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eroselless · 14 days ago

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holy shit omg

fuckable

pt. ii of suckable summary: you and clark break the "don't fuck your roommate" rule.

tags: 18+, smut (so much smut), roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, slight angst, more mentions of clois past, fwb shenannigans, blowjobs, m!masturbation, accidental voyeurism, finger fucking (m!receiving), pillow humping, there’s a dildo, comeshot, facial, titty humping, big butt!clark, big boobs!clark, big dick!clark, sub!clark

a/n: special thank u to @joeloverture who lets me be a comebrain in her dms 24/7. this fic is 4 u <3

wc: 8.4k

my masterlist - my askbox

It’s been weeks since you first tried to suck all eight inches of Clark Kent’s dick. You still haven’t managed to make it all the way down. You’re not giving up.

“O-okay, mm– don’t choke,” Clark sighs. He’s finally managed to feel comfortable putting his hand in your hair, but only barely. It rests at the crown of your head, not pushing or pulling, just touching. He just wants to touch you.

Your throat contracts uncomfortably as his tip pushes at the back of your throat. You’re really trying your best not to choke on him since he hates that, but it’s difficult to open up. Something about this challenge is so exciting, especially seeing how much Clark enjoys it.

He’s like a puppy. Each time you even begin to suggest the idea of “practicing” again you can see his dick jump in his pants. Clark’s expression is always formed into a shy look, but the shimmer of excited horniness can’t be hidden in the blush of his cheeks and the light of his eyes. He always says “we don’t have to, it’s okay,” but the fact that you want to practice sets him off every time. He’ll scamper off to the couch while shoving his pants down his thighs, usually leaving his boxers on since he likes being teased through the fabric.

It’s exactly what happened earlier tonight. Clark’s boxers lay beside him, of course with a small stain of precome on the front, and his pants are forgotten somewhere on the kitchen floor. You had caught him washing the dishes and something about him being so responsible had your jaw tingling with a need to try fitting him in your mouth again. He’s fully leaned back on the couch now, his eyes trained on the ceiling as he breathes with an open mouth. One hand is still tangled in your hair, but the other one is cupping his own breast. Clark kneads the tit in his fingers, only letting his thumb brush over his nipple when something feels particularly good. You know why this is, and it’s why you’re keeping your hands to yourself as you kneel with his dick enveloped between your lips.

Clark has a problem with coming. Not coming too fast, but too much. And he can’t recover very quickly from it, which is terrible for practicing sucking his dick. Even though he’s around the same size while soft, it goes down much easier which feels like cheating. So you have to keep your hands to yourself, or at least he’s asked you to. It’s kind of okay, but you really miss the feeling of his skin in your hands, the weight of his pretty tits.

At least you get to watch.

His skin looks glowier than usual tonight. It’s hotter than usual, so there’s a chance he’s just sweating, but his breasts are glistening in the yellow light of the lamp. The darker hair that’s smattered between his tits is slightly sweaty and you wish you could pull off him and lick at it, but then you’d lose progress. As if this is even about that anymore.

Finally your throat opens a little more and you manage to fit another half inch down. It makes your eyes roll back for a second, the pleasant feeling of a full mouth and throat shooting a thrill up your spine. You’ve mostly been using your hands to measure how far down you get on him, starting with both your hands wrapped around almost all his firth, then removing fingers as you ease down. Tonight you’ve finally reached the last three fingers wrapped around him.

“S-slow,” Clark whines softly, his hips desperately trying not to lift off the couch. “Slow, you’re good, you’re doing so good.”

Everything in you wants to push yourself further, to say fuck it and just suck him down your throat and bury your nose in that delicious little patch of hair at his base, but you won’t. He wants it slow, and you’re not even supposed to be getting him off. You’re proving a point.

“Geez,” Clark says. He seems to be grateful for the lull in your practice as you try to get a hold of yourself. “I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten… that far.”

Stupid Clark and his mouth. Each time you do this you tell yourself you cannot be getting yourself off while you suck his dick, but the heel of your foot always ends up pressed against your crotch. Your foot drags underneath you as you try to stealthily slide it to where you need it most. He hasn’t caught you doing this before, or at least he hasn’t said anything about it previously. Your eyes flutter again as the heel of your foot finally presses to your core, and your fingers press into his thighs. It feels like just enough to keep you satisfied until you’re done here and can go back to your room to fuck yourself properly.

Your breath finally evens out as much as it can with over half of Clark in your throat and he rubs your head gently, telling you again that you’re doing well.

“So good, you’re getting further everytime,” he sighs faintly. His head is tilted down to look at you while his hand rests on his belly. “Wish I could repay you for this in some way. Mmh–”

A hot rush crawls across your cheeks as Clark says that. He has mentioned “repaying” you once or twice, but it’s not… something you can allow. Sucking his dick is one thing, spreading your legs for him is another. It can’t go farther than it has, not when he’s still so freshly out of a relationship, so you don’t reply. You keep your mouth full of him and just enjoy the weight of his thick cock in your mouth, let it drown out the noise of what this could mean, or accidentally lead to, and focus on him.

—

The normalcy after these practice sessions used to feel comfortable and normal. At some point last week though, Clark had kissed the top of your head before he had ducked out of the bathroom and gone to bed. He had said “good night,” and pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you brushed your teeth. And you just had to stand there, foamy mouthed from toothpaste and throat still raw from his dick, and accept that this is what you’ve created.

And it isn’t going away.

Clark isn’t home a lot of the time still, though you do know he has time off coming up. You’re kind of banking on him not being home during that time too, maybe going back to see his parents in Smallville, and leaving you alone. The fact that Clark is so easily affectionate with you is starting to make you scared. All at once you want to suck his dick as far down your throat as you can, but also you’re desperately trying to pull away from him. It’s terrifying that this big man is suddenly under your thumb, silently whining for more even though he never says anything at all. Is it you that’s needy, or is it him? You don’t know. This isn’t worth figuring out, you’re roommates that experiment with his huge body. It’s fine.

Everything about this would be fine if he wasn’t in a long term relationship just seven months ago. You might even be willing to break the roommate rule of “absolutely no fucking.” The idea that you could be Clark’s rebound is something weirdly scary, preventing you from letting yourself admit that you might have a crush on him. Putting any feelings into this only sets the rug under your feet, allowing a chance for it to be pulled right out. Fumbling Clark after seeing his polite boy attitude and sucking on the anaconda in his pants would feel like… like you don’t know. Every time you think about it you feel dumber.

What you do know about Clark and Lois Lane is scarce. You know that they broke up amicably, that they were together for almost a year, and that they’re managing to maintain a friendship. Clark has previously said that a lot of their friendship is solely so Jimmy doesn’t feel awkward and so things don’t get ugly at work. But if he isn’t talking about her more than this, then what is being left unsaid?

You don’t want to care, but can you help it?

Something seriously must have been wrong with Clark for things to go wrong. The hurt on his face the first time he mentioned her told you that it was him that definitely screwed things fully over. You can’t imagine what, though. Clark doesn’t seem very argumentative from what you can tell, and with how quiet he gets about the breakup you can’t imagine that he cheated. Did he have some evil alter-ego that ruined everything? In all the safety you feel in Clark and his ways and his energy, something feels like it’s squirreled away. It must be Lois, is what you’ve concluded with.

Not that it should matter.

It shouldn’t pop into your mind ever. You shouldn’t wonder if he’s thinking of her when his eyes are closed and you’re massaging his dick in your mouth, you shouldn’t wonder if he wishes she was there when he opens his eyes to look down at you, and you definitely shouldn’t wonder if he ever called her baby. He’s never called you baby. Only your name. (is Clark a “baby” guy?)

This wondrous jealousy only festers into something uglier as Clark’s week off approaches. He keeps talking about how much he feels like he’ll miss work and his friends. You know he loves his job, but that’s where he sees Lois. You’re frustrated with him and yourself at the same time. It feels like you’re upset that he has another best friend, not even that there’s another woman but just the idea of him missing someone else is overwhelming. He isn’t even yours. You have the possessiveness of a petulant child, though you know that Clark is so much more than a toy you don’t want to share. He’s a friend. What would the loss of Clark feel like now? After you’ve lived with him, experienced him, and found yourself accustomed to his presence in so many ways, how could you survive the loss of a friend and somewhat-lover like him?

—

It’s making you push him away.

You don’t realize it at first since he’s out of the house a fair bit still, but you’re not acting on your wants anymore. The amount of time you spend in your room when he’s home isn’t just noticeable, it’s agitating him. He keeps knocking whenever he gets home from work, or from going out with Jimmy, and asking if you’re okay. You keep telling him yes, you’re busy, you’re on the phone. So long as you’re too busy to pay attention to him, you don’t have to look at him. Even if you are thinking of him the whole time you’re laying in bed, aching to have him in your mouth again.

Of course, you could just talk to him. You could sit him down and set boundaries for this weird thing you have. But then there’s more questions. It never ends.

If he were over Lois, you aren’t prepared to take on a relationship. You’re terrified of the idea that Clark might want you to be his something and then there’s a whole other world of problems that could come with that. Dating your roommate is a terrible idea.

If he weren’t over Lois though, and you are just a rebound, then… what? Maybe you’d cry, feel angry, and tell him that you’re never sucking his dick again. Well, you don’t want that either. You do want to keep sucking his dick. But you don’t want to be his rebound.

You wallow in your room for hours, listening to him as he comes home and leaves again and again. There is no reassurance for your indecisiveness, only guilt for avoiding him for so long.

Clark is really hurting over this. He hasn’t told you, obviously, since you haven’t spoken to him yet this week, but he keeps asking if you need anything through the barrier of your bedroom door. The times you’ve left your room while he’s home he hasn’t said much, just stared at you with this look of “what did i do?” And the apartment is so annoyingly clean. Never a dish in the sink, never a speck of dust on the sidetables, and the shower is spick and span. It only serves as a reminder of what you’re pushing away. It hurts so much you wonder if you’re really even protecting yourself from harm.

—

Friday, the day before his time off begins, you decide to slink out of your hole of guilt and jealousy.

It only took a full week of neglecting all of your roommate duties, showing up to your job with only half your brain in your head, and completely ignoring Clark, to realize that ignorance is not bliss. Clark is too nice to hurt like this, and you don’t want to screw up your friendship with him just because you’re scared that you’ll be a rebound. You knew what you were getting into when you offered to put him in your mouth, consciously or not. Clark wasn’t a stranger with a history you didn’t know about, you knew. It’s time to face the music and let this mess ride.

So you decide on starting dinner a little earlier. It’s Friday and you know he might be tired, and he’ll be hungry. God can that man eat.

You pull out the frozen dumplings from the freezer at around 5pm. He gets off work around 5ish usually, so hopefully by the time he’s home you’ll have your “i’m sorry clark” meal ready for him. He’s been in love with these lately and you can tell. The packaging has been filling up the garbage for the past month because each bag only has “approximately 22” per bag, and Clark can eat the whole bag if he wants. It used to baffle you, but after seeing what he looks like beneath his clothing, it’s no longer confusing. His body puts that food away good.

The bag turns out to be about three quarters of the way full,which should be enough, so you pour in all the dumplings. Hot water scalds your forearm for a moment when they splash in, but it only hurts for a second. You can’t believe you’re doing this anyways. Clark won’t be mad at you, but he’ll want to talk about stuff. There’s no game plan for his questions, you’ll just answer honestly and hope that he’ll be able to look at you the same.

A bubbling noise is the only sound in the whole apartment as you cook. You end up boiling some vegetables and microwaving some fried rice that Clark must have made while you were hate-hibernating. The dumplings dance in the bubbles of the boiling water as you watch them. It smells good in the kitchen, something that would normally cause you to be hungry, but right now you just feel nervous. You’re either about to lose the dick of your life, or the friend of your life, or maybe both.

