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beingthisalive · 19 days ago

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Oral History

clark kent x reader

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

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

Word count: 12k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

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

Clark Kent.

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

That Clark Kent?

Gifted?

Like… mouth gifted?

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

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

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

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

But still…

Now you’re picturing it.

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

You press your thighs together under the desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy is laughing. You don’t move.

Clark texts the group thread a few minutes later:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

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

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

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

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

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

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

You squeeze your eyes shut.

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

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

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

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

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

You are, after all, a journalist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s practically professional at this point.

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

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

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

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

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

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

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

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

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

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

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

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

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

You start small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark plays dumb. At first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

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

You start dreaming about him.

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

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

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

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

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

You keep pushing.

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

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

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

You glance at the screen and smile.

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

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

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

You hit send.

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

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

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

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

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

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

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

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

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

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

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

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

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

There’s something else, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

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

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just interest.

Intention.

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

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

Then comes the charity gala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

“That so?”

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

“Oh, is that what this is?”

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

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the song ends.

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

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

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

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

It’s not working.

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

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

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

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

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

This is your best friend.

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

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

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

It’s everything.

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

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

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

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

You smile back.

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

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

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

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

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

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

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

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

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

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

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

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

An invitation.

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

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

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

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

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

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

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

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

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

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

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

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

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

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

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

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

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

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

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

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

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

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

His breath catches.

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

So, you say it outright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Off the record?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

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

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

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

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

And then he does it again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

And it does.

You shatter.

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

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

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

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you nod.

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

And now, you want him. All of him.

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

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

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

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

He’s already awake.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to wait long.

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

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

Clark drops the spatula.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

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

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

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

Eventually.

3K notes · View notes

beingthisalive · 24 days ago

Text

.ᐟ clark kent nsfw alphabet .ᐟ

minors do not interact! 18+

clark kent/superman x daily planet!fem!reader

4.3k words | warnings: sexual content! skip if not interested

this is the first thing i’ve completed in months thank u superman it’s also like tiny blurbs sorry i just have so many clarke kent thots right now <3 unedited but i will get to it sorry :)

A = afercare (what they’re like after sex)

clark kent is an aftercare king fr, like as soon as he’s done screwing your brains out and kissing you deeply, asking if he hurt you, he does very good about handling his strength around you so he can’t help but be cautious) he’s moving to the bathroom to get a warm rag to wipe up the wet sticky mess you guys made while he kisses your forehead telling you how good you are and how much he loves you, makes you pee before bed every time no utis on his watch!!!!!, will run a bath if you’re feeling up for it he loves to wash your body as it rests against him surrounded by the warm water, gets you comfy afterwards then he proceeded to lay half on top of your exhausted body, arms wrapped around you as both of you drift off to sleep with your fingers tangled in his hair. “i love you baby, you are so perfect.” he speaks softly.

B = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

clark loves your thighs. he peppers kisses in the inside of them up and down before he eats you out. before he gets inside you, he likes to thrust into your thighs, head of his cock purposefully hitting your clit as he teases you, hands pushing your legs together even tighter. he loves your tits, doesn’t matter how big or how small, his mouth is all over them, tongue dragging over your nipples before he leaves hickeys on the surrounding skin.i think clark loves his hands, mainly because of you. constantly entwining them with yours when you can, he loves that hands with that much strength and power are capable of giving you the love you deserve. also the dude just loves how they feel inside you like duh. huge ass fingers sloshing in and out of your wetness and he fills you full, mouth on yours as his fingers reach that special spot and rub perfectly until you squirt all over his fingers.

C = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

clark loves when you suck his cock while you’re kneeling in front of him (legs resting on a pillow of course, he’d never let your knees get bruised for this) while he’s spread on the couch, you wrap your mouth around him around his thick head as you suck gently, hand coming up to massage his balls hanging below, he groans as you take him in your mouth, tongue sliding down as you take it deeper and deeper. he moves his hands to grip your hair, not forcing but he just can’t get enough of the way your throat feels contracting around his cock. “fu- baby! i’m- please im gonna cum,” he can’t help but lean his head back on the couch as his legs start twitching and his heels are jerking as you remove your mouth and begin moving both your hands up and down him as he whines out while spurts of cum start shootings out from his cock onto your chest, white creamy liquid coats your upper breasts, you continue to pump him as he comes down from his high, when he leans his head back down to look at you, he has a smile on his face as he sees the mess all over you. lazily he trails his hand down the side of your face, thumb tracing your lip as his finger graze down your neck to trace the letter S, marking you as his.

D = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

clark kent loves how small you are compared to him. i mean the guy is 6’4 and 240 pounds, his shoulders are massive and his frame is so built, bulging muscles… of course he loves the way you look underneath him while he’s pounding into you from above, legs wrapped around his waist, hands gripping his upper back holding on for dear life while his elbows rest besides your head and his hands hold gently to your face, whispering how fucking good you look taking him like this. he purposefully pretends to be smaller, with his huge frame he can be intimidating and the last thing he ever wants is someone uncomfortable around him, he’s also just naturally unbalanced in a way (despite having superpowers) it’s just how clarke is and you love him for it so when you’re together laying on the couch you always rub on his shoulders or grab onto his arm while you’re walking down the street, little things to let him know that you aren’t intimidated by his size and love it. he loves when you can’t keep your hands off of him. he loves the way your skin molds between his hands when he’s holding you close to him, gripping you to keep you grounded as he moves inside, you’re bent with your ass up, pillows underneath your waist as your face is pushed into the mattress, he loves watching your legs shake as he holds your hips with his hands as he pushes his face in, eating you from behind. you love his broad shoulders and the way he wraps them around you while you’re fucking. he loves bear hugs your body and moves as a rapid pace like it’s the last day on earth and the feeling of him pressed into you makes you cum even harder than you thought. (honorable mention; he loves to see tears on your face when he’s finished with you, he’d never admit it but god it makes him want to finish all over again)

E = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

clark was definitely shy growing up on the farm, he didn’t have really any relationships, a few dates here and there but nothing that he was interested in continuing when he had other things to occupy his time in high school before he moved to metropolis. where he indulged in the occasional date when jimmy treated to set it up, which went horrible and clark never entertained jimmy again on that front, maybe a few hookups here and there but never a long term girlfriend even in his later twenties, until he met you. fast forward to the first time you guys actually having sex… this guy cums so quick… like we know he’s not a virgin and he’s from krypton with superpowers? but oh my god he’s been obsessed with you for months and finally having you like this just sends the overwhelming pleasure straight to his cock, “fu- i’m sorry- i’m sorry,” he grunts still shifting his hips to press into you, he just can’t get enough of you sitting on his cock, “please i’m sorry,” he pants. don’t worry he made it up for it with making you cum 3 times and making it one of the most unforgettable nights of your relationship.

F = favorite position (this goes without saying)

clark loves missionary and idc if that’s boring i think he just loves looking at your face while you’re taking every inch of him, watching the pleasure overtaking your features, also the best position for the mating press! his personal fav, feeling himself soooo deep inside you as he cum and can feel your pussy clenching around him as your legs pull him closer as if you aren’t already pressed together, face buried in your neck breathing in your smell as he keeps rocking his hips into you, mixing his cum with yours as you moan out his name, “clark please- oh my god,” you groan as you dig your nails into his back. he loves to pin your knees to your chest as he hits different spots inside you, making whines flow from your mouth, he greedily covers your lips with his, swallowing your sounds. loves waking up in the morning the morning after to your back pressed against his chest, legs tangled in the perfect way, as he slowly starting kissing your neck which just leads to him slipping it in behind you, holding your hip with one hand as the other holds your face closer to his, lips brushing as you both don’t bother holding back anymore.

G = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

clark kent can be soooo serious sometimes when he’s inside you, like eye contact as much as he can, always focused on making you feel good and comfortable, but leading up for it? tripping over his own two feet, cannot get his shirt off for the of life himself and one time he managed to fall off the bed as soon as he got on, nervous as hell no matter how many times you do it because you just give him butterflies every time he looks at you. he’ll def crack a joke or two while he’s inside you though and he’s so funny you guys can’t help but get distracted and can start a full conversation while he’s still slowly going in and out.

H = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

clark kent keeps it tidy down there, he doesn’t shave but keep it trimmed and neat, i don’t think he care very much for so much personal grooming but he keeps it simple and clean, if it grows out and he doesn’t get it to it, not a big deal. doesn’t care if you shave or not, he’s tearing it up whether you’re bald or rocking a full bush babe, that man does NOT care about body hair, whatever you’re comfortable with.

I = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

clark is the biggest softie ever. he is so sweet in your day to day life, bringing you coffee, kissing your forehead when departing, making you breakfast for dinner (guilty pleasure for you both) he holds your hand all the time and he is constantly telling you how beautiful are you. in the bedroom, he can be very soft, i mean he’s so gentle, he’d always place you on the bed or the couch before getting started, making sure you’re feeling okay but he starts railing you… still romantically, but also laced with so much need it’s unbelievable, he just loves you so much and the urge to keep close to you and show you he loves you in as many ways as he can wrecks him almost daily.

J = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

clark doesn’t have to jerk off much, he’s pretty much always with you or coming home to you at the end of the night after a long day of saving the world but sometimes when he’s stuck in the fortress of solitude he can’t help but make his way to his room, thoughts of previous nights spent with you, ripping his suit off so he can fist his cock, bottom lip between his teeth as he tugs furiously, trying to get himself closer and closer to orgasm. thoughts of you sitting on his face, imagining juices dripping down his skin as he’s desperately moans out your name. his thick cock throbbing in his calloused hand, wishing it was your soft one instead. but he always stops right before he comes, edging himself so when he sees you again… it’s gonna be so worth it and god is he gonna fill you to the brim.

K = kink (one or more of their kinks)

clark and the breeding kink… now he doesn’t really want kids atm maybe one day but he loves the action of filling you up constantly. all the time. he loves when he tops over your back as he’s pushing his cock into you while you’re flush on the mattress so he can pump his cum into you, his balls are twitching as they rest against your ass and his arms have you encased around him, not being able to run even if you wanted to, as he just keeps leaking into your desperate holes. he loves overstimulation! watching you struggle to cum for as long as he can get too, he knows he’s big. he knows what he does to do. he loves seeing it all over your face when he’s finally finished with you. edging you for what feels like hours until you finally hit the breaking point while he continues to hit your spot inside.

L = location (favorite places to do the do)

clark’s fav place is the bedroom, he’s a big guy, he does his best work in a place he can move around and have you every way wanted. he can easily maneuver and it’s just the most comfortable. couch is also a mention, he loves being able to pull you to sit on his lap after a excruciating day of going over reports, lips meeting yours as you both lean into the urge of wanting to between you two. (imagine how the fortress of solitude will be hehe)

M = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

clark loves when you kiss down his face and his neck, when your mouth brushes that sweet spot after his ear, he’s instant putty fr. he loves when you whisper how good he’s making you feel and how much you love him. he will fall to his knees in front of you if you walk into the bedroom with one of those stupid i heart superman shirts and nothing else. seeing you in that just wrecks him to the core. he loves when you tell him how pretty he looks and how much you need him.

N = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

clark is the sweetest soul in the world, his pa raised him to respect women and that a man should never raise a hand to one and his ma taught him to be a true gentleman, so that being said clark would ever really raise a hand to you, in the bedroom or otherwise sorry.

O = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

clark is a GIVERRRRRR. all the way. loves when you suck his cock, i mean seeing you in front of him on your knees looking like a goddess worshipping him? sign him tf up! he loves watching you bob up and down on him, swallowing as much of him as you can while your hand works the rest BUTTTTT he just eats it so goood like he cannot get enough of the way you taste, the way you smell, the way your legs move as he devours you. he loves the way your legs wrap around his head while you tremble or the way your hands grip his hair and unconsciously pull his face closer to you, nose brushing your clit as his tongue spreads up and down over you. i think he’d love when you sit on his face and lay down on his chest to pump his cock until he cums while he groans into your pussy about how good your hands feel and how he wishes he could keep his mouth on you for hours. which he definitely finds the time to do.

P = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

clark can be so slow when you guys go a few days apart, teasing you by pulling all his inches out and waiting to slowly slide back inside you, making sure you feel every inch as he grips into your shoulders keeping you in place as he kisses down your neck. telling you how much he misses you and how much he thought about you on the few days you were apart, keeping his thrusting at agonizingly slow pace until you’re gripped onto him needing all of him, “please baby- shit- i need more,” you moan, hands tracing every inch of his warm muscled skin while he starts to pick up the pace, he moves his hands to cup your ass as he lifts his hips to meet yours in a furious rate. “yeah baby? that want you wanted? look at you.” he says as his eyes meet yours. you cry out as he keeps gaining speed, hitting your spot every few seconds until you’re right at the edge, “yeah i can feel you getting tighter baby, come on give it to me.”

Q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

clark kent can get down with a quickie, does he prefer to take his time and worship your body? yes but when you take lunch together every once in a while he just cannot help himself and has to pull you into a supply closet away so he can pull down whatever you’re wearing so he can eat you out like a starved man because last night just wasn’t enough for him. he definitely makes up for the short time later when you’re both alone at home again. when you go to smallville kansas to visit his parents, you manage sneak up on him while he’s out in the barn working on fixing some things johnathan hasn’t been able to get to, you reach your hands around his waist, rubbing them over his white t-shirt, fingers tracing his abs, “i missed you handsome” you say as you lay your head against his back. he covered your hands with his as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breathe, taking in the smell of home and you. a combination he didn’t think he needed until now, he can’t help himself as he lays his flannel over some bales of hay and drills into you with your legs wrapped around him, “we gotta be quick baby, your pa’s gonna come out soon,” you say as you moan in his ear. he picks up the pace as he continues, “please don’t talk about my dad right now.” he says with a chuckle as he thrusts into you.

R = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

clark is def down to experiment as long as it doesn’t hurt you guys! different positions? hell yeah! every surface in both your apartments? more than a few times! i think he’d take minimal risks (beg him hard enough and maybe he’ll find a secluded enough place to hold you and fuck you in sky) but he has a reputation to keep up because of work so gotta be careful!

S = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

clark kent has stamina for DAYYYS. let me tell you. this man is like a machine, round after round. i fear he never totally goes soft either, maybe he just has the undeniable urge to be with you as much as he can, he knows you aren’t going anywhere but eventually you’ll both have to get out of bed and start living your lives again instead of being in this love infested bedroom you can’t seem to leave. so he takes advantage of the time you spend intimately together, making you cum at least 2-3 times before he inserts himself. and after you both cum from that, just know he’s coming to eat out that mess he had made inside you! just one more for good luck, he says.

T = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

does clark own them? not personally, when you guys move into together he comes across your special box but doesn’t say anything to you about it until one night you guys are making out on the bed and you feel his hand leave your waist and hear him shuffling with his night table drawer, “clark what are you doing?” you whisper with a slight chuckle against his lips, he doesn’t answer and you pull back opening your eyes to see him holding your purple vibrator, blush on his cheeks. he then proceeds to lower himself and peel your underwear off, holding the toy to your clit as you squirm in his grasp as he makes you come over and over again. once you guys get super comfortable you’d have fun buying different toys to try just for fun, maybe a cock ring here and a dildo there, it’s never necessary to use during sex, he gets you off perfectly fine but one time he filled both your holes and god the feeling being full had you feeling on top of the world, and i think he likes to see you whine a little more than he lets on.

U = unfair (how much they like to tease)

clark is the biggest tease in the world. he loves seeing you flustered, cheeks flushed red as you took at him when he whispers something dirty in your ear while you’re standing with your friends, something along the lines of “baby you look so fucking good, i cannot wait to bend you over later.” when you walk past, he’ll let his hand brush over the small of your hand, right above your ass as he gives you a that famous smirk when you turn around and glare at him because he knows what he’s doing to you or while you’re sitting down he’ll move his hand to rest at the back of your neck brushing your hair as he moves through it. the second you’re home he’s pulling you onto the couch to bend in front of you, he removes your pants but leave your underwear, your legs automatically spread wide, his favorite thing in the world is when he teases you all day and gets to see the mess he’s left you with when he comes home. he pulls your panties to the side as he looks upon the glistening wet spot on the front, “all this for me sweetheart?” as he runs his finger up and down you. once he starts teasing, it goes until you’re both barely holding it together, half passed out on the bed. he takes his time rubbing your clit in soft circles, increasing pressure as he goes, his pace grows faster and your moans grow louder, when your legs start twitching, he moves your underwear to cover you up again and starts licking your clit over your soaked underwear, “hmmm…” he moans, face pressed against your mound, “think you’re ready for more?” he says with a hazy smile. he always getting you so close to the spots that make you whine and moan, but always pulling away right before you get there.

V = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

clark fucking whimpers. like you cannot convince me otherwise. he lets out little whines and whimpers while you’re riding him like there’s no tomorrow, hands gripping your waist, not hard enough to leave bruises but hard enough to keep you in place, still letting you do the work he just NEEDS to be closer to you. he grunts as he pounds into you from behind, bending over you pressing his warm muscular chest into your back, as he mutters in your ear, “yeah princess you gonna take it? just like that.” and other times the feel of you tightening around him has him clenching his teeth and letting out a growl as he gets too overwhelmed and starts fucking up into you as you grind on top of him. he loves when your moans mix with his as you both bring yourselves to the edge. he lets out low moans, i don’t think he screams. he BEGS. to be inside you, to feel you cum all over his face, feel you clench and pulsing around his fingers. he’s just a simple guy.

W = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

okay this may be self indulgent as fuck but like clark can be so sub sometimes. i mean he loves when you decide to play with his cock for hours. holding off his orgasm, making him beg to cum inside you while you jerk him softly. “sweetheart please i just need to touch you,” he moans out, you force his hands behind his head to lay while you take care of him, he loves the way you look so soft taking care of him like this while his muscles bulge while stretched out like that, he’s can’t get enough as he’s watching you get him off like it’s your personal mission. making him lose control as he fucks your hand, thrusting his hips desperately chasing pleasure, hearing his breath hitch as he moans out how badly he wants to be inside you. his head rolls back and you reach up to hold his face so his eyes are on you the whole time. you love when you both get home from work and you get to watch as he makes a mess all over himself from watching you rub your in front of him, not letting him touch you as he keeps touching himself across from you.

X = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

clark is packing. length? got it at least 9 inches i mean he’s huge! width? feels like it tears you in two (in the best way possible of course) your hand can’t fit around it and there’s no doubt he’s hitting every angle he can inside you, when you’re in missionary sometimes he can see the outline of his cock brushing so high up inside you that he swears he grows larger. no inch of your insides go untouched by him. do not let him wear those slutty grey sweatpants around the house.

Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

clark is a yearner to the core. he wants to be kind, he wants to be a good son, he wants to a supportive friend but mostly importantly, he wants you. thinks of you on top of him all the time, visions of you bend over in front of him as he sits across from you at work. he can wait until he gets home, he swears he can. he thinks maybe it’s his genes that just happen to give him underlying urge to bury himself to hilt inside you all the freaking time! like he cannot get a break.

Z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

clark isn’t gonna fall asleep until you’re comfortable, cleaned up and cuddled back into his chest, whispering soft things into your ear and eventually he’ll fall asleep after you do listening to the sound of your breathing and mesmerized by the rise and fall of your chest, he just can’t believe you’re his. his large hands wrapped around your body like a cocoon, arms keeping you tucked in as he places one last kiss on your forehead and passes out.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

hi friends thanks for reading a reblog is always appreciated!

if this is bad pls gather ur pitchforks 😔 (self indulgent?? i fear??)

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beingthisalive · 26 days ago

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i love how most mattfoggy fights basically boil down to foggy saying “hey i care about you and want you to be safe and happy” and matt going “foggy the city NEEDS me to kill myself”

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beingthisalive · 27 days ago

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beingthisalive · 27 days ago

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my life lately

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beingthisalive · 27 days ago

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I actually cried when "recordings of his parents" changed from Clark's bio parents to Ma & Pa

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beingthisalive · 28 days ago

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must be a secret admirer!

clark kent x reporter!reader

Clark is even worse at hiding your workplace relationship than he was at hiding his massive crush on you. A recounting of three times where Clark nearly gives the two of you away, just because his loverboy self can’t help it.

wc ; 1.5k

The morning had been frazzling, to say the least.

You woke up late due to someone snoozing your alarm, and barely had time to scarf down some maple-flavored microwave oats and run out the door. You didn’t even have a chance to get coffee on the way to work, as you usually treat yourself to. With the cranial pressure of an incoming headache you down some Ibuprofen and push the door to The Daily Planet open with your shoulder.

Clark’s desk is empty, that checks out; when you left he was still just in pajama pants and following you around the apartment with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, like a puppy dog on your heels. Super-speed left time to get ready, after all. You didn’t have that luxury. Just as you resign yourself to force down some of the disgusting brown poison that so happened to come from the newsroom’s coffee machine, a gentle tap at the corner of your desk makes you turn from your computer.

A paper hot-coffee cup. Presented with a boyish, sweeter-than-chocolate smile from none other than Clark, the expression creasing his eyes and flashing his dimples. “White chocolate mocha,” he announces, as if you need to confirm his memory of your coffee order. You’re just about to thank him a thousand times before Jimmy rolls out from behind his desk on his chair, huffing.

“You get any for us?” He gestures to Lois and himself. Clark stammers, taken aback, and grasps the strap of his book bag. You freeze, catching the suspicion on Lois’s face when you meet her eye. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out if you trimmed your hair since yesterday (impulsively, you did, so maybe you’re off the hook). But the prospect that she might be onto you is jarring. It’s just that, you’ve been trying to keep you and Clark.. secret.

That sounded kind of bad, put so bluntly, but it’s what it was. All the weird HR things that came with office relationships, all the questions and terrible jokes (which 90% of would just be Jimmy), all the awkwardness from your coworkers if things didn’t work. Well, you were certain it would, but still. Precautions. A sort of shield against all the crappy parts of all your coworkers watching your relationship play out at your 9 to 5.

“Uh, I just— she— said she wanted… coffee. Earlier.” It takes everything in you to not pinch the bridge of your nose. Instead, you bring the cup to your lips and take a gratifying sip, smiling up at Clark. He really was the perfect boyfriend, not despite but maybe because of his dorkiness. He knew he made you late; and so he was making it up to you. Even when you weren’t necessarily angry at him for it. If he could make your day better, he would, that was just the type of man he was.

“Thank you.” Oh, that golden-boy smile he throws you, like he’s happy you’re even looking his way, it’s so worth the heart attack he just gave you.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

You were pretty good at keeping secrets. Clark, not so much.

He waits by your desk until you finish a few last keystrokes before lunch, walks out and reenters with you. Doesn’t even think twice about the fact that his name is printed on the order-sticker on your coffee cup every morning. Waits maybe three seconds after breaching the doors of The Daily Planet before he’s grasping your hand.

Anybody with eyes can tell something is up, something different from the norm of Clark being so obviously head over heels for the girl whose desk is across a not-so-divisive glass divider from his. He talks to you almost all day, but just as suspiciously, you come to him with questions before anybody else.

As he pushes you up against the wall of the single-stall bathroom (he’d been hesitant, saying, “what if somebody has to go?”, to which you just tugged him by the tie and locked the door with the other hand,) you tell him as much. “Clark, we gotta be more—“ You’re cut off by a sweet press of his lips against yours. “—we should be more careful.”

“aren’t you the one who dragged me in here?“ he isn’t wrong, you are the one who got all wound up by the subtle manspread Clark pulled as he sat in his chair, legs falling open while he was humoring Jimmy’s rambling ideas.

“Shut up. How about— how about you leave a few minutes before I do?”

Yeah, very sound plan. Except that Clark just parks maybe.. ten feet away from the door, leaning against the passenger’s side door because he’d be damned if he let you open the door for yourself. But that’s besides the point; later, once Clark pulls his pants back up, buckling his belt and pushing up his glasses by the bridge, he smiles at you crookedly. “You look kind of.. like a mess.”

You look yourself in the mirror, chest still heaving from, well, Clark fucking you against the work-bathroom wall. You flatten down your hair and comb it with your fingernails. “So do you, supes.” It’s an adorable sight, your boyfriend peering at his reflection and fixing himself from behind you, your head only coming up to about his chest.

It’s a less adorable and more horrifying sight, when later in the day, you spot a dark spot peaking out from underneath his crisp white collar. Clark must’ve clocked your wide eyes over the top of his computer because he looks up, and furrows his brows. You sharply gesture to his collar, mouthing, cover-up!

