whispers-of-starlight

[whispers-of-starlight]

find me somebody to love

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.

word count: 21k (i’m so sorry… the plot was plotting)

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clark’s pov, teacher!reader, reader’s in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.

a/n: i’ll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clark’s head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: you’re a mastermind, and i’m beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!

Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, it’s usually the complete opposite.

Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clark’s already saying, “No. Thank you.”

“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”

Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”

“I’m not—”

“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.

You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”

“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.

“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”

Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.

Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”

“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”

“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”

“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.

“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”

A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.

At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”

Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”

“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”

“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”

“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”

As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”

Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.

The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”

You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”

“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”

10…

“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”

9…

He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”

8…

He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.

7…

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”

6…

“—over Superman?”

5…

“Clark, will you please look at me?”

4…

He does, but stays silent.

3…

“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”

2…

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”

1…

The look on your face is beyond devastating.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!

The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.

When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.

Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.

Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”

“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”

Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.

“Let me walk you.”

It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.

You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”

“Please, let me.”

“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”

He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”

You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.

When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.

A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.

The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.

“What was that back in the bar?”

The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.

Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.

“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”

In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.

But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”

Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.

“Even still, you won’t look at me.”

He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.

You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”

There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”

A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. I asked him.”

“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”

“What are you implying?”

“Does he pay you for the interviews?”

The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”

“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”

“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”

“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”

“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.

You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.

“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?

You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”

It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?

His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.

“Holy fuck.”

It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.

You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.

“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”

“Please, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”

“I know.”

“I’m not drunk,” you insist.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”

He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”

You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”

“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”

Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.

He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”

“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”

“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”

“Clark, I swear—”

“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.

“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”

His voice softens, almost breaking.

“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.

“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”

“I don’t want that.”

Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”

“I said I don’t want you to go.”

He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”

You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”

“I seriously don’t understand—“

“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”

“Even after all this?”

“I guess I’m really stubborn.”

“So… you don’t want me to go?”

“No.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”

“You don’t hate… Superman?”

“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”

Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.

“You know what I would hate?”

“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.

“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”

He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”

“Please, tell me.”

“You’re gonna make fun of me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”

For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.

“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”

You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”

He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”

“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”

“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”

“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”

“Sort of.”

“Is not touching me one of them?”

“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.

“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”

Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”

“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”

“How interesting.”

His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”

Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”

A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”

“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”

Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.

And suddenly, he has a goal.

This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.

Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.

It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.

RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.

Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.

The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.

He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.

But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”

Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”

You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.

Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.

No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.

His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”

Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.

He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.

One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.

His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”

You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.

You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.

He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.

“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”

He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.

You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”

Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.

“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”

He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.

When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”

He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.

So instead, he drops to his knees.

Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.

He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”

You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.

“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”

Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.

“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.

“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”

Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.

As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.

With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.

He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.

You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.

He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.

Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.

“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”

His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.

Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”

“Yeah? Who is it?”

The answer is simple. “You.”

You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”

He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just… say it however it comes.”

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”

You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”

“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”

You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”

He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”

Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.

The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.

You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”

Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.

“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”

“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”

His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.

As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.

The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.

His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.

That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.

And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—

The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.

Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.

Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.

He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.

At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—

“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”

“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.

“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”

He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”

“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”

He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.

Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.

The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.

“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”

With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.

Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.

“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”

He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”

His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.

You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.

“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”

“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”

And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.

His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.

Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.

He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.

Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”

“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”

You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.

But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.

After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”

“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”

He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.

You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”

No answer. Just pure silence.

You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”

He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.

“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”

He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.

You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.

“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”

This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.

He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.

His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”

His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.

“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.

“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”

Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.

The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.

“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.

“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”

You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.

He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.

To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.

Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.

Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.

Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”

You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.

You’re writing the same letters, over and over.

I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.

“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”

“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”

He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”

“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”

“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”

The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.

What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.

Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.

dividers by: @chrisssiren <3

[whispers-of-starlight]

fuck this time loop im leaving (walks into a different, worse time loop)

[whispers-of-starlight]

dry humping your f/o first thing in the morning except your bottoms end up in a wet mess. you never wake up without the help of the alarm. but when you do, you immediately know what day it is. ovulation day filled with wet dreams. you mutter a "fuck" under your breath and try to distract yourself but woah! your eyes land on the bulging tent over the thin white sheet. you lick your lips before pulling off the covers. your hands move to fondle your boobs as you ogle his boxers.

"you just gonna stare at it or do something about it?" a low grumble startles you and you immediately pull away from your tits.

"yo-you're awake?" you ask.

"since you kept shifting under the covers." he sat up. his hands caress your cheeks. "can't sleep?" you shake your head. "c'mere, baby" he invites you to straddle his lap and you do. the moment the heat between your legs envelopes his clothed boner. you both moan in unison.

"fuck, baby. your pussy's burning up. she has a fever?"

"don't tease me. i'm ovulating," you pout. "need something to get off. please please please."

"awww heh" he chuckles, mocking you. "my baby wants to cum? yeah? get off riding me like this first. then i'll see if you deserve my cock in this pussy or not."

and without wasting a second, you start grinding on him with no uniform pace. starting fast and desperate, but your legs not being warmed up early in the morning makes you slow down, but fuuuck. it's too slow. so you start grinding fast. he would laugh at your desperation if this wasn't turning him on and getting him closer too his orgasm too.

"fuck anh! anh! anh! yes oh my f-fhuuuccck fucking god. yesyesyes holy fuck!" he holds your waist and guides you both to orgasm. he thrusts his hips upward, presses his thumb against your abdomen, and he shoots his cum in his pants and you lose your momentum, head falling on his shoulders as your body shudders, pussy trembling as she cums but wait...what the fuck. something's weird. wha—

*squirt*

you look down to find your panties and his boxers soaked along with the bedsheets.

you're embarassed and shocked at the same time, scared to meet his expression but when you do, he looks... bewitched. you try to speak up but

"do it again."

"w-what?" your voice comes out timid. he manhandles you into missionary and whispers. "fucking do it again, baby. you're not getting out of the bed til' you do it again"

well fuck.

[whispers-of-starlight]

teenage crush

plot! what happens when your little sister tells nightwing you used to have a huge crush on the first robin when you were a teenager? and the worst part, you have no clue that robin just found out and oh, he's not letting you live that down.

read more

Barbara was already at her desk, typing away when Nightwing appeared beside her chair like he owned the place, because, in a way, he kind of did. Not officially, but the whole quietly checking in on the precinct between patrols thing had been a habit since his early Robin days.

He leaned one elbow on the edge of Barbara’s desk.

“Morning” he murmured, voice warm but teasing. “Your partner in crime-fighting isn’t here yet?”

“She’s late” Barbara said without looking up from the monitor. “Which means she’s probably walking in with coffee as a peace offering.”

Nightwing smirked. “Or she’s avoiding me after bailing yesterday.”

Barbara’s lips curved. “Oh, she’s not avoiding you, Boy Wonder. She just doesn’t realize she’s avoiding you.”

Before Nightwing could ask what she meant, the elevator doors slid open.

You emerged, hair a little messy from rushing, one hand holding… a smaller hand. The little girl beside you couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, brown hair pulled into two uneven pigtails, wearing a pink hoodie with a cartoon bat on it.

And you looked… frazzled.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” you said to Barbara, still slightly out of breath. “Your father is definitely gonna kill me, isn’t he?”

Barbara blinked. “Why would my—”

“She’s not mine” you blurted quickly, gesturing to the girl.

“This is Kara. My… sister. She’s staying with me for the day. My mom just… dropped her off this morning without warning. Said she had ‘things to do.’”

Kara gave Barbara a shy wave.

“You’re a cop” she said softly.

Barbara smiled. “Guilty.”

Nightwing stayed quiet for now, watching the dynamic with interest. He hadn’t known you even had a sister. The way your shoulders were a little tighter than usual told him you hadn’t expected to see her either.

“All right,” you exhaled. “Can you—watch her for a minute? I need to talk to Jim before he catches me walking in late with a plus one.”

Barbara raised a brow. “You’re just going to leave her here?”

You shrugged helplessly. “You trust me with criminals. You can handle a kid.”

And with that, you gave Kara’s hand one last squeeze, muttered a quick be good, and headed toward Jim’s office.

As soon as you were out of sight, Kara’s eyes darted up to the tall, black-and-blue figure standing just behind Barbara. She froze for a second, then gasped so sharply Barbara worried she’d pass out.

“You’re—” Kara pointed. “You’re Nightwing!”

Nightwing crouched slightly so he was at her eye level, that easy, charming grin tugging at his mouth.

“Guilty” he said in the same warm tone he’d used with Barbara. “You’re pretty quick to recognize me. You a fan?”

Kara nodded so fast her pigtails bounced. “You’re, like, my favorite.”

Barbara glanced sideways at him knowingly.

“Oh yeah?” Nightwing tilted his head. “Favorite vigilante in Gotham, huh?”

Kara hesitated… then shook her head. “No. Batman’s my favorite.”

Barbara immediately covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

Nightwing made an exaggerated oof sound, clutching his chest like he’d been physically wounded.

“Batman? Really? I mean… he’s cool. But c’mon—look at this suit. I’ve got color.”

Kara giggled. “You’re still my second favorite.”

“Second place…” Nightwing sighed dramatically, but his eyes were amused. “Guess I’ll take it. Who’s third?”

Kara didn’t even hesitate. “Robin.”

Barbara’s eyes really sparkled now, because if Kara only knew…

“Oh, the new Robin?” Nightwing asked, feigning casual curiosity.

Kara shrugged. “I dunno. I just like Robin ‘cause he’s small but still beats people up.”

Barbara snorted. Nightwing fought a laugh, shaking his head.

“Fair enough. I used to know a Robin like that.”

Kara leaned against Barbara’s desk, swinging her legs.

“My sister’s not scared of anything,” she said proudly. “She could totally be a superhero.”

Barbara smiled at that, keeping her tone neutral. “Yeah, she’s… pretty impressive.”

Nightwing’s gaze softened a bit.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, like he wasn’t even talking to Kara anymore. “She is.”

Kara brightened. “She likes heroes, you know. She told me once her favorite is—” Kara paused, thinking. “Actually… I forget. But it wasn’t Batman.”

Barbara really had to hide her grin now, because Nightwing looked mildly intrigued.

“Was it Nightwing?” he asked casually.

Kara tilted her head. “No… I think it was someone with red.”

Nightwing blinked. “Red?”

“Maybe Superman!” Kara guessed, like this was a perfectly normal thing for a child to say. “She said he’s strong and cool.”

Barbara lost it, trying to muffle her laugh behind her coffee cup.

Nightwing just shook his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath, “I’m losing to Batman and Superman. Great.”

The bullpen was its usual mess of clacking keyboards, muttered phone calls, and the occasional bark from one of Gordon’s detectives. Barbara was still at her desk, leaning back in her chair with her glasses pushed up on her head, quietly talking with Nightwing—who was perched casually on the edge of her desk like this was totally normal for Gotham PD.

Kara was still in her seat from earlier, feet swinging under the chair, fiddling with a paperclip she had turned into something vaguely resembling a crown.

The elevator dinged. You stepped out, jacket slung over one arm, looking unbothered—which was either your default setting or a survival mechanism.

“Gordon wasn’t mad, huh?” Barbara asked, looking up.

You shrugged, setting your jacket on the back of your chair. “Please. You know your dad—he probably thinks I’m some sort of responsible role model.” You grinned a little. “Poor guy.”

You stepped over to Kara, ruffling her hair briefly before sitting down.

“You weren’t even gone that long.” Kara pointed as you smirked. “That’s because I’m efficient. Unlike you when it comes to cleaning your room.”

“You really are a terrible babysitter,” Barbara said, clearly amused.

“Hey—she’s alive, fed, and hasn’t set anything on fire. I’m doing great.”

Nightwing, leaning back on his palms, threw Kara a little grin.

“She did alright, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah! Way better than when she had a crush on Robin,” Kara said brightly, without missing a beat.

The entire bullpen paused.

Barbara froze mid-typing, turning her head so slowly it was almost comical.

Nightwing’s eyebrows arched slightly—barely, but it was there. One corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin.

You blinked once, then looked at Kara.

“…I was sixteen, okay? Who didn’t have a crush on him?”

“Uh-huh.” Barbara smirked, leaning back in her chair.

“Yeah, totally understandable. He was… something else back then” Nightwing said very casually.

You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound way too smug about that.”

“Just agreeing with you. He was a catch.” He shrugged innocently.

Barbara was biting her lip to hide a grin. Kara, utterly oblivious to the tension she had just set off, swung her legs and added helpfully—

“She used to draw him in her school notebook. Like a lot.”

Your face went from calm to mild murder mode.

“Kara.”

Barbara was delighted. “Ohhh, I think I need to hear more about this.”

“She said he was cool and smart and—” she was counting on her fingers “—funny, and she said he had ‘really nice hair.’”

Nightwing almost laughed. Almost. He covered it with a cough into his fist, but his shoulders shook.

“Well, I’ll tell him if I see him. I’m sure he’d be flattered.”

You glared at him. “You do that and you’ll regret it.”

“No, no, let’s absolutely make sure he knows. You wouldn’t want to keep something like that from him, would you?” Barbara agreed sweetly.

“Why? Would it be embarrassing?” Kara asked so innocently, you had to force a smile. “For you? Possibly.”

Nightwing said cheerfully, “Nah, I think he’d find it… charming.”

Barbara leaned over to Kara like she was sharing a secret, whispering in her ear.

“You know… Robin actually grew up and became someone else.”

Kara’s eyes widened. “Like… Batman?”

“Not quite.” Nightwing added with a grin. “Better hair.”

“Debatable.” Barbara said, snickering.

You sighed, sitting back in your chair like you were ignoring them, but your ears were very obviously tuned in.

“So if Robin’s not Robin anymore, does that mean Alli can have a crush on the new one too?” Kara asked and you nearly choked on the coffee you had just sipped.

“Kara, we’re done talking about this.” You tried desperately to save yourself from what she could probably add, but Barbara just grinned. “Oh no, we’re just getting started.”

Nightwing’s smirk was pure trouble—low key enough to pass as harmless, but his eyes were practically glowing with amusement.

“Don’t worry, Kara. I’ll make sure she’s properly introduced to the… new Robin.”

“But she only likes the old one!” Kara remarked again, which made him only grin more.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered to him.

“Me? Never.” He said cheerfully.

Barbara’s phone rang, snapping the moment. She answered it with a grin still lingering. Kara, blissfully unaware of how big of a grenade she had just dropped, turned back to Nightwing.

“Do you think Robin’s still as cool as before?”

After a bit, smiling faintly, “Yeah. I think he is.”

The city had cooled down since afternoon, the air just damp enough to cling to your jacket. You were running through a mental list — groceries tomorrow, reports due Monday, the awkward “we’ll talk later” text you owed Barbara — when the faintest scuff of rubber on metal drifted down from the rooftops.

You didn’t even look up. “You know,” you called, “it’s creepy when you follow people.”

Nightwing dropped into your peripheral vision from a fire escape, landing beside you with the easy grace of someone who was way too pleased with himself.

“Following? No. Escorting. Big difference.”

You shot him a sidelong look. “Uh-huh. And why exactly are you escorting me?”

“Because,” he said, falling into step, “I heard a very interesting story today. From a very credible source.”

Your shoulders tensed. “…Kara.”

His grin widened. “She’s a good kid. Very chatty. Knows a lot about her big sister.”

You groaned, rubbing your forehead. “Please tell me she didn’t—”

“She did,” he interrupted cheerfully. “And I have to say, sixteen-year-old you had impeccable taste. Robin, huh?”

You stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, glaring up at him.

“It was a teenage crush. The kind that lasts five minutes and you forget about—”

“—except you didn’t forget,” he cut in, leaning down just enough to meet your eyes, the teasing glint practically weaponized. “Funny how specific she got. Funny how she remembered nice hair.”

You stared at him, caught somewhere between exasperated and mortified. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Oh, don’t. She was adorable. And clearly a good judge of character.” He straightened up again, hands in his belt. “But for the record, I had nice hair back then too.”

“Back then?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve been keeping track of your hair quality?”

“I have a reputation to maintain,” he said, utterly serious, which only made it worse.

You started walking again, and for a minute it was quiet except for Gotham’s distant traffic hum. Then Nightwing glanced sideways. “You know… it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you said instantly, which was exactly what someone embarrassed would say.

“Mhm.” He drew out the sound like he was filing the moment away for future use. “Still… kind of sweet. Makes me feel old, though. You were crushing on Robin while I was—” He cut himself off smoothly, pivoting mid-sentence. “…out there, saving the city.”

You raised a brow. “And now you’re here, walking me home like I’m seven.”

“Seven-year-olds don’t carry service pistols,” he pointed out lightly. “And besides, I like the company.”

You turned a corner into your block. You could feel the tease still hovering in the air like he was just waiting for the perfect final jab.

Sure enough—

“Next time I see Kara,” he said casually, “I’m asking her what else you told her about Robin.”

You stopped at your building door and jabbed a finger at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He tilted his head, that infuriating grin back in full force. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“Go patrol something” you muttered, pushing inside.

He gave a little salute. “Sweet dreams, Officer Robin-fan.”

The door shut on your groan, but you could hear the faint laugh he didn’t bother to hide as he leapt back up to the roofline.

[whispers-of-starlight]

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[whispers-of-starlight]

Finally finished this piece after months of reworking. Far from perfect, but I’m glad it’s done. Inspired by the amazing Bruno Redondo, Dan Mora, and especially Dexter Soy.

[whispers-of-starlight]

no rules, just us

it all started as a friends-with-benefits set up, a simple agreement with no strings attached. but over time, you began to realize that the no-feelings rule you and suna had carefully made was starting to crack—and maybe, just maybe, you were falling for him.

starring. suna rintarou x fem!reader

genre. smut.

wc. 15k

cw. smut, 18 mdni, aged up!suna, fwb dynamics, dirty talking, light bondage, light degradation, unprotected sex, oral, fingering, mutual masturbation, slight voyeurism, creampie.

author's note: from this req

You first met Suna Rintaro during your freshman year of college. He was in your class—quiet, sharp, and impossibly attractive in a way that made it hard to focus during lectures. One evening, after a particularly grueling study session, you both ended up at his apartment to “finish some notes.”