But there’s no time to overthink.

Clark comes stumbling through the door at 5:10, a surprisingly early showup considering he typically misses his bus.

It doesn’t seem like he realizes you’re out of your room at first. You listen to the soft sound of him slipping off his work shoes, hanging up his shoulder bag on the hook, and slipping his ancient laptop out to put away in his room. He’s breathing a little heavily but his steps are still gentle, like he’s afraid of being too noisy.

Finally, he steps into the main part of the apartment, and you turn to face him.

He looks surprised to see you, but he also looks… like Clark. Not even Clark, but clark, with a lowercase c. The guy looks exhausted, not like bags under his eyes tired, but the-life-has-been-sucked-out-of-him tired. Dead behind the eyes. And he’s still so handsome.

Usually Clark wears a suit to work, with ties varying in plain colours. He says that it’s important to him to feel professional and “in uniform.” He’s super anal about this uniform too, you swear he’s the only man you’ve ever seen iron his clothes. But today, he’s a little more casual. There’s still a dress shirt and a tie, but rather than a suit jacket, he’s opted for a dark grey sweater vest. Not like a dorky one, but a loose one that hangs on his frame enough to conceal his hugeness yet exemplify it at the same time. He looks cute, but hurt.

“Hey,” he says. It isn’t all the way normal, slightly hesitant. You give him a smile that feels weird. The dumplings are sitting on a big plate behind you, the sauce packet laying beside it on the countertop. “You’re feeling better I guess?”

You nod. Clark nods, placing his laptop on the dining room table.

“You wanna eat dinner together?” He asks as he slips into his designated seat. You nod again, and there’s the fond smile you’ve been missing. Clark’s cheeks push up his face, his eyes squinting up, and those dimples. God, he makes everything in you a conflicted mess.

—

Dinner is quiet. Clark takes his time eating all but five dumplings on the plate, leaving them for you, and then scarfs down the rice and veggies. He seems really happy to be sitting with you again, but there’s still a certain amount of mystery in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to eat, too afraid that the mystery you’re seeing behind his eyes is the same one you’re trying to solve.

He’s zoning out, staring at his plate, when you speak.

“Sorry I um… was like that, for a bit,” you say stiltedly. You’re kind of hoping he just lets this go and also doesn’t want to think about it. This could be so easy if neither of you thought about it.

Clark looks up, almost alarmedly, and shakes his head. “What? No– no I don’t, it’s fine that you needed a bit. We all get into slumps sometimes,” he reassures quickly. His hand is fidgeting with his napkin, scrumpling the paper up in his big palm. “I’m not like this,” he gestures around his tired face, “because of that. I’m glad you’re feeling better, honest.”

Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and breathes deep. His chest fills, then releases, and his fingers start to tear at the edges of the napkin.

“It’s Lois, at work,” he admits.

Oh. Your jaw clenches but you try to look like any normal concerned friend would rather than a jealous roommate whose mouth he occasionally fucks.

“I don’t like talking about her,” he prefaces, “because I think she knows too much about me. I was really, really, in love with her. Like spectacularly in love, and so I just was vulnerable all the time and she knows everything about me ever. And it was fine when we were together but…” He turns his head to the side, raising his arm to rest his cheek in his hand. “But now we aren’t together. And she still knows everything about me. And she still doesn’t love me.”

Again, Clark never talks about her. All you previously knew, was that they were together, and now they were not, and that they are co-workers still. You probably could have figured that Clark is the type to fall hard and fast considering everything about him, but now it’s coming from the horse’s mouth.

“She just keeps talking to me, y’know? And she just knows me. The things she says, the inside jokes, the knowing looks,” he shakes his head, sighing again. “Lois knows me, but she never made me feel seen. I saw her and it was like cupid had struck me or whatever, but when she saw me she just saw me. I just wish someone could see me, like how I saw her.”

His arm falls back down to rest on the table and he turns his face back to you. Clark looks significantly less dead inside now but more vulnerable than ever.

“I think I just need to sleep this off, right? I have the next week off so I won’t have to feel her eyes on me for a bit,” he decides. You feel bad for not saying anything but you’re honestly speechless. He’s just resolved your insecurities about his ex without even knowing you were insecure in the first place. “You’ll probably be the only one I see,” he says.

—

He told you to leave the dishes from dinner in the sink, and that he’ll do them when he gets up tomorrow morning, but you need to do something with your hands. You’re not shaking, or really feeling anything in particular, but your problem was just… resolved. It’s no longer an anxiety that Clark might be hanging on to Lois. If anything, it seems like he’s tired of being around his ex constantly.

The soap from the dishes rings up around your wrists as you scrub the plates. It’s thrilling to know you’re not really a rebound, but things are still somewhat in the air. You should have brought it up at dinner, you should have asked him if there’s boundaries and rules that you two should be talking about, but you didn’t. He looked too comfortable, finally opening up to you after he’d stuffed himself full of dumplings, maybe subconsciously you didn’t want to ruin his moment of vulnerability.

You ponder on it as you scrub each dish, spoon, and fork. There’s nowhere you really want to, or don’t want to, take this. A serious relationship doesn’t sound like a good idea, but an idea of what this is overall would surely alleviate the headache you and him have created. You’re sure he feels the same way, you know he must.

The last fork is placed in the drying rack, and then you scrub around the edge of the sink and stove, then wring out the sponge of soapy water. And then you turn to the direction of Clark’s door. He had showered after dinner, then scampered into his room. You didn’t turn around just in case he was only wearing a towel. No distractions right now, focus.

Last month you would have knocked on his door, y’know, before you knew what he looked like naked. You’re pretty far past that now, so tonight you just creak open his room.

Your eyes find him before your mouth gets the chance to open.

Clark’s bed is to the side of his room that’s closer to the window. It’s a double size bed, and you’re pretty sure his feet usually hang off the end if he stretches out fully. His bedside lamp isn’t on for once, and his book is abandoned on the floor.

Clark is placed in the center of his bed, facedown. His knees are drawn up and one of his pillows is folded in half and shoved beneath his lower abdomen, where he rocks into the material with shaky thrusts of his hips.

But you can’t focus on that, it’s not the focus right now.

The focus right now is that one of Clark’s thick arms is reached back, sprawling down his muscular back, guiding his fingers into himself. He’s stretched out on two of his fingers right now, but it looks like a third is what he wants. His pointer finger keeps bending, trying to find its way into him, but he just isn’t ready yet.

You should speak up, or maybe close the door quietly and leave him to get himself off. You can’t.

It’s entrancing. You had no clue that Clark was into this, he never mentioned it. Yes he was always more submissive but you didn’t know the extent of it.

His fingers push particularly deep and he whimpers, hips rutting so his cock (assumedly) rubs against the soft material of his pillow. Pervertedly, you wish there was more light in this room. You want to see how the soft rim of his asshole stretches around his fingers, want to see the sweat that’s surely rolling down the indent of his back, and you also really, really, want to be the person whose fingers are in him. Clark’s pace is slow, but he’s pushing pretty deep into himself. The flex of his wrist is fluid and you can tell he’s curling his fingers, searching for the right spot.

You can’t leave the room, not yet. You wonder if this is how he usually gets off, if this is normal.

Your eyes leave the sight of his pretty ass for one second, glancing to the windowsill to the right of him. There’s a pretty sizable bottle of lube placed there, and it’s only half full. Okay, maybe this is how he usually gets off.

Clark is totally lost in the feeling of his fingers. He seems to find the right spot inside himself and begins to thrust his fingers faster, curling them harder. You’re familiar with his moans by now, but it’s so much hotter tonight with how he keeps trying to hold back. His hips rut into the pillow desperately, the seesaw of pleasure between his fingers and the pillow is driving him wild. Unfortunately you can only see the mess of curls on his head since his face is buried in the mattress.

His fingers continue to push into his hole eagerly, each thrust forcing his hips to jump forward into the pillow. You know how close he is just off his sounds, and you aren’t wrong. Clark suddenly jams his fingers into himself as far as he can and then begins to hump the pillow wildly as he comes onto the material. It’s like he’s purposefully overstimulating himself, panting and groaning, and… whining. He’s always whiny, but this breathiness is different. He’s puffing out a word, your name, as he humps into his pillow and then back against his fingers.

Fuck.

Now is when you back out, shutting his door quieter than you opened it, and then rushing back to your room.

Clark is fucking himself to the thought of you. He looked so miserably good as he fucked himself on his fingers, his pretty cheeks spread to make room for those big hands that have been in your hair time and time again. He let his cock be neglected on purpose, poor boy. Maybe he was thinking about you beneath him, stroking it, or maybe he was thinking about you behind him, thrusting into his sensitive hole. Oh god, oh god.

You’re laying flat on your back in your bed when you hear his door creak open. He has no clue you saw what he was doing. The tap in the bathroom runs as he washes his hands and you listen to his shaky steps when he makes his way back to his room and shuts the door again.

In your mind, the roommate rule was about not fucking Clark, that being Clark not being in you. It never crossed your mind that you might want to be the one in him.

—

Getting to sleep was hard, but getting up is almost harder.

The last conversation Clark had with you last night was about how he wanted to feel seen, and you’ve definitely seen him now.

Yup. Seen him with his fingers knuckle deep in his butt. Great. It will be very easy to look him in the face today.

You manage to get out of bed at around 10am, hoping that Clark is out of the house. The apartment is quiet when you cautiously step out into the main room. You’re safe. Safe from having to face Clark who fucks his butt and thinks of you. Clark who has unleashed a new worm in your brain, alongside the one already in there that begs you to suck him off all the time.

Clark who is walking through the front door right now, not taking his shoes off because his arms are full with two very full, paper, grocery bags.

There’s no fucking breathing room for you in this apartment. Shit, he’s right there, he’s right there and you know what he did.

“Hey, you’re up!” Clark says cheerfully. He places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, turning his back to you. “The early bird catches the worm, you know.”

He says… something after that about french toast, or breakfast. Something vaguely breakfast related. You don’t know, you can’t focus because Clark is wearing shorts today. Not lazy basketball shorts, or cargo shorts, but athletic shorts. Maybe a 5 inch inseam, but they look like a 4 inch inseam on him, and they’re hugging his ass. They’re not meant to hug his ass, but the fabric can’t really contain it all.

He turns.

“You hungry?”

Clark’s wearing a plain grey tee, the printing is rubbed off on it. Did he run to the store? There’s sweat under his boobs, he has fucking underboob sweat stains. You start feeling dizzy and there’s a weird pull in your pussy, like an ache that’s guiding you.

It’s been a shitty week. It’s been a shitty week of being separated from him, and not having him under you and in your mouth, and wondering if he’s secretly in love with his ex. And now all you want is to fuck him stupid, especially after seeing what he was doing last night.

Clark tilts his head at you. “Hello? Earth to–”

“Go to your room and take your clothes off.”

The words themselves are demanding, but your voice is strained. A feeling like stress is balled up in your chest and you’re worried it’s not making you as authoritative as you can be. But Clark is who he is, and he loves to lay down and take it deep down, so he listens.

The grocery bags are abandoned on the counter as he quickly walks to his room, mumbling something like “yes ma’am,” under his breath as he goes.

You watch from the kitchen, into his open bedroom door, as he shuts his curtains and then starts to strip. His shirt is first, tossed onto the floor, and then his slutty little shorts follow, being tugged down at the same time his boxers are. He isn’t hard yet, but he’s still massive.

Clark looks at you as he sits down on his bed, thighs a little bit apart. His chest is puffing a little rapidly. You’re sure you’ve taken him off guard, but he’s not saying no. He looks deliciously willing.

With confident anxiousness you stalk toward him. The door is shut with your foot as you eagerly approach him, shoving your own pajama bottoms down to leave them in a heap. You’re down to your undies in a moment, just that and your sleepshirt.