Clark just frowns, squinting like he doesn’t know what you mean. You make a wild show of mock-pulling-up your collar, and it has to be noticeable, because you can see Jimmy breaking his neck to see in your peripheral. “Woah, woah, Clark.” He guffaws, backtracking and standing too close.

“What?” Lois calls, a few feet away at her desk. Clark’s gotten the point far too late and adjusts his collar with a bashful smile to you.

“Clark’s got a hickey!” Jimmy claps him on a shoulder. “Geez, man. Didn’t know you were getting up to it like that.”

“It’s— it’s nothing, really,” Clark mumbles, trying to get back to his work. Poor thing, his ears are pinkened and his cheeks are rosy from all the attention. Lois is laughing, raising her eyebrows at you— it takes a moment for you to calm and realize she’s just trying to share in the joke, not question if you’re the culprit.

You smile, chewing on the end of your pen before gesturing it to Clark. “Not so good at hiding it, huh?” Those baby blues flick up to you shyly to the untrained eye, but you can see the indignation in them. That’s how it is? But there’s no real challenge, in fact, there’s a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his full lips.

Clark pushes up his glasses and turns back to his computer, muttering without any bite, “..Shut up.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

You had a bad night. It’s not anything Clark had done, you were just in a terrible mood right up until you fell asleep with your ear to his chest. He tried to lighten it up, made you dinner, offered to shower with you, and quietly put on your favorite TV show when you declined. All he could really do, and all you needed him to do, was hold you.

The next morning is much of the same. You hate that you feel so bad without any justifiable reason; maybe your period was coming up, maybe it was the dead-end article you were frustrated with. Whatever the reason, almost instantly the heaviness in your chest is lifted when you enter the office and lock eyes with the flowers on your desk.

Peonies, your favorite. Wrapped in newspaper with a note tucked underneath. You let out a soft sigh, allowing a raw smile to spread over your cheeks and even crease your eyes. The moment you look up, you see Clark’s face staring back at you, that golden-boy grin dimpling his cheeks. You knew without reading the note that they were from him, but for good measure, you check the familiar handwriting.

I love you, ♾️. - Clark

It certainly brightens your morning, as you dig out your old glass vase from your desk that you long-since gave up on keeping filled with flowers. Clark doesn’t say a word to you, but at your shy smile, he tosses you a wink that shouldn’t heat your cheeks as much as it does. You tuck the note half-under the vase as you get to work, or atleast try to.

“These are gorgeous,” Lois’ familiar voice chimes from over your shoulder. When you look up at her, she’s cocking a brow. You glance at your boyfriend across your desk.

“Oh, yeah, aren’t they?” you chuckle lightly, trying to play them off, but Jimmy’s caught wind by now.

“Who’re they from?” Jimmy calls from his desk. You want to get up and smack him— does he ever get any work done, or does he just try to unearth your suspiciously-Clark-shaped secret all day? “Is there a note?”

“uh— no!“ almost helplessly you look to Clark, who’s dark brows are lifted and lips already forming an “o”. Superman to the rescue.

“Must be a secret admirer!” he blurts, drawing Lois’ attention away from the note poking out from under the vase. Well.. there have been better rescues. She doesn’t look convinced as she eyes you.

But, with a shrugged, “If you wanna call it secret,” and a gentle plop of a file you asked for on your desk, she turns. Fuck. You blow the air out your cheeks. Why was office romance such work to keep on the low? Or maybe it wasn’t the fact that it was in the office, maybe it was just the fact that it was with the horrible liar and awful secret-keeper, Clark Kent. The latter was almost ironic; a man who kept an entire secret identity couldn’t hide who he was dating.

But just as you begin to cut him some slack (aided by his sweet, apologetic smile across the desk divider from you,) Jimmy hollers from your right. “Geez, Clark, if you’re gonna send your girlfriend flowers, why don’t you leave a note?”

Clark’s blue eyes blow almost comically wide, his jaw slackens and you want to absolutely pummel him for not just being conspicuous, but cartoonishly so. Instead of even denying it, your boyfriend stumbles over his words, “How— how did you know?”

“We’ve known since May,” Lois calls from her computer. “You two are like, disgustingly, repulsively, gagging-ly, really-fucking-obviously cute. It’s a real workplace hazard.”

“But—“ You just lie your forehead in your palm. So much for secret. Clark goes on, “We’ve been so secretive about it!” You throw him a look, and he lifts his brows for effect, throwing up his hands. You can’t help a breathless chuckle.

“I literally saw you put the flowers on her desk this morning.” you can almost hear the eye-roll in Jimmy’s voice. Clark gives you another, apologetic smile. How could you ever stay mad at your dork boyfriend?

“Sorry. I really thought I was doing pretty good.”

“Oh, well. You tried, Clark.” He nods very seriously. He tried hiding his affection as much as a loverboy could, you have to give him that. Clark looks at his work for barely a second before lowering his voice sheepishly.

“. . . Do you like the flowers?”

“Awh, I love them.” Clark flashes you a boyish grin, and you’re vaguely reminded of a puppy-dog. You hear a mock-gagging sound from over your shoulder, but you couldn’t care less anymore. Keeping your admirer secret wasn’t as important as you thought it was.

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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Mad props to James Gunn for giving Lois agency. She saves Superman! She figures out what’s happening with Lex. At no point in the movie does Clark have to save Lois. It’s so nice getting to watch a woman just be a brilliant badass. I also think this is the first time I’ve seen Lois interact with the Kents. When she tells Clark she loves him too it’s because she’s seen him as Superman hero of Metropolis and Clark Kent from Smallville.

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you.

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is.

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name.

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

You collapse over him afterward, a mess of limbs and sweat and disbelief, heart hammering against his chest like it’s trying to hide inside him.

And he wraps himself around you like he wants that. Like he’d let it. Like he’s been waiting to make room for you in all his softest places.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.

Truly.

You're just trying to get clean.

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow.

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly.

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair.

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

The banana bread.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you absolute fucking idiot.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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me as a detective: WHO DID THIS 😂😂😂

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot. god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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beingthisalive · 1 month ago

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most wanted man.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you’re living at the watchtower, allegedly saving the world, definitely dodging yelena's increasingly nosy questions about your whereabouts, your skincare glow, and why bucky keeps “accidentally” leaving behind shirts in your shared apartment. she hasn’t cracked it yet, but she’s circling—muttering in russian, offering suspiciously specific threats, and watching you like you’re the main character in a rom-com that she didn’t agree to binge. word count: 7.4k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, handjob (m!receiving), car sex, public sex, kind of feral bucky, sloppy make-out sesh ftw, bucky barnes whines agenda, holding your jaw, nipple play, dirty talk, praise, spanking, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!bucky towards the end, soft dom!reader in the beginning, bucky manhandles you, basically picks you up (as much as possible in a tight car), switch supremacy, riding, dirty talk, protected sex, mild brat taming, getting caught series masterlist!

The thing about living with Yelena is—well.

There’s a lot of things, actually. Too many things, some might say. Too many things that, when combined, form a singular and inescapable truth: she is the human equivalent of a raccoon raised in the Red Room and then forcibly recruited into yet another murder band with really solid branding.

For starters, she eats like she thinks the concept of refrigeration is a government conspiracy. This is not hyperbole.

This is a woman who once stored an entire tuna melt on her nightstand “for later” and then forgot about it for three days. She doesn’t snack so much as she hoards, nesting bags of chips and half-eaten protein bars in her duvet like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter. You’ve lost three forks, two mugs, and a perfectly good wedge of brie to her culinary black hole of a room.

She calls it “keeping morale high.” You call it biohazardous.

And then there’s the commentary.

Yelena does not go silently into any domestic routine. She narrates everything, usually in the third person, often with the aggressive flair of a Russian Gordon Ramsay who may or may not be about to burn the place down for "fun." Cooking becomes a high-stakes battle. “We chop onion. We cry. Like weaklings. Like the British.”

Even brushing her teeth becomes some kind of militant monologue: “We polish enamel. We protect gum line. We prepare for battle.”

But the worst thing about Yelena—the thing that haunts you, the thing that makes you contemplate faking your own death just to escape—is how she inserts herself into your business like she’s been hired by Valentina to audit your emotional stability.

It started small.

A lingering glance. A muttered “Hmm.” But then she started doing rounds. Like, actual patrols.