At first, it was innocent. You sat cross-legged on his floor, textbooks open, pens scratching across paper. But there was a tension between you, something electric in the way he leaned over to correct your calculations, or the subtle brush of his hand against yours when you reached for a notebook.

Finally, Suna leaned back against the wall, his dark eyes locking on yours. “You’re… distracting,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I could say the same about you.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in challenge. “Is that an invitation?”

You froze, heart pounding, before shaking your head, laughing to cover the heat rising in your chest. “Maybe…”

The next thing you knew, his hand was on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. Your lips met in a tentative kiss, soft at first, then gradually more urgent as desire took over. He guided you backward until you were both on his bed, the textbooks forgotten on the floor.

“Do you… want this?” he asked quietly, hovering over you, his voice low and smooth.

“Yes,” you whispered, unable to stop yourself. “I want this.”

His hands roamed over your body, firm and teasing, and every brush of his fingers sent shivers down your spine. He kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue tracing your lips until you gasped and pressed against him.

“Say my name,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough with desire.

“R-Rintaro…” you moaned, heat flooding your body.

The night was a blur of hands, mouths, and whispered names. Clothes were discarded carelessly as he explored you with a mix of teasing and intensity. You’d never felt so exposed, so alive, and yet completely safe in his arms. Every movement was precise, deliberate, a dance of pleasure that left you breathless and trembling.

When it was over, he pulled you close, chest pressed to yours, both of you panting. You traced patterns on his skin with your fingers, heart still racing.

He looked down at you, his expression unreadable. “No feelings,” he said softly.

You met his gaze, nodding. “No feelings,” you echoed, though a small part of you wondered if you’d just made a rule you weren’t sure you could keep.

From that night on, your setup continued. It was simple: no expectations beyond the bedroom. Suna would call or text when he wanted company, and you would respond if you felt like it. Sometimes it was late-night messages:

"You free tonight?"

"Yeah… you know where I’ll be."

Other times, it was when you bumped into each other after class or during campus events. You never discussed commitment, never talked about feelings—it was understood that this was purely physical.

And the sex… it was fire. He always knew exactly how to push your buttons. His hands were demanding, roaming over your body with precision. His lips were relentless, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.

One night in his bedroom, sprawled across his bed, he whispered low against your ear, “Do you like it when I touch you here?” as his fingers traced teasing circles over your inner thigh.

“Y-yes… more… please,” you moaned, arching into him.

He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your neck, nibbling gently before his tongue traced your pulse point. “Such a good girl… you love it, don’t you?”

“Rintaro… yes!” you cried, gripping the sheets as his hand slid further, teasing you mercilessly until you were trembling.

Sometimes, the thrill didn’t wait for a quiet night. After volleyball practice, he would drag you into the empty locker room. The metallic smell of lockers and the faint musk of his sweat only made your skin tingle.

“Quick,” he whispered urgently, pressing you against the lockers. His hands were everywhere, teasing, squeezing, pulling you flush against him.

“Ah! Rintaro… please…” you gasped, your back arched into him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, smirking as his hand found the most sensitive spots. “You love being naughty, don’t you?”

“Yes… I… I can’t help it!” you cried, shivering under his touch as he skillfully pushed you to the edge.

In his bed or the locker room, the rhythm was intoxicating. His lips captured yours, rough and demanding, while his hands moved over your body like he memorized every inch of you. You moaned and gasped his name repeatedly, each sound spurring him on, and he’d murmur back, “That’s it… just like that… good girl.”

Even after he brought you to the brink over and over, he would switch between rough teasing and gentle touches, smoothing hair from your face or pressing you close after you trembled in his arms. Each encounter left you both breathless and satisfied—but always under the clear rule: no feelings, no strings.

Over a year, the arrangement continued. Friends with benefits, no names, no declarations. Every encounter was electric, secretive, and thrilling—yet despite the intensity, the unspoken rule hung between you. You told yourself you could handle it. But sometimes, as you lay in his arms, sweaty and panting, a little voice in your chest wondered if maybe… you were already in too deep.

Just like now. Suna was behind you, his hands gripping your hips as he moved with slow, deliberate force. You gasped, your nails digging into the sheets as he pressed into you, every stroke making your body tremble.

“Ah… Rintaro… harder,” you moaned, your voice trembling.

He chuckled low, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You like it like this, don’t you? Can’t get enough of me.”

“Yes… fuck… I… I can’t…” you cried, arching back against him, every movement pulling him deeper.

He leaned closer, his chest brushing yours from behind, murmuring, “That’s it… just like that… you’re mine.”

Your moans grew louder, broken gasps and whimpers filling the room, hands clutching his arms, nails digging into his skin as he drove you closer and closer to the edge. Every thrust, every touch, felt electric—intense and consuming.

When it was over, your body shook beneath him, slick and trembling, and he held you close while you both caught your breath. He gently cleaned you up, his fingers soft and careful, and for the first time, you noticed your heart beating faster than usual—not just from the physical exertion, but from the closeness, the touch, the quiet attention.

Then he shifted, curling beside you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Relax,” he murmured, voice gentle, nothing like the commanding tone he had minutes ago.

Friends don’t do this, right? They don’t fuck like fire and then cuddle like this, with tender kisses and soft murmurs. Your chest tightened as you felt the warmth of him against you, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, and you wondered how something that was supposed to be no-strings, casual, could feel so… everything.

You closed your eyes, leaning into him, letting the moment wash over you. Maybe, just maybe, you were in too deep.

Because Suna’s interactions with you didn’t just stop in the bedroom.

Even in class, when he strolled in with his usual lazy stride, there would be an extra cup of coffee in his hand—your order, the one he somehow memorized after the second week of knowing you. He’d slide it across your desk without saying a word, just a faint smirk tugging at his lips when you muttered a quiet “thanks” and tried to hide the smile on your face.

He would join you for lunch sometimes too, plopping his tray across from you in the cafeteria. “You eat the same thing every day,” he’d remark, eyeing your plate before stealing a fry without asking.

“And you’re a thief,” you’d shoot back, rolling your eyes, but you’d let him take another one anyway.

It wasn’t always about sex.

There was the night you came down with a fever. You were too out of it to even answer his call, but the next thing you knew, he was at your door. He showed up with a bag of medicine, sports drinks, and that same deadpan expression that always made it hard to tell if he cared. But when he sat by your bed, swapping cool towels on your forehead and reminding you to drink water, the tenderness in his touch said everything he didn’t.

“You look like shit,” he muttered, tucking the blanket tighter around you.

“Thanks,” you croaked, lips dry, but your chest swelled with something warm you couldn’t name.

He didn’t leave until you fell asleep.

Yes, you two fucked—a lot. Heated, desperate, toe-curling encounters that left you gasping his name into the dark. But it wasn’t always like that. There were moments between the sheets and outside of them that blurred the lines, moments where he didn’t feel like just a friend with benefits.

And that was the problem.

Because friends don’t do this. They don’t bring you coffee every morning. They don’t steal your fries just to watch you roll your eyes. They don’t take care of you when you’re sick. They don’t cuddle you close after sex and press soft kisses to your forehead like you’re something precious.

And yet, Suna did.

The rule echoed in the back of your mind like a cruel joke. No feelings.

But the little voice in your chest whispered back, Then why does it feel so much like love?

You tried to bury it. You reminded yourself of the rule each time you ended up tangled in his sheets: no feelings. It was supposed to be simple. A release. A distraction. Something thrilling that didn’t come with responsibility or heartbreak.

And yet, the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to keep the lines clean. Because with Suna, it never stayed just physical. There were the moments where he’d laugh under his breath when you teased him, the rare curve of his lips that he didn’t show to anyone else. The way his hand would find the small of your back when you crossed the street together, subtle but steady. The small things, the little gestures he probably didn’t even think twice about, were the ones that started undoing you.

And once you noticed it, it became impossible to unsee.

The slow unraveling reached its peak one night.

You were in his bed, sweat-slick and trembling, your voice hoarse from moaning his name into the sheets. He was behind you, his grip on your hips rough, his pace unforgiving. You could still feel the way his teeth had grazed your shoulder, the way his voice had growled in your ear, “So fucking needy… say my name again.” And you had, shamelessly, because you couldn’t stop yourself.

By the time it was over, your body was buzzing, your legs weak, your nails leaving faint crescents in his sheets. You collapsed forward, gasping for air, your heart pounding erratically.

He had been quiet, rolling over beside you, one hand resting lazily against your lower back like he always did. As if it were habit. As if he wanted you there.

And that’s when you felt it. Not just the racing of your heart from the high of sex—but something deeper, sharper. A warmth that spread through your chest until it almost hurt.

You lay there, staring at the rise and fall of his chest, at the way the moonlight through his blinds softened the angles of his face. He looked peaceful. Untouchable. And for the first time, you realized you didn’t just want this—the heat, the adrenaline, the pleasure. You wanted him.

All of him.

The thought hit you so hard you almost flinched. It was terrifying. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

“Hey,” his voice came, low and lazy, like he hadn’t noticed your internal collapse. “Stay the night.”

Normally, you would have. Normally, you would have melted back into his arms, let him curl around you like he always did. But tonight, the weight of your own feelings was suffocating.

“I, uh—I should go. I’ve got… an early class tomorrow,” you mumbled, scrambling for your clothes.

He cracked one eye open, watching you with that unreadable expression of his. “You sure? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, pulling your shirt over your head without meeting his gaze. You didn’t trust yourself to. If you looked at him—at the faint frown between his brows, at the way his hair stuck out in messy tufts from your hands being in it—you’d lose your resolve.

Suna didn’t push. He never did. He just hummed in acknowledgment and rolled onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. “Suit yourself.”

That was it. That was always it with him. Simple. Detached. No strings.

And you hated how much it hurt.

You left his apartment with your chest aching, your throat tight. By the time you reached your dorm, the ache had turned into something unbearable. You sat on your bed, staring at the dark screen of your phone, replaying every moment—his smirk, his touch, the way he had murmured your name when you clenched around him like he couldn’t help himself.

It wasn’t just sex anymore. Not for you. And pretending otherwise was ripping you apart.

Your hands trembled as you opened your messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

“Rin… I don’t think I can keep this up.” You typed, paused, deleted.

You tried again. “This was supposed to be casual, but it isn’t for me anymore.” Deleted.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the truth poured out in shaky words:

“Rin… I don’t think I can keep this arrangement anymore. I like you. More than I should. I think I’m in love with you.”

Your chest squeezed as you read it back. Too much. Too raw. But it was the truth, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

You pressed send before you could lose your nerve.

The little “delivered” checkmark appeared immediately.

But no reply came.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even the next week.

Suna didn’t respond—he ghosted you for a month.

At first, you clung to excuses for him. Maybe he was busy with volleyball, or maybe he didn’t know what to say. You convinced yourself he was just waiting for the right moment to reply, that his silence didn’t mean rejection—it meant hesitation. And that hesitation gave you hope.

But days blurred into nights, and the hope that had once fluttered inside you like a bright, reckless butterfly started to wither. Each time your phone buzzed, your chest would tighten with anticipation, only for the screen to reveal nothing but class updates, family messages, or your friends sending memes at 2 a.m. Never him.

You found yourself replaying the last night you spent in his bed, the way his hand had fit around your waist, the warmth of his breath against your skin as he murmured for you to stay. The memory clung to you like perfume, sweet but unbearable. You wanted so badly to believe those touches meant something—but his silence screamed otherwise.

Confusion settled first, sharp and stinging. You’d stare at your phone in the quiet of your dorm, rereading the words you sent him. “I think I’m in love with you.” Fourteen letters that had cost you everything. Fourteen letters he couldn’t even bother to acknowledge.

Frustration followed. You wanted to hate him for the way he made you feel—like every smile, every kiss, every whispered word had been nothing. You wanted to throw your phone against the wall, to rip him out of your chest, to erase the way your body still ached for his touch at night.

But longing crept in like it always did, soft and merciless. You missed him in the little things. The way his voice dropped when he teased you. The way he leaned back in his chair during lectures, lazy and sharp-eyed all at once. The way his scent—faint cologne and sweat—clung to your clothes long after you’d left his apartment.

You caught yourself avoiding places you knew he might be. The gym. The quad during volleyball practice. Even the cafeteria at certain hours. Because the thought of seeing him—seeing him act like you were nothing—was a wound you couldn’t bear to reopen.

Your friends noticed your sudden quietness. They’d ask, “Are you okay? You’ve been out of it lately.” You’d smile, nod, and say you were just tired, the lies sliding off your tongue too easily. They didn’t need to know how many nights you lay awake, heart racing with memories of him, the ghost of his hands still on your skin.

Some nights, your thumb would hover over his name in your messages. You’d type out questions you already knew the answers to. “Why are you ignoring me?” “Was I just a game to you?” “Do you really not feel anything at all?” But each time, you’d backspace until the screen was blank again.

Because if he wanted to answer, he would have.

And he didn’t.

So you learned to carry the silence, even when it weighed heavy in your chest. You laughed when your friends laughed, you studied until your eyes blurred, you walked through campus with your head high. On the outside, you were fine. Untouched.

But every night, when the world grew quiet and your bed felt too big, you’d whisper his name into the dark, like a secret you weren’t supposed to keep. And your heart would twist with the cruel reminder:

Suna Rintaro wasn’t just avoiding your feelings.

He was avoiding you.

That truth landed like a weight in your chest, heavier than anything you’d expected. Because if he cared, even just a little, he would have shown it. If he cared, he would’ve answered your text, even with the simplest words—I don’t feel the same, or Let’s not do this anymore. Anything would’ve been kinder than silence. If he cared, he would’ve made the effort to see you, even if it was only to end things face to face.

But he didn’t. And deep down, you knew silence was an answer on its own.

Still, knowing that didn’t stop your heart from clinging to him. It didn’t stop your eyes from searching for his messy hair in every crowded hallway, or your chest from tightening whenever someone mentioned the volleyball team. Wanting him had become a habit, and like any bad habit, it was hell to break.

So when one of your classmates—someone who had been circling you with shy smiles and half-hints for weeks—finally asked, “Hey, want to come with me to this party on Friday?” you didn’t say no.

You hesitated for a beat, because your first instinct was always him. But then you caught yourself. What was the point of waiting for someone who didn’t even care enough to look at you anymore?

“Yeah,” you said finally, offering a small smile. “Sure. Why not?”

Maybe it was for the better. Maybe this was the start of letting go.

That’s how you found yourself at a house party with the guy from your class. His friend was the one throwing it, and judging by the crowd spilling out onto the lawn, half the college had shown up. Music pulsed through the walls, bass heavy enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter and shouting blended into the haze of alcohol and smoke, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer and too-strong cologne.

Your classmate stuck close, a drink in his hand, grinning like he was proud to have you there with him. He introduced you to a few people, leaned in close when the music got too loud. He was kind, easy to be around—exactly the type of guy you should want.

You sipped from the red cup he handed you, letting the burn of the alcohol distract you from the unease in your chest. This is fine, you told yourself. This is good. This is normal. You were supposed to be moving on, supposed to be proving to yourself that you could.

And for a while, you almost believed it.

Until your eyes drifted across the crowded living room—

and landed on him.

Suna.

Leaning against the wall like he owned the place, drink dangling from his hand, eyes lazy as they swept over the party. Same sharp jaw, same messy hair, same effortless cool that made people gravitate toward him.

The world seemed to tilt, your pulse skipping. After a month of silence, of ghosting, of pretending you were okay… there he was.

And he was looking right at you.

Not a passing glance, not the kind you give a stranger in a crowded room—no, his eyes were locked on yours like he’d been expecting you to show up. Like the month of silence hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left your confession unread.

Your breath hitched, stomach tightening as if the floor had shifted beneath you. You wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t noticed, but the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.

“Hey, you okay?” your classmate asked, leaning closer to be heard over the music. He hadn’t noticed Suna, not yet. His smile was still warm, still waiting.

You forced one back, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just—crowded.”

But your heart was beating too fast, palms suddenly clammy around the cup in your hand. Across the room, Suna didn’t move, didn’t wave, didn’t even smirk the way he usually did when he caught you staring. He just held your gaze, unreadable, until someone said something to him and he finally looked away.

You thought that would be the end of it—that he’d ignore you the way he had for the last month. But you underestimated him.

Later, when you slipped into the hallway to catch your breath, you felt him before you saw him. A presence against the wall, tall frame blocking half the dim light.

“Rintaro,” you breathed, his name leaving your lips before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes sharp even in the shadows. “Been a while.” His tone was casual, but his gaze lingered too long, scanning you like he was trying to memorize every inch.

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “Yeah. Guess it has.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you was thick, the kind that hummed with things unsaid. He shifted closer, the faint smell of his cologne hitting you all over again. His mouth opened—like he was about to say something, maybe even bring up the one thing you’d been aching for him to acknowledge.

But before he could, your classmate appeared at your side, looping his fingers lightly around your wrist. “There you are—I’ve been looking everywhere,” he said, flashing Suna a polite smile before tugging you back toward the party.

You barely had time to glance over your shoulder, but Suna was still there in the hallway, watching you leave. His eyes were unreadable, but they burned into you all the same.

You barely had time to glance over your shoulder, but Suna was still there in the hallway, watching you leave. His eyes were unreadable, but they burned into you all the same.

Your classmate tugged you into the backyard, where strings of fairy lights glowed faintly against the night. A group had gathered around a cooler, red solo cups scattered in the grass, the air thick with laughter and alcohol. It didn’t take long before someone waved you both over, shoving a drink into your hand and pulling you into a circle.