“I want you on your back,” you say firmly. Clark’s eyes go wide behind his glasses and he nods, making himself comfortable in the center of his bed.

You walk around the right side of his bed, then grab the pillow that he was using last night. If you were to look to your left you’d see the stained pillowcase in the laundry bin there. Holding the bare pillow, you kneel on the bed and awkwardly crawl to the space between his legs.

“Wanna try something,” is how you preface this. Your hand comes down, touching the side of his hip and tapping it. He lifts up right away, letting you place the pillow beneath his lower back and the top of his bum.

He’s looking up at you with the same nervousness you saw the first time you experimented with him. Clark’s eyes are curious as he watches you position him, but he’s pliant like always. It doesn’t matter to him what happens here, he knows he can trust you to make him feel good. So far, for him, this is fairly familiar territory.

That changes quickly.

You lean down and start to press kisses from the tip of his cock downward, lower and lower, until you’re at his balls. Gingerly, you press kisses to them. He’s extremely sensitive there and you don’t want to hurt him, but they’re in your way. One hand reaches to stroke him gently while the other lifts his balls up and out of the way. He tenses at this, a little nervous about what you’re doing, but then you begin to dot kisses along his inner thighs.

“Looked so nice in your shorts,” you say quietly, still stroking him at an easy pace. Your lips start to press more lingering kisses into the hair that grows thicker toward his most sensitive area. “You’ve got such a nice butt, Clark. You know that?”

You pull back after saying that, just enough to catch the nervous look on his face. The hand that was jerking him comes off his cock, then slides along his hipbone, down his leg, and pushes his thighs further apart.

Then, you lay your eyes on his hole. It still looks a little tender from last night, when he was furiously fingering himself to the thought of you doing this exactly. You watch as his pucker tightens shyly, and he gasps. Your name falls off his lips again. You press another kiss to his inner thigh, this time even closer to his hole.

“I saw you last night,” you confess. Clark is breathing so heavily now and his body is growing hotter with shame. A stutter fails to help him explain himself, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I watched you,” you continue, “and I really liked what I saw. I want to try, Clark,” you admit. Your own chest is heaving with nervousness too. The pair of you are just wrecks over the idea of you in him, indulging in the perversions the both of you yearn for.

“Yes,” Clark breathes out, voice almost cracking.

You didn’t even have to ask. He’s already said yes.

Clark reaches over the side of the bed, opening his bedside drawer and grabbing the lube. He extends the bottle out to you and you take it easily. His legs prop up in a better position, allowing even easier access to himself.

The first finger slides in with no resistance. You don’t know how late it was last night when you ended up walking in on him fucking himself. It took you a long time to do the dishes since you were so busy pondering what the pair of you talked about, so it might have been less than 12 hours since something was last inside him. It makes it feel even more natural to be doing this.

You make yourself comfortable between his legs, kneeling so that your legs won’t fall asleep under you, and so that you’ll be able to see his face. His eyes are closed tightly shut as he takes in the feeling of your finger opening him up, sweat starting to sprout beneath the hair on his chest.

“Good, does that feel good?” You ask. Clark nods, one of his hands balled into a fist as the other one lays flat, palm up, and twitching slightly.

His hole is desperate around your digit, so warm and eager as it sucks you in over and over again. He already feels like he’s ready for more and you test it, pressing your ring finger to his hole when your middle finger slides out enough. Clark nods eagerly, a whimper catching in his throat.

“More, need more please?” He asks sweetly.

You don’t blame him, you’re sure that your fingers are not comparable to the size of his fingers at all. You could probably fit your fist in there if he prepped himself with four of his own fingers.

“It’s so easy to open you up, Clark,” you tease softly. His chest huffs with an embarrassed laugh, but then his brows scrunch again as you start to curl your fingers inside him. “Were you just prepping for me last night? Is that why you were fucking yourself?

He nods first, then shakes his head.

“N-no,” he manages. “I was trying to prep myself for a–nnh, there, there please!” He interrupts himself, letting his hips buck back into your fingers. “I was trying to prep myself for my toy.”

A thrill is sent up your spine at that. A toy, Clark has a toy.

“I just came too fast, I came too fast cause I was thinking about you,” he keeps rambling, both hands balling into fists now as he tries to keep himself in his mind. “Been wanting this, but I wasn’t sure if you’d… be a fan.”

God he’s so cute, you’re so glad you’re the one fucking him.

“Where’s your toy?” You decide to ask. He motions to the drawer that he grabbed the lube from and you hum. “Go on and get it then. I don’t think my fingers are big enough for you.”

It takes him a couple tries to actually get a grip on the toy. His fingers keep slipping off since you purposefully curl your fingers extra deep each time he actually manages to grab it. You think about teasingly apologizing, but you figure he’s embarrassed enough as is.

The toy Clark has isn’t that big, not in comparison to himself. It’s a plain, traditional, dildo. The skin tone of it is strikingly similar to your own, but that’s probably just coincidence. Its girth isn’t much more than what he was taking last night. He holds it out to you, but you hesitate, slowing your fingers a moment.

His cock looks so neglected as it lays hard on his belly. You kind of miss it.

“Can you prep yourself now?” You ask, letting your fingers slip out of him. “It’ll be faster if you use your bigger fingers, I think.” Clark looks surprised but then drops the toy, grabbing the bottle of lube right away. He’s so sweetly obedient to you all the time.

Clark fingers himself with ease, reaching underneath his thigh so he can stuff his hole while your mouth wraps around his cock. The familiar ache in your jaw feels so much better than usual as you try to swallow down as much as you can. You’ve lost a week's worth of progress, but you’re still able to take him farther than you could in the beginning.

He works himself quickly but gently, eagerly upping himself to four of his thick digits as soon as he feels ready. You pull off once you feel him twitching a little too much, knowing that you don’t want him to come just yet.

His arm crosses his body as he reaches for the toy, his hole still stuffed on his own fingers while he holds up the toy and looks at you pleadingly.

“You’re ready?” You ask carefully. It’s not like you’ve done this a lot, and you don’t want this to go wrong.

Clark nods, pushing the toy closer to your hand, and whining “please?”

Willingly, you take the toy and then generously lube it up. Clark’s fingers remain in his hole until you have the toy lined up, ready to switch it in. His fingers make a nasty little noise as they slip out of his hole, but you can’t enjoy it for long.

He takes the toy so quickly, his hole sucking it in as his back arches off the bed a little. A guttural groan is torn from his chest as he finally gets the fill he’s been waiting for since last night.

You hold it still in him, waiting for him to feel ready for this. You’re sure he could take it rough, but you also don’t want him to come right away. This is something he’s been wanting and so you want to make sure it was worth all those fantasies he probably thought up.

“You want me to start?” you ask.

His face is totally lax, his mouth open as breaths puff out, and his eyes are rolled back under his eyelids. “Y-yep, start, please start,” he gasps.

Beginning is easy. You start at a slow pace, easing the thick toy in and out at a speed which has him squirming. There’s no resistance from him, despite how tight he is around the toy, his body is completely open and ready. He’s so into this his hands are shaking at his sides. Slowly, you begin to increase your pace and start to snap your wrist a little harder. It’s important that you don’t give yourself an arm cramp early if you want to make this as good as you’re imagining. Clark seems more receptive to this pace, nodding his head and letting his eyes open a little more, searching for you.

“L-like that,” he nods encouragingly.

His glasses are starting to slide up his face and he shoves them back down a little, almost like he’s trying to distract himself , and it makes you smile. Cute boy, cute, cute, boy.

“You’re smiling at me,” he says nervously. You nod. “Cause I’m looking at you,” you respond teasingly.

Things feel easy again now, like you really are just two roommates that are fucking around. God, god, it’s just him and you, and you’re fucking, and it’s so hot. It’s so hot watching him writhe while you fuck him, unable to control the way his breathing stutters and his mouth parts with silent gasps.

“Y-yeah,” he smiles back, eyes crossing a little, “you see me.”

The implication of his words, the words that feel too reminiscent of last night, feel heavy for a moment. But you can’t let that distract you from what you’re doing right now. Think later, fuck him now. You nod along with his words.

“I see you, I see you baby,” you say encouragingly. His hips keep lifting off the bed, his eyes fluttering and rolling back at the same time. Clark is so damn close and you aren’t even touching him. The tip of his cock is flooding precome now, all over the soft fuzz of his belly, and you want to lick it up. The only thing keeping your lips from wrapping around his cock is the fact that it might be too much for him. He looks starstruck whenever you catch his eyes. You can feel the tightening pressure of his hole as he clenches down on the toy, making it harder and harder to thrust it in and out of him. Tears blur at the corner of his eyes as he begins to try to speak. His lips are moving, but only gasps of air come out. His hips tilt higher.

“Doing so good, you look so nice like this,” you whisper more to yourself than him. The weight of his cock can’t stop the crazy twitch it does, the shaft jumping off his tummy. It almost sounds like he’s choking on air as he fists the sheets in his hands.

“Y-yours,” he finally manages to talk. “Your cock, y-yours to see. I’m yours t-to have, I need this– I want you to see me.”

You’re seeing him alright. It’s hard to ignore any part of him, his big body spread out over the bed as he thrashes in pleasure. It’s unusual how long he’s lasting, but he might just be holding back. Your eyes focus on the space between his legs, where his balls sit and his asshole grips onto the toy. The ring of his hole stretches around the girth of the dildo so prettily, like it was just made to take it, like it was made for you to see it. His confession only spurs you on to continue fucking his hole at the same pace, but with harder movements. The tips of your fingers push into the plush of his cheeks as you jam the toy into him over and over, the movement rough but clearly exactly what he needed.

“Keep looking, please keep looking at me,” Clark begs. You don’t meet his eyes, you couldn’t if you tried. His glasses are fogged up and crooked, shielding his gaze. Instead you keep your eyes on his hole and his dick, exactly where he wants you to look. Clark’s thighs tremble as his hips lift up higher than ever before again and you ignore the cramp in your forearm as you follow his movements. He keeps pushing higher and higher, almost like he’s looking for friction on his dick that he won’t find.

Then, as his hips are fully extended upwards and his cock is pointed down his abdomen, Clark begins to come. Untouched, with nothing but the toy you’re pistoning into his hole, he starts to shoot his load everywhere. His orgasm starts so strongly that his come completely misses his tummy and chest and instead shoots onto his own face. You watch as some of it gets into his own mouth while he’s panting, and then you watch as he swallows it down without hesitating. He isn’t slowing down though, his hips are attempting to jam back into your still-in-shock hand as it holds the toy still. Come spills out of his cock in thick spurts, coating first his cheeks and chin, then stuttering down to his chest and belly. He isn’t coated in it, but he looks like a glazed donut by the time his orgasm subsides.

Clark’s hips fall down into the bed heavily once he’s done. It’s beautiful, he’s made the most perverted, disgusting, mess of himself. He came off how good the toy in his ass felt, how good you fucked it into him, and now he’s covered in his own come and whimpering like it’s taking effort to breathe.

“Ah g-gosh,” he mutters as he looks down. You lick your lips, eyes staring at his glistening chest.

This must be how guys feel. This must be why titty comeshots are so popular in porn.

Clark’s tits are sitting so prettily on his chest, slick with his come, and shining in the light coming through the crack in the curtains. You want to lean down and lick it all off of him, but also you have other plans.

You’ve basically broken the roommate rule, right? You fucked him, now you can release this hold you have on yourself.

“Clark,” you breathe. His eyes manage to focus on yours, pinching slightly when he feels you release the toy but leave it in him. Your hands rip your shirt off your body, then you awkwardly pull down your undies as you start to crawl up his body, higher and higher. You fit one leg so your knee is almost tucked into his armpit, and the other knee is on top of the meat of his bicep, angling yourself perfectly above his tit.