She memorized your schedule—your schedule, which even you don’t know most days—and began clocking inconsistencies like she was training to be your paranoid grandmother. Which, in fairness, she probably already was in a past life.

“You are acting suspicious,” she says one night, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

You freeze mid-sip of your tea, which you were using in a vain attempt to lower your cortisol levels. “I literally just got back from training.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, chewing thoughtfully, “but who were you training with? And why do you smell like peppermint and sandalwood? That is not your usual body wash.”

Jesus, Yelena.

You lie. You say Ava. Or maybe it was Walker.

Someone harmless. Someone whose jawline does not inspire feral decisions. But Yelena is already narrowing her eyes in a way that suggests she is not only not buying it, but has also started a folder on you labeled “Case Study: Dumb Bitch in Denial.”

To be fair—yes, you have been sneaking out a bit.

Taking the long hallway detour to Bucky’s office. Slipping into maintenance closets when the cameras flicker, like a horny teenager in an Avengers-branded adaptation of Pretty Little Liars.

And yes, maybe your skin has looked better lately. The kind of better that usually implies someone else’s hands have been on it.

And maybe you’ve been humming. Humming. You don’t hum. You barely speak. You’re emotionally constipated and have the range of a well-dressed houseplant when it comes to processing affection. But ever since you and Bucky started whatever-this-is—quiet, combustible, behind-closed-doors soft things—you’ve been glowing.

You didn’t notice until Yelena did.

“Your lips,” she says, squinting at you across the living room like a sniper. “They are… flushed.”

You blink. “I… drank tea.”

“No. No, this is not ‘tea’ lips. This is ‘makeout’ lips. This is ‘I was pressed against wall for twenty minutes’ lips.”

You nearly drop your laptop. “What—why are you analyzing my lips?”

“Your shirt is on backwards. You think I do not notice this? I am assassin. I was trained in pattern recognition before I had baby teeth.”

Your hand flies instinctively to your collar. Fuck.

“You’ve been compromised,” she says gravely. “And I will find out who it is.”

That’s the other thing about Yelena. She doesn’t let things go. She once spent two weeks trying to track down who used the last of her cinnamon oatmeal packets. The culprit turned out to be Walker. Yelena retaliated by putting a dead fish in his air vents with a note that said “Justice.”

So now, you live in constant fear. Constant awareness. You are your own personal counterintelligence operation. You wash your sheets at weird hours. You delete texts like you’re in a spy movie. You and Bucky have perfected the art of the silent nod across mission briefings, which is very romantic in theory and very suspicious in practice.

The only reason you’re not already exposed is because Bucky, in all his war-ravaged, sad-eyed glory, is a professional.

The kind who can disassemble a rifle blindfolded, lie to a senator without blinking, and apparently conceal a full-blown romantic entanglement under the very noses of four other elite operatives and one former Russian assassin who has made it her personal mission to uncover your secrets.

He calls it courting. Earnestly. Like he’s in a Jane Austen novel.

You think it’s endearing, the way he says it so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, I’m courting you. Why else would I be fixing the carburetor on your bike and leaving your favorite tea in the cabinet?”

Meanwhile, Yelena is convinced this is all part of some elaborate domestic conspiracy.

“He is nesting,” she told you once, tone grave, arms crossed, fully dressed in camo pajama pants and a Hello Kitty-themed crop top. “He is nesting and preening. Like a bird. A bird who has found a mate.”

You had laughed. Mistake number one.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I do not recognize courtship behavior when I see it? He shined his boots last night. At two in the morning. While humming 'Dream A Little Dream of Me’ That is not normal behavior.”

To her credit, it was suspicious.

Bucky also doesn’t hum. At most, he grunts. Occasionally sighs like someone in a World War II-era cigarette ad.

But lately?

Lately, he’s been a little… brighter.

In a subtle, grumpy, “please don’t perceive me” kind of way. He drinks his coffee slower in the mornings. Keeps extra protein bars in his pocket like he’s waiting for a chance to hand you one. Walks a little too close when you’re on missions, always on your left side, like it’s muscle memory.

Once, you caught him folding your laundry—folding it—like a man with a mortgage and a dog and a Sunday morning routine that involves jazz records and quiet domestic bliss.

It’s terrifying.

You don’t bring it up.

Not when he presses your knuckles to his mouth before you head out for recon. Not when he kisses your forehead in the elevator and then stands three feet away the second the doors open, arms crossed like he’s never touched you in his life. Not even when he starts wearing cologne again—light, warm, expensive-smelling—and swears he’s just “trying something new.”

(He’s not.)

Yelena knows something is up.

But Bucky is nothing if not disciplined. He can fake normalcy like it’s his job—because it was his job, once. And when he walks into the common area like he hasn’t just kissed you breathless in the weapons bay, nobody questions a thing.

“Are you seriously accusing me of dating Bucky?” you asked.

“Your ears are pink,” she says. “Means you’re lying.”

“Maybe I’m just warm,” you snap, elbow-deep in the cabinet pretending to look for the chia seeds you both know expired six months ago and that neither of you have ever used. “Because you keep interrogating me like I’m under oath.”

Yelena leans against the counter. “You are under oath. You are New Avenger. You live in Watchtower now. Shared housing. Shared responsibilities. Shared secrets.”

“That’s not how this works,” you mutter, but it’s too late—she’s already in full spiral mode.

Her eyes narrow. “I bet he wears dog tags. That’s why you’ve been lingering by the laundry chute. Looking wistful. Like wife in war movie. You think I do not see this?”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, abandoning the chia seed charade entirely and grabbing the first bag of stale pretzels you can find. “You need a hobby. Like embroidery. Or ketamine.”

“You know I cannot take up embroidery,” she sniffs, folding her arms with all the judgment of a Victorian ghost. “My hands are too calloused from killing.”

“Exactly my point,” you mutter, already backing out of the kitchen before she can hit you with another round of, ‘tell me which of your t-shirts now smells like man who definitely owns a motorcycle and a deeply tragic past.’

You retreat into your room and shut the door. Not slam it—that would be dramatic, and drama invites follow-ups, which you can’t afford. Not when your nerves are already strung tighter than the drawstring of Alexei's tactical sweatpants.

You sit on your bed, cross-legged, staring at your phone like it just wronged you personally. Which, honestly, it kind of has. It holds all the receipts—literal and emotional—and you’re half a scroll away from fully self-sabotaging. Again.

Still, your fingers drift toward your messages like you’re possessed. Like there’s a magnet in your thumbs and he’s the center of gravity.

You open the chat you’ve kept pinned for weeks. James Buchanan Barnes. No emojis, no nickname. Too obvious. Too dangerous. Too soft.

You type:

hey. u busy tonight?

You watch the little dot-dot-dot bubble appear faster than you expect, like he’s already on his phone, already thinking about you. You pretend that doesn’t make your stomach flip over.

No. What’s up?

was thinking movie? maybe that vintage theatre on 8th? something loud and action-y with too many explosions?

You picking the movie now? Bold of you.I’ll come by at 7.

You smile—grin, actually—and then immediately check yourself. Because if Yelena sees the grin, she will smell the grin, and the bloodbath that follows will be entirely your fault.

But still. You can’t help it. Because Bucky doesn’t just text like he cares—he texts like he already knows where you are, where you’ll be, and he’s not just showing up, he’s choosing to.

You glance at the clock. 6:12 p.m.

You text back:

bring your hoodie. the gray one. i’m stealing it.

He replies almost instantly.

Then I’m wearing something else. Can’t have you luring me in just to rob me blind.

You stifle your laugh into your pillow.

And outside your door, Yelena says through the thin wood with terrifying calm:

“…You’re giggling.”

You fling the pillow at the door with the force of a woman being hunted for sport. “I’m watching a TikTok!”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Is TikTok man also 108 years old and emotionally stunted?”

You groan. And text Bucky again.

new plan. fake our deaths. flee the country. start a goat farm in denmark.

Sounds peaceful. Pack your things. I’ll bring snacks.

You smile again. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.

But it’s yours. For now. For tonight. And maybe, if you’re careful—if you’re quiet—it can stay that way a little longer.

By the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’ve changed shirts twice, scrubbed concealer off your chin three separate times because it wasn’t settling right, and snapped at Yelena for daring to suggest you “chill.” Which is rich, coming from a woman who once threw a knife at a mosquito.

