed his head on your chest, as he so loved to do. You always thought it soothed him.

You let out a frustrated sigh, as you spoke softly—more to yourself than him.

“This isn’t from the hand cuffs…what is it from?”

You were so caught up in your own thoughts, you didn’t even hear him speak at first.

He let out a grunt before quickly correcting himself.

“Don’t,” he paused for a second as your hand drifted to the back of his head, brushing his hair. “Know.”

He always spoke slowly, but it never bothered you. Honestly, you found it really sweet—especially since you were the one who taught him how to speak.

“Did something happen?” you asked, still focus on his wrist.

He looked up at you before speaking, making that face again—it was so adorable, it always made your heart melt.

“He…” he started slowly. That’s what he always called your boss. “Umm,” he looked up to you like he expected you to read his mind. And sometimes, it felt like you could.

“He… test,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t sure himself. But you knew what he meant.

You always felt so bad about how he was just treated. Like a test subject. What made it even worse, you couldn’t do much to stop it.

All you could do was quietly whisper, “I’m sorry,” and pull him closer.

He looked up from your chest again, smiling big.

“It okay,” he paused again, he always did that , before continuing “You… make better.”

You smiled softly and gently corrected him “Make IT better,” you didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face.

He quickly moved to comfort you in his own way, lifting his head from your chest before touching his wrist. “It okay,” he said, then wiped the tears off your cheek. “No…uhh… hurt.”

“I’m such a mess, i’m sorry,” you whispered, finally letting go of him and reaching for the packet.

“Are you ready for today’s lesson?”

He nodded, and the two of you made your way to the small table in the room. As he sat down, you pulled your chair closer.

“Do you remember where we left off?”

He nodded again, it all reminded you of your very first day with him.

You were so nervous. Looking back, it all sounded so sketchy…but you were glad you took the chance. Because of that, you got to meet him. It was bittersweet. But, you’d do it all over again, in a heartbeat.

“Very good. Now do you remember this one?” you asked, pointing to the letters on the sheet.

He began to read slowly. “Th..the. The sun.”

“It's okay, go slow. I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, a gentle smile on your lips as your hand drifted to his thigh, your thumb moving in a slow, soothing motion.

But before he even opened his mouth again, you heard the door creak open.

And before you could even move your hand, the guard came back in.

“All right, lovebirds, wrap it up,” the guard said.

You quickly stiffened up, “I still have like an hour left?” you asked, face scrunching up in confusion.

The guard shrugged.“The boss wants to see him.” He turned around. “But… wrap it up, quickly.”

You smiled, before whispering, “Thank you, Daniel.” You just knew he was rolling his eyes.

Then you turned your attention back to him, seeing the puzzled look on his fave.

“Wrong?” he asked quietly.

You sighed. “No.” You brushed the hair from his face. “He wants to see you.”

He frowned before slowly getting up. “Bye…”

As he turned to go, you let out a pout.

“That’s no way of saying goodbye, is it?”

He paused for a moment to think, then quickly pulled you into a kiss. It wasn’t perfect. It was rushed and a little clumsy, but you didn’t mind. His hand found your jaw, fingers tightening like he was scared you’d pull away.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him back, it was warm, sloppy and a bit too desperate. And just as you were forgetting the world around you—

“Ahem.”

The guard’s cough snapped you out of it, dragging you back to your bitter reality.

Your hand lingering on his back a bit longer than it should have, Before he pulled away and walked off.

You whispered your goodbyes.

As the door shut behind him, the sadness crept in.

You let out a sigh, slowly pick up your things and making your way out.

When you got home, you opened the door to your apartment and sighed again, throwing yourself onto the couch and letting out an exhausted groan.

You looked around. It was nice, sure. But it’d be even nicer to share it with someone.

Your thoughts always drifted to him, whether you wanted them to or not.

He haunted your mind.

You wondered what he sounded like when he slept.

What his body would feel like under your hands.

You shoved your face into the pillow next to you and groaned softly.

You hadn’t even touched him… not really. Just kisses and touches that didn’t last long enough.

It was dangerous to think like this.

Even worse to want it.

But you did.

You stayed like that for a while, face buried in the pillow, wallowing in self-pity.

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

A/N: ykw this is lowkey giving that one movie a the lady and the fish man😭 idk why that came to my mind i might watch it bc idk lmfao BUT TYYY FOR READING RAAAHHH !! i loved writing this sm mostly because of the dream i had shit was to good i had to write it down hehe but thank you for reading my word vomit <3 i wanna write a part 2 so freaking bad maybe i wont procrastinate like i do with everything (i have adhd leave me alone) but always open to constructive criticism im not even a writer fr 😫 just a yapper … and i know what ur thinking ‘peach thus just like ur david one’ okay.. and no one read ts anyways it be a shame to let it go to waste!!! anyways am i the only one that thinks of power rangers when i hear ultraman LMFAO this could have been and should have been longer i’m just lazy <33

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jinkiezzsstuff · 9 days ago

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Oral History

clark kent x reader

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

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

Word count: 12k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

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

Clark Kent.