Your chest is kind of in the way of viewing Clark’s face, but you can see that his eyebrows are pretty high on his head now.

“Just… gonna use you for a second,” you explain before seating your cunt on his tit.

The fat of it is so soft on your core and you instantly start to rut your hips back and forth, using the come left on his breast as lubricant. It wouldn’t typically be a good place to hump, not rigid enough, but you’re so desperate for him right now that it doesn’t matter. You love his tits so much, love seeing how his dress shirt strains over them, you loved the sight of his underboob sweat earlier, and you love how sensitive they are. His nipple grows harder as your slit grinds up against it, almost nudging against your clit.

One of your hands reaches down and slips into his hair, winding the curls around your finger as you use his head to anchor your movements. You’re so close already, overly worked up from going all this time without getting anything from him. No more hesitation, no more not using his huge body to get your own. He likes it, you know he likes it.

Your hips switch angles, grinding down harder on the downstroke of your humps so his nipple does finally start to rub your clit.

“You’re so beautiful,” Clark gasps, staring up at you. He probably can’t even see your face, but he sounds just as breathless as you feel. “You’re so beautiful, please come on me.”

It’s all you need, apparently, for Clark to call you beautiful. Your body flushes with heat from your feet all the way up your neck, choking you for breath as you start to shake on top of him. His nipple sits right by your clit, hardest you’ve ever felt it, and you rub into it as you ride out your high. One of Clark’s hands is on your thigh, rubbing it soothingly as he watches you fall apart on top of him.

It takes you at least a minute to catch your breath, but even then your breaths are still choppy and your eyes are dazed. Clark manages to coax you down to lay beside him, but is careful not to get any more come on you than there already is.

“Uh,” he says, awkwardly reaching down to pull the tip of the dildo out of himself.

You look down at his body, which is now somewhat covered in your come and his mostly dried come, and stifle a laugh.

“You should shower,” you tell him teasingly. “You’re kinda dirty right now.”

“Probably,” he replies, frowning down at himself. Clark doesn’t make any move to get up though. Instead he seems a little lost in thought. His hand reaches to touch yours where it lays, but then falls short about an inch.

“If I ask you to shower will you promise me that you’ll never make me go a week without you again?” Clark asks suddenly.

A laugh pulls itself properly from you this time, your head falling sideways to look at him.

“You better not be falling in love with me,” you chide jokingly. Clark smiles, shaking his head.

“I’m not! I’m not, okay?” He replies playfully. “I just like seeing you.”

What a dork. Good thing you like seeing him too.

>///<

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eroselless · 19 days ago

Text

SAFEHOUSE ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.

after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.

✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡

Clark Kent was a very reserved man.

Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address.

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe.

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back.

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder.

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race.

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

10K notes · View notes

eroselless · 19 days ago

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i need him so bad its concerning at this point

18K notes · View notes

eroselless · 19 days ago

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to whom it may concern

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

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

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

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

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

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except… it’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “You good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Could he?

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

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

Just in case.

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

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

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

But this time, the note reads:

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

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

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

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

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

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

You stare for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

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

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

You don’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

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

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

You pause. “Why?”

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

You snort before you can stop it.

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

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

Clark looks up instantly.

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

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

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.” The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark…”

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

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

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

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

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

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

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

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

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

Like armor.

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

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked, unsurprisingly, by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate. Usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on, half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell. There was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just,” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on,” he lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up, right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know, it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean, it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day. He could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way. Shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them, fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them, like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air, fragile yet charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles, soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again. Careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence, no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.”

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes, unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is, elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still, you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something, like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing, ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture. Chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway, just twenty feet away, where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way, coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp, not even from this universe, tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges, someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before, dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is, well, Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it, frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand, one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

You hate the way his face flickers at that. Hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon, half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality, latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one, sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer?

You might fall right through it.

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say, but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning, just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume. He wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush, but crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over, but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment, those words, it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing, always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it?

You can’t stop.

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes, most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed, but written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note, the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea, just the way you like it, no comment, and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard, low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.

Then you go.

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow, somehow, he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum, sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar, but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically, just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I-what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I…” he tries again, softer now, “I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger, but more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait.

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him, soft, clumsy, brilliant, real, would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches, not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him, really taking him in. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker, hope and heartbreak all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that, close, but not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again, quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois? Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois…”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly,” she lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift. To mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess, fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there, still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook, you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes, clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then, carefully, slowly, you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair, fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark,” but you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up, one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head, and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap, into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat, you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him, all of him, underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to,” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so…” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander, curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now, he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again, soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that, barely audible, but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it and presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell, maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once, because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, this time fuller, deeper, your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead, bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is, you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk, glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking, lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away, bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should, just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist, and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you, ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here, beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water, the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches, not your hands, but your face, as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself, like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes, not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely, you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely, but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible, but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

That night, after the city has quieted, after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens, the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind, just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time, less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you, this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this, this steady climb into something real, than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now, something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours, just barely, and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

The next kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once, soft and slow, and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to…. something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But…”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner, just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this, aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway, pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark?”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them, not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles, like he can will the oddness away, and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again, warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again, down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark…”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that, panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then, deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again, soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile, but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again, warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then, without warning, he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth, curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark! God, I-I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless, dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then, like he needs to be closer, tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you, tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up, his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him, takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel… Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again, and again, and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night…every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps, hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark’”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby. So fuckin’ tight…can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you, it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Clark, don’t stop!”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck.”

You can feel him getting close, the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again, pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again, harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck…fuck. I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to. Baby I can’t—hold back.”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before, flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t! I can’t… Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please, please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you. I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him, clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you. And he loses it.

Clark curses, actually curses, and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat, not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there, chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes, like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly, you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet, not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid, that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first, just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding, from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you, half-aware, half-horrified, but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed, something massive slamming him into the pavement, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still, your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving. Like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen: his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing…what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream, tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it, through the dirt and blood and pain, he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know.

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now. The strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that…he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away, slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs, it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar, anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency, the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile, the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell, hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation, but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again. Slow this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches yo, thorough, patient, hungry, it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters, when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast, you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began, you both sleep without secrets between you.

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended, his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin, belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast, like way too fast, and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced, just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then, just like that, he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”

You kiss him then, slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window. less streak of light, more quiet parting, you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door, and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

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eroselless · 20 days ago

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𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍 [C.K]

slightly dark clark!• devoted christian clark• fem reader (church girl au)• blurb smut• religious guilt• adultery themes• obsession• age-gap (clark early thirties/reader is early twenties)• dark thoughts• clark is not so holy(neither am I fr)•

notes:my gift to you <3 it’s wayyy past my bedtime as I write this out (swear it’s the best time for me when I decide to write )

church is, as usual, crowded. and service has barely started, and already he can’t focus. as usual. his eyes can’t seem to stop flicking over to you in the pew, hands tightening around the hymnal. he swallows thickly, admiring you.

it wasn’t always like this. this obsession started months ago—he remembers when your family first moved into smallville, your parents, two twin brothers, to be away from the ‘toxic city life’ as your mother describes it . neighbors had been buzzing about them for weeks, excited to see new faces. of course, clark and his parents, along with his wife and little jon kent , didn’t hesitate to show some good hospitality. which eventually led to a good wholesome strong friendship. clark had heard your name mentioned plenty of times in conversations with your parents. she’s away at college, studying hard, I’m sure yall will get to meet her soon. he hadn’t given it much thought back then. only thinking just another young woman chasing her future.

until seven months ago.

until the sunday morning you showed up, home again, and taking a break from that college lifestyle,sliding into the pew with a smile so pretty that it’ll even make the devil—himself swoon. it was the first time he’d ever actually saw you. but it was also the last time his thoughts felt clean.

because since then, clark has become restless. watching the way you carry yourself, a quintessential sweetheart, with a radiance so naturally alluring. a woman who is impossible to ignore. always with your family, playing make believe with your brothers, helping your mother with dinner whenever they’d invite them over. his parents adored you and even lois complimented you on your infamous peach pie last week. to which you bashfully gave credit to your father who went out to fetch the ingredients last minute. so unpretentious.

but no matter how wholesome, no matter how much he tried to remind himself of his wife’s hand on his or jon’s giggling in the back of the pew with your twin brothers during service, you had carved yourself in his mind permanently. as if you were a scripture he couldn’t forget.

and still, despite the closeness of your families, despite the eyes of god staring down at him giving him a “what the heck!?” look. he couldn’t stop the way his mind wandered, imagining what it would feel like to have you in many ways, in different positions he has no right to think about.

but it’s not like you make it easy for him not to, like today.

your hair is styled just right, showcasing your pretty features, the faint curve of your lips when you hum along to the choir—sinful, he thinks, so sinful. speaking of—the dress you were wearing almost made him lose any train of thought during service. it’s modest, appropriate for church, and yet it hugged your curves in all the right places. because no matter what you wore, nothing could hide the fullness of your figure, the way your hips showcased beautifully, and the not so subtle shape of your gorgeous ass beneath the fabric.

he clears his throat, lifts his gaze, and began to recite aloud:

“blessed are pure in heart, for they shall see god.”

his words rang accurate for the congregation, but in his mind, pure doesn’t describe him at all. he could feel your soft eyes on him, out of all the gazes from the people in the room your gaze is the only one he wants.

focus, clark. god, please give me the gift of focus .

but he doesn’t. not really anyway. every word he is reciting echoes hollowly in his head, because all he can imagine is you leaning forward, the gentle breezy smiles you flash his way.

“blessed are a meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” he can barely finish the line when a brief thought of what it will feel like having you as his wife, the mother of his children—making those children— crosses his mind and he immediately hates himself for it. his stomach twists with guilt.

prayer. prayer. prayer. I need prayer—along with some holy water. he prays silently, wishing these thoughts would just vanish. wishing he could feel somewhat pure again. but every time he glances in your direction it’s like fuel on fire, with too much desire. he’s a sinner, a married man with a good, loyal wife just waiting a few pews away along with their son , but still his selfishness craves you.

service ends. the hymnals closed, and the congregation headed toward the after-service table. you’re there as always with your infamous, peach pie in hand. chatting quietly with lois and the others. being so sweet, and so good. the guilt is unbearable and thick in his throat as he forces himself to look away as you coo at jon’s messy drawing .

he prays silently, whispering every verse he could think of in that moment, but it’s useless. he’s feigning for something he knows he shouldn’t want. and the thought of his wife and child , should slap him back into reality—but instead it sharpens his ache for you. every sinful thought is getting louder than doing what’s right.

after everything trickles out, and majority of the food had been wiped out, his wife, lois steps over to him, with a small grin and places a chaste kiss on his lips. he wished he could say that he didn’t feel disappointed knowing that it’s not your lips. “another beautiful service, clark.”

he nods absentmindedly, lips moving to thank her, but of course his eyes aren’t on her at all they’re on you, gathering your things, hips swaying slightly his hands tightens around lois’s waist wishing they were yours as she rambles on about her day. clark can’t seem to find his focal point, every fiber of him rebels. every word lois says is background noise, he can’t hear her. he can only focus on his anticipation of you walking up to him like you always do at the end of service, with an extra piece of pie just for him and the smell of something sweet—maybe the pie? or is it just you?

luckily your mother— distracts lois, giving him moments to breathe as they chatted about her plants and the local animals are terrorizing her garden.

then you’re at the pulpit, soft steps echoing slightly against the wood floor, due to your cute kitten heels. your hands hold the pie holder which was empty. “sorry, no extra piece today.” you murmur, disappointedly. you looked so cute with a pout. he steps closer to you just to get a whiff of the faint smell of baked peaches and cinnamon. intoxicating.