“I am chill,” you’d hissed, eyes bloodshot from mascara-related rage.

Yelena had just raised a brow and calmly returned to slicing an apple in the most violent, vertical way imaginable. “If that’s what we’re calling this now, then sure. You are chill. Like freezer meat. Cold and full of tension.”

She had not blinked once during the entire sentence.

Now, you’re pacing in the lobby of the Watchtower like a 1950s housewife waiting for her sailor husband to return from sea—if said housewife was also secretly armed and contemplating the logistics of a little kiss in front of several surveillance cameras and Valentina's favorite vending machine.

The ding of the elevator saves you from your spiraling.

And there he is.

Wearing that hoodie. The gray one. The one that smells like cedarwood soap and, unfairly, his new cologne. His hair’s pulled back into a loose knot, which means you’ll be thinking about his neck for the next several days, and his hands are shoved into his pockets like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here or if this is all some weird fever dream conjured by too much emotional growth.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry I’m late. Alexei stopped me to ask if I’ve ever seen Fast & Furious. I told him I lived through World War II. That seemed to confuse him.”

You snort. Loudly. You can’t help it. He looks good. Like really good. Like you might actually explode from how good.

“I like that you wore the hoodie,” you say casually.

Bucky gives a soft, knowing huff. “You said you were gonna steal it.”

“And I will. Just not yet. That’s how crime works. It’s about the long game.”

“Ah,” he says, and steps a little closer. Just enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re playing the long con. I’ll keep my eye on you.”

You hum. “You always do.”

And that—that gets him. A flicker in his gaze, like you’ve reached into his chest and plucked a string that hasn’t been played in years.

You walk beside him, shoulder to shoulder, down the corridor toward the basement (Because of course he offered to drive you both there. Just normal courtship things.)

You glance over at him while he’s not looking, which is stupid, because he catches you doing it, and you both spend the next fifteen seconds pretending to be very, very interested in a wall.

And then, because your chest is still fluttery and your thoughts are ricocheting off each other like marbles in a tin can, you say, “This is kind of a date, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just gives you this slow, assessing look like he’s not sure you meant to say that out loud but he’s not going to let you take it back.

“Is that okay?” he asks, and God—his voice. It’s too soft for someone who once jumped off a plane with a metal arm and a death wish.

“Yeah,” you say, and then a little quieter: “I kind of hoped it was.”

He exhales, and it feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding for a long, long time.

By the time you arrive, the sky’s a bruised lavender and the city’s beginning to blur into itself—just warm lights and strangers and the thrill of getting to be someone normal, even just for a night.

You don’t touch in the theater, not really, but your pinkies brush once on the armrest and neither of you move away.

He keeps glancing over during the trailers. You pretend not to notice. You are failing at pretending not to notice.

About halfway through the movie—some retro explosion-fest with muscle cars and quippy dialogue—Bucky leans over and murmurs, “You ever think about what it’d be like? If things were different?”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the screen. “All the time.”

He nods. Doesn’t speak again until the credits roll.

The ride after the movie is quiet in the way that matters—no tension, no fidgeting, no pressure to fill the silence. Just the engine hum of Bucky’s ancient, well-kept vintage Chevy Caprice Classic purring down the long stretch of road skirting the edge of the river, the windows cracked enough to let the warm summer night in.

You’ve kicked off your shoes. Your bare feet are propped on the dashboard, toes catching the wind as it blows through the window. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t tease, just occasionally glances over, like the sight of you there—tired, content, glowing under the streetlights—is a detail he wants to memorize.

There’s something playing low on the radio.

The kind of music that doesn't ask to be noticed. The kind you feel in your chest before you recognize it. Some folk-rock track he said reminded him of childhood. It’s mostly soft guitar and a voice that strains a little, rough around the edges.

Like Bucky himself, in a way.

You’re half turned in your seat, knees tucked toward him now, body loose and drowsy from the movie and the soda and the way he drove out of the city like he wanted to keep the night going just a little longer. Just the two of you, headlights carving out a path in the dark.

“Didn’t think you’d actually be free,” you say eventually, voice low and soft against the static buzz of the speakers.

The city lights slip past the windows in blurs of orange and white. Bucky keeps his eyes on the road, fingers loose on the wheel, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker of amusement he tries to smother and fails.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You shrug, adjusting the seatbelt that’s pressing into your collarbone. “Yelena’s been watching me like I’m some kind of long-con puzzle box. She's been grilling me because she suspects something.”

Bucky glances over. “She always suspects something.”

“Yeah, but this is different. She keeps giving me these looks. The kind where her eyebrows do that thing—you know the thing. The judgment arch.”

“I know the thing,” He laughs under his breath, almost fond. “She interrogated me once. Full eye contact. No blinking. Had a protein bar in one hand and a knife in the other. I told her we were just friends. She said I looked guilty and walked off muttering in Russian.”

“She’s not wrong,” you murmur. “You do look guilty.”

Bucky glances at you then, briefly, and there’s something tender in it. Something quiet and unspoken that makes your breath catch.

“You ever gonna tell her?” he asks.

You shrug again, watching the way his hand rests lazily on the wheel. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like if I tell her, it makes it real. Like we have to explain it to the world or something. What this is.”

Bucky is quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Do you not want it to be real?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I do. I—God, Bucky, I do.”

And it comes out sharper than you mean it to. Raw. Open.

You breathe in, steadying yourself. “I just… didn’t expect it. Us.”

He nods slowly, the lights from passing lampposts dragging across his face in quiet intervals. “Me neither.”

The conversation dips again. Not into silence, but into stillness. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from either of you. You drive past a bridge lit up gold and pale blue, and Bucky takes a left without saying anything, veering off onto a side road that winds through the trees.

He doesn’t ask if it’s okay. You don’t need him to.

You know where he’s going. There’s a little overlook near the riverbank. He parked there once after a mission when you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t talk much that night—just sat on the hood of his car with his jacket slung over your shoulders, watching the ripples in the dark water and letting the space between you breathe.

That was probably when it started for you.

Not the affection. That came later. But the noticing.

You noticed the way he always offered you the front seat. Not because of some outdated gender rule, but because he liked knowing you were close, where he could see you.

You noticed how he remembered the smallest details—that you don’t like popcorn with butter, that certain elevator music makes you anxious, that you hate being touched when you’re overwhelmed but that sometimes, when things are quiet, you lean into him like you need the weight of another person just to feel solid again.

And Bucky—he noticed you back.

He noticed the way you never let anyone else carry your gear, even if you were limping. The way you took your tea, always too sweet. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t looking—like you were trying to memorize him just in case.

It wasn’t some grand, cinematic romance. No slow-motion montage or chance meeting. It was familiarity that grew roots. Soft moments. Shared silence. His hand brushing your shoulder in the hallway. You handing him a granola bar mid-mission without speaking. Late nights watching reruns of old sitcoms and never talking about the fact that you’d started falling asleep on his chest.

So no, you didn’t see it coming.

But it’s here now.

And it’s real.

The car slows to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires. You’re at the overlook. Trees arch overhead like a cathedral, and the river reflects the starlight in soft ribbons of silver and blue. Bucky puts the car in park and lets the engine idle for a second, then turns it off.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him, watching his profile in the dark. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth. The steady breath.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” you say, almost too quietly.

Bucky looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you haven’t yet,” he says simply. “And trust me… I’ve been waiting for someone to ruin me for a long time. If it was gonna be you, it would’ve happened by now.”

You laugh a little. Just a breath. “That’s comforting, in a weird way.”

“I can be weirdly comforting.”

“You’re also kind of weirdly beautiful in this lighting,” you murmur.

He huffs a breath. “Don’t start with me.”

“I’m serious.”

You reach out without thinking, fingertips brushing over his hand, the one still resting on the gearshift. His skin is warm. He turns his hand under yours, lets your fingers tangle.

“I don’t need a label,” you say softly. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you. The way you look at me sometimes like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

“Even if I am,” you whisper, “I think I’d still want to be yours.”

His thumb drags across your knuckle.

And then, so quiet it feels like a prayer, “I’m yours.”

It hits like a wave, and you lean forward before you even fully realize it. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rising to your cheek like it’s instinct. The kiss is slow, deliberate, full of worship. He tastes like peppermint and something older, something steadier—like all the pieces of him that have survived everything.