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

That Clark Kent?

Gifted?

Like… mouth gifted?

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

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

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

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

But still…

Now you’re picturing it.

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

You press your thighs together under the desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy is laughing. You don’t move.

Clark texts the group thread a few minutes later:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

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

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

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

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

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

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

You squeeze your eyes shut.

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

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

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

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

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

You are, after all, a journalist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s practically professional at this point.

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

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

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

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

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

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

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

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

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

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

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

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

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

You start small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark plays dumb. At first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

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

You start dreaming about him.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep pushing.

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

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

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

You glance at the screen and smile.

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

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

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

You hit send.

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

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

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

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

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

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

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

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

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

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

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

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

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

There’s something else, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

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

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just interest.

Intention.

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

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

Then comes the charity gala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

“That so?”

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

“Oh, is that what this is?”

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

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the song ends.

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

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

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

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

It’s not working.

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

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

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

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

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

This is your best friend.

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

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

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

It’s everything.

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

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

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

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

You smile back.

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

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

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

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

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

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

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

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

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

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

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

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

An invitation.

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

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

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

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

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

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

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

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

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

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

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

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

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

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

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

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

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

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

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

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

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

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

His breath catches.

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

So, you say it outright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Off the record?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

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

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

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

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

And then he does it again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

And it does.

You shatter.

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

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

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

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you nod.

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

And now, you want him. All of him.

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

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

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

He’s already awake.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to wait long.

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

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

Clark drops the spatula.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

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

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

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

Eventually.

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jinkiezzsstuff · 9 days ago

Note

dads best friend ben. pls. i love u.

cw: smut.ᐟ dbf!ben x reader.ᐟ au non-supe ben.ᐟ age gap [reader is in her 20s].ᐟ reader lives at home.ᐟ oral / face fucking [m.receiving].ᐟ dubcon.ᐟ power imbalance.ᐟ vulgar!ben.ᐟ pervy!ben.ᐟ cocky old man behavior.ᐟ suggestive tones.ᐟ pet names [honey, sweetheart pretty girl, sweet girl].ᐟ 18+

#notes: anon, this may have given me a reason to write one of my favourite tropes of all time. apologies if it's too filthy.

wc: 2500

ben's not a stranger, not by a long shot.

he's been in your life since you were old enough to climb onto the back deck barefoot with juicebox in hand and tug your dad’s sleeve to ask who the loud man with the beard was. “that’s ben,” your dad had told you, already half-smiling. “he’s a trouble maker sweetie.”

trouble, yeah. but familiar. too familiar, now. somewhere between scraped knees and summer jobs, ben stopped treating you like a kid.

at twenty, you came home from college for reading week. ben was already there hanging out, lounging at the kitchen island in a white tee and sweats— no boxers, never any boxers.

he smiled when he saw you. “well shit, look what the fuckin’ wind blew in,” and then pulled you in for a tight hug. one arm above the dip on your waist, the other dragging across your upper back.

“c’mon, give the old man a spin. lemme see what college did to ya.” he murmured near your ear. you pulled back. his hand lingered too long, eyes dropped too slow. he clicked his tongue when you turned to leave and gave him the middle finger.

twenty-one. ben was staying in your basement that week while his house was getting work done— busted pipes, or drywall, or whatever fucking excuse he gave your dad to crash for free and drink all his beer.

you came downstairs to throw a load of laundry in. figured he’d be out with your dad like usual, but he was in the den recliner. his hand was tucked under the waistband of his sweatpants, not doing anything at first, just resting.

he didn’t move when you walked past. a subtle glance at you with those heavy-lidded eyes and adjusted himself once, palm shifting under the fabric. “relax, sweetheart,” he muttered without looking up from the TV. “just fixin’ the boys.”

that same week, you caught the bathroom door cracked open. steam poured into the hall, and in the mirror— his back, broad and freckled, towel hanging off his hips. and his cock, swinging low and heavy as he dried off without a care in the world. he wanted you to see.

then twenty-two, you were eating cherries out of the fridge, standing in front of the open door in a tank and sleep shorts. ben came in behind you, opened another beer, and leaned his hip against the counter. watching you pop the pits into your palm with your thumb.