“it’s okay,” he breathes out. he wants to say much more,tell you how gorgeous you look, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you since the service began. but the words choke in his throat.

“I can bake another one,” you said softly, voice warm and slightly teasing. “I could bring it later today…just for you.”

clark nods. just for me. he bit back the groans that were threatening to escape. “ill…ill be home all day,” he whispers, barely audible, and heavy with desire. every sinful thought creeps back into his mind, hotter than ever and burning behind his blue eyes.

it finally happens.

a promised pie turns into a knock on his door. lois had errands to run. jon was tucked away in his room with your younger brothers, laughter from their play date spilling faintly through the walls. you were supposed to just drop off the pie and stay a awhile while the boys played . simple and safe.

but now?

..now you are bent over the kent’s kitchen table as it rattles beneath you. the half eaten peach pie slid inch by inch toward the edge, but neither of you cared. especially clark who was gripping your hips so tight his knuckles were bone-white.

his curls were damp, sweat-filled, sticking to his forehead and temples. his glasses were tucked in his breast pocket, leaving his blue eyes bright and wild. He was still fully dressed as were you.

the dress—the same freaking dress you wore to church that morning—was bunched up around your waist. the modest cloth that teased him all morning was now hiked indecently high, giving him everything he’s ever dream about. his eyes couldn’t look away and he’s glad that he didn’t because the hem of your dress, exposed not just the swell of your hips and the arch of your back, but the ink sprawled low across your skin. a flower vine, winding horizontally. a tattoo. a secret. ah, you dirty girl.

“jesus christ.” he whimpers, hips slamming forward harder, deeper and sharp enough to jolt the table. his hand spreads over the tattoo, thumb tracing the curling lines while his cock twitches inside you. “you—fu-fuh—fuck!“

oh jeez, you’ve got him cursing now..

he was utterly wrecked. torn between awe and filth, he was obsessed already but this? just ignites his fire even more.

“got a little mark just for me, huh?” clark rasped, his voice low and deep just like his cock. though he knew you probably couldn’t respond, pretty sure you couldn’t think straight enough to respond. “no one sees this. hiding it underneath those little church dresses. no one but me? I get to see it just like this.”

his curls brushes against your skin as he groans, forehead pressing on your shoulder, teeth gritted as he tries to keep quiet. being somewhat mindful that his son and your brothers are upstairs, and here he was rutting into you like a madman with no shameful sense in his body. every thrust harder than the last.

“cl-clark!” you gasped, your voice high and breathless. his hand immediately shot up, covering your mouth, smothering the sound before it reached beyond the kitchen walls.

“shhh, “ he soothes, voice ragged and hot against your ear. “ don’t—don’t let them hear. don’t you dare, sweetheart.”

even though he enjoyed those little heavenly sounds leaving your lips, the very last thing he wanted is to have three seven year olds walk in on you two like this with one being his son. he’s being a piece of shit right now but he wouldn’t be that kind of piece of shit.

and yet he doesn’t slow down. the table rattles louder and if your moans won’t bring any attention that surely will. too risky. clark stills, chest heaving and you whimper at the sudden stop. his hand trails to your stomach, yanking you upright.

“c’mon,” he hissed in a whisper, dragging you with him as you whine at the loss. he hauls you into his lap on the nearest kitchen chair, your back pressed against to his chest, his thick cock buried back inside from beneath your dress.

you inhale sharply, legs trembling as he spreads them wide, caging you in. with one arm locked across your stomach, the other grips your thigh tight, keeping you still as he drives up into you. the position is utterly filthy, and so are the things he’s whispering, things he’ll never say in the daylight.

“bounce for me, sweetheart,” he says quietly, voice filled with restraint . his hand leaves your thigh, slides up the curve of your waist, and then presses flat against the small of your back. the force causes you to arch your back. his hips tilting just right. . almost immediately you reach forward palms gripping the counter in front of you to lift and drop down on his cock frantically. eager. now the chair is groaning beneath you two, every movement threatening to give away the secret filth of what’s happening.

“quiet now… don’t wake the boys.” his warning is more of a plea, breathing hot against your shoulder as his other hand reaches up to fondle with your breast that was spewing out. massaging them gently. almost apologetically, he’ll make sure to give them extra attention next time.

a silent sob burst out of you anyway—you’re absolutely gone— your mouth open against the back of your hand to stifle it, tears of pleasure running down your pretty cheeks. your hair which was in a neat updo is now tragically unkempt, still you look so beautifully wrecked.

and clark—clark wasn’t any better, he’s pussy drunk. on you specifically, your tiny squeaks and sobs, the deafening sound of your wetness squelching the way you thighs quake and your ass—god that ass— slams on him over and over again. every time you expertly grind and bounce on his cock he thinks he’s in heaven. all while your pretty face is crumpling with pleasure.

but all he could see when he angled his head down over your shoulder, was that damn tattoo. the flowers inked permanently on your skin, blooming every time you snapped your hips down.

“god, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he pants, eyebrows furrows as if he’s in deep concentration, and he was, on his cock finally being in the home where it belonged, which was your beautiful tight cunt. intruding it without mercy. “im never letting you go .”

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eroselless · 23 days ago

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just clark eating you out to the point of tears…

the air was thick and almost humid. your fingers curled around the bedsheets, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing you could do. it was. your chest was heaving, your nipples taut as your back arched off the bed. you were practically sticking to the sheets, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“c-clark…” you gasped out, your body shaking and writhing — just the way he liked to see you. your clit was throbbing against his tongue, overstimulated and over worked. but he wasn’t done. clark never was. when he got like this, completely lust drunk on you, he could please you for hours. it was like he never got tired.

“come on, baby, one more. you can do it for me.” he purred, his voice soft and almost innocent like his tongue wasn’t deep inside your pussy right now. clark looked up at you with those big blue eyes, his tongue withdrawing from your fluttering cunt to flick at your clit. your eyes rolled back again, a strangled moan ripping from your throat. clark smirks, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you, his tongue flicking just right against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“that’s it, baby, just let it happen.” he coaxed as he alternated between sucking your clit and flicking it with this tongue. “god you taste so good.” he moans against your folds, making your body jerk. you were teetering on the edge of another orgasm, your clit throbbing and aching and making it hard to focus. your fingers threaded through his silky hair, tugging and pulling on the dark, curly strands.

“p-please clark… i can’t…” you whimpered, your abdomen aching from the constant clenching and unclenching of your muscles. clark looked up at you, a dark curl falling down his forehead. “oh you can. and you will.” and you knew you were fucked. you knew clark wasn’t going to stop until you had another orgasm. as if the other 6 weren’t enough. he was greedy. and this was the only time he allowed himself to be greedy.

“i know, sweet girl. i know it’s hard, but you can do it. you’re so strong. i know you can do it. just come for me, sweetheart.” he praises you as if he himself isn’t superman. the man with literal super strength was stroking your ego, telling you how strong you were.

“i… fuck!” you cried out, clark’s tongue licking from your entrance to your clit before suckling gently. he could tell you were so fucking close, the way your pussy was clenching, your body hot and tense with impending orgasm. he was trying to be gentle knowing how overstimulated you were right now, but gosh he just wanted ravage you and make you cum harder than you ever have before. and trust me, he’s made you cum hard several times. it was like a competition with himself each time.

tears were rolling down your cheeks and onto the pillow beneath your head. the pleasure was overwhelming and the way your body worked extra hard to come again had sent you into oblivion. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your hips bucking against clark’s mouth as you whimpered and cried out his name like a mantra. clark groaned as he watched you come undone, your body convulsing as you rode out your high. clark flicked his tongue gently along your clit, drawing out your pleasure while trying not to crumble you more than you already have.

clark presses several soft kisses to your clit as he watches you tremble with aftershocks of your orgasm and he swears you’ve never looked so beautiful. your chest is heaving, breathing heavy and a completely blissed out expression on your face. “you did so well for me, sweetheart. i’m so proud of you.” clark presses a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body and letting you taste yourself on his lips. “you taste yourself?” clark mumbles against your lips, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. you nod your head. “you taste like an angel straight from heaven.”

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eroselless · 30 days ago

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Rafe Cameron x fem!reader forced marriage au masterlist

divider by @h-aewo

MAIN MASTERLIST

In chronological order btw <33

background info

First Impressions

The Wedding + Honeymoon recent

Little miss perfect

Eyes don’t lie

Reminder

Cigarette daydreams

Drunk kiss

Unexpected audience

First pregnancy

I bet on losing dogs

With the Cameron’s

Foreign feelings

Leo is born

Cameron's meet Leo

You know I'll come

The weight of expectations

My say

At your defence

Family man

C&L Airways

Tied bonds

One Big Misunderstanding

Breathe recent

Always repeating itself

If you have any questions with this au feel free to ask!!! Check out #forced marriage au q&a where I’ve already answered a few questions

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eroselless · 1 month ago

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obsessed

pick up the phone. | ln4 + op81. | pt.2

pairing: lando norris x reader x oscar piastri

synopsis: while packing your bag for Logan's sleepover you're interrupted by an unknown caller, it quickly turns from something sweet to sinister as you really it's the masked murderer. luckily, lando gets there just in time.

includings: home invasion, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, threatening phone calls, slasher-style violence, chase scene, physical altercation/attack, implied weapon use (knife), emotional distress, power imbalance, creepy dialogue/teasing, pet names, crumbs of frat boy!logan, comfort towards the end

an: i don't like this chapter im ngl, i feel like it was sloppy and a little rushed but it's posted and here!

The silence used to be peaceful.

But after the recent events it was a bit unerving to come back home to an empty and quiet house. You cursed under your breath when you saw the text message from your mom saying her and your father had gone out to grab groceries before it got too dark outside.

You were packing your overnight bag for Logan's sleepover. You had music playing softly from your Bluetooth speaker.

You were zipping your duffel bag up, trying to remember if Logan had said bring your own pillow or not, when the landline rang.

You paused.

It was such an out of place sound that it took a second to register. The shrill, slightly fuzzy ring echoed faintly from the kitchen. It was a sound you almost never heard anymore. No one used the home phone. Not unless it was a scam call or your grandmother.

You walked down the stairs, trying to make sure you weren't just hearing things and as the sound got louder you rushed down the stairs and grabbed the phone from its charger, answering with a slightly raised brow.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then a voice:

“Oh. Sorry….I think I've got the wrong number.”

Male. Warm. Maybe a little older than you. The voice didn't seem familiar, it was deep with a slight rasp.

You let out a breath and smiled a little. “No problem.”

You were about to hang up when he spoke again.

“Actually…wait.”

You froze, phone halfway from your ear.

“You’ve got a nice voice. I wanna talk to you some more.”

You giggled. "They've got a million other numbers for that. Bye bye now." You didn't even listen to the callers protest as you put the phone back on the receiver and turned on your heel to go back upstairs to your room.

The sun had started to set a while after you were done, Lando sent you a text saying he was gonna stop and grab some drinks before he came to get you and you decided to watch a movie downstairs while you waited.

Then the phone rang in the kitchen again.

You groaned, getting up from your spot as you walked to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. You put it against your ear with a sigh. "Hello?"

"Why don't you wanna talk to me?" The caller asked, their tone in a slight whine.

Your brows furrowed as your nails tapped against the marble table. "Who is this?"

"Tell me your name and I'll tell you mine."

"Mmm...I don't think so."

"Playing hard to get?" The voice chuckled and you shook your head. "No, I just don't go out giving strangers my name."

"Smart girl." He hummed. "What're you doing right now?"

"Waiting around for my friend to come and get me. He's taking forever."

"Friend or boyfriend?"

You giggled, walking back to the living room. "Just a friend."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked, voice a bit lower this time.

"Why? You wanna ask me out on a date or something?" You teased.

"Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?" He repeated.

"No, but I don't usually date random guys who call my landline."

"Shame." The caller clicked his tongue. "You know, you still haven't told me your name."

"And just why do you want to know my name so bad?" You hummed, leaning against the back of the couch.

“Because I already know your name. I just want to see if you'll lie to me, Y/n."

You felt your heartbeat pick up as the mystery voice on the other line had said your name, your hand tightening around the phone. "Okay, who is this?"

"You tell me."

Your brows furrowed as you shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

"Not telling youu." The voice on the other end sing sung. “Are you scared right now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Should I be?”

There was a small pause.

“Are you all alone in the house?”

You let out a breathy laugh, almost relieved. “Okay. I know who this is now. Logan? That’s not funny. And also not original if you're trying to be scary."

“Maybe that’s because I’m not Logan.”

Your amusement faded. You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Okay…then who is this?”

The voice dipped lower, darker. “Wrong question.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

A soft chuckle rumbled through the receiver. “The question you should be asking is…where am I.”

That made your stomach drop.

Then the voice added, light and teasing: “Do you wanna guess? Or should I just tell you?”

"I think you should stop whatever this is because if it's a joke, it's not funny." You hissed.

"Who said I was joking?"

That was enough to make you hang up the phone again and you slammed it back onto the receiver, feeling your heart slam against your chest as you started to walk away from it, only for it to start ringing again.

You cursed under your breath as you picked it back up. "Listen here-"

'"No, you listen. Hang up on me again and I'll make sure you end up just like Franco. Bet you'd scream prettier than him, wouldn't you?"

Your entire body froze, hand clenching around the phone again. "What?"

"Oh you heard me. Now let's play a game. Which door am I at?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, hands trembling slightly but before you could even muster up a response, a loud bang echoed from the front door.

You flinched so hard you nearly dropped the phone.

"Are you gonna check that?"

You hesitated.

"Fuck. You."

The voice on the other end chuckled low and slow. "I thought you said you didn’t date random guys who call your landline, sweetheart."

Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. Jaw set, heart hammering, you moved toward the door, each step painfully slow. You leaned forward and peered through the peephole.

Empty.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped your lips. You started to turn back but just as you went to hang up the phone, a crash exploded behind you.

A cloaked figure burst out of the hallway closet, white mask and knife in hand.

You screamed and instinctively hurled the phone at his head while it hit him square in the mask with a dull thud, and the figure stumbled a step back. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

You bolted, feet scrambling against the hardwood, but he lunged after you, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back so hard you slammed into the floor with a sharp cry. Pain bloomed in your shoulder, breath knocked clean out of your lungs.

Before you could roll away, he was on you.

His weight crashed down as he straddled your hips, gloved hands forcing your wrists above your head. The knife raised just inches from your face, trembling with tension.

You thrashed, one knee jerking up hard, catching him somewhere between his ribs and stomach. He grunted, grip slipping just enough for you to break one hand free and claw at his mask. Your nails scraped plastic, then skin.

He snarled, slamming your head back against the floor with a sharp thud.

The world fuzzed for a second as you groaned from the thumping pain now blooming in your head. The knife was rising again, your blurred gaze locking on it as it hovered, shaking, above your chest.

Your other hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, trying to keep the blade at bay, but he was stronger, your hand trembling as the knife inched lower.

You bucked upward, twisting just as he leaned in and his balance shifted. You caught him off-guard, flipping to the side, and drove your elbow into his ribs again. His grip loosened for half a second and you shoved. Hard. Forcing him off you.

You scrambled to your feet, stumbling over your own legs as you bolted up the stairs, two steps at a time, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to shatter your ribs.

Behind you, you heard his feet pounding after you but you didn't dare to look back as you turned down the hallway and bolted it to your room.

You burst into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattled the hinges. Your fingers fumbled over the bolt and chain, your breath coming out in panicked, shuddery gasps.

You didn’t even stop to think, grabbing the desk chair, shoved it beneath the knob, then your dresser, dragging it in front of the door with a strength born entirely from fear.

You backed away, staring at the door, as footsteps pounded up the stairs.

He was coming.

He was right behind you.

You turned in frantic circles, searching for something, anything you could use. Your phone downstairs. The window was too high up to risk jumping. The closet felt like a death trap. You pressed your back to the wall as you slid down it.

The doorknob jiggled.

You jumped, a scream catching in your throat.

“Open the door, baby, cmon." The voice came again, closer this time, distorted but unmistakably him. Calm. Patient. Sickeningly sweet. Like he was hitting on you instead of trying to stab you.

There was silence for a beat, and then a soft laugh filtered through the door. A quiet, amused exhale that made your blood run cold.

"You're shaking, aren't you?" He said softly, voice almost affectionate. "I can hear your breathing from out here . It's cute." He paused..

Then, silk-slick and smug:

"Tell me, do you sound like that in bed...or just when you're scared for your life?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The way his voice was so smooth and syrupy. It made your stomach twist. You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to quiet the panicked little gasps slipping out.

He liked that. He wanted to hear you unravel.

“Oh c’mon,” He drawled through the door, almost playful now. “Don’t make me talk to myself here, angel.”

“Go away!” You finally screamed, voice cracking under the weight of your fear. “Please just go away, my friend will be here any minute and he’s gonna kick your ass!"

Silence.

Then there was a soft chuckle.

Then knob stopped moving.

You waited. Counted your own breaths. Five… ten...thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. No sound. No footsteps retreating down the stairs. No door opening. Nothing.

And still…you didn’t move.

You didn’t dare.

Every part of your body screamed to stay right where you were. Knees hugged to your chest, fingernails dug into your sleeves, tears streaming silently down your cheeks, your trembling form on the floor.

Then there were footsteps again.

Coming up the stairs.

You froze.

He hadn’t left.

He was still here.

You stared at the door like it might blow open at any moment. This time, you didn’t even have it in you to scream. Just clutched your legs tighter to your chest as the footsteps grew louder. Slower.

They stopped in front of your door.

Knuckles tapped gently against the wood.

“Y/n?” A pause. “It’s Lando.”

You didn't respond.

“Are you okay?” His voice sharpened, a little more panicked now, “Oscar’s tried calling you to tell you we're here and he said you didn’t answer your phone. You ready?”

You hiccupped a shaky sob when the familiar accented voice reached your ears.

You scrambled to unstack the dresser, chair, whatever you could manage. Your fingers slipped on the lock three times before you got it open, and when the door finally creaked inward.

Lando was standing there, brows furrowed in total confusion. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t answer.

You just fell into him, and for once, he didn’t have a single joke to crack. Just held you tight.

"Oh sweetheart, you’re shaking.” He muttered.

“That murderer was here.” You whispered against his chest. “I thought he was gonna kill me.”

His arms tightened around you instantly. “Okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Lando didn’t wait another second. His hand shot out, gently but urgently tugging at your arm. "Come on. We're leaving."

You stared up at him, still in shock. You didn’t know if you were shaking from the adrenaline or the fear still clawing at your chest. All you could do was nod weakly.

He guided you out of the room, past the overturned chair, the dresser still shoved against the door. It looked like a disaster.

He gently pulled you down the stairs, his hand not leaving your back for a second as if to reassure you, but he could feel that you were still tense, as if you were waiting for something to happen.

When you got to the living room, he stopped by the couch, swiping your phone and bag off the coffee table with a single motion. His eyes met yours briefly, his expression soft but determined. "Let’s go."

You followed him numbly, one foot in front of the other, not questioning, just moving. You quickly locked up the house once you got outside, moving towards Lando's car where Oscar was already climbing out of the front seat when he saw you... and froze.

You must’ve looked like hell. You could feel it in the way your skin burned, how your hair clung to your face from sweat and panic. You barely met his eyes, but when you did, his expression shifted instantly from casual to deeply concerned.

“Shit." He muttered, eyes scanning you as he stepped aside and opened the passenger door. “Here, take the front. You alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just slid into the seat, clutching your bag like a lifeline. Lando rounded the car and got in beside you, slamming the door shut and throwing it into gear without another word.

For a while, the only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the tires rolling over asphalt.

You didn’t even realize how tightly you were gripping your thighs until Lando gently brushed his knuckles against your arm.

"Talk to us." He said. “What happened?”

You hesitated. Your throat felt raw, your tongue dry.

“He called the house phone." You whispered, eyes unfocused on the road ahead. "Said it was a wrong number. But then he called back. Again. And again. Just...talking. And he said my name.."

Oscar stiffened in the backseat. “What the hell?”

You kept going, your voice hollow. “Then when I tried to hang up again he said I'd end up like Franco. And then he was in the house. He was in the house, and I didn’t even hear him come in.”

Lando’s hand tightened on the wheel, knuckles bone white.

You looked down at your lap, voice shaking. “He chased me. Slammed me to the floor. I fought him off, somehow, and ran upstairs. He almost had me. He was on me, he had the knife—”

“Christ.” Oscar breathed behind you, but it sounded like it had been punched out of him.

“I locked myself in my room." You continued, your voice a whisper now. “I thought he was going to kill me. I was begging him not to, and then… he stopped. Just stopped. I didn’t know if he left or if he was waiting. I was too scared to open the door.”

You paused. The car was quiet, thick with tension.

“I thought I was going to die.”

Lando exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw clenched, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “But you didn’t. You got out. You’re safe now.”

Your bottom lip quivered. “Why did he stop, though? He had me. He could’ve killed me if he wanted to."

Oscar leaned forward between the seats slightly, his voice gentler now. “Maybe he wanted to scare you. Rattle you. He wanted the control.”

You shivered.

Lando finally looked over at you at a red light. “He doesn’t have control anymore.” He said firmly. “You’re okay now. He's not in the house anymore and you're not gonna be alone tonight."

You looked at him, eyes rimmed with tears, but nodded slowly.

Oscar added, softer this time, “You're okay, Y/n. We’ve got you. Seriously.”

The car rolled forward again, silence falling, not from tense but comforting. For now, you were safe.

The ride to Logan’s house passed in a blur.

Lando drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb brushing across your thigh in attempts to soothe your nerves even more.

Oscar had been the first to move when the car pulled up the long drive. He stepped out and opened your door, grabbing your bag.

“C’mon." He said quietly. “We’re here.”

You nodded, pulling yourself from the seat before following Lando up the front steps. The porch light was on, casting warm light over the familiarity of Logan’s front door.

The door opened before anyone could knock. Logan stood there in sweats, his Greek lettered hoodie snug on his body, eyebrows raised like he’d been mid-rant when interrupted.

“You guys took forever! I-” He paused, his eyes landing on you. His face fell instantly. “Y/n? What happened?”

You sighed, shaking your head and he quickly ushered you inside, straight to the couch. Pietra looked up from a bowl of popcorn, surprised at your expression. Max sat beside her, already scrolling on his phone, headphones around his neck.

“Woah, are you okay?” Pietra asked, putting the popcorn down.

You sat slowly, tucking your legs under you, hands trembling just slightly as you tried to find the words.

“I got a call." You said. Your voice came out softer than you expected. “On the landline. It was... it was him.”

The room froze.

“Him as in...” Logan started.

“The guy." You whispered. “The one who...who killed Franco.”

Oscar didn’t move, but you felt the change in his energy. Lando was already sitting beside you, one arm resting behind you on the back of the couch, watching your every move.

“At first I thought it was a wrong number." You explained. “He was just talking. Like it was some weird, flirty mistake. But then…he said my name. Said he wanted to know it because he wanted to know if I'd lie."

“Wait—he knows you?” Max asked, eyes wide.

You nodded. “That’s when I hung up. But then he broke in.” You glanced at the others, eyes flicking between their shocked faces. “He was in the house. He chased me. Tried to stab me...” Your throat tightened. “I managed to get away. I ran upstairs and locked myself in my room.”