It was one of those games. Truths, dares, forfeits. The kind that blurred boundaries under the excuse of fun. You weren’t in the mood, not really, but your classmate leaned close, his grin boyish, voice barely audible over the noise. “Hey, if you’re uncomfortable, we can dip out,” he said, eyes searching yours with a softness you hadn’t expected.

“I’m fine,” you lied, giving him a quick smile. Maybe you needed this—a distraction. Maybe this was what moving on was supposed to look like.

The game spun on, laughter louder with every dare, until eventually, all eyes landed on him. Someone shouted, “Kiss her!” and the crowd erupted, voices chanting in unison.

He turned to you, hesitation flickering across his features. Then, quieter this time: “Only if you’re okay with it.”

Your chest tightened. The fact that he asked—that he cared enough to check—made it harder to say no. And maybe part of you wanted to prove something, to yourself or to someone else you wished wasn’t watching. So you nodded once.

His hand cupped your cheek, tentative at first, before he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The circle erupted into cheers, the heat of attention surrounding you. His mouth was warm, the kiss unhurried, but it stretched longer than it should have. His thumb brushed your jaw, pulling you closer, and though you kissed him back, your chest ached with a heaviness you couldn’t name.

You pulled away, breath unsteady, ready to laugh it off—but the sound died in your throat.

Because across the yard, half-hidden in the crowd, Suna was watching.

His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, burning through you in a way that left your stomach knotted. You froze, the noise around you fading until it felt like only the two of you were left standing there.

Then he moved.

By the time you registered what was happening, his hand had already closed firmly around your wrist. His grip was hot, unyielding, as he muttered, “We’re leaving.”

“Rintaro—what the hell—” you hissed, stumbling after him as he cut through the house without so much as a backward glance. You tried to tug your hand free, but his hold only tightened.

“Let go!” you snapped, digging your heels into the floor. “You can’t just drag me around like this!”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even slow down, jaw clenched as he pulled you down the hall. People glanced curiously, but no one dared to intervene.

Finally, he shoved open a door, pushing you inside an empty bedroom before shutting it behind him with a definitive click.

Your back hit the edge of the bed as you glared at him, chest heaving. “What is your problem?!”

Suna stood a few feet away, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, locked on you like you’d done something unforgivable.

“You’re my problem.”

The words sliced through the air, sharp enough to knock the breath out of you.

“Excuse me?” You let out a short, humorless laugh, though your chest ached. “That’s what you came up with after a month of silence? After ghosting me like I was nothing, suddenly I’m your problem?”

His jaw tightened, veins flickering at his temple. He didn’t answer, and the silence only made your throat close tighter.

“You don’t get to do this, Suna,” you pressed, voice trembling between anger and the sting of betrayal. “You don’t get to ignore me, leave me hanging, then drag me away the second you see me with someone else. We’re not together. Remember? No feelings. That was your rule.”

Something flickered across his face at that—raw, jagged, too quick to catch before it slipped back behind his practiced indifference.

“Funny,” he finally said, voice flat but his words biting, “you didn’t look like you were thinking about rules when his hands were all over you.”

Your breath hitched, rage and shame tangling in your chest. “At least he asked,” you snapped. “At least he cared if I was okay with it.”

That hit something in him. His smirk faltered, replaced by a tightness around his eyes. He stepped forward, closing the space between you like a storm rolling in, heat and pressure suffocating.

“Don’t compare me to him.” His voice was low, dangerous, and it made your stomach twist.

“I will if I want to,” you shot back, though your voice cracked under the weight of it all. You wanted to sound strong, but the way your heart pounded betrayed you.

He leaned closer until you could feel his breath ghosting your lips, his hand lifting like he might touch you but stopping just short, fingers trembling. “You think he can make you fall apart the way I do?”

Your knees threatened to buckle as his thumb finally brushed against your lower lip, dragging slow, deliberate. Goosebumps rose across your skin, heat pooling low in your stomach no matter how hard you fought it.

You hated how your body betrayed you, hated the way your lips parted without permission. “You don’t get to—” you tried, but your voice broke, softer than you meant.

“Say it,” he cut you off, rough and urgent now. His forehead dipped to yours, his eyes boring into you. “Say you don’t want me. Say you want him instead. I’ll walk out that door right now.”

Your chest heaved. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You wanted to say it, wanted to shove him away and tell him he couldn’t just disappear then come back like this. But the words stuck in your throat, tangled with every memory of his touch, every night you’d spent wrapped in him like you belonged there.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place but not forcing you closer—waiting. Always waiting, like he wanted you to admit something you weren’t ready to say.

And it burned.

Because you knew, deep down, if you said the words, if you told him to walk, he actually would.

Because you knew, deep down, if you said the words, if you told him to walk, he actually would.

Suna’s grip tightened at the back of your neck, grounding, insistent—like he was daring you to say it. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse skitter. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breaths shallow and uneven, his gaze pinning you in place. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, a storm you couldn’t quite read, like he was fighting himself just as much as he was fighting you.

“Answer me, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, frayed at the edges like he’d been holding it back for far too long. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, a touch that was both tender and possessive. “You know goddamn well that if you say no, I would really walk out of this door.”

The word baby twisted inside your chest, cutting deep. He didn’t call you that often. Only in fleeting, desperate moments—his voice breaking when he was fucking you so hard you couldn’t think straight, or when your moans filled his ears and he lost his composure. Hearing it here, whispered into the crackling tension of an empty bedroom, stripped you raw.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The air felt heavy between you, each second stretching unbearably long. You wanted to scream no, to shove him away, to make him feel even half of the hurt he’d left you drowning in. But your body… your heart… they betrayed you.

His thumb moved slow, deliberate, dragging circles against your skin like he was afraid you’d shatter if he let go. His breath hitched, the sound rough, almost pleading, when he leaned in closer. His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he murmured, words brushing over your lips like a prayer. “Tell me to leave. Please.”

It was the please that undid you. Because Suna Rintarō didn’t beg. Not on the court, not in class, not in bed. And yet here he was, voice cracking, hands shaking just slightly where they held you—begging you to push him away before he drowned too.

Your throat burned, tears pressing hot at the corners of your eyes. “You’re such an asshole,” you breathed, the words trembling out of you, your voice breaking.

For the barest moment, his lips quirked into something like a smirk, but it was strained, hollow at the edges. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d just run a sprint. “Maybe,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “But I’m your asshole, aren’t I?”

Your chest clenched so hard it hurt. Because it wasn’t fair—he didn’t get to say things like that, not after ignoring you, not after making you feel like you’d been stupid for hoping.

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was brutal, messy—hungry in a way that spoke more of desperation than control. His mouth crashed onto yours, teeth clashing, his hand at your neck holding you steady as if he couldn’t risk you pulling away. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into your skin through your clothes, anchoring himself there like he might float away without it.

You whimpered against him, nails clawing at his shirt, because no matter how much you wanted to hate him for making you feel this way, your body had already betrayed you.

His tongue slid against yours, rough and demanding, a growl vibrating deep in his chest when you kissed him back with equal force. The sound shot straight through you, making your knees weak. He tilted your head further, deepening the kiss, swallowing the broken noises slipping past your lips.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was war. It was a claim. It was an apology he didn’t know how to speak.

When he finally pulled back, only barely, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breathing ragged, his voice came out low and raw.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, already swollen from his kisses. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

And before you could answer, before you could even think, his mouth was on yours again—hungrier, rougher, desperate in a way that told you he wasn’t letting you go. Not tonight.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. A startled sound escaped your throat, muffled by the press of his lips as he carried you the few steps to the bed. The kiss never broke, his tongue pushing past your lips like he couldn’t bear even a breath of space between you.

The mattress dipped beneath your back as he set you down, but Suna didn’t pull away—not really. His body hovered over yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. He kissed you like a starving man, his teeth catching your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Comfortable?” he rasped against your mouth, the word a taunt, though his touch was careful as he adjusted you on the sheets, tugging at the hem of your top to smooth it out under your back. His voice was low, husky, strained like he was seconds from snapping.

You tried to glare up at him, tried to ignore the way your pulse hammered in your throat. “You’re such—” The insult died in your mouth when his fingers dug into your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Such what?” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear now, hot breath ghosting over your skin. His teeth grazed lightly at your jawline, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Such an asshole? You already told me that.”

You hated how your body betrayed you—arching into him, thighs parting just enough for him to settle between them. His weight pressed down, grounding and suffocating all at once.

“Suna—” you whispered, but it came out more like a plea than the protest you meant it to be.

“Rin,” he corrected, biting gently at your neck before sucking the skin into his mouth. A groan rumbled low in his chest when you gasped, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Call me Rin when I’m about to lose my mind over you.”

Your breath hitched, a whimper catching in your throat as he rocked against you, the friction deliberate, teasing. His lips trailed lower, leaving a path of heat across your throat and collarbone, his hands sliding under your shirt with slow, aching intent.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. His voice was wrecked when he spoke again.

“Tell me to stop, and I swear I will,” he said, each word dragged out, like the restraint was costing him everything. His hand splayed across your stomach, trembling with the effort of holding back. “But if you don’t… I’m not letting you go this time.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, heat flooding your veins, your lips parting without hesitation. “I’m not saying stop.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed against yours, devouring, desperate, as though he’d been holding himself back for years and had finally broken. His tongue slid past your lips, claiming every gasp you gave him, every whimper that slipped free. You barely had time to breathe before his hands were tugging at your shirt, yanking it over your head and tossing it aside with a grunt.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you sprawled beneath him, flushed and panting, your bra straining to contain the swell of your chest. His jaw flexed, his breath catching audibly.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, fingers curling under the cups of your bra and tugging them down, freeing your breasts to the cool air. His palms immediately engulfed them, kneading roughly, thumbs dragging over your hardened nipples. “These tits… fuck, I’ve thought about them more than I should admit.”

Your back arched when he pinched and rolled one between his fingers, his mouth descending on the other. The hot suction of his lips around your nipple had you gasping, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Ahh—Rin!”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped against your skin, the vibration shooting through you. “Moan for me. Let everyone in this fucking house know whose mouth is on you.”

He switched sides, sucking your other nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it before grazing his teeth lightly over the sensitive peak. You cried out, thighs clenching around his hips.

“You like it when I bite, don’t you?” His smirk was wicked as he left your breast wet and swollen, moving lower to drag his teeth along the curve of your chest. “Bet you’ll love what I’m about to do next.”

Before you could respond, his mouth latched onto your collarbone, sucking hard enough to bruise. You gasped, head tilting back, giving him more space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips moved across your neck, jaw, the swell of your breasts—leaving hot, wet marks everywhere. Each bite was followed by his tongue soothing the sting, his breath fanning across your flushed skin.

“Gonna cover you in me,” he growled, biting down on the slope of your shoulder until you whimpered. He pulled back to admire the dark mark forming there, his eyes hooded, hungry. “So everyone sees. So no one fucking forgets who had you first.”

Your fingers dug into his back, nails raking down his skin. “Rin—please—”

“Please what?” he teased, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear, his voice low and sinful. “Please stop? Or please keep ruining you like this?”

“Keep going,” you begged, breathless.

He chuckled darkly, sucking at the side of your throat until your legs trembled. “Good girl. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

One of his hands slid down from your chest, trailing over your stomach, dipping under your waistband. He paused there, his thumb rubbing lazy circles just above your slit.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured, lips still pressed to your neck, voice husky. “Haven’t even touched your pussy yet, and you’re falling apart.”

Your hips jerked at his words, a whimper escaping you. “Rin—don’t tease—”

“Not teasing, baby,” he said, finally slipping his fingers beneath your panties, groaning when he felt how soaked you were. “Just enjoying the fact that you’re this fucking wet for me.” He dragged his fingers slowly through your folds, spreading your arousal. “Bet if I slid in right now, you’d take me like a dream.”

You moaned, grinding helplessly against his hand, desperate for more.

But he didn’t give it to you yet. Instead, he pulled his fingers up, wet with your slick, and brought them to your lips. “Open.”

Flushed, you obeyed, parting your mouth. He slid his fingers inside, groaning when you sucked on them, tongue curling around the taste of yourself.

“God, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he groaned, yanking his hand away and shoving your panties down. “Gonna make you scream for me, baby. Gonna make sure no one else can ever kiss you without you thinking of me.”

He settled lower, spreading your thighs apart with both hands, his mouth hovering above your glistening core, breath hot against your skin. His eyes flicked up, dark and merciless, before his lips finally descended.

His mouth hovered there for just a second too long, his breath tickling your swollen clit. Then, without warning, his tongue flattened against you, a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance all the way up to the bud of nerves at the top.

Your back arched violently, a strangled moan tearing from your throat.

“Fuck—”

Suna groaned into you, tongue swirling around your clit before flicking it with precision. “Goddamn, you taste even better than I remember.” He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every drop of slick coating your folds. “Sweet… filthy… mine.”

Your thighs clamped around his head, but he shoved them further apart, pinning them down with his palms. “Don’t you dare hide from me. Let me see how desperate I make you.”

His tongue circled your clit before sucking it into his mouth, drawing it between his lips until your hips bucked helplessly. You whined his name, tugging at his hair, but all that did was make him groan against you, sending vibrations through your core.

“Yeah, moan louder,” he rasped when he pulled back just long enough to speak, his chin glistening with your slick. His thumb pressed down on your clit while his tongue dipped lower, teasing at your entrance. “This pussy’s dripping for me. Begging for me.”

“Rin, please—”

“Please what?” he taunted, his breath hot against your folds. He slid a single finger inside you, slow, deliberate, curling it just right until you gasped. “Please make you come? Please ruin you for anyone else? Gonna need you to be more specific, baby.”

Your walls clenched desperately around his finger, and he smirked, slipping in a second, stretching you with an almost cruel pace. He pumped them slowly, deliberately, brushing his fingertips against that sensitive spot deep inside you.

“Oh—fuck—” You grabbed at the sheets, hips lifting off the bed.

“There it is,” he muttered, dark eyes locked on your face, his tone dripping with pride. “Right there. Look at you falling apart just from my fingers. Pathetic little thing, getting fucked dumb already, and I haven’t even given you cock yet.”

He curled his fingers again, and your cry was cut off by his mouth clamping down on your clit, tongue flicking mercilessly. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room as he ate you out like a man starved, alternating between sucking your clit and driving his fingers deeper into your soaking heat.

“Rin—ahhh, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled against you, the vibration making your whole body jolt. “You’re gonna come all over my mouth. Right now.”

The pace of his fingers quickened, fucking you harder, faster, while his lips and tongue worked your clit with ruthless precision. You felt the heat coil in your stomach, tight and overwhelming, and you thrashed against his hold—but he didn’t let you move.

“Rin, I’m—”

“Do it,” he demanded, pulling his mouth away just long enough to growl the words, his eyes blazing as he watched you unravel. “Come for me, baby. Show me who makes you feel this good.”

His thumb replaced his tongue, rubbing harsh, tight circles on your clit while his fingers pistoned inside you, hitting that spot over and over.

You broke.

The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, tearing a scream from your throat as your walls clamped around his fingers, your whole body convulsing. Suna didn’t stop—he fucked you through it, riding your high, watching every second like it was his prize.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed, slowing his movements only when you went limp against the sheets, trembling and gasping for air. He pulled his fingers out slowly, dripping with your release, and brought them to his lips, sucking them clean while holding eye contact. “Messy little thing. Bet you’ll give me another one.”

Before you could recover, his hands were on your thighs again, spreading you wide. He leaned in, mouth hovering over your soaked cunt.

“You’re not done yet,” he smirked, lowering his head again. “I’m gonna make this pussy cry for me until you can’t take anymore.”

And then his mouth was on you again, hungrier than before.

Your body hadn’t even come down from the high of your last orgasm when Suna dove back in. His tongue was merciless, circling your clit, sucking it into his mouth until your back arched clean off the sheets.

“Rin—ahhh, too much—please—” you sobbed, thighs clamping around his head, but he just pried them apart with those strong hands, pinning you down.

“Too much?” he mocked, his voice dark and smug between licks. “Baby, you think I care? You’re not done till I say you’re done. This pussy’s dripping, begging for me. Listen to it.”

The wet, obscene squelch of his fingers thrusting back into your cunt filled the room. He fucked them into you hard, curling against that spot that made your whole body jolt. Your walls squeezed tight, sucking him in, soaking his knuckles.

“Fuck, feel that? You’re clutching my fingers like you never want me to pull out. You love it,” he hissed, his mouth sliding back over your clit. “Say it. Tell me you love me eating this messy cunt.”

Your hands clawed at your own chest, squeezing your boobs desperately, tugging your nipples hard as the stimulation overwhelmed you. You moaned brokenly, your voice wrecked.

“I—I love it! F-fuck, Rin, I love it, don’t stop!”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, doubling his pace. His tongue flicked relentlessly, his lips sucking hard while his fingers pounded your soaking hole.

You felt it too fast, too sharp—another orgasm barreling through you before you could even breathe.

“Rin, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he ordered, pinning your hips down with a bruising grip. His eyes flicked up at you, hungry, dark. “Squirt all over my fucking face. Don’t hold back, baby—make a mess.”

Your whole body convulsed, stars bursting behind your eyelids as you screamed his name. A hot gush of slick spilled out of you, spraying against his mouth and chin.

“Fuuuck, yes,” Suna groaned, drinking it down greedily, his tongue lapping everything you gave him. “God, you taste so fucking good when you lose control.”

You tried to shove him away, body twitching violently, tears slipping from your eyes. “Rin, please—I can’t—I’m gonna die—”

But he just laughed, low and dangerous, his mouth latching back onto your swollen clit. “Die for me, then. I’ll bring you back. You can come as many times as I want.”

Your thighs shook uncontrollably, your voice breaking into high-pitched cries as he sucked harder, refusing to give you a moment of reprieve. His free hand pressed against your stomach, holding you down while his fingers curled deeper, massaging that spongy spot inside you mercilessly.