“you always suck ‘em like that?” he asked, voice thick with something. you looked up and blinked. “the cherries,” he said, cocking his head. “you always roll ‘em around in your mouth? jesus christ, honey.” you tried your best to not let it go to your head, or better yet your cunt. but ben walked away before you had time to come up with an answer.

so yea, ben wasn’t a stranger. if anything, he was around too much— laughing too loud in your kitchen, always grabbing a beer from the fridge like he lived there. and he looked at you too long, lingered too close, stared in ways no friend of your dad’s ever should’ve.

all the while, your father had no fucking clue.

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you’d been hearing them for the past hour— voices rising above the hum of the tv, the familiar thud of beer bottles against the kitchen counter, bursts of laughter so loud and guttural it rattled the light fixture in the hallway. ben's voice somewhere in the mix, always the loudest when he was around.

your father had called up to you a few minutes ago. asking you to come down to say hi, be polite. you almost didn’t, but with a roll of your eyes you did anyways.

the air was thick with a mix of cologne and stale beer when you stepped into the kitchen. five grown men crowded around the island— your dad, a few of his old work buddies, and ben, standing leaned back against the sink. the counter was cluttered with empty bottles, and fresh one's sweating in a lopsided cooler on the floor.

“there she is,” your dad said, smile splitting his face as he reached out to tug you into a side hug. “my girl’s staying in for the weekend.”

the others echoed their greetings, nods and smiles, but ben moved first. arms outstretched like it was nothing, pulling you in close with that slow grin he always wore when he'd had a few. his arms circled your waist, and you didn’t have time to hesitate before he kissed the top of your head— too sweet for someone who wasn’t family.

“‘bout time you showed up,” he murmured, half-drunken buzz clinging to every word. his hand lingered at your back a moment too long.

you stepped back, muttered something about grabbing a drink, and drifted to the living room couch where the tv flickered low. your fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. the voices carried in from the kitchen.

“—nah, this one chick in montana, swear to god, made her cum just from sucking on her tits,” ben was saying, loud enough to be heard clearly from the living room. "poor thing couldn’t walk straight for days.”

more laughter. someone groaned. your dad barked a laugh. “you’re a fucking pig, ben.”

“takes one to know one,” he shot back, and you could feel the cockiness in his voice.

every time he told another story, his voice got bolder, more descriptive. women who’d sent him videos. girls who liked it rough. a flight attendant he once made cry— but in the ‘good way’, apparently. and every time, you caught his gaze slipping past the kitchen archway, trailing toward the couch. right towards you.

ben never said your name or directed a word your way. but he was aiming every filthy syllable at you— baiting you with the past he lived in and the kind of man he’d always been. the kind of man your dad kept around for god knows what reason.

he still hadn’t touched you. not really. not after all these years. but you knew him long enough to know that look. the half-drunk and cocky, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.

eventually, the back door creaked open and the pack of them spilled outside. boots scuffed across the deck, someone cracked a joke about cigars and a bonfire, and the sharp metallic flick of a lighter snapped through the air.

you waited until the laughter dulled, and the drag of their boots faded to the backyard. the silence left behind made the house feel too big. told yourself you were only heading upstairs to get away from the smell of cigarettes and beer that lingered, and noise and him.

but the truth followed you with every step. ben's voice still echoing in your ears. all those stories. the stares. the weight of it never letting up. you slipped into your room, shut the door behind you, and pressed your back to it— just for a second. breathing in, chest tight. thighs tighter.

you didn’t bother locking it. some rational part of you knew better. but a part of you hoped. either way, the click of the knob turning minutes later didn’t surprise you.

“so this is where you hide, huh?”

you barely had time to look up before he was leaning in the doorframe, eyeing the mess of your room like he belonged in it.

“couldn’t handle bein’ near me anymore?”

you stiffened, fingers curled tighter in the edge of your blanket. “i was just tired—”

“bullshit,” he cut in, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him as if it was nothing. “you pressed those thighs together so tight i thought you were gonna make yourself come right there on the fuckin’ couch.” his voice lowered as he walked towards you. “you been like this for years,” he said. “ always sweet. lookin’ at me when you thought no one would notice.”

you looked away feeling sick with shame, but you couldn't even help the way your thighs clenched again.

“i mean fuck, look at the tits on you,” thick with booze and that low, too-casual slur that made your skin crawl. “y'filled out real nice, honey.”

you stiffened. he laughed, cruel under his breath. “what? you ain’t gonna say thank you when someone gives you a compliment now?”

he cupped himself through his jeans, palming the tent in his pants like he needed the relief, cause it was your fault he was hard.

“y'know, your dad would kill me if he knew what i used to think about when I was in that basement,” he muttered, almost to himself. “how bad i wanted to pull those shorts to the side and eat your cunt until you cried.” he paused a moment, watching your reaction.

“i always wanted to see if it’d taste as sweet as you looked down there all summer, bendin’ over in those tight outfits. thought you were subtle, huh?”

your knees buckled just slightly, but he caught your chin with two fingers, turning your face back toward him.