“Oh my God.." Logan muttered.

“And then what?” Pietra asked, voice laced with concern.

“Then he just…left. I don’t know why. I heard someone coming up the stairs and I thought it was him again, but it was Lando.”

Lando gave you a look. Not smug, not proud, just deeply concerned. “She was white as a ghost. Her room was trashed. I didn’t see anyone, but whoever it was, they were already gone.”

Just then, your phone vibrated in your lap.

Everyone looked at it.

You stared at the screen for a second before answering.

“Mom?”

There was a rustling on the other end. “Y/n, what the hell happened in your room? Did something fall because everything is out of place and the hallway closet door’s half off—”

You closed your eyes. “I’m okay. Someone broke in.”

A beat of silence. Then your dad’s voice cut in. “What do you mean broke in? Where are you?”

“I’m with Logan. I’m fine. I locked myself in and Lando got there before....” You hesitated. “Before anything happened.”

“We’re calling the cops.”

“No.” You said quickly, glancing at the others. “There’s no point. He’s gone. There’s no proof. No damage to the downstairs window, nothing taken. They can't do anything.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Your mom said firmly. “You still need to make a report.”

“I will." You promised, even though part of you didn’t believe it. “I just…I need to breathe first.”

You ended the call and dropped your phone to your lap with a sigh.

“Your parents okay?” Logan asked gently.

“They’re freaking out. But yeah.”

Pietra reached over and took your hand. "Well it's okay. You're okay and you're safe thanks to Lando. God forbid he didn't get there in time."

"Yeah." Logan muttered, glancing over at Lando who was still staring at you. The blonde looked like he wanted to say something but he didn't fix him mouth to do so, he just clapped his hands and smiled.

“Alright guys, sleepover time! First up, Uno. No mercy.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little as he dramatically tossed a deck of cards onto the coffee table. Pietra rolled her eyes and grabbed the snacks from the kitchen counter, carrying a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a mix of chips in the other.

“Uno, really?” Max groaned, already flopping on one of the bean bags. “Can’t we do something less rage-inducing? Something that doesn't end with yelling?"

“Nope.” Logan grinned, already dealing cards. “This is a rage-friendly household.”

The tension from earlier in the day melted little by little. There were groans and competitive curses during Uno, accusations of cheating (mostly directed at Oscar, who sat smugly quiet and somehow always won), and laughter that started to sound genuine again.

You were braiding Pietra's hair at one point while she put Max's into small pigtails. Oscar and Lando were watching some video together, snickering while Logan made more popcorn and managed to burn it slightly, but no one really cared.

The room had gone quiet except for the soft hum of the movie which was a romcom. Everyone else had gradually passed out, leaving you to sit by yourself with the glow of the screen casting shadows across the room.

You weren’t tired. Not yet. Your mind kept racing, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened earlier. The phone call, the chase, the fear.

But you couldn’t stay still for too long. Your eyes kept drifting around the room, landing on random things as if focusing on anything would quiet your thoughts. That’s when you saw it, the glint of something from the corner of the room.

Oscar’s bag.

It was a subtle reflection, something metallic peeking out from the top. You stood up slowly, the blanket sliding off your legs as you crept toward the bag, careful not to wake anyone.

When you reached it, you hesitated, but only for a second. Your fingers brushed against the zipper, and you started to pull it open.

The sound of his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“What're you doing?"

Your heart nearly stopped. You froze in place, eyes snapping toward him. Oscar was sitting up now, staring directly at you, his expression unreadable. The dim light from the TV made his features sharper, more intense.

You quickly withdrew your hand. “I just...I thought I saw something and got curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, y'know. Plus, it's rude to go and look around in other people's stuff."

You nodded, almost like a child being scolded. "Yeah, sorry."

His lips twitched slightly, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "It's fine, just...come here. You look like you're having a hard time sleeping."

You hesitated, still kneeling where he’d caught you, your fingers inches from the zipper of his bag. You still wanted to see what was inside since you only caught a glint, a shape that didn’t belong.

But maybe you were seeing things, it could've been anything. Keys...a piece of jewelry...

"Come here." He repeated, snapping you out of your own thought as he held out an arm.

You zipped his bag back up before crawling closer, cautiously settling beside him. He shifted slightly to pull you in, letting you rest your head against his chest, his arm draped loosely around your back.

His body was warm. Steady. His breathing was calm enough to lull you. No tension in him at all.

"There you go." He murmured, fingertips brushing slow circles against your shoulder. "Just close your eyes, relax. Remember, you're safe here."

Safe. The word landed heavy in your ears.

You didn’t feel safe. Not really. But his touch was so soothing, so practiced, it made your eyelids flutter shut in spite of yourself.

His chin rested lightly on your head.

And as you drifted toward sleep, you didn’t see the way his eyes stayed open, soft and focused while watching you. Studying every breath, every twitch, every movement.

You slept.

And Oscar didn’t move an inch, his eyes momentarily glancing back over to his duffle bag.

In this chapter Lando was the one who made the call and Oscar was the one who was behind the mask!!

Taglist!!: @coaraxisisi @sophxxkiss @teenagetoadghostwobbler @belpsbelps @dinoplushie @whentheautumnleavesfall @keepyoureyesonmeboy @alliseeisversainz @jaydensluv @icecreamitycream @formulaho @angrybirdzzz @trashmouthsahra @ellaadora @notpiastrii @avis-waterlily

#formula one x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 imagine #fic recs

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eroselless · 1 month ago

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⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ .⠀⠀⠀˚⠀ ⠀⋆⠀ ⠀ROBERT REYNOLDS IN⠀⠀:⠀⠀♥︎

02.⠀A BLACK CAR AND TWO KISSES ⠀꒰ summary ꒱⠀❛❛ i only want him if he says it first to me. ❜❜ ⠀ he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds. ✴⠀the rush was taking over you as one. something you had never felt, something you know you shouldn’t have felt, but your thoughts were taking over more than the rush and you were in his car again, thinking that, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let yourself live for the first time.⠀ LAST CHAPTER

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀contains⠀:⠀pastor’s son!bob &. younger naive!reader.⠀mentions of religion.⠀age gap ꒰ all characters are of legal age ꒱⠀ family ’n mommy issues.⠀no use of y/n.⠀strong language.⠀cheating.⠀wordcount⠀:⠀6.6k⠀!!

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀sweet taglist⠀:⠀@lewispullsman ⠀ @rawanevil @morganfullaaa ⠀ ⠀ @hypnobeauty ⠀ ⠀ @petersluvbug @sentryluvs ⠀ ⠀ @em1989ts ⠀⠀ @mommymilkers0526 @imdefonothere ⠀ to be added comment here! ♥︎ ృ

my masterlist and the guidelines!⠀꒰ THE PLAYLIST ꒱

IN THE SILENCE OF LOVE, hate sometimes echoes louder.

the only sentence you heard being whispered against your ear before you felt your wrists being locked behind your back, just like your ankles—as you were thrown into the lake. sinking immediately, you felt your chest hurt, as if it might explode as you tried to scream and struggle inside the freezing water, drowning.

fear, despair, anger. a mix of emotions rising through your mind, making you go crazy in your last attempt to breathe. you would never return to what you were.

death.

your heart raced when you woke from your sleep, panting and sweating as if you were being warned, as if your subconscious needed to tell you something, something you chose not to listen to. “jesus...” a long sigh escaped your lips in an attempt to calm down, a hand going towards your chest. “i’m fine... i’m fine, it was just a stupid nightmare.” you tried to convince yourself before looking at the digital clock on the nightstand. 11am, you overslept.

the noise inside and outside the house was noticeable, which was nothing new when you had two energetic little girls in the house who woke up early in the morning. brushing your teeth was a reflective task when you were thinking so much, almost forgetting what happened yesterday, but you couldn’t completely forget it even if you wanted to.

no one would ever know about it, perhaps for the sake of your own reputation. at best, you would only be kicked out of your house if your mother knew that you came in bob’s car late at night without his fiancée around or anyone else.

you just had to not show that there was anything different, so she could live in her fantasy of a perfect family. as if she hadn’t been a sinner since the day she got pregnant by your father in a one night stand. what a hypocrite, demanding of you what she did not do. you had to roll your eyes in the mirror when you thought about it.

“you woke up... almost lunch time.” your mother grumbled bitterly when she saw you yawn into the kitchen. there was always a tension in the room when it was just you and her, as if the light had been sucked out even when it was daylight. you heard the judgment even when she was just being sarcastic and mean to you because she could be.

a wry smile crept onto your lips, your eyes falling to your feet as you walked to the fridge, wanting to hydrate your dry throat from the time you had that nightmare. “yeah, good morning to you too.” your attempt to avoid any conflict was the only thing you knew how to do since you were thirteen, probably, it was the most sensible way to act.

but, she was never satisfied. work hard, work hard and it’s still not enough, why can’t you be what she wants? it’s so simple, just do it. “come home from church alone last night?” the question made you stay silent for a moment, drinking the water with your back to her in the same way she had her back to you while cutting some vegetables.

“yes. i’ll meet mrs. reynolds at church again today.” it wasn’t the first time you lied about something, strangely it felt better to lie whenever she used that tone of voice where you didn’t know if she wanted to kill you or not, it was hard to understand her when she seemed to want to see you confused. “i’m not gonna have lunch, i can buy something to eat later.”

just like your silence from before, your mother also fell silent, the only noise in the kitchen being the sound of the knife hitting the wood of the board where she was cutting carrots on top. “don’t come back late, your sisters only sleep when you get home.” she said coldly, still with her back to you even as you walked past her. “and if the neighbors see you coming home late, you know what happens, so don’t do it.”

“i know, i’ll be back before dark.” it wasn’t like it would take that long to help mrs. reynolds at church, you’d be home early and could just... stay in your room alone and quiet until dinner. but, let’s face it, mrs. reynolds could probably go on for, at least, four hours talking nonstop about absolutely any subject. she talked to you more than your own mother, how funny.

later.

2pm, the sun was shining through your bedroom window when you finished putting on your dress and went out, telling your mother that you were going to the church to help mrs. reynolds like you had said to her before. with a not very pleasant look, the older woman nodded, but not before muttering a: “what a weird dress.” as if she wasn’t the one who bought it for you.

like any other day, you ignored her before walking past your father—watching the news in the living room with one of your younger sisters sitting next to him. a smile played on your lips, thinking about how similar they were. “hey, hey... where are you going?” the little girl almost jumped off the couch the second she saw you heading towards the door.

curious and energetic, the kind that probably had the energy to spend an entire day running around the yard if your parents didn’t set limits on her. “church. why?” you answered her, looking down trying to hide the smile from before.

“can i go with you? please, please, please... i promise i’ll behave!” she was almost begging, but your father quickly got up from the couch and lifted her into his arms as if the short little girl was a sack of potatoes that he had placed easily over his shoulder—which earned him a harmless, half-angry snort of protest from her.

“leave your sister alone, you’re not going anywhere now, young lady.” he said playfully, still with her over his shoulder as he turned to wink at you and whisper a: “go.” without a doubt, perhaps your father was the only adult there who could show his affection without hurting someone first. honestly, not even you were like that sometimes, you couldn’t escape your mother’s blood running through your veins.

without saying anything, you walked out the front door, calmly, as if you were going for a walk—which you should have been doing if his car wasn’t waiting for you at the end of the street. always on time, you thought. you had to look around surreptitiously, making sure no neighbors were watching while trying to find a reason to simply talk about you and use your name with blasphemy.

bob saw you in the rearview mirror, pulling his cap off his face as he leaned back against the leather seat. he could have been a gentleman and opened the door for you, but he knew all too well that you didn’t want to be seen with him. you were young, untouched, naive, everything he hadn’t been in a long time, you were like fresh air to someone who hadn’t breathed in a long time.

he knew he couldn’t stay. he couldn’t let himself be enchanted by you, not when he had a fiancée. he was going to get married in a few months and his parents were counting on it, a good marriage, with a woman devoted to god who... didn’t know him, but liked what she saw for an hour or two a day. he never said he loved anyone, that said more about him than anything else could.

what could he do? he was always trying to be what he wasn’t, trying to be the version that pleased his parents—that pleased his father, as it should be. he had to be what his older brother wasn’t.