Your hands were everywhere—gripping the sheets, then flying back to your tits, tugging your nipples until they were raw. You were babbling nonsense, moaning his name over and over, your body straining as another wave slammed into you.

You squirted again, this time harder, soaking his chin, his neck, even dripping down to his chest. He groaned against you, swallowing every drop like he was starving.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his face was drenched, his lips shiny, his eyes blown black with lust. He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, and smirked.

“Look at the mess you made, baby. All over me. You’re fucking ruined, you know that? Nobody’s ever gonna make you fall apart like this.”

“R-Rin…” you whimpered, your voice hoarse, body trembling uncontrollably.

But he wasn’t done. He leaned back in, kissing your inner thighs, then sinking back onto your cunt like it was his favorite meal. He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make you shriek, his tongue flicking in cruel little bursts that had your back arching violently.

“Don’t stop playing with those tits,” he rasped between licks. “I want to see you tug those pretty nipples while I wreck this pussy. Yeah—fuck, just like that. You’re so fucking hot when you do that for me.”

Your fingers pinched your nipples harder, desperate to keep up with his pace, and the overstimulation dragged you under again. Another orgasm ripped through you, sudden and brutal, your slick pouring out over his mouth as you sobbed, body collapsing back onto the mattress.

Suna finally pulled back, panting, his lips swollen, his chin and jaw glistening with your cum. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then smirked as he crawled up your body.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, down your throat, biting at the soft skin he’d already marked. His cock pressed hard and heavy against your thigh. “And I’m just getting started. Think you can handle my cock after I’ve already broken you with my tongue?”

“Fuck, yes, Rin.”

But he only chuckled, leaning back on his heels, his smirk dripping with arrogance.

“Yeah? You think you deserve it?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was dissecting you. “Nah. Not after you let some other bastard put his mouth on you. You don’t get my cock that easy, baby. You want it? Prove it. Touch yourself for me.”

Your mouth fell open. “Rin, please—”

“Not begging.” His tone cut through your protest, deep and sharp. “I said prove it. Be a good girl and show me how much you want me. Otherwise…” he glanced toward the door, jaw flexing, “I walk out and you can finish yourself off. Alone.”

The thought made your chest tighten, your stomach twist. Humiliation burned through you, but your body betrayed you—you wanted him too much. You wanted to please him.

So you slid your hand down between your thighs, skin slick with sweat and arousal. Your pussy clenched around nothing when your fingers parted your folds, the obscene wet sound filling the room.

Suna leaned back, his eyes locked between your legs, jaw slackening just slightly.

“Fuck, there we go,” he drawled. “Look at that messy pussy. All that for me? Or were you this wet for him too?”

Your face burned. “For you, Rin—only you.”

“Mm. We’ll see.” He licked his lips, then tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Your eyes caught on the tattoos you already knew well, but every time you saw them, they hit harder—the bold black ink sprawling across his shoulder, the snake etched along his ribs, curling across his lean torso like it belonged to him the way he belonged to you.

You couldn’t stop staring. You never could. The tattoos made him look more dangerous, more untouchable, and somehow even more yours.

“Eyes up here, baby,” he teased, catching your wandering gaze. His smirk deepened as he tugged his sweats low, exposing his cock—thick, hard, the tip leaking as he gripped it lazily. “Don’t get distracted. Keep those pretty hands busy.”

Your thighs shook as you pushed two fingers inside yourself, arching into the stretch. Your other hand slid up your stomach, cupping your tits, kneading the soft flesh until your nipples pebbled beneath your fingertips.

Suna groaned low in his chest. “Fuck, that’s it. Play with those tits for me. You know how much I love watching you squeeze them.”

You obeyed, pulling your fingers out of your cunt just long enough to trail them up your stomach and suck them into your mouth. The taste of yourself hit your tongue, and you moaned, licking them clean before sliding them back down between your legs.

“Dirty fucking girl,” Suna rasped, stroking himself tighter now, his eyes blown wide as he watched you. “Licking your fingers like that. You love the way you taste, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” you gasped, flicking your clit with trembling fingers. “Fuck, Rin, it feels so good.”

“Say it,” he demanded, voice sharp. “Say you love making a mess for me.”

“I love it,” you moaned, spreading your thighs wider, your hips rolling up to meet your hand. “I love making a mess for you, Rin.”

“That’s my girl.” His voice dropped lower, almost reverent, but his eyes were still dark, dangerous. “Now keep going. Don’t stop until you’re dripping all over these sheets.”

You pushed three fingers inside yourself this time, fucking yourself faster, your other hand tugging at your nipples, twisting until you cried out. Your head fell back, hair sticking to your sweaty skin, your body trembling as the wet squelch of your cunt filled the room.

Suna groaned, stroking his cock in time with your movements. “Look at you—my perfect little slut, putting on a show for me. You’re so fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

Your thighs quivered, heat curling tight in your belly. You pressed your thumb against your clit and the world snapped—you came hard, crying out as your body convulsed, squirting all over your hand, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Suna’s eyes went wide, his cock twitching in his grip as he growled low in his throat. “Fuck, baby. You’re so messy for me. Look at you—ruined, dripping, all mine.”

You whimpered, pulling your fingers free, strings of slick dripping down your thighs. Without thinking, you brought your soaked fingers to your mouth, licking them clean, your eyes half-lidded as you stared at him.

Suna’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful, his cock twitching violently in his hand. He stood abruptly, stalking forward like a predator, bracing his tattooed arm beside your head as he hovered over you, his cock pressing hot and heavy against your folds.

“You proved yourself,” he growled, lips brushing yours, voice dropping into something darker. “Now open up, baby. I’m gonna fuck you until you forget that bastard’s name.”

Your stomach twisted in anticipation as his cock pressed against your folds, heavy, hot, teasing. He didn’t push in right away. Instead, he dragged the thick head slowly along your slit, smearing your wetness over your clit until your thighs trembled. The little shocks of pleasure made your hips buck, chasing him, desperate for more.

“Rin—please,” you whined, eyes fluttering shut.

“Please what?” His smirk cut through your begging, a cruel lilt to his voice. “Say it. Say exactly what you want.”

“I want your cock,” you gasped, shame burning at the edges of your desperation. “Please—fuck me, Rin.”

“Mm.” He dragged his tip lower, nudging at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing. Then he pulled back again, grinning down at you like he had all the time in the world. “Beg prettier, baby. You don’t deserve this cock yet, not after you let that bastard touch you.”

Tears stung your eyes from the frustration of his teasing. “I’m sorry, Rin—please, I need you. No one else—just you.”

That seemed to break his restraint. His jaw clenched, tattoos shifting over the tense lines of his muscles as he pressed forward—just the tip sinking in before pulling out, then pushing again, deeper this time, testing your limits. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your breath hitched, body trembling with every shallow thrust.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, voice roughened with hunger. “Dripping all over my cock and I haven’t even given it to you yet.”

“Rin, I can’t—”

“Oh, you can.” His smirk curved mean, his hand sliding to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “But I think you’ve begged enough.”

Then he slammed into you.

The sudden, brutal thrust knocked the air from your lungs, your cry tearing free as your body stretched around him. He bottomed out in one push, cock buried to the hilt, filling you so completely you saw stars.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead pressed against yours, voice wrecked. “That’s my pussy. Tight as ever—like it was made for me.”

He pulled out almost all the way before snapping his hips forward again, the force of it rattling through you. Each thrust was punishing, relentless, dragging obscene, wet sounds from between your legs. Your back arched, nails raking down his inked shoulders, desperate to hold on to something as he fucked you into the mattress.

The second your nails broke skin, though, Suna’s control snapped.

“Tch.” His hand shot up, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. He ripped it off his back and slammed it into the mattress above your head. His body caged yours, tattoos flexing as he pinned you down like prey beneath a predator.

“You think you get to mark me without permission?” His tone was low, dangerous, his hips never slowing as he drove into you harder, deeper, each word punctuated by the slap of skin. “I’ll teach you your place, baby.”

Your free hand scrambled at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself, but his thrusts shook you apart, leaving you gasping.

“Rin—please—”

“Please what? Please stop?” His smirk was feral, his mouth lowering to bite at your jaw, then your throat, then your collarbone, marking every inch he could reach. “You don’t want me to stop. You love when I ruin you like this.”

Your moans confirmed it, spilling uncontrollably from your lips.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice husky and rough. “Cry for me. Let everyone at this party hear who you belong to.”

His hips snapped against you harder, the wet slap of skin filling the room, the bedframe crying out under the abuse. Every thrust made the mattress jolt, the headboard pounding mercilessly into the wall, a steady rhythm of your surrender.

Your wrists ached in his grip, pinned so tightly above your head you could feel the blood rush to your fingertips. You twisted helplessly, your nails digging into your palms, but Suna only held you down harder, his long body caging you in.

“God, listen to you,” he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, sweat dripping down his temple onto your cheek. “So fucking loud. Just the way I like it. Can’t even pretend you don’t need me when you’re screaming like that.”

His cock drove deeper, harder, the blunt head hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body seize. You tried to bite back the cry bubbling in your throat, but it tore free anyway, raw and broken.

Suna smirked against your neck, his teeth grazing over the fresh bruises he’d already left. “There it is. That pretty fucking sound. That’s mine, baby. Every moan, every cry—you don’t get to give it to anyone else.”

Your thighs trembled violently, clamping tighter around his waist as if your body was trying to hold him in, not let him go. He felt it instantly—the way your pussy clenched around his cock, fluttering, tightening like a fist. His pace faltered for just a second, not from hesitation but because he knew.

“Ohhh,” he drawled, voice dark and dripping with satisfaction, “there she goes. You’re getting close, huh?” His thrusts slowed deliberately, dragging the thick length of him through your slick walls, deep enough to make you keen. “I can feel it—your pussy’s choking my cock. So fucking desperate.”

“Rin—” Your voice cracked, a plea spilling out without you meaning to.

He laughed low, cruel and sweet all at once, and snapped his hips forward again, the force making the bedframe slam into the wall. “Don’t even bother lying to me. Your body tells on you every time.”

Your legs kicked against the sheets, the burn in your wrists unbearable, your chest heaving. The pressure building inside you was blinding, a coil wound so tight you thought you might snap apart.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he taunted, his pace ruthless again, hammering into you so hard your vision blurred. “You gonna scream my name when you break? Hm?” His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping to a husky growl. “Say it. Say who this pussy belongs to.”

The bed creaked louder, wood groaning, the sound of his cock pounding into you echoing in the room, obscene and raw. Your body convulsed under him, clenching down tighter, the slick gush between your thighs making every thrust dirtier, wetter, filthier.

Suna hissed through his teeth, rutting into you like he couldn’t get deep enough. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I can feel you about to lose it. Don’t you dare hold back. I want it all. Cum all over my cock, baby. Make a fucking mess for me.”

Your body trembled violently as the coil inside you snapped. Every thrust, every hard slam of his cock had driven you over the edge, and now there was no holding back.

“Rin—ahhh! I’m—fuck!” Your voice broke, the high-pitched scream echoing off the walls as your hips bucked uncontrollably. Your pussy clamped down on him, squirming around the thick length, and you felt the gush of your orgasm spill across his cock.

Suna groaned deep in his chest, thrusting into you one last time before slowing, letting your body writhe and shudder around him. He felt your walls tighten, slick and trembling, and with one steady, controlled push, he filled you to the rim, letting you feel every inch of him sink inside as he came.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice dropped, ragged, low and intimate. The rough, punishing edge from before had melted away, leaving something softer, warmer. His hips stilled, but his cock stayed deep, giving you that full, heavy weight that made your vision swim.

You shivered, trembling from overstimulation, your breath ragged and shallow. He shifted, easing his weight down against your chest, one hand sliding to cup your face, brushing hair away as he pressed soft, lingering kisses over your forehead, cheeks, jaw.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your temple, teeth grazing your skin gently. “So fucking perfect. Look at you, trembling all over… taking everything and giving it back to me. Fuck, you’re mine, baby.”

He kissed your wrists where his hands had held you earlier, soft, reverent, whispering praise between each touch. “Good girl… my little slut… my pretty, messy girl. That’s my pussy, huh?”

Your chest heaved, body still pulsing, and he pressed his forehead to yours. “Shh… it’s okay. It’s just you and me. Just us.” His voice softened even more, carrying something you hadn’t heard in weeks—vulnerability, warmth, love.

“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your flushed cheek. His thumb stroked lightly over your jaw, tracing the curve of your lips. “I’m… I’m sorry, baby. For ignoring you for a month. For making you feel like you weren’t enough. That was never true.”

He paused, swallowing hard, his nose brushing against yours as he looked into your eyes. “I just… I didn’t know how to say it. I wanted to protect myself, maybe, but I ended up hurting you instead. And the truth is… I can’t stand the thought of not being honest with you. Not anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, your chest tightening from a mix of overstimulation, relief, and raw emotion. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning into his warmth, feeling the weight of his confession seep into your chest like sunlight.

“I love you,” he murmured, his lips brushing softly over yours, a gentle kiss that lingered and warmed. “I’ve loved you for so long, and I was stupid—stupid to think I could keep it quiet, to think I could just… ghost you and everything would be okay. But it wasn’t okay. Not without you knowing. Not without you being mine completely.”

You shook, tears spilling freely now, overwhelmed. “Rin…”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, then down your jaw, over your cheeks, tracing each curve of your face with reverent attention. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving, and I want to make up for every second I made you feel alone. Every time you doubted me… I’m yours. Always.”

He held you close, arms wrapped tightly around you, his cock still buried deep inside you, grounding you as your body pulsed down from the overstimulation. “You’re mine, baby. Every part of you. I’m never letting this go again.”

You breathed shakily against him, heart hammering, body still quivering from both pleasure and emotion. “…I want another round,” you whispered, voice trembling, lips brushing his.

Suna laughed softly, a warm, low sound that made your chest flutter. “God, you’re insatiable,” he murmured, tugging you closer and kissing you deeply. “Fine. Let’s go again… but this time, I’m taking my time. I want to make every second of it ours.”

You nuzzled your face against his shoulder, catching your breath, body still humming from the intensity of the last round. His hands were everywhere, roaming your curves, fingertips tracing over every sensitive spot, but now there was a gentleness in his touch—a stark contrast to the rough, punishing rhythm from before.

“…I want to be on top, Rin,” you murmured, voice soft but tinged with hunger, lifting your hips slightly against him.

Suna tilted his head, a slow, appreciative smirk spreading across his face. “Oh? You want to ride me, baby?” He let out a low chuckle, voice thick with desire. “I like that. I like watching you take control… but don’t get too cocky.”

You grinned, heart hammering, and gently pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. The heat of him pressed into you immediately, the weight of his length reminding you of just how deep you’d been filled before. Your hands settled on his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles under your palms, then wandering to his back and shoulders, fingers tracing the intricate black snake tattoo along his ribs and the bold design sprawled across his shoulder.

“I’ve always loved these,” you murmured softly, your lips brushing his collarbone as your fingers followed the curves of the ink. “Ever since the first time I saw them… every mark, every line… it’s so you, Rin. I love them.”

Suna’s eyes darkened, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Mm… fuck, baby. You always notice, huh?” His hands slid to your hips, gripping you tight as he watched your fingers roam over his tattooed skin. “You’ve been memorizing every inch since day one. Every little thing… mine.”

You leaned forward slightly, lips brushing over his neck as you ground your hips slowly against him, letting the friction build. “I can’t help it,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I love seeing them. Love touching them. Love… all of you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, thumbs digging into your sides as he thrust upward to meet your movements. “God, baby, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice rougher now, thick with desire. “Every motion… every touch… just like this. You’re mine… every inch of you belongs to me.”

Your hands wandered lower, pressing against his chest and stomach, tracing every muscle, every familiar curve. The combination of his warm, hard body beneath you, the ink beneath your fingers, and the slick heat surrounding his cock drove you wild. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, eyes locked on his as you rode him slowly, deliberately, savoring every sensation.

“Fuck, Rin…” you moaned, hips rolling forward harder. “You feel so amazing… and your tattoos… I’ve always loved them. Always loved you…”

He groaned sharply, hands gripping your thighs, holding you tight as he thrust upward to match your rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Talk to me while you ride me. Tell me how much you love me. Let me hear it.”

“I love you,” you whispered, biting your lip, your chest pressing against his as you moved with steady, tantalizing control. “All of you… your body… your tattoos… every part I get to touch. I love it all… I love you, Rin.”

Suna’s grip on your hips tightened even more, thumb brushing over your sides, holding you steady as his thrusts grew harder, deeper. “God… my pretty girl,” he groaned, voice breaking with need. “You’re so perfect like this… every motion, every word. You’re mine. All of you. Mine.”

Your hands slid back to his shoulders, nails grazing the tattooed ink as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss against the snake tattoo along his rib. “I always wanted to touch it… to touch you,” you murmured, grinding your hips down harder. “And now… I get to feel you, Rin… all of you.”

Suna hissed, thrusting upward into you, his hips snapping hard enough to make the bed groan. “Fuck, baby… riding me like this, telling me you love every part… it’s driving me insane. You’re mine, and I’m never letting you forget it.”

Then, with a growl of need, he shifted, pulling you back against him as he sat up, still buried inside you. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, and you gasped at the sudden change of angle—now his cock pressed perfectly against your walls, deep and relentless, while his hands cupped your breasts.

“Look at you… so perfect, riding me like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, tweaking and rolling them, teasing you into a ragged moan. “So fucking beautiful. So goddamn wet for me already.”

Before you could catch your breath, his mouth descended on your left breast, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, teeth grazing lightly as he sucked with deliberate, greedy pressure. You arched against him, hips jerking instinctively as he alternated between latching onto one nipple and flicking the other with his tongue.