“nah, pretty girl. you always wanted me lookin’. fuck, you know what it does to a man? seein’ his girl grow up that pretty— walkin’ around the house in tiny shorts, not wearin’ a bra." ben's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "and now here we are.” his hand slid down to grip your jaw. “door’s shut. nobody comin’ up here, and you’re still lookin’ at me with those same curious eyes.”

“m'gonna kiss you now. would you like that, sweet girl?” his gaze flickered between your eyes and lips, watching you nod as he closed the distance between you two.

the clink of metal hitting metal made your stomach drop. starting with his belt, the zipper next— drawn down in a drag of teeth, loud in the stillness of the room.

and then he shoved his jeans down low on his hips, underwear pushed just far enough to free his cock— flushed pinks and reds and already leaking. coarse hair dark brown at the base, a heavy trail leading up his soft belly, dusted thick across his lower abdomen.

“yeah,” he smirked, watching you watch him. he wrapped a fist around the base, letting you see the dribbles of premium oozing from his slit.

“this what you think about when you’re touchin’ yourself, honey?” he asked, voice turned rougher, eyes half-lidded with heat. “you ever think about me while you had those little fingers stuffed inside your cunt? wonderin’ how much bigger i’d feel?”

his free hand found your chin again. this time, he held you still, made you look right at it. chubbed up, cut, flushed dark at the tip, glistening from the weight of his need.

“don’t be scared now,” he mocked, voice laced with sarcasm. “go on, you can touch it, won’t bite.”

your knees hit the floor a second later, thighs tight together from the way your whole body pulsed with heat.

“good fucking girl,” ben groaned, hand sliding to the back of your head. “knew you’d be good on your knees.” he let go of his cock, let it slap against your cheek, smearing pre-come across your skin as he nudged the tip along your plush lips.

“open up, sweetheart,” he rasped. “lemme see that tongue.” and when you did, he spit, landing right down against the shaft, guiding his cock into your mouth.

your smaller hands barely wrapped around his shaft, hands gripping at the base while you looked up at him. saliva already pooling and sliding down your chin. but ben didn’t care.

his hand tightened in your hair as he rolled his hips forward, just to feel your sudsy lips covered with bubbles of spit, choking on the length that slowly penetrated the back of your mouth. your nose started to nestle against the scratchy corse hairs at the base of his cock. he held you all the way down for a moment, revelling in the tightness of your throat.

ben's thrusts were getting sloppy. the heel of his palm pressing against the back of your head to hold you down, to make you take it.

“hear that?” he grunted. “fuckin’ mouth's squeezin’ me.”

your fingers curled against his thighs, trying to keep balance as he used your mouth, hips jolting harder now, ragged breath above you.

“shit, m'not gonna last,” he warned, barely holding together. “gonna shoot it right down that pretty fuckin’ throat. s’what you wanted all those years, right? daddy’s friend fuckin’ your face.”

he twitched in your mouth, grip tightening, and before you could brace for it, he came with a ragged groan— creamy splats over your tongue, too fast to swallow.

you tried, but it flooded your mouth, smeared down your chin, dripped onto your shirt. you coughed around it, choking, the mess forcing you back off him. attempting to apologize while blinking down salty tears mixed with mascara.

ben leaned down with a crooked grin. “if you were really sorry, you would’a swallowed like a good girl.”

his hand slid down your throat, then carefully swiped through the mess coating your skin. he brought a slick glob up on his index finger, holding it steady in front of your lips.

“but nah,” he murmured, full of mock disappointment. “you’re just a dirty slut who spilled it all.” his finger hovered there. “open.”

you blinked up at him, chest still heaving, lips parting slowly.

“there she is,” he rasped, watching as your tongue flicked out and pulled his finger in, sucking it clean like a fuck toy for his personal use.

you barely had time to catch your breath before the faint scrape of deck chairs sounded from below, a voice calling out through the screen door.

“ben? the fuck are you man, fire's blazing out here.”

your stomach dropped. ben’s head snapped up. he moved quick—tucking his softening messy cock back into his jeans, still half-hard, zipping up with a hiss and wiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“get in bed,” he muttered, no room for question. “pretend you're asleep.”

you nodded, messy as fuck, and crawled up on to your mattress on weak limbs. the sheets were still warm where you’d left them, but nothing about you felt the same.

ben watched for a second longer, hand braced on the doorknob. then he slipped out without another word, quiet as he could, shutting it behind him with the softest click.

you lay there in the dark, heart thudding, mouth still tingling where he’d touched it— his salty taste lingering thick on your tongue.

downstairs, your father laughed at something ben said, some excuse he'd conveniently made up.

and you turned your face into the pillow, trying to hold back a fucking smile.

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