When you pull back, he’s still holding your face.

You look at each other for a long time.

And then he exhales. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, dizzy with it. “So are you.”

“No,” he says. “Not like this.”

You shake your head, leaning in again, resting your forehead against his.

“Let’s ruin each other super carefully, then,” you whisper.

And in the soft dark, beneath the quiet hush of river water and trees swaying in the breeze, Bucky smiles. Really smiles.

It’s a little after midnight when you finally pull into the Watchtower’s underground garage, the low hum of the engine tapering off into silence as Bucky turns the key and the lights shut down with a mechanical click. You’re both bathed in the amber glow of one overhead bulb, flickering slightly, like even the building itself knows something’s shifted.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, hand still resting on the steering wheel, jaw set like he’s trying very hard not to think about the way you kissed him forty minutes ago. The way you looked at him like you could see through all the years, all the damage, all the armor.

You shift in your seat, just slightly. The air inside the car feels too thick now. Like it’s trying to hold something in.

“I don’t really wanna go upstairs yet,” you say quietly.

He turns to you slowly, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, it’ll startle the moment away.

“No?” His voice is soft.

You shake your head. “Feels like… if I go up there, it'll just go back to being complicated.”

The corners of his mouth tug faintly. “It was already complicated.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But it was ours. Down here, in this car, it’s just… you and me.”

That gets him. He exhales—sharp, quiet—and leans back in the seat, tilting his head against the headrest. “I know this shouldn’t be happening.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, eyes tracking the shape of his throat, the slight movement as he swallows. “But you’re still here.”

He doesn’t argue.

You reach for him before you fully make the decision to, your hand slipping over his where it rests on his thigh. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. Just turns his palm up, lets your fingers fit between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. It feels terrifyingly natural.

“Do you ever wish it was simpler?" you ask.

“All the time,” he murmurs. “But then you say things like… ‘I still want to be yours,’ and suddenly I don’t care if it’s complicated. I just don’t want to stop hearing you say shit like that.”

You look up at him. “You like when I get sappy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I like when you stop pretending you don’t feel this just as much as I do.”

You try to speak, but it catches—whatever it is you were about to say, it burns too hot and too true in your throat.

Instead, you murmur, “Can I be close to you?”

His expression softens, eyes going molten at the edges. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He shifts then, turns in his seat so he’s facing you fully, one arm draped across the back of yours. There’s a beat of silence. Just you and him and the soft buzz of the garage light.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, and you do—you climb into his lap with the ease of someone who’s done it in a hundred dreams and only just now been given permission. His arms go around your waist like muscle memory. Your knees bracket his hips and the center of you settles onto him like a promise, and suddenly you’re aware of every inch of where your bodies meet.

You settle into his lap slowly, deliberately, like drawing out the moment might make it last longer—like you can stretch this pocket of time between responsibility and reality into something suspended. His hands find their place on your waist without hesitation, fingers splayed wide and warm through the fabric of your shirt. You feel him everywhere. Beneath you. Around you. Like gravity, and heat, and home.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s committing it to memory. “God, you always make it so hard to walk away.”

“Were you planning to?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His mouth twitches. “I thought about it. Once.”

“And?”

“And then you made that face at breakfast,” he says, mock-serious. “The one where you’re pretending to like the instant eggs Alexei made even though they taste like damp cardboard.”

You snort. “Those eggs were an act of war.”

“And you smiled at Yelena when she called Walker a fascist with a Fitbit.”

“That was funny!”

“You smiled at me right after.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, feigning scandal. “Not a smile. How dare I.”

He hums. “Yeah. That was it. I was doomed.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “So… the smile got you. Not the fact that I once patched you up in a broom closet after you got impaled and you asked if I wanted to grab tea like we weren’t both bleeding.”

“That was charming,” he says. “I like a woman who can multitask.”

You giggle into his throat, his pulse fluttering beneath your lips.

You don’t kiss. At least, not for a minute. You just sit there, breathing the same air, his forehead pressed lightly to yours, his hands splayed wide across your back like he’s holding onto something fragile.

It’s only when his thumb brushes the curve of your spine, slow and reverent, that you lean in. The kiss is soft—tentative, almost chaste.

But then your fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls, and he groans, deep in his throat, and just like that the kiss turns urgent, unsteady.

His hands slide under your shirt, not rushed, not desperate—just warm and sure, like he’s learning the shape of you by heart. And you let him, because something about the way he touches you feels safe, even here in the shadows..

When he pulls back, his breathing’s ragged, his pupils blown. He looks at you like you’re the center of something vast and unknowable.

“You—fuck. You mean everything to me.”

You press your mouth to his jaw, his throat, the corner of his mouth. “You wanna show me?"

His hand cups your face.

And your answer isn’t a word. It’s the way you lean into him. The way you kiss him, tongue tracing the seam of his mouth and then catching his bottom lip between your teeth, pulling and drawing a strangled groan from him. It's messy, it's wet, and oh—you can feel him harden up like a diamond underneath you.

He exhales, "Fuck, fuck, sweetheart."

You can feel him shift, desperately trying to get any sort of friction through his jeans, pressing against your core in the process while your mouth falls open in a silent whine. His hand that was under your shirt moves downward, cupping your ass and bringing you even closer.

"You're always so impatient," you whisper, your hands coming around to the nape of his neck and pulling softly at his hair, the way you've been dreaming of doing since he picked you up at the Watchtower lobby.

Bucky—well, he just can't have that. Smack! He slaps your ass once, softly, as a warning. "And you're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."

You moan, low and tortured. "I do. What are you gonna do about it?"

Smack! Another one that sends you deeper into his arms, grinding against that hard tent in his pants, rolling your hips as you do so, because you're nothing if not evil.

"Not so tough, are you?"

You roll your eyes, pushing forward to kiss him again before he can say any more one-liners, savoring the way he tastes, still faintly like popcorn butter and mint and something intoxicating. An idea pops into your head.

Fingers on his jaw, looking over him while he stares at you, wide-eyed, mesmerized, hair a mess, cheeks just slightly flushed, those blue stormcloud eyes blown wide. You smile, lopsided and mischievous. "Open up, darling."

His mouth parts, and you—you let yourself drool, watching the shiny, gossamer strand fall onto his eager tongue.

"Oh god," Bucky's on fucking fire, grinning up at you all smug and satisfied and like he just can't get enough. "You taste good, baby."

You hum.

While he's busy, busy mapping more kisses along your collarbone, you take the opportunity to go down, down, down, unzipping him as quietly and quickly as you can before sneaking a hand into his boxers. You grip him, tight, relishing in the way he shudders.

"What are you doing—oh," His head falls back, and your eyes can't help but track the movement to his Adam's apple, watching him swallow and press his eyes closed.

Your hand is tiny, impossibly small compared to his, but your pace more than compensates, twisting fast and hard while thumbing at the tip. You can feel it, you can feel him, leaking and sobbing and twitching in your hands.

"Slow down, baby, I'm—" He pushes himself up, like he's trying to freeze the moment, his forehead coming to press against yours, but goddammit, you're a woman on a mission. "Fuck, get this—" he pulls at your shirt. "Get this off. Need to make my best girl feel good too."

"Just rip it off, Bucky, I'm kinda busy," Too focused at the task at hand, your hand not breaking its rhythm. "Just give me your sweatshirt after."

Bucky swears. One swift movement though, and it's off, reduced to tatters and thrown to the backseat.

His mouth is on your chest, a graze of his teeth, his breath hot and heavy and your own breath hitches. Still, you stay focused. Trying to push down the heat that's curling in your core while he gets more and more desperate, sucking on an exposed nipple.

"Bucky, my god—"

You squeeze your hand around him tighter on impulse, your thumb grazing his tip just right, and just like that, he comes onto your hand. Gushing white ropes against your skin, while he groans and growls, your name falling off his lips like a prayer.

Bucky—Bucky looks like a mess, chest heaving up and down, looking up at you like you just hung the fucking moon on the sky.

"Damn. That was—that was… wow."

You smile. "Always got the right words, this one."

He shakes his head. "Give me a minute here, I'll start waxing poetic."

His brows furrow then, the clouds over his head passing as soon as it came, then his are hands pawing at the rest of your clothes like the mere existence of them pisses him off. He pulls your pants off with your help, you giggling while he frowns, holding you up and then grabbing them clean off to be discarded in the backseat again. "Nowhere near done yet. Got no idea what's comin' to you."