His hands weren’t idle either—one cupped your breast while the other massaged your other one, kneading, rolling, squeezing, flicking your nipples between his fingers. Every motion drove you higher, making your breath come in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, Rin…” you moaned, tilting your head back, nipples aching deliciously under his attention. “God… you feel so good…”

“You feel so good,” he growled, lips and teeth working over your skin. “Every inch of you is mine, baby. Mine to touch, mine to taste. You’re gonna make me lose it riding me like this, looking like that…”

Your hands gripped the back of his shoulders, nails grazing the skin over the tattoos you’d always loved, tracing them as he worshiped your breasts. “I… I love it, Rin… love it when you do this…”

He hummed against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking and biting just hard enough to make you shiver. One hand kneaded your chest while the other roamed lower, brushing your hip, then slipping between you two. His fingers found your clit, pressing and rubbing in perfect rhythm with his hips as he sank deeper into you with each thrust.

“Oh god—Rin! I’m… I’m about to cum!” you gasped, hips rolling involuntarily, chest heaving, nipples aching in delicious torment under his mouth.

“Yeah? You’re so close, baby…” he murmured, thrusting upwards faster now, perfectly timed with the squeeze and rub of his fingers on your clit. “Look at you… squirming for me… so wet, so fucking tight… gonna make a mess all over me. That’s my girl. That’s mine.”

Your cries filled the room, a mix of moans and pleas, as his mouth latched onto your nipples, sucking, nibbling, swirling his tongue, driving you higher with every motion. His thrusts snapped into you harder, hitting just the right spot deep inside, while his fingers danced expertly over your clit, the sensations building in unbearable waves.

“I… I’m gonna—ahhh! Fuck, Rin! I’m cumming!” you screamed, body trembling violently, chest heaving, hips bucking against him as your orgasm ripped through you.

Suna groaned, steadying your hips while keeping his lips attached to your breast, fingers working your clit, and buried himself deeper inside you, holding you through the shaking waves of your release. “That’s it, baby… mine… mine… cum all over me…”

Your body shuddered uncontrollably around him, breasts bouncing in his hands, nipples aching deliciously from his worship, walls clenching tight around his cock as your orgasm pulsed through every nerve.

Your body trembled violently, hips still rolling slightly as the aftershocks of your orgasm pulsed through every nerve. Suna groaned low in your ear, thrusting into you with renewed urgency, his own hips snapping hard, chasing his climax.

“Fuck… baby… so fucking tight… you feel amazing,” he growled, voice rough, breath ragged. His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as he pounded into you, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, driving him closer to the edge.

You dug your nails into his shoulders, chest pressing against his, feeling the heat of him building inside. “Rin… I—oh god—please…” you moaned, voice breaking as he hit just the right spot, your walls clenching around him, pulling him closer.

“I’m… I’m close, baby,” he rasped, voice strained. “Gonna… gonna fuck you full… gonna come… gonna—fuck!”

His hips snapped up harder with a series of relentless thrusts, one hand gripping your hip while the other found your back, squeezing and guiding you as his cock pulsed deep inside you. He shuddered violently, groaning your name as his orgasm ripped through him, hot and pulsing, filling you completely.

“Oh… fuck, Rin!” you gasped, still trembling, your body pressed flush against his, slick and warm with the combined heat of your releases.

He collapsed slightly against you, heavy breaths rattling as he rode out the aftershocks, still holding your hips steady, still buried deep, savoring every inch. Slowly, he eased you to a more comfortable angle, his hands sliding up your back, over your spine, rubbing soothing circles, pressing you close against his chest.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured softly, voice rough but tender. “Still trembling… still all mine?”

You nodded weakly, chest heaving, forehead resting against his shoulder. “Yeah… still… yours…”

Suna’s lips pressed to the top of your head, then down to your neck, trailing soft, lingering kisses across your shoulders and spine. “Good girl… my pretty girl… that’s it,” he whispered, his voice husky but threaded with warmth. His fingers traced gentle lines over your back, moving slow and deliberate, massaging away the tension in your muscles. Each touch felt grounding, easing the tremors that still shivered through you.

You exhaled shakily against his skin, every soft kiss and whispered word wrapping around you like a balm. Your heart was still racing, but his presence steadied you—his warmth, his scent, the way his arms caged you against him as if he was afraid to let go.

“You don’t know how perfect you are like this,” he murmured, nuzzling your temple. His lips dragged across your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, tender and unhurried. “Falling apart in my arms… trusting me to put you back together.”

You tilted your head back, blinking up at him, your chest still rising and falling unevenly. The damp strands of your hair clung to your cheeks, and Suna’s hand moved gently to brush them away, tucking them behind your ear like he was handling something fragile.

“Rin,” you whispered, voice soft but steady despite the lingering haze of pleasure, “are you serious about what you said earlier?”

For a moment, he just looked at you—really looked. His usual detached mask was nowhere to be found; instead, his gaze was steady, unguarded, almost heavy with everything he hadn’t said before. His thumb lingered along your jaw, tracing the faint line of your face as if he was trying to memorize you all over again.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, his voice low, rough with sincerity. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm as it fanned across your lips. “I know I’ve been an asshole… I know I hurt you when I pulled away. But that month without you?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. “It felt like I was cutting out my own heart. I can’t—” his voice broke for a second before he steadied it, “—I can’t do that again. Not with you.”

His hand slid down your arm until he laced his fingers with yours, lifting your hand between you. He kissed your knuckles slowly, one by one, like a vow. “If you let me, I’ll spend every day proving that I mean it. That you’re it for me.”

Your chest constricted, emotions tangling in your throat, and you couldn’t stop the shaky laugh that slipped past your lips. “You’re really sappy when you want to be, you know that?”

Suna smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed soft, unwavering. “Only with you, baby. Just with you.” He kissed the center of your palm, lingering, before meeting your gaze again. “So… yeah. I’m serious. Dead serious.”

Before you could reply, his mouth claimed yours, pulling you into a deep, consuming kiss. His tongue slid against yours, slow but hungry, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every apology, every promise into the way he kissed you. His hand slid up your spine, pressing you flush against him, and it was only then that you were reminded—he was still buried inside you.

Your body reacted on instinct, hips rolling forward until the thick drag of his cock inside you made your toes curl. You swallowed his groan in the kiss, grinding down again—slow, deliberate, your slick walls tightening around him as you rocked back and forth in his lap. Each shift made you gasp, clit brushing against the faint line of his pelvis, sending shivers through you.

Suna’s head fell back for a second, a hiss tearing from his throat as his hands clamped down hard on your waist. “Fuck… baby, don’t,” he rasped, though his cock twitched inside you, betraying just how much he wanted you to keep going.

But you couldn’t help yourself—you circled your hips, dragging his length through every inch of your soaked heat, the stretch making your mouth fall open. “Rin…” you whispered, voice breaking with need, “you still feel so good.”

His jaw tightened, eyes screwing shut as if your words were the final push to his breaking point. His hips bucked up into you once, sharp and uncontrolled, making you cry out. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re really fucking testing me,” he growled.

You smirked, drunk on the power of watching him fall apart, and rocked down harder, grinding yourself shamelessly against him. The wet slap of your bodies echoed in the quiet room, each movement threatening to unravel both of you completely.

And then, just when you thought he’d snap and flip you onto your back, Suna’s grip locked tight around your hips, halting your movements. His eyes snapped open, dark and burning, drilling into you. “Not here,” he said, voice low and rough, every word laced with restraint. “I’m not fucking you again in some stranger’s bedroom while there’s a goddamn party going on downstairs.”

You panted, lips parted to protest, but his mouth pressed to yours again, softer this time, cutting you off with a kiss that promised more. “We’re leaving,” he whispered against your lips. “I want you spread out in my bed. Where I can take my time. Where I don’t have to hold back.”

His thumb caressed your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “You’re not just another round to me, baby. Not anymore. You’re mine, and I’m doing this right.”

Before you could reply, Suna pulled you into another kiss—slow, possessive, his tongue stroking yours until you felt drunk on him. Then his hands tightened at your waist, lifting you gently up off of him.

You shuddered at the sudden absence, his cock sliding out of your swollen, overstimulated heat with a wet drag that left you gasping. A broken whimper escaped your throat at the emptiness, your thighs trembling as you tried to steady yourself. Warmth slipped out of you almost immediately, a sticky mix of his cum spilling down your inner thighs, and you flushed at the sensation, pressing them together instinctively.

Suna’s eyes dropped down, watching with a hungry, reverent intensity. His tongue darted across his lips, and his grip flexed on your hips like he was restraining himself from pulling you back down on him. “Fuck, baby… look at you,” he rasped, voice thick with pride and lust. “Dripping all over yourself ‘cause I filled you up. That’s my cum running down your legs. Mine.”

You bit your lip, shivering under his gaze, and he bent forward, kissing just above your navel before looking up again. His smirk softened into something more dangerous. “If we weren’t leaving, I’d clean it all up with my tongue right now… make you cum again on my mouth until you couldn’t breathe.”

Your body clenched around nothing, aching, and Suna chuckled low in his throat when he noticed. He stood, towering over you now, and tugged your face back into his. His lips brushed yours in a teasing whisper of a kiss, his voice curling dark and sweet against your mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, thumb brushing at your swollen lower lip. “You’ll get that—and more—the second we get back to mine. I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

He reached down, his fingers trailing between your thighs, scooping up the mess he’d left inside you, then deliberately smearing it against your folds, making you shudder. “Keep it there for me until we get home,” he ordered softly. “I want to fuck it back into you where it belongs.”

With that, he helped you off the bed, steadying your shaky legs as though you weighed nothing. His hand lingered at your waist, protective, while his eyes devoured every mark, every bruise, every faint love bite he’d left across your chest. His tattoos flexed with the movement of his muscles as he bent to grab your clothes, handing them over with an almost domestic ease, though his eyes still glinted dark with promise.

“Get dressed, baby,” he said, voice calm now, but edged with anticipation. “We’ve got a party to sneak out of—and a long fucking night ahead.”

His hands didn’t leave you as he guided you toward the pile of clothes scattered across the floor. Suna crouched lazily in front of you, tattooed shoulder flexing as he picked up your panties, dangling them from one finger with a smirk. “These are mine now,” he teased, but when you shot him a glare, he sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. You can wear them—for now.”

He slid them up your legs slowly, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of your thighs as if he had no intention of keeping his hands innocent. When the lace reached your hips, he paused, leaning forward without warning.

His mouth pressed against your still-swollen folds, hot tongue dragging over the mess he’d left inside you. The shock of it made your knees buckle, a breathless moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

“Rin!” you gasped, smacking the back of his head, heat rushing to your face.

He only chuckled, low and muffled, before pulling back, his lips glistening with you. “Couldn’t help it,” he said shamelessly, licking his mouth like he’d just tasted something addictive. “Too sweet to resist.”

“Asshole,” you muttered, but your thighs pressed together instinctively as he finally tugged the panties into place, his fingers giving one last teasing brush against your clit before he let go.

“Asshole who eats you like he’s starving,” Suna corrected smoothly, standing and kissing the side of your head. His hands were annoyingly gentle as he helped you with the rest of your clothes—slipping your crop top back over your head, smoothing the hem down your stomach, then grabbing your shorts. He crouched again, guiding each leg through and pulling them up with deliberate care, his fingers dragging along your thighs as he zipped and buttoned them for you.

When he was finished, he turned you to face him, tugging at the waistband of your shorts to make sure they sat right. His thumb brushed over the faint marks on your exposed collarbone with something close to pride. His smirk returned, crooked and lazy, but his eyes burned. “Perfect. No one at that party’s gonna have a clue… except me.”

And just like that, the two of you slipped out unnoticed. His hand laced with yours as he pulled you through the side gate, a half-cocked grin on his face like he was daring anyone to catch you. The muffled thump of music from the party faded as you walked, until it was just the cool night air and the hum of his motorcycle waiting under the streetlight.

The ride was a blur—wind tearing through your hair, the solid weight of Suna’s body in front of you as you clung to him, pressed tight against his back. You could feel the warmth radiating from him through his shirt, every curve of his muscles under your palms, every twist of his tattoo when he shifted to change gears.

By the time you pulled up in front of his apartment, your chest was tight with anticipation, pulse thundering with the leftover adrenaline of sneaking out and the raw hunger of what was waiting for you inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and before he could even turn the lock, you shoved him back against it. His eyes widened for a split second before amusement and desire lit them up, his smirk curving wickedly.

“Impatient much?” he teased, but his words broke off when your mouth crashed against his.

Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy—your crop top tugged up and tossed aside, his shirt yanked over his head to bare those tattoos you loved, your nails already tracing the snake curling across his rib as if you couldn’t get enough of it. His sweatpants and your shorts followed, pooling forgotten at your feet as your bodies pressed tighter, hotter, like the ride here had only wound the both of you tighter instead of calming you down.

You had him pinned, your palms flat against his chest, feeling the quick thrum of his heartbeat under your hands. His cock was already hard against your stomach, heavy and demanding, and you ground your hips against him deliberately, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, tilting his head back against the door as you kissed and bit down the column of his throat. “Didn’t think you’d be the one pinning me.”

“Shut up,” you muttered against his skin, teeth scraping before sucking hard enough to leave another mark on his collarbone. “I’ve been waiting all night.”

His laugh was low and rough, vibrating against your lips, but it melted into a guttural groan when your nails dug into his chest and you rolled your hips harder against him. That sound alone made your walls clench, your heat slick and aching around him.

Without breaking the kiss, Suna’s hands snaked under your thighs, gripping firmly. “Alright, baby… I’ve had enough teasing for tonight,” he murmured, voice rough with need. In one smooth motion, he hoisted you up, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you toward his bedroom.

You gasped at the sudden motion, breath hitching, thighs tightening around him. “Rin—wait—fuck!”

“Not waiting,” he growled, pressing you flush against him, his cock hard and demanding between your folds. His lips found yours again, tongue forcing entrance as he kissed you with a hunger that made your head spin. “I told you I’d make up for tonight. And I meant it.”

By the time he slammed the bedroom door shut behind him, your legs were still wrapped around him, and he was already thrusting upward, cock sliding deep into your soaked heat. The sudden angle made you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed you hard against the door, leaving no space between your bodies.

“God, baby… you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, hands gripping your ass, thumbs brushing over the crease of your thighs as he thrust again and again. Each time he slammed into you, your moans hitched higher, wet friction coating the door where your slick leaked between you.

Suna kept his promise, relentless and unyielding, taking you in every corner of his bedroom. He shifted you onto the bed, fucking you hard while you rode him, flipping you over to sink deep into your dripping heat from behind, pressing you into the mattress as he kissed the back of your neck. Every thrust, every groan, every whispered name only drew you closer together, until you both were gasping, trembling, completely spent yet desperate for more.

By the time dawn crept through the blinds, you were tangled together, bodies slick and sticky, hearts pounding in perfect sync. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you close, forehead resting against yours.

“I told you,” he murmured, voice soft now, warm with exhaustion and satisfaction. “You’re mine. Always.”

And as the first golden rays lit the room, you couldn’t help but agree—no one had ever felt so right, so complete, or so utterly, deliciously yours.

© 2025 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[whispers-of-starlight]

jump then fall

summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend. word count: 14.5k+ pairing: clark kent x fem!reader notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst

Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.

You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”

He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”

You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”

He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”

Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”

“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”

“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”

He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”

“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”

He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”

He winced. “When you say it like that—”

“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”

The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”

He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”

And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.

You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.

He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.

“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.

“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”

“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”

He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”

He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”

“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”

“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”

Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”

His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”

You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.

“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”

Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”

He frowned. “I don’t fold.”

“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”

He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”

“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”

Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”

“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”

His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”

“See? Believable and romantic.”

Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”

You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”

You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”

Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”

---

The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.

The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.

By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.

Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”

You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”

Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.

“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.

Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.

Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”

Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”

Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”

Oh God. Here it was—the test.

Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”

Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”

Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round

Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.

Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.

You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”

Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”

Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.

Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”

“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.

He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”

You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”

He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”

“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”

His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.

The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.

Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.

The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”

“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.

Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”

You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.

“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”

Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”

Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”

You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”

Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”

But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”

Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”

“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”

By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”

But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.

Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”

You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”

Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”

When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.

Like he really was happy you were there.

And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.

---

The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.

You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”

Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.

For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”

Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”

“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”

“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”

“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.

“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”

He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.

The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.

“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”

He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”

Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.

Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”

His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.

The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”

Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”

When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”

Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”

“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”

He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”

You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”

Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”

But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.

And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.

---

Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”

You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”

Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”

“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”

He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.

The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.

Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”

Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”

It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”

By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”

Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”

“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”

The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.

“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.

The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”

Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”

“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”

“I don’t,” he protested weakly.

“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”

Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”

“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.

Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.

When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”

“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”

He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.

By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.

After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.

It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.

You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”

A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”

Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”

Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”

You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”

Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.

As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”

“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”

Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”

You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.

At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”

Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”

The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”

You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”

Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.

He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.

By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”

Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”

You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.

---

The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.

Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.

You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.

The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”

The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”

You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.

Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.

The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”

Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.

“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.

You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”

The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.

The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.

You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”

“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.

Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.

But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.

“You’re doing fine.”

The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.

Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.

Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.

The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.

You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.

Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”

“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”

His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”

Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”

“She’s married,” Clark protested.

“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”

“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”

The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”

He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”

You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.

Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”

You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”

When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.

At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

---

The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”

Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”

“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”

You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”

After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.

The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.

“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”

Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”

You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”

He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”

“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”

Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”

“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”

Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”

You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”

“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”

Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”

“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.

“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”

You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”

Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”

He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”

He glanced back at you. “What?”

“It’s coming this way.”

“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”

The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”

“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”

“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”

By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.

The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”

Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”

His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”

That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”

Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”

He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.

The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.

Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”

Clark winced. “The cows.”

“The cows?”

“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.

You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”

Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”

“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”

“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.

Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”

You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.

Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”

He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”

“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”

“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.

“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”

---

Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.

Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”

And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.

Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”

“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”

He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”

“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”

“About all of it,” he said simply.

Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”

Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”

Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”

Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”

Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”

The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.

“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.

The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.

By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”

When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.

The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.

Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”

“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”

That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”

“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.

Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.

The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.

Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.

The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.

You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”

When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”

Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”

You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.

Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”

Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”

“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”

His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”

You blinked. “What?”

Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”

The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”

But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.

You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”

The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.

As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.

Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”

“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”

The women descended like hawks.

“Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?” “Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”

You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.

Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”

“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.

“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”

Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.

The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”

A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.

He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”

The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”

Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”

The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”

Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.

“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”

Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”

The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.

“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.

You swallowed hard. “So we…?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”

“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.

And then he kissed you.

It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.

Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.

Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.

The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”

You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”

But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.

It hadn’t felt fake at all.

---

The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.

You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”

His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”

You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”

For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”

“Right.”

You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.

Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.

And maybe… thrilling.

---

Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.

You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.

Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”

“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.

Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.

When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”

Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”

Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”

The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”

Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”

You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.

---

The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.

But you had.

You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.

You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.

Normal.

Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.

The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”

Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”

“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”

Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”

You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”

His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.

You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.

Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.

The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.

But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.

And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.

“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.

And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”

Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”

Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.

You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.

The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.

By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”

You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.

---

It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.

You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.

“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”

He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”

“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”

He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.

“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.

“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”

Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”

Your heart thudded. “Clark…”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”

Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.

“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”

His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”

And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.

This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.

“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”

You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”

And for once, neither of you pretended.

[whispers-of-starlight]

LIKE THE REAL THING

You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.

cw: 18+, smut, accidental 'nudes', colleague!reader, clark jerks off to your pictures, m!masturbation, soft dom!clark, rimming, f!receiving oral, clark uses his arctic breath on you, temperature play, p-in-v, overstimulation,clark's all freaked out in this fic, he eats you from the back, doggy, belly bulge, possessive!clark (4.4k wc)

You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when you realised something was terribly off.

Cat should've been blowing up your phone in all caps by now — a 'GODDAMN BABE YOU LOOK HOTTT', or at the very least, 'buy both, coward'. But your screen remained stubbornly silent. Save for one text you didn't get a good look at.

Weird.

You yanked the curtains open, lingerie draped over your forearms as you shuffled out of the fitting rooms. Swiping your lock screen to open the most recent message. Your thumb hovers over the opened chat and you choke on your breath. No. Oh no. No no no no.

It's staring right back at you. In unforgiving grey & white. Clark Kent. Packaged with two little blue check marks sitting all innocent underneath what you'd consider the most unsexy tit and rump pics of what you'd tried on earlier.

"H-Holy shit," you croak, all too dramatically slumping into the mannequin beside you. You tossed your phone into the clearance panties basket as if that would've reversed the crime scene.

Your heart's slamming out of your ribs when you shakily grab for your phone, hoping it was a hallucination that you hadn't sent racy pics to a man you'd barely been on two dates with. Mr Small-town-farm-boy. The same man who would pull away burned the second your tongue met his lips.

This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.

A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.

[6:05PM] You: Blue or purple?? You: [4 Attached Images] [6:18PM] Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂

You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?

You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.

"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.

"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"

"I messed up. Big time."

"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"

"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."

There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."

"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"

"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"

You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."

Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."

"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.

"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."

"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.

"That's how you're gonna get laid."

You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"

Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.

[6:38PM] You: You really think so? [6:38PM] Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft Clark Kent: perfect.

You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.

"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."

"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."

"Over-eager-slut."

You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.

Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.

It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?

You devastated him.

He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.

Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"

He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.

"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.

And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.

[7:10PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry. Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.

His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.

Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.

He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice was terse.

"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.

Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.

He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.

Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"

Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.

Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."

Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.

You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.

"You jerked off looking at me?"

There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.

You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.

He hung up.

He hung up in your face.

Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.

Your screen lights up with another text.

[7:15PM] Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it. Clark Kent: I violated your trust. Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me. [7:20PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry.

You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.

Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.

Bzzztt.

Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.

A message notification, from you.

He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.

But it wasn't.

[8:02PM] You: [1 Attached Video]

It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.

You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.

Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.

He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.

Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.

The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.

"I don't deserve you."

Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.

"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."

He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?

Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."

There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.

"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?

You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.

"I wish…you were here."

There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.

And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.

You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.

Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.

"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"

"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.

You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.

Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.

It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.

"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.

"…I did."

The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.

Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.

"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.

Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."

His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.

Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.

Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.

"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.

He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.

You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."

Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."

He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"

Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.

"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.

"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."

"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.

"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.

"Hurt me how? I want this."

Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.

"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.

"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.

"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.

"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."

Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.

He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.

You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."

Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.

Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.

You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.

He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.

Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.

He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.

It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.

He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.

"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."

Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.

"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.

He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.

It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.

"W-What the hell was that?"

Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.

You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."

His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.

"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.

He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.

Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.

He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."

You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."

Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.

You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.

"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."

The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.

Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.

He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"

You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.

But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.

"W…What?"

He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.

You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.

"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.

Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.

He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.

You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.

He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.

"We should've done this sooner."

[whispers-of-starlight]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[whispers-of-starlight]

Swear jars and tiny titans

Pairing: dad!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

A/n: Posting something extra this week!

Summary: When Kryptonian DNA and science collide, one thing becomes clear: parenting just got a lot more complicated.

Classification: Fluff

Word count: 3k

Divider by me ;)

The morning had been quiet in that deceptively sweet way only weekends could be. Sunlight warmed the hardwood floors of the apartment as your daughter sat plopped in the middle of her soft play mat, babbling to herself in between stuffing an unreasonably large plastic block into her mouth and furrowing her brows when it didn’t quite fit.

She was almost one, her soft curls still sparse and eyes bright and mischievous with fingers constantly grabbing, exploring and throwing. She wasn’t walking yet, not really talking either and while part of you sighed in relief that she hadn’t developed powers yet, you both knew that moment could come and likely would…eventually.

Clark was nearby, folding tiny shirts and onesies into neat piles on the couch with a domestic precision that somehow didn’t rob him of his ridiculous otherworldly charm and you were pacing slowly behind the coffee table, one eye on your child and the other glaring at the TV screen currently filled with faces you didn’t like at a panel of politicians and pundits. All shouting over each other while throwing around words like “meta-human danger”, “genetic unpredictability” and “public safety risks,” all while their faces remained calm and composed, pretending the entire conversation wasn’t built on paranoia and ignorance.

Your arms crossed, uncrossed and then waved in frustration. 

“They keep talking like it’s a disease,” you said, gesturing toward the screen like the people behind it could see you. “As if powers make someone dangerous by default and as if everything good Superman has done can just be…erased because one of them got scared of someone who can fly.”

Clark looked up from the laundry, his hands stilling on the tiny shirt he’d been folding, watching you with that almost-smile he got when you said something that hit him right in the chest. It wasn’t pride exactly, it was deeper than that, warmer…like the look of a man silently confirming to himself, ‘Yeah… I married the right person.’

“And you know what pisses me off?” you continued, louder now, voice shaking just slightly, not from fear but from frustration that had been slowly curdling in your chest for weeks. “They never talk about the people who get saved, or how the government fails its citizens until someone like you has to step in. They only talk about the ‘threat,’ never the source of the danger. It’s not the powers, it’s the people in power who are the problem. Jeez, it’s like we’ve been through this a hundred times and they’re still…still–”

Your hands flew out in an exasperated motion, fingers splayed and trembling slightly as you gestured at the screen, your heart hammering in your chest so loudly that Clark drowned in the sound, a rapid, insistent drum that made him instinctively want to step closer and tell you to take a breath but before he could say a word, a soft clatter that hadn’t come from your mouthy toddler echoed through the room and objects began to lift, hovering in the air.

He turned slowly, now with the soft fabric of a tiny sock half-folded in his hands. His eyes darted toward the block that had been in your daughter’s grip just moments ago…suspended now, mid-air with no visible support, rotating slowly. But then it wasn’t just the block, no, now it was the stack of clean laundry still unfolded that slowly rose beside him, a few pens on the nearby side table and even the edge of the area rug drifting upward like caught in a soft breeze that didn’t exist.

You kept talking, not even noticing, so caught in your own momentum that you didn’t realize the world around you was bending. “I swear, if one more senator uses the word ‘mutation’ like it’s a death sentence, I will–”

Clark stood up cautiously, like one wrong move might scare the whole scene away or make it worse, his eyes flicking from your daughter to the floating toys and laundry, then back again.

He approached the nearest object, a stuffed giraffe lazily bobbing in the air and poked it with one careful finger. It drifted in a slow circle before sinking and plopping to the floor beside her.

With a furrowed brow, he bent to pick it up, then tossed it gently upward, almost like a basketball free throw. It sailed… and promptly dropped right back down at his feet. Now he was frowning in full, grabbing a block next and trying again before facing the same result.

“Sweatheart…we have a situation,” he said softly, but you didn’t hear him yet.

“It won’t be anything illegal, I assure you. I know I'm not above the law, I’m usually quite literally under it–”

“Sweatheart?”

“Yes, baby?” you answered first without looking but then when you finally turned, you followed his gaze to the toys, the laundry, the everything hanging motionless in the air. Your gaze settled on the block, now spinning lazily midair in defiance of gravity and just bellow it, your daughter was sitting calmly, watching with her mouth still open around the corner of another toy.

Your heart stopped.

“Is that her?” you asked, a little too loudly, looking down at your child like she'd just grown wings.

Clark was already crouched next to her, brows knit as he studied her expression. She blinked up at both of you, curious and maybe a little confused, but completely still. Not even reaching for the toy she'd just lost.

That’s when you finally lowered your arms, your hands falling to your sides with the heavy weight of disbelief…and just like that, everything dropped.

The toy clattered back onto the play mat, rolling until it bumped against your daughter’s foot. Socks fluttered down to the couch and the pens clicked against the coffee table before rolling out of sight. Then, almost comically, a tiny lavender onesie drifted in the air for a beat longer than everything else before plopping right onto Clark’s head like it had chosen him on purpose.

There was a beat of stunned silence until your daughter’s whole face lit up and she let out a full, bubbling belly giggle, the kind that came from deep in her tiny chest and made her wobble over on her hands. She smacked the play mat with both palms like she’d just witnessed the greatest slapstick comedy of her short life, her little squeals filling the room.

Clark froze, the soft fabric obscuring his eyes and you stared at him trying hard not to smile at the ridiculous picture he made with baby laundry on his head, your heart still thudding from the realization of what just happened.

“Holy shit,” you blurted without thinking, the word slicing through the moment like a stone in a still pond and that’s when your daughter, still watching the both of you with open amusement, kicked her little feet, clapped her hands like she’d just been given the best show of her life and repeated, clear as day, in a proud little voice:

“Sheeh!”

Clark slowly stood to his full height then reached up, grabbed the shoulder of the onesie and peeled it off his face. He looked at you with a raised brow, his mouth twitching between a smirk and a lecture before pressing into a thin line and then, without saying a word, he pointed toward the swear jar sitting on the kitchen counter.

You groaned, already leaning over to snag his wallet from where it sat on the arm of the couch and flipping it open like this was the most normal thing in the world. Clark didn’t even blink, just stood there pointing and holding the onesie in one hand while you thumbed through his cash, plucked out a bill and crossed the room to shove it into the swear jar with practiced ease.

“Happy?” You asked.

He didn’t have to say a word; his expectant silence was enough to make you roll your eyes and fish out a second bill, also from his wallet, for the baby. She let out another delighted squeal at the sight of the green paper disappearing into the jar, as if she somehow knew she was part of the joke.

Clark’s arms dropped to his sides, shoulders slack, making you want to bite back the laugh threatening to bubble up but letting it slip only as a quick, quiet chuckle that you immediately smothered behind your hand before straightening your posture and trying to look like the composed parent in the room.

“She said her first real word!” you defended softly, marveling that it wasn’t just another “mama” or “dada.”

“Which was profanity,” he replied flatly, the faintest twitch of his brow betraying that he was not amused, at least not yet.

“She’s a genius then, wise beyond her years.” You turned to him, arms crossed like you were ready to die on this hill. “This feels like a parenting win to me.”

He just shook his head, letting a slow grin spread across his face, the warmth behind it melting away the last frayed edges of your nerves. “We’re gonna need a bigger jar,” he said, voice soft but amused, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint.

Then he scooped your daughter into his arms, still giggling and kicking like she hadn’t just mimicked your cursing and possibly witnessed the laws of physics bend around her parents.

“When I said we needed to start saving for college,” he murmured to her, still grinning, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You stayed rooted near the kitchen, heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm with your hands pressed to your hips like they might hold you together. “So…are we sure that wasn’t her?” you murmured, almost hoping he’d say yes just so the world would feel normal again.

Clark glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in that really? way. “Unless she’s secretly channeling your stress hormones like a tiny Kryptonian lightning rod, no.”

You blinked, trying to find humor in the sudden swirl of confusion, awe and cosmic implications.  “Cool, cool, cool…” you murmured finally, the words tasting odd in your mouth, like trying to talk with a mouthful of marshmallows. “You could also lie to me… it’s fine, you know?”

Clark didn’t reply at first, just crossed the room in that unhurried, steady way of his, to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before plucking the car keys from the counter. With a slight tilt of his head toward the front door, he shifted your daughter in his arms, bouncing her gently as she blew spit bubbles, blissfully oblivious to the fact her parents were quietly recalibrating their entire understanding of reality.

“Where are we going?” you asked cautiously, your voice somewhere between curiosity and wariness.

“To see Uncle Terrific,” he said with a small grin, brushing a thumb over your daughter’s tiny fist before tickling her belly. She squealed and kicked her legs, giggling like nothing in the world had changed because, for her, it hadn’t. “And maybe run a few tests.”

You nodded slowly, letting the words settle. “So… just a normal Tuesday, then.”

“Just a normal Tuesday, my love,” he assured, voice warm and certain in that way that always made you believe him, even when the air still felt charged from whatever had just happened. “Everything will be okay.”

The lab was all smooth chrome, glowing screens and quiet humming tech, the kind of place where even a sneeze felt like it might cost thousands.

You sat on the edge of the exam bed, legs swinging while watching your daughter sit contentedly in the middle of the lab floor, chubby legs splayed and tiny hands busy in her own little world. One of Mr. Terrific’s T-spheres hovered nearby, its soft LEDs blinking like a tiny planet within reach. She leaned forward in that wobbly toddler way, tongue poking out in concentration and let out a delighted babble as if sheer will alone could draw it closer. The sphere drifted an inch too near and she clapped, ecstatic, fingers stretching with fearless curiosity that you recognized as equal parts of both of you.

“She’s going to find a way to get drool on that thing,” you warned without moving, half a laugh stuck in your throat because nothing about the day had been normal.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Terrific said without looking up from his console, voice dry. “They’re durable. Also waterproof.”

“She’s teething, so it’ll be a lot more than you think.” Clark added from beside you with one hand sliding across the small of your back and up between your shoulder blades in a slow, steady stroke designed to ease the jitter in your ribs without breaking whatever tiny spell of composure you were clinging to.

“I’m the one who spends hours cleaning them after your visits, Clark, it’s always bad,” Mr. Terrific grumbled but even his complaint had softened at the edges as your daughter squealed and reached again.

You smiled faintly, the nervous flutter still lodged somewhere in your chest. You wanted answers, wanted clarity but weren’t entirely sure you were ready for the implications. “Will this take long?” you asked, voice small over the gentle hum of the lab and the hovering T-spheres your daughter was mesmerized by.

“I hope not,” Mr. Terrific replied dryly, not even glancing up from his console. “I’ve got work to do, and I don’t exactly make house calls.”

He then leaned back, folding his hands together and launched into an explanation that sounded like a lecture from a university you’d never attended. “Given the inheritance of kryptonian genome vectors interlaced with retained paternal DNA post-partum within your own cellular structure, it is plausible that latent metahuman potential was both preserved and modulated in your genome, resulting in a phenotypic expression triggered by acute emotional stimuli.”

You and Clark exchanged a look, Clark raising an eyebrow as if to say here we go and you cleared your throat. 

“And for people with an average IQ?” you asked, half-smiling.

Mr. Terrific leaned forward, tapping a pen against the console. “In more accessible terms, what we’re seeing is a form of microchimerism. Cells from one individual persisting in another long after birth. In your case, paternal cells remained within your system and under the right stress or stimuli, they manifested in ways that produced metahuman abilities. Essentially, the leftover DNA from Clark acted like a latent switch, waiting for the right signal to activate. Smaller activations may have happened before but they were beneath the threshold of detectability.”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse still trying to catch a normal rhythm and Clark gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “So… I’m basically a Kryptonian-powered mutant now,” you murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Exactly,” Mr. Terrific said, tilting his head with a small nod. “Welcome to the club.”

Clark’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you, concern mixed with curiosity. “You said mutation… so it’s not going away?”

Mr. Terrific shook his head slowly, folding his hands over his lap. “No, not at all. In fact, it’s likely to continue evolving over time, adapting in response to both internal and external stimuli. Think of it as a dynamic trait rather than a static one.”

You felt a shiver of awe and a hint of nervousness at the idea and Clark’s hand found yours, giving it a gentle squeeze as if silently promising, we’ll handle this together.

That’s when it happened.

The T-sphere hovered a little higher, drifting just out of your daughter’s reach yet she didn’t seem to notice. Her tiny hands reached up again and suddenly she wasn’t on the floor anymore.

She was floating a few feet above the ground, her hair lifted gently as if underwater and her round cheeks flushed with delight. She giggled, kicking her legs while lazily spinning in a slow, carefree circle.

Clark straightened instantly, eyes wide, while you stayed frozen on the edge of the exam bed.

All three of you just stared at her and then at each other. Clark and Mr. Terrific’s gazes found you at the same time, their expressions a mix of disbelief and that slight “what did you do?” tension.

“That’s not me,” you said quickly, raising both hands in surrender before rapidly lowering them just in case.

Your daughter clapped her hands and that tiny movement made her twirl a little more, laughing fully with pure joy.

Clark reached up carefully, catching her midair and lowering her gently into his arms, his smile breaking into a wide grin. “Look at ‘er, flying already,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Who’s daddy’s best girl?”