A cool, metal hand hitches one of your legs closer around his waist and you sigh, breathless, straddling him perfectly. You can feel his cock under you, the way Bucky swipes the head against your cunt, already straining and hard again.

"You're so wet," Bucky remarks, like in a daze. "You been wanting this bad, huh?"

You inhale sharply, still fixated on the way he's so close, his cock rubbing against your clit now. You can't even speak—just nodding along with his words, anything to get him to move.

He laughs, low and tender and his eyes darken just a little bit more. "You got a condom, sweet girl?"

You motion to the passenger seat, where your purse laid like an afterthought. Without breaking eye contact with you, he uses a free hand to rummage through it for a second, until his lip crooks. When he finds it, his eyes shine, ripping the foil packaging with his teeth before raising an eyebrow at you.

"Can you put it on for me?"

God, yes. Of fucking course. You nod, grabbing the condom with shaking fingers until you roll it down onto him, giving it a little squeeze as you do so.

Bucky hums, an innocent and soft noice, before he slots you back where you were. "Whenever you're ready for me, sweetheart."

You take a deep breath. For courage. For strength. For the love of the fucking game.

When you finally, finally sink down on his hard length, it's like every birthday, holiday, and vacation rolled into one. It's always a tight fit, no matter how wet you are, no matter how much you think you've prepared, and it sends a rush down your spine, mouth falling open in a strangled whine. You can hear him panting, muttering, "Tight—so tight for me, always."

Your eyes flutter, until you feel your pelvis hit resistance and you're seated all the way. Deep breath out.

A moment passes, and then you start rolling your hips experimentally, just to adjust to him. Just to get used to the feeling. You groan when he twitches, grip going tighter around your waist.

"Too slow, baby, I need—need you just a little bit faster," He croons softly, begging gently even while his words are laced with something a little less innocent. "Can I help you? Can I bounce you on my cock?"

You love hi–you love it. This. You love when he gets filthy with his words, the way his accent slips out a little bit as he gets more feral, more unhinged, a swipe of his tongue against his lips like he's waiting eagerly for instructions but just can't help himself.

So instead of… unpacking all of that you nod with all the enthusiasm you can muster while slowly losing your mind.

"Yeah? Good girl."

With that, he places both hands on your ass and you take a sharp inhale. Before he moves, before he starts picking you up and fucking you vigorously.

It's rough—every fiber of your being is singing, like you're on fucking fire and Bucky's underneath you putting in the absolute work while you come apart. Your hand slams against the window, smearing the fog that's collected there.

The car's shaking violently at this point, rocking back and forth with the sheer force of his thrusts. You love when he gets like this, all his to do what he pleases with, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of what your body can handle.

He smacks your ass softly, shifting your attention solely back to him. "Eyes on me."

God. It takes everything in you to lift your head, but when you do, it's worth it. His eyes are dilated, fixed on your figure, like he's savoring this—you, on top of him, taking him for all his worth, taking exactly what he's giving you. Takes a look down to fully appreciate the view—your tits bouncing, the imprint of his hands on your waist.

That's all either of you need before his pace gets erratic, more uncontrolled, and it fucking reduces you to near tears, holding onto him for dear life as your orgasm rips into you. Nothing but the sound of his name, "B–Bucky, please, please—"

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I'm—I'm there."

He hisses and then it's another thrust, and another, and you can feel him shake, pumping the condom full until his grip relaxes, until the way he rocks inside of you slows and passes. The car grinds to a halt.

And then it's just you and him, chests panting, breathing softly.

The car is quiet for a while after that.

Both of you shift at some point—but you’re still in the passenger seat, curled in toward Bucky like he’s home, your legs draped over his lap and his fingers idly tracing up and down your thigh beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. His hoodie, actually. You’d tugged it over your head after he discarded of the condom, and now it’s swallowing you whole, soft with wear and warm with him.

The windows are fogged. The car smells faintly of sweat, your perfume, and the clean scent of Bucky’s skin, like cedar and clean linens. The dome light above flickers again, dramatic and unnecessary, like even the architecture of the Watchtower is trying to say, well, well, well.

You tilt your head, nose brushing the line of his jaw. “You okay?”

His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with the kind of quiet you only earn after baring your soul and maybe a little too much skin. He hums low in his throat, one hand still stroking your leg like he’s not ready to let go just yet. “Yeah. Think I’m better than okay.”

You grin, lips curving against his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, then pauses. “Except for the part where I might’ve pulled something in my shoulder trying to fit six feet of me into this damn seat like I’m not built like a military-grade bookshelf.”

You laugh into his chest. “You’re not even that tall.”

“I am, actually.”

“You’re emotionally tall.”

“That feels like slander.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a comma, not a period. Just breathing and the slight shift of his hand under your shirt, splayed warm and protective over your stomach like he’s grounding himself there.

And then, gently: “You sure we didn’t just make everything more complicated?”

You consider this, eyes tracing the condensation on the windshield. “Probably.”

“Wanna do it again anyway?”

You grin, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Absolutely.”

He exhales, amused, and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re a menace.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who—”

But you don’t get to finish, because—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your soul leaves your body.

It’s not the polite kind of tap, either. It’s the I-know-what-you-did-and-I-am-disgusted kind of tap. The tap of someone who has seen things and is about to make it your problem.

You and Bucky both snap toward the driver-side window at the same time.

And there, crouched on top of a different car, nose practically pressed to the glass, is Yelena.

Yelena Belova, in full tactical pajamas, holding a cup of what looks like leftover borscht in a Sentry mug.

Her mouth is a flat line of judgment. Her eyes, wild with betrayal. She says nothing for a beat, just watches you two like she’s making a mental slideshow for court.

And then:

“Disgusting.”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Bucky audibly chokes.

“I knew it,” she hisses, tapping the glass again. “I said—you remember—I said you were acting weird! And what did you do? You gaslit me. You gaslit me, in my own Watchtower!”

“Yelena—”

“No! Do not Yelena me! I am the only one with brain cell in this team. I knew when you started wearing that ugly tinted lip balm.”

“Hey,” you protest weakly. “It’s sheer berry. It’s flattering.”

“It’s horny,” she snaps. “You wore it to breakfast, with a side of guilt! I could smell the shame!”

Bucky is actively trying to sink into the seat, possibly considering tactical ejection. “Uh—maybe we should talk upstairs—”

“Oh, now you want to go upstairs?” Yelena’s voice jumps an octave. “Now that you’ve defiled my sacred parking garage with your filthy, filthy sex aura?”

You blink. “Okay, first of all—”

“And you.” Her glare whips back to you. “You’re not slick! You thought you could sneak him in and out like contraband vodka. I live here. I hear things. You think I don’t know the sound of a stealth boot hitting laminate? I am the stealth boot!”

“Yelena,” Bucky tries again, gently. “We didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t do the voice,” she says, disgusted. “The ‘I’m reformed, I like jazz and feelings now’ voice. You don’t get to ‘soft boy’ your way out of this. I have surveillance footage.”

Your mouth falls open. “You what?”

“I set up a camera in the garage last month because someone kept stealing my protein bars. Guess what I caught instead?” She slurps her soup menacingly. “Unprotected eye contact. Several longing glances. A whispered forehead touch. I saw it all. You’re done.”

“Yelena, come on—”

“No. I have to live with the knowledge that I share a roof with an emotionally constipated ex-assassin who makes out in vehicles like a teenage camp counselor. And you,” she adds, pointing her spoon at you, “owe me one rotisserie chicken. For emotional damages.”

You don’t even try to argue.

Yelena slides down from the other car with the grace of someone who has definitely kicked people through windows, and stomps toward the elevator, yelling over her shoulder: “Don’t think this is over! I’m making a PowerPoint!”

The elevator doors close behind her with a ding.

Silence settles over the car like dust.

You and Bucky stare at each other.

“Think she’ll actually make a PowerPoint?” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I think she’s probably already made three.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, laughing into the curve of his neck, and feel his chest shake beneath you as he starts to laugh too—quiet and real and unguarded.

And despite the threat of presentations and future interrogations, despite the very real possibility that Yelena will drag you both in front of a mock tribunal in front of the others before the week is over—

This?

This still feels worth it.

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