The baby responded with a full, belly-deep giggle, her tiny hands waving excitedly in the air as if she knew exactly what she had just accomplished. You shook your head, half-laughing, half-panicked and jabbed Clark lightly in the ribs. “Wipe that grin off your face, mister. We are so in over our heads.”

He just chuckled, bouncing her lightly. “And I'm loving every second of it.”

You turned to Mr. Terrific, arms crossed and voice steady despite the adrenaline still humming through you. “Whatever you had planned today? Cancel it. We need to figure out how to baby-proof the sky.”

Clark added with a smirk, still holding your daughter, “And of course, baby-proof the apartment again for our newly powered toddler.”

Mr. Terrific groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face before nodding, clearly conceding to the chaos. He started pulling a tablet from his workbench then. “Fine, fine… now that this happened, as a late push present, here are the initial designs for your daughter’s super suit–”

Both you and Clark yelled in unison, “Nope!”

Instinctively, you raised your hand and a faint, shimmering aura radiated from your tingling fingertips, bending the light around it ever so slightly. The tablet lifted gracefully, hovering toward you as if drawn by invisible threads, until it settled securely in your grasp, a visible confirmation that your powers were evolving exactly as Mr. Terrific had predicted.

“Not even as a Halloween costume?” Mr. Terrific asked, amusement sparkling in his eyes, clearly enjoying the display.

“Too soon,” you said firmly, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “Now let’s get to work before I start to panic.”

Clark let out a soft laugh, resting a hand on your back as he watched you and in that moment, it hit him: you were very much in over your heads.

A/n: Telekinesis inspired by a conversation with @fire-joestar :) thanks for sparking the idea!

[whispers-of-starlight]

when we weren’t looking

pairings: poly!superbat x fem!reader, superman x reader, batman x reader, superman x batman, parental!reader x batkids, parental!reader x superkids

summary: You were there from the beginning - a Justice League founder, a guardian to Bruce’s and Clark’s children, and the glue holding two chaotic families together. Love grew slowly, quietly, in lingering touches and missed chances, until it was buried beneath years of duty and heartbreak. Now, when the kids are grown and your heart dares to look forward again, Bruce and Clark must face the truth they’ve both been avoiding: they’ve loved you all along. Will you let them, or has it been too long to let two of the world’s finest heroes into your heart?

wc: 6.1k

content: justice league founder!reader, magical!reader, parenting, jason todd death mention, grieving, lois lane dies, angst, misunderstanding, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, good intentions, accidental child acquisition, parental!reader, inaccurate timelines, unreliable narrator, tags to be added

a/n: guess what! it's a part one, for now, because i apparently don't know how to keep an idea short and sweet. what the actual hell, this wasn't supposed to turn out like this. when will it come out? hmm, i don't know, but i am writing it currently! okay, i hope you guys enjoy! like, reblog, comment and follow for more like this!

check out my masterlist!

part two . part three

You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”

[whispers-of-starlight]

PURE HONEY

pairing - bruce wayne x fem!reader x clark kent word count - 4.2K summary - on an intergalactic mission, your partners are poisoned by a peculiar substance - sex pollen. they come crashing down into the night, chasing the only antidote they can find: you warnings - 18+, sex pollen, established relationship, pwp, nasty smut, begging (and it's not from you) oral sex (fem! and male!receiving), handjob, unprotected penetrative sex, hair pulling, dirty talk, eye contact, everyone basically switches lol , two sufferers of huge dick syndrome, as yonce said "we be all night!" can be read as a pt.2 to possessive or as a standalone divider by @cafekitsune

the grandfather clock struck 12am in the wayne manor, chiming at the axis of the estate, signifying the early beginnings of a new day.

the building, which usually was hauntingly quiet, felt even more muted to you as you attempted to shrug off your nightgown; it was one of your anniversary gifts from bruce, one of hundreds, expensive and snug, to him it was perfect. clark loved it even more so as the colour illuminated your skin in the night, and its shadow sculpted your figure in a way that made him drool in his sleep.

by the grace of whoever controlled the universe, gotham was going through a heatwave. which was weird. the usual gloomy, wet and dark gotham was sticky with heat and had left the manor unremarkably tepid.

tepid enough for you to have spent the week planting fresh flowers, baking plenty batches of banana bred and sunbathing in the garden. it had been the most peaceful week you had in a long time, allowing relaxation to seep into your bones after months of hard work.

but tonight, conveniently, your lovers were not here.

it had still vexed you that the justice league whisked them away from you for a top secret mission off world.

the memory of hal jordan and barry allen wolf-whistling outside of your shared bedroom when the team had arrived was fresh, you could envision the sharp eyebrows clark and bruce raised in tandem as your sacred time had been made privy and discussed by the super heroes.

you were certain barry and hal would be stuck in the back seat of the space ship, if bruce had his way. he always did.

not many had known, but you and clark were able to bring a playful side to bruce that none had seen before. where he was stoic and cold with others, he always gave the two of you a small smile when you both made witty comments. he was soft and caring, always the one to check up carefully on clark after a brutal fight or even making sure you had your favourite herbal tea in stock. bruce was considerate, a great way to balance clark's brightness; the smallville boy who demanded his 9 kisses from the two of you at night and picked fresh roses straight from the plant as a gift.

the three of you acted as a trinity, always supporting each other and always loving one another.

they had both left lingering kisses on your lips after their mission debrief, leaving a zest of unspoken feelings in the air. you knew something was different about this mission but thought little of it upon their departure.

and so at times like these, when you were left alone to your thoughts, you missed them terribly, the silence driving you mad.

even alfred's absence was felt, you had given the butler the weekend off amidst the chaos of the looming heatwave; he left your favourite dinner in the refrigerator and muttered something about 'gotham weather being subpar to the english countryside.' typical.

with a sharp exhale you made the move back to your room, growing tired of your own wandering when a load crash was heard within the building. it echoed eerily and left a trail of goosebumps in your wake - it seemed to be coming from the cave.

the noise was enough to make you shiver in the heat whilst you slowly crept towards the noise. the hairs on your back rose with bubbling fear at the thought of an intruder.

you grabbed a sabre from the decorated wall and walked slowly towards the cave entrance, you knew if worse came to worse you could hold your own - clark and bruce had trained you for moments like these in the most extreme cases.

creeping further down into the catacombs, the commotion grew in volume, you heard muffled noises and...whimpering?

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, thinking some bats had become injured in a rabid manner.

the batcave was in full view, a crater lay depressed in the floor and concrete was scattered far and wide.

you took in a deeper breath and stalked closer to the centre, raising the sword above your head and preparing for a sharp, clean swing.

with a sharp scream, you made the sabre oscillate down into the direction of the assailant, until all of a sudden a large hand gripped yours tightly, holding you in place.

"-hey! hey, stop, what are you doing? it's me!" clark whizzed into your view, gesturing you to put down the sword.

you froze in shock , not expecting one of your lovers to be making such a mess in the cave - plus, didn't alfred say they wouldn't be home for a few more days?

shaking your head you ran into his chest and squeezed him tightly, "you're here? i've missed you, i thought you were never going to come home!" he picked you up with one hand and tugged you deeper in an embrace. his hands felt dangerously possessive as they wandered to your lower back.

"we'd never leave you, sugar" with that your body stilled, clark never called you sugar - it was always baby, darling, honey, or something incredulously old fashioned and midwestern. that was clark after all.

pulling back in apprehension, you took a real look at clark. he was still in his suit and covered in the remnants of debris, but it was his physical appearance that really floored you.

clark was slightly panting, his skin was flushed to a pretty pink and a light sheen covered his brow with moisture. his lips looked an angry red, like as if he had been angrily kissi-

he placed you firm onto your feet when immediately your back clashed into something hard and thick, clark spun you round and you into contact with the dark knight.

he hovered over you like a corrupt figure, whispering noises that sounded like a corrupt prayer, his hands journeyed over to your face, his thumb finding your lip and tracing it. he was shaken. something was wrong. his cowl was gone and his face was bare in front of you, his pupils were dilated and blown out of proportion. he looked like he had been enchanted by a spell which he didn't know if he could wake up from.

bruce was quiet, there were light bruises on his face down to his neck, his suit hanging off of him as if he tried to rip it of; it felt like his presence was scattered across the hollow in mania, his atoms colliding and tearing apart at each millisecond. he mirrored clark in such a way that you almost missed it. their bodies swayed in the same fervid chorus, bruce's snarl matching clark's pout - but something was wrong.

his eyes carried the same look he held just before he'd take you and clark to bed and rock your world. wetness began to seep into you panties but you grit your teeth and pushed it aside.

"is he okay? clark, what happened? bruce is everything alright," you voice began to raise in worry until clark shushed your increasing worries, pressing his head into your neck - wait was he sniffing you?

"just some minor mishaps that a little water can't fix, right brucie," you noticed clark's words were slurring slightly, yet he was agile on his feet and not weary. you narrowed you eyes at him, ticking a box of your mental checklist: not kryptonite, but what else?

bruce whimpered again, tucking his head into your shoulder for comfort and his knees began to buckle. "we missed you." he had said it so quietly that you would have missed it, had it not been for clark wrapping his hands back on your waist.

bruce looked at you as if you were one of his cases that he needed to strip down piece by piece and penetrate with his mind and touch.

"clark," you puffed out to the kryptonian, "help me carry him to our room,"

misreading your demand, he rather enthusiastically picked the both of you up and flew up to the room.

in a flash, bruce's bedroom came into view, you noticed that the billionaire's whines were growing loader by the minute, so you placed him on the plush sofa, hoping it would offer some solace to the hero.

his breaths became even more choked out as you neared to peel his suit off, "shhhh, i'm here bruce, it's okay." both you and clark fought to strip away the armour, he mirrored clark's look: hair all tussled, cheeks flushed, and his lips? bursting in anger as it looked like he had been biting down on the skin in pain.

but his body. holy fuck.

you had always thought yourself lucky that you had been gifted, not one adonis, but two. where clark was soft, clean-shaven and polished to perfection, pecs beating to the rhythm of a drum, bruce was rugged in his masculinity, slightly hairy and covered in scars, which you spent countless nights kissing one by one.

bruce's erection poked out from his boxers, angry and unattended for, as it pulsed with rage in front of your eyes. bruce was begging to be claimed. and it was killing you

he mumbled words, moaning again in pain - you couldn't quite make it out - but what was clearly identifiable to was the large tent in bruce's pants that pulsed with heat.

with a gasp, you looked back up at him and immediately clark pressed his front into your back, his hard on pressing firmly into you, "the pollen's done a wonder on you, hasn't it brucie?," clark giggled as if he was on a substance and your head whipped to question him.

"pollen? what pollen?"

"the sex pollen!" he said so matter-of-factly, smirking as if you were on the outside of the world's greatest inside joke.

bruce shifted next to you, placing a heavy hand to the side of your cheek, managing to string out a sentence, "i-it was some sort of..." he took a deep breath, unbeknownst to you that he was inhaling your scent, attempting to make the fragrance bind to his bloodstream and overtake his senses, "...aphrodisiac. from a world cra-crawling with biohazardous plants."

clark cut in, placing his strong hands to your hips as if you were an anchor, "brucie and i volunteered to go down, then we were exposed, diana and j'onn were not happy, then brucie started to get feverish as we planned an emergency return back to earth-"

bruce's moans interrupted clark's ramblings, it was clear he was significantly more affected than the kryptonian, "is there any cure, i mean, is there anything we can do to help hi-"

clark rutted his hard-on into your core, making you let out an unanticipated moan which reverberated within the room, what stunned you was that clark moved one of his hands under your chin to look at bruce state. you noticed he had made work to remove his suit from his body and stood naked.

with the other, he picked your right hand up and used it to palm bruce's cock under the dense material of the boxers. nice and slow, tantalising, just the way he liked it.

it brought him a little relief, he collapsed further into your touch.

despite being so concerned for his health, you were a little turned on. heat began growing between your legs, you tried closing them but clark's large thighs prevented you from doing so, he parted them back open.

"isn't it clear?" clark kissed down your neck in such a sedated way, it felt like time itself was decelerating to clark's command, "the antidote is you, sugar." he began to nibble down on your earlobe as bruce's attention now perused your neck, all the way down your robe covered breasts.

he mumbled a pained "please," wanting a release that only his lovers could give him, "please."

"tell us if it's okay, please baby," you could feel his precum through his suit, the moisture making the room's temperature sizzle at an insane high.

you continued palming bruce and spun round to gaze at clark, "i want to help, let me help?" you offered above his lips and with that, clark's resolve had left and his lips grasped onto yours, tugging you forward and caressing your lower lip. you couldn't help but slide your tongue across his as lust had taken over your mind, it was if you welcomed the pollen into your circulation - placing all three of you at such a state of inebriation that you would need days to recover. clark bit your lip, making you gasp as his tongue slid further in your mouth to explore all the possibilities that this night could lead you. you began to notice the hint of mint and a woody tang that lingered on his lips, realising bruce and clark had spent their time travelling back to earth trying to alleviate the other's pain.

you pulled away from clark in surprise and turned back to give your attention to bruce; he was fully writhing on the couch and you cooed at him, "you're doing so good for us, aren't you brucie?" you pulled out his hard cock and began to nuzzle at the base. you knew bruce. the pollen was steadily tearing at his rationality. ye he was strong but you wanted him to lose all restraint.

clark began to kiss bruce silly, quieting his cries as you began to lick up the base of his cock, making sure hum over the underside vein that always made him short circuit; he shuddered and clark palmed your tit beside you as a gesture of consideration, when suddenly, you had an idea.

you pulled clark off of bruce and pushed them both into the cushions, despite their protests,

"baby what are you doing-"

"is everything okay-"

their breathless concerns fell on deaf ears when you began to stroke both of their cocks, at a pace that would have two respective gods fall at your knees.

your left hand caressed clark, in gentle strokes as you bowed to take bruce into your mouth, slobbering all over his cock and bobbing up and down at a steady pace. you traced your thumb over clark's sticky slit, whilst your throat touched bruce's base, small hairs brushing against your nose.

the pornographic moans that could be heard at the moment from the world's finest could be enough to send the world into paralysis: they were entirely at your mercy.

"you spent hours fucking each other on that ship huh? you removed yourself from bruce as your hands worked the two of them up, your tone teasing them to the edge, "clark fucked you silly, didn't he brucie?"

bruce tipped his head back onto the sofa, chasing what seemed like the fiftieth high today as clark nodded beside him, "went down on him three times; fucked him twice - still wasn't enough,' his voice faltered as you began to suckle him now, he was girthier than bruce (where he was long), yet you still refused to back down from the challenge.

"wanted-," bruce's voice was high-pitched, he was begging, "wanted you."

"hmm that's right," you could feel both of their build up with each passing minute as you stroked them harder, mouth alternating between the two.

they were so close to release, you could feel it, when-

they ripped themselves away from you, their cocks slapped their stomachs, still standing proud and irritated as they stood and moved towards you.

you feel the power balance in the bedroom tilt on it axis when bruce growled at you, snatching you up in his arms and throwing your ass over his shoulder, he gave you a hard spank on your rear, making you squeal in shock. clark flew closely behind, giving you a light kiss and taste of what was to come.

bruce flung you onto his bespoke desk, the one he worked on during the late hours of the night, shoving all his files, papers and collectibles to the floor in an indecent manner.

he dragged you down the edge by your ankles as you gazed up at the two of them and in a hurry they were both on you.

two pairs of hands cascaded all the way from your breasts, pinching and pulling your nipples at a pace that made you sigh hedonistically, squeezing your tits tightly in between your necklace, letting the symbol decorate your body sinfully. your expensive robe was now ripped to pieces - thanks to clark, "brucie'll buy you five more, baby."

clark gripped bruce's chin aggressively and turned the gothamite to make eye contact with him, "you're gonna take everything you need, okay brucie?" he shoved the gothamite to his knees, in front of your clothed pussy, bruce used his teeth to drag them down the apex of your thigh.

he pulled your legs apart as clark moved to place his cock between your mouth, beckoning for you to open your lips and take him in full, which you gladly did. he was so heavy and salty on your tongue it had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. bruce began attacking your clit, "let me drink," he murmured as his tongue flattened and licked long stripes on your pussy, making juices flow down into his mouth like an elixir. he pressed your thighs deep into the wood, cracks began to seep into the desk, etching the experience into time that no doubt bruce would have them permanently commissioned into his daily work life.

"good boy, brucie," clark began to grab your hair and pushed his cock deeper into your throat, careful not to hurt you, but enough to make his pleasure take control, "take everything you need."

bruce shoved two of his thick fingers into your opening, scissoring them in a motion that had a white heat building up in your lower pit; you sucked clark harder now, your hands fondling his balls in an effort to make him cum.

"just like that, don't sto- ohhh" clark's cum began to fill your mouth, you swallowed it all, refusing to break eye contact with the kryptonian, you coaxed his balls to give you everything he had. despite everything he was still painfully hard, however bruce's actions took over your interest as his tongue continued to bully your clit and fingers massaging that special spot. tears began to feel your eyes as the heat only grew larger, "fuck brucie feel so good!"

you cried out in ecstasy as fluids gushed out from you and all over the desk, bruce was desperately lapping up everything you had to give, his hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth covered in your sex, his eyes begging for more.

"such a good boy for us, brucie," you whispered out in encouragement as clark snatched your body up from bruce's grip flying you over to the window, your tits pressed to the screen; it left a cooling sensation to your body, your arched your back into clark as he grabbed his cock, rubbing it over your clit in such a delicious way.

he pressed his cock in to you and both of your cries only spurred bruce on from the corner, he was sat in his chair, studying the two of you, jerking off to the sounds of the wetness that decorated the domain.

"look at him, baby," clark positioned him deeper into you, enough to make you squeeze on his cock tightly, "he's so gone for you, your sight makes him feel so good," your head lolled to the side as bruce image was striking enough to make your eyes close and mewls grow in capacity, you could all but feel every single thick ridge, pulsing vein, and prodding mushroom tip from clark and it was already bringing you to another orgasm.

"you're so good for us, sweetheart, thank you, thank you thank you-" clark was losing his sanity at how your wetness was dripping down to the floor.

your second of the orgasm of the night came in a blaze, illuminating the both of you as clark pressed you harder into the window, grabbing at your ass, fucking you harder as his wanton moans matched the frequency of bruce's.

his come filled you just as fiercely, filling every crevice inside of you, "we're not done with you," he growled.

he grabbed you by the legs and carried you bridal style to the bed, placing you on all fours. bruce was no beneath you, his eyes now black, his mushroom tip swollen and his abs contracting in pain.

you glanced down and climbed on top of him, placing your hands flat on his chest, "gonna take care of you both, don't worry," bruce pulled you down by your necklace in a feverish kiss, marking you with his tongue, his hands squeezed your tits, making you all slick.

clark pulled you back on to him, hand brushing your neck as he kissed gently across your shoulder, bruce groaned from beneath you, grabbing his cock and filling you in an instant, "you're gonna me the both of us feel good, understand?" this was the most possessive, the most hungry he had seemed all night - the pollen's control over his senses was its zenith.

you sank down on his cock, welcoming the stretch, glad clark had already accommodated you earlier, it had been so long since they had fucked you.

you tried to close your eyes to bask in the moment but clark immediately pushed into you, you could feel them both all the way in your throat, "open your eyes," bruce demanded coldly, he and clark fucked you at such a wicked tempo that they were able to slide themselves off each other, taking turns to bully you into submission.

you normally didn't shrink under his gaze but now it made you feel on display, your whole soul being exhibited under the watch of your lovers, who fucked you deeper into the mattress, "you doing so good for us baby," clark kissed you, his tongue sliding messily across your lips, teeth crashing messily as bruce's fingers slipped down to your clit, setting off another edge you weren't sure you'd come back from.

"make me come, ah, you want to feel pleasure?" you questioned, demanded, as their hands controlled your hips, thrusting deeper into your cervix, "make me fucking come!"

you whined at a high pitch as clark faltered first, his seed spilling into you in hot spurts; that set off bruce's orgasm as he followed soon after, filling your pussy with his sex.

you collapsed onto the dark knight as they both slipped out of you, their cum coating your clit and dripping down your thighs, you were spent.

your body shifted as bruce stood to join clark at your back, instantaneously you felt a set of mouths stroking your clit, tears fell from your eyes, "this isn't finished" bruce voice was hoarse but still challenging.

it was going to be a long night.

***

it had been hours, the dawn beginning to break through the gotham skyline, bruce's bedroom lay wrecked.

sheets were ripped, the frames on his bed lay splintered, the smell of sex lingered in the air.

but he didn't care, the pollen was out of his system, he had spent the most euphoric moments with his lovers - he had everything he wanted.

you were now taking a bath in his en suite, you had done so much for them and would need all the energy you could get. clark sat behind you, using his laser eyes to light a choir of candles across the room, telling you humorous stories about their time away in space. you gently giggled as your hands were wrapped in his.

bruce, now cleaned up and clad in silk boxers, placed two chaste kisses on the both of your lips, always a man of very few words. he silently exited the room to make his way to the kitchen and bring back some supplies.

he moved to open the door and was met with the sight of alfred.

shit.

he opened his mouth and closed it again. it was like as if his father had caught him in the very act of sex.

alfred silently handed him a tray: berries lay in a china bowl, with french toast on a large plate and some herbal tea within a porcelain pot.

"for the master and miss," he stepped back and spun on his heel, though he paused for a fraction of a second, "though may i remind you, master bruce, not to mix business and pleasure. i have had to receive a rather cumbersome telegram from lady diana, during my sabbatical."

alfred gently tutted and moved down the hallway, out of sight.

bruce could do nothing but close his eyes, take a deep breath, and step backward towards the room.

what a night indeed.

[whispers-of-starlight]

Work Wife

(Justice League x Reader) When everyone wants you as their work wife.

“I cover all your monitor duty shifts, how am I not your work husband?” Hal demands, slamming his hands against the table.

“I always bring you snacks,” Barry leans in, blue eyes shining earnestly, as if trying to ensnare your heart.

Hal calls out your name, annoyed, “Come on, tell them you’re my work wife, I literally tripped a reporter for you.”

“That was me,” Clark pipes up, crossing his arms before softening his gaze when it meets yours, “Didn’t you say I was your work husband?”

Diana scoffs, “I always take care of her, clearly she is my work wife, there is barely a time where I don’t have her in my arms when we need to fly.”

“That’s because you always scoop her up, I bet she wishes she was in one of my constructs instead, definitely a less rocky flight—!”

“How dare you—“

“I left some cheesecake for you in the fridge—“

“You can’t bribe her with food, Barry!”

Watching your teammates bicker, you only bring your hands to your face, biting back a grin, “Oh my god, guys, stop! You don’t need to fight over me!”

Maybe you should feel a bit more shameful seeing your colleagues realize you committed yourself to more than one of them (Barry having mentioned it to Hal, leading to the argument in front of you), but this was doing wonders for your ego.

“Smile anymore and your face will crack open,” the Bat remarks from next to you.

You scoff, “You’re no fun…not going to throw your hat into the ring?”

“The whole concept of a ‘work wife’ is idiotic,” he replies, causing you to roll your eyes at his predictability.

But then he turns to look at you, stare apparent even from beneath his cowl, “Besides, I’m more concerned about who takes up the role as your actual husband.”

“That—!” Your brain short circuits for a moment before you glare at him, noticing the smug smirk on his face, “You really do play dirty, bats.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

“…only because you’re paying.”

Yeah, I got this from bistro huddy…

Deleted scene where Dinah pulls up to make you sit on her lap as Oliver watches on in dismay

Deleted scene where Hawkman corners you to threaten you to stay away from Kendra (he does not understand what a work wife is)

Masterlist

[whispers-of-starlight]

Words to use instead of ‘said’

**Using the word ‘said’ is absolutely not a bad choice, and in fact, you will want to use it for at least 40% of all your dialogue tags. Using other words can be great, especially for description and showing emotion, but used in excess can take away or distract from the story.

Neutral: acknowledged, added, affirmed, agreed, announced, answered, appealed, articulated, attested, began, bemused, boasted, called, chimed in, claimed, clarified, commented, conceded, confided, confirmed, contended, continued, corrected, decided, declared, deflected, demurred, disclosed, disputed, emphasized, explained, expressed, finished, gloated, greeted, hinted, imitated, imparted, implied, informed, interjected, insinuated, insisted, instructed, lectured, maintained, mouthed, mused, noted, observed, offered, put forth, reassured, recited, remarked, repeated, requested, replied, revealed, shared, spoke up, stated, suggested, uttered, voiced, volunteered, vowed, went on

Persuasive: advised, appealed, asserted, assured, begged, cajoled, claimed, convinced, directed, encouraged, implored, insisted, pleaded, pressed, probed, prodded, prompted, stressed, suggested, urged

Continuously: babbled, chattered, jabbered, rambled, rattled on

Quietly: admitted, breathed, confessed, croaked, crooned, grumbled, hissed, mumbled, murmured, muttered, purred, sighed, whispered

Loudly: bellowed, blurted, boomed, cried, hollered, howled, piped, roared, screamed, screeched, shouted, shrieked, squawked, thundered, wailed, yelled, yelped

Happily/Lovingly: admired, beamed, cackled, cheered, chirped, comforted, consoled, cooed, empathized, flirted, gushed, hummed, invited, praised, proclaimed, professed, reassured, soothed, squealed, whooped

Humour: bantered, chuckled, giggled, guffawed, jested, joked, joshed

Sad: bawled, begged, bemoaned, blubbered, grieved, lamented, mewled, mourned, pleaded, sniffled, sniveled, sobbed, wailed, wept, whimpered

Frustrated: argued, bickered, chastised, complained, exasperated, groaned, huffed, protested, whinged

Anger: accused, bristled, criticized, condemned, cursed, demanded, denounced, erupted, fumed, growled, lied, nagged, ordered, provoked, raged, ranted remonstrated, retorted, scoffed, scolded, scowled, seethed, shot, snapped, snarled, sneered, spat, stormed, swore, taunted, threatened, warned

Disgust: cringed, gagged, groused, griped, grunted, mocked, rasped, sniffed, snorted

Fear: cautioned, faltered, fretted, gasped, quaked, quavered, shuddered, stammered, stuttered, trembled, warned, whimpered, whined

Excited: beamed, cheered, cried out, crowed, exclaimed, gushed, rejoiced, sang, trumpeted

Surprised: blurted, exclaimed, gasped, marveled, sputtered, yelped

Provoked: bragged, dared, gibed, goaded, insulted, jeered, lied, mimicked, nagged, pestered, provoked, quipped, ribbed, ridiculed, sassed, teased

Uncertainty/Questionned: asked, challenged, coaxed, concluded, countered, debated, doubted, entreated, guessed, hesitated, hinted, implored, inquired, objected, persuaded, petitioned, pleaded, pondered, pressed, probed, proposed, queried, questioned, quizzed, reasoned, reiterated, reported, requested, speculated, supposed, surmised, testified, theorized, verified, wondered

This is by no means a full list, but should be more than enough to get you started!

Any more words you favor? Add them in the comments!

Happy Writing :)

[whispers-of-starlight]

the feeling of losing interest on your hyperfixation and starting on it should be studied because why do i feel like i didn't sleep for days and my mind is trying to work overtime, scrambling to find any movie, book, a person—just to think of anything that i could focus on. one moment i am scrolling on tiktok, the next second i was trying to watch the whole series of star wars, read lotr, work on my passion project novel, and found a website for batman comics. what the hell is going on with me!!!

[whispers-of-starlight]

ON RECORD

Clark & you make a sex-tape together.

cw: 18+, pwp, sex tape, p-in-v, established relationship, clark is a big ol meanie in this, he uses his x-ray vision to see how deep he is in you, switch!clark (1.4k wc)

"Hey…what are you…doing?"

You're bent over Clark's lap, fiddling around at your bedside drawer. He's looking at you with confusedly. Palms steadied around your hip as you thrash around over him. He focuses on the antique oak for a second. And then relaxes.

"There's nothing but a couple of books, pills, and a camcorder in there —" he continues, and you peer at him over your shoulder.

"Camcorder. Where?"

Clark sighs. Looking back at the side table. Eyes twitched for a second. "On your left."

You dive right back in and perk right up with the silver device in your hands. Hair mussed from your jerky movements. Clark's brushing the locks away from your face, tucking then behind your ears. "So you interrupted us mid kissing for a camcorder?"

Clark hums into your lips when you kiss him once, and then deeper, "I wanna…—mmh—try somethin' new.." You're cupping around his jaw, kissing and nibbling until he's grabbing you, pulling you away. Blue eyes meeting yours.

"Elaborate…maybe?"

You huff, holding up the camcorder, the device whirring to life after you click the black button. "Just. You could…record me, while we..."

"You want me to record you while we're being intimate?"

A prolonged groan leaves you, and you're nudging it in his hands. "If you wanna put it so innocently. Yes. I want you to film me while giving me back shots —"

Clark's holding you by your jaw. Thumbs squishing your cheeks to shush you before easing his grip. "Geez louise, alright. Alright. I got that. But…wouldn't that sort of…I don't know…get really dirty?"

"Really? You think so?"

He's looking at the way your eyes glint at that, biting your lower lips and taking your gaze over him predatorily.

"You're not going to give this up now are you?"

Clark's shoulder slumps back as you scoot backwards. Seated on your thighs all coy and sweet. Fixing your blouse as well as you could.

He adjusts the camera up, holding your face in frame, the RECORD button going active.

"How do I look?"

Clark smiles behind the camera, looking at you through the screen and then tilting his head askew to look at you in real time. "Gorgeous as always."

You roll your eyes. "Can you try being less farm-boy nice and more, amateur porno-video taker?"

"….Fine. Take your blouse off."

You let out an amused giggle, popping the buttons off one by one. "See? You've got some spunk on you."

"Well I'm hoping to be getting some spunk in you."

"Yeah okay no, don't try to do the dirty talk."

Clark's lips pressed into a taut smile, shaking his head in embarrassment. "Maybe I'm at my depth here." He begins, but you grip around his wrist. Tutting.

"Relax. It's all in good fun. Follow my lead?"

You're tugging at his sweats, his half-hard cock bobbing up at his abdomen. Clark grunts at the obnoxious whistle you give at the sight. You grin, looking up into the camera lens as you take your first lick up the prominent vein running up his cock.

"W—…woah.." He lets out a breath all at once. Transfixed on the viewfinder. "You…look…"

He doesn't get to the end of his sentence. Biting back another gasp the way your lips stretch around the girth of his cock. You pull away, a string of saliva following.

"Good?" You mumble, mouthing at his cock.

"Yeah." Clark huffs out. His hand coming in view of the frame, thumbing your jaw with reverence. "You look amazing." It comes out embarrassingly shaky.

The camcorder somehow remains stead with his other hand. You take him in deeper, bobbing your head up and down, "g-gosh—…" Clark's head tilts back, the weight of his palm rested firm on the back of your head.

You pull off from him entirely. The pink of your tongue catching the dribbles of pre-cum on your lips. Clark looks to you hazily when you stop. When you get his attention again, you smile sweetly up at him. Kissing upward, where the coarse hairs let up to his belly button.

"Look….straight out of a dirty magazine…" He mumbles, holding the camera away. Clark leans down to kiss you, tugging you back up with a firm hold around your chin.

"Mmn..this won't work if you keep—mmh…turning the camcorder away." Clark smiles against your lips, turning you over with one fluid movement. Resting you on your belly.

"I had something different in mind."

Clark places the device down facing the two of you, twisting the view finder flap so you could see your yourselves.

You tilt your head back at Clark who was positioning himself behind you, squealing when he hiked your hips up to slot a pillow beneath your belly.

"Comfy?"

Your content mhm has Clark leaning down to kiss at the back of your neck and collarbone, making you giggle at the ticklish feeling it incites.

Clark's hand cradles your jaw to lift your head up just enough to draw your attention back at the camcorder.

"See that? I prefer that sight much.." He kisses your cheek. "Much.." Another kiss up your ears. "Better." You bite down on your cheeks. Legs kicking back and forth playfully. He grabs around your shorts, tugging them down at one go.

"There's nothing sexy about just seeing my face, Clark." Your voice comes out shaky, hips lifting just enough for him to drag his cock over your folds. You don't notice how he's eyeing the view finger. And he smirks.

"Are you aware of the 'face' you're making?"

"What?"

Clark nudges himself into you. Inch by inch, and your eyes flutter, the whites visible. "Ughh—!" He leans down, hips snapping once, letting you feel the sting from the stretch of him.

"Hey," he reminds. His bicep curling around your jaw, your cheeks rested up between the muscles in a headlock. "Eyes on the camera, remember?"

You grunt at him reminding you on your own words. Clark moves his hips in slow, deep strokes, drawing stuttered, groans out of you. "Sh—Shit! Cl…ark…s'deep…so…dh—eep!"

He's relentless with the pace he sets. His other palm snaking down to rub at your clit. "Clark!" You're whining into his biceps. Biting and drooling all over him. Clark leans down, an airy laughter ghosting the shell of your ear.

"Oh sweet thing, gettin' too much for you?"

"H-Hardly.." You're barely able to keep your eyes from rolling back again, but it's impossible with how deep his cock was pressing in your pussy. The build up comes out of nowhere, you're tensing around his cock, in spasms, and then your body goes limp.

Clark presses a kiss at the side of your cheek before he's housing your body, boneless still, to straddle him instead. Sitting you down on his cock with a scary strength. "Nngh!"

You're clawing at his chest in a stabilising effort. Panting, still feeling overcome with your earlier release. "C'mon. Give me a show." He mutters boyishly through a lustful gaze, holding the camcorder up, but just enough to capture what was below your neck.

"Mean. You're mean." You grumble under your breath. Grinding your hips down onto him with a stuttered breath. "Cl—aaark."

"Wh—aat?" He repeats your whine with a teasing smile. Thumbing your clit, watching you jolt beneath. Clark's palm kneads at your breast gently, a low huff leaving his lips as his thumb grazes down your midriff.

You seem to catch him staring absentmindedly at your belly, swiping over where his cock poke at your stomach. "Wh…what are you looking at?"

He hums gently, smiling lopsided. "If you could see what I'm seeing…how deep I am in you." You don't catch what he mutters, only how he's turning you beneath him.

The device left beneath him. "Should I be nicer?" Clark leans in, kissing at your jaw. Rocking his hips into you a gentler pace. You're whining into his neck, tears pricking the corner of your eyes at how easily he was filling you.

"Be nicer to my pretty…pretty girl?" Your thighs clench tightly around his hips, nodding into his shoulder desperately, without saying a word.

"S'what I thought." He smiles against your neck, glancing over at the abandoned camcorder beside, turning it over just enough to capture them in missionary.

Clark turns his attention back to you, whispering into your skin enough to send shivers down your spine, "give me one more sweet girl.." Your eyes flutter shut, letting Clark's relentless thrusts tip you over the edge once more. "G—god. Damn" He pants into your cheeks, hips stuttering. The sensation of his cum spurting deep in you has you coming at the same time, pussy pulsing around his cock, milking him for its' worth.

You're giggling, all fucked out, cheeks nuzzled into the messy sheets next to your face. Clark leans down to assualt you with a barrage of kisses, "shall we?"

Lazily, you turn to look at him, squinting. "Shall we what?"

"Do what you wanted."

Clark turns you over, thumbing where his cum leaks from your spent folds. Your own words come back to haunt you as a reminder. He reaches out for the cam corder, looping the thread in his palms.

'Yes. I want you to film me while giving me back shots'.

Oh boy.