“escaping from the cops?” a nasal laugh escaped him as you sat next to him in the passenger seat. different from what he was used to, in a simple conversation you seemed to see him as he wanted to be seen, as a person beyond his faith.

“more like escaping from my family, but... yeah, almost like that.” a small smile appeared on your lips, but you hid it, looking forward as you buckled your seatbelt. then, your nose caught a whiff of a different smell, a smell you had smelled every now and then when your father was alone in the garage fixing the car. he wouldn’t let anyone in until he was done. your eyes curiously scanned around, stopping at the open pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. marlboro red.

despite the attention he kept on the road, he noticed where you were looking and took out a cigarette, placing it in front of you. “want one?” the second he offered, you quickly denied it and pushed his hand back a little with your index finger. “right, no damaged lung for you, i guess... that’s kinda nice of you.” it was a stupid joke, he didn’t talk like that around other people, but it was good to see when you tried to hide a smile or a laugh for something he said.

“it’s called healthy behavior.” you joked back and he could see how, slowly, you were letting him see beyond the expressions of boredom and silence that were characteristic of when you didn’t feel comfortable enough to say something. he had watched you before, several times, with caution, but curiosity and something else he didn’t dare to think about.

“healthy behavior, huh?” he agreed, but couldn’t help himself and ended up laughing while scratching his chin. you noticed that this was a recurring habit of his. “yeah, i’m sure you have a super healthy behavior... like, you stare at people, don’t smoke and eat all your veggies, that’s one way to put it, kid.”

kid. he called you that and probably, that was the first time you really paid attention to the fact that the two of you weren’t exactly close in age. 32, ten years age gap, it was almost funny to think about it—you barely talked to guys your own age, suddenly you were in the car of someone ten years older than you. but, there was nothing wrong with that, right? right? guys can be friends with girls too, even if you’ve been taught to think otherwise.

or, perhaps, being 22 didn’t mean you had the mind of a woman of that age when ignorance seemed to be a good thing. it means you’re still pure... and naive, and easy to manipulate or deceive, and easy not to question. stop. you sighed, but the smile on your face had already disappeared a few minutes ago.

“here we are.” his voice woke you from your brief trance of thoughts so fast that it was as if a billion tabs were open in your consciousness at the same time, almost like modern torture that you were responsible for doing to yourself. bob was no idiot, he noticed your silence and the change in expression as soon as he parked his car. “hey, are you okay?”

you licked your lips, staring at your fingers before turning your neck towards him and trying the best reassuring smile, which wasn’t always so reassuring. “yeah, i’m okay.” lying was a sin, so why did you still attend church knowing that you wouldn’t be saved in the end? no one was there really believing that they would.

bob nodded, but from the way his eyes lingered on you, there was something you weren’t telling him and he wasn’t going to try to make you say it, not now. “fine. i’ll ride you home later... i’m helping my dad with the church garden, but as soon as you’re done, let me know and we can go.”

you couldn’t say anything other than thank him in a low tone as you got out of his car and go into the church. everything was silent and clean, freshly cleaned, you could smell the cleaning products. the closest noise was outside, where you guessed the garden was, but the rest? just silence, a melancholy silence.

your eyes slowly landed on a painting of the last supper, right next to you. on the small table below it with an empty plate and a golden cup, you observed it and noticed small flaws in the painting. some colors and lines seemed different from the original work, but it was still harmonious in itself, the flaws made it something unique. “robert who painted it.” the female voice suddenly echoed behind you, you didn’t even hear her footsteps, or you were too focused to hear anything other than the beating of your heart. “i’m sorry, dear, did i scare you?”

“no, i... i was just looking at it, i’m fine, mrs. reynolds.” you answered her, but your heart was still racing as you stepped away from the painting on the wall to stand closer to the woman. mrs. reynolds was a good woman, always elegant and kind, you never heard anything shady about her and in a community where everything could be a reason, not hearing anything bad about someone was actually a good sign. “so... was it robert who painted it?”

he painted pictures. that was something, of course, he reproduced the painting of the last supper, but there was a touch of his own to it, like the subtle changes that he knew no one would notice if they didn’t look at it for a while.

“yes, he took art classes in high school and really enjoyed painting, it’s a shame he stopped. i always thought he had talent, but his father wanted to... change things a little.” she stopped talking quickly, giving a soft cough before touching your shoulder and turning you to face the opposite side of the painting. “come on, dear, you need to help me organize the choir for the weekend.”

god knows you didn’t want to think so much about what you knew before, but how could you not? honestly, you didn’t think a man like him would have such ease in being an artist. but, he was. a great artist, by the way, and this seemed to always be hidden by a thick layer of intimidation that he wore as if it were his favorite perfume. everyone had a different side to what they showed, his surprised you.

hearing what his mother said about him made you think that you didn’t know much beyond his name and who he was son of, that’s all. robert reynolds, the pastor’s son. he wasn’t just that, you could see it, even if you didn’t know what was beyond. you wanted to see everything, everything that was about him, no matter how dangerous and stupid it was, the fun was in the challenge.

“well, i think we’re done... thank you, sweetheart, you’re a great helper.” mrs. reynolds said as she placed the last piece of paper inside a black folder. each paper had the lyrics to the song the choir would sing next sunday, but you had to make changes—that’s why she needed your help, she wasn’t good at using the church printer and she could have asked anyone else for help, but why not you?

“it’s great to help you, mrs. reynolds.” your polite words made the woman smile. she spent most of her time thinking that she wished her youngest son had a wife like you, but benjamin seemed to care more about his video games than his responsibility to the church and god. you were too good for the boy and she, as a mother, recognized that.

at least, robert would have a good marriage, since his older brother was lost in sin and his younger brother... wouldn’t find anything steady any time soon. she was trying to settle for that.

“oh, before i forget... give your mom a hug for me and apologize to her for keeping you here for so long, she must be worried when you take time to get home.” yeah, sure... although you thought your mom appreciated it when you were away from her sometimes. “and go with god, my dear, may he protect you until you get home.”

she hugged you. despite the awkwardness, you hugged her back gently and forced a sweet, but confused smile, pulling away still uncertain of what had just happened. “amen, mrs. reynolds... uh, see you soon.”

as you walked out of the church, a thought came to your mind. you remembered that even that sweet lady had not been free from the rumors that always seemed to follow people around here—as you had previously thought. it had been a while, but you vaguely remembered hearing your mother and aunt talking about how mrs. reynolds had wanted a daughter, but never had one... so, three sons.

perhaps, this was directly linked to the affection she felt for you, which was strange, but curious at the same time. but, as for incessant thoughts, you already had enough, you didn’t need more.

for now, your task was just to look for bob, wherever in the garden he was, his car was still there, at least. the sooner you get home, the better. you’ll be able to distract yourself, avoid social interactions, and think a lot less. the problem was when things liked to... get drastically worse for you in the blink of an eye, this week was definitely not yours.

you felt a headache starting right in the center of your forehead, body going limp, legs feeling weaker as your hands began to shake. just walking started to be a difficult task, as if your head was way too heavy and your vision was too dark to see where you were going. oh, you didn’t have lunch, you didn’t have breakfast, not even the holy spirit could keep you on your feet when you didn’t do the bare minimum. surprising how you hadn’t passed out before.

you leaned against a wall and closed your eyes, stroking your forehead as you tried to stay calm, with a real fear that you would simply pass out right there—that’s when the strap of your bag slipped off and fell to the ground, the noise attracted bob’s attention who was approaching.

when he saw that it was you, he almost ran towards you and put one of his hands on your back, pulling you closer. “hey, hey... what are you feeling? are you feeling sick?” he immediately became concerned, starting to stroke your back with his eyes a little wide, waiting for you to say something quick. “you look pale as hell, come here.”

he pulled you even closer, using his fingers to lift your chin and make you look at him, trying to get you to answer him right away before he did something about it himself and carried you bridal style into the car. “i’m... i’m fine, just a little dizzy.” he almost laughed bitterly, not believing your answer for even a fraction of a second.

“have you noticed how many times you say you’re fine?” he arched an eyebrow, shaking his head. “and a little dizzy? your bag fell and you almost hit the ground with it. when was the last time you ate, girl?” great question, if you weren’t feeling sick you would have thought of a way to get away from it.

“i didn’t. the whole day.” bob’s eyes almost popped out of his head and it made you think he was going to give you a worse lecture than your parents could ever give you, but he just kept quiet and ran his fingers through his hair, still looking at you very seriously. his expression changed so quickly it was almost scary.

“to the car. now.” he just pointed to his own car and let go of you, letting you go while he bent down to pick up your bag from the ground. as soon as you got in and sat in the passenger seat, bob placed your bag on your lap and continued to look at you with that eyes. “the seatbelt.” he said before closing the door and walking around to get into the car.

you did what he said faster than you thought you would, following him with your eyes before he sat down in the driver’s seat and you shamefully looked away. the dizziness was still there, you still felt weak, but at least you were sitting up now and didn’t have to worry about fainting. however, the silence inside the car disappeared when you noticed that he didn’t take the same route he had taken to take you home before.

“where are we going?” your eyes flicked towards the window, looking the opposite way he was going—your mind already starting to race again as you shifted in your seat, practically trying to ignore your weakness.

“calm down,” bob was quick to answer you, placing a hand on your knee as he tried to make you look less restless. he was just trying to do something, or rather, trying to make sure you didn’t die. “i’m just taking you to eat something in the city. i’m not taking you home like this, your parents won’t like it.”

your parents won’t like it. your parents wouldn’t like any of this, not you in his car, not you talking to him, not you even getting close to him, but he wouldn’t know about it, just like your parents wouldn’t know about him. it wasn’t a dirty little secret, but it was a secret, a secret you agreed with yourself was best kept. modesty aside, you know you’ve become good at keeping secrets over the years.

“in the city? isn’t it... i don’t know, weird?” it wasn’t a loud question, you almost whispered as you stared at his hand on your knee, but he didn’t do anything to change that, in fact, his calloused fingers just tightened their grip a little more.

the silence lasted inside the car for a brief moment, until he took his hand off your knee as if nothing had happened. “is it weird that i don’t want you to die of malnutrition?” he could even pretend he didn’t, but you both knew why that felt weird. “just... relax, it’s not like people we know will see us together, it’s no big deal, actually, we’re fine.”

he was right, to a certain extent. there was nothing wrong with all this, but you still didn’t want people to see the two of you together... what if they talked about it? what if you became everything you were taught to fear? your chest hurt just thinking about it. so you shouldn’t think, not now. the city—or rather, its center—was far from where you lived, no one would see it, no one would know.

it was something so... small, but it seemed so big to someone who had never really had it. you won’t expect him to understand, nor did you understand.

he left you alone in the car when he went out to buy hot dogs at a stand near the lake. the town didn’t seem as quiet as your neighborhood, but it was calm, with bright lights almost blinding you and the loud noise of cars coming and going. you rested your head against the window, watching him as you thought he was trying to take care of you, in his own way.

bob couldn’t deny it, he had been very worried when he saw you like that earlier. you had to be an idiot to go a whole day without eating, believing that this could be even slightly positive when you literally simply forgot to eat. you could have fainted, hurt yourself, and so many other things that he avoided thinking about the possibilities.

nonchalantly, he walked back. carrying three hot dogs, he noticed the confusion on your face. “why three?”

“two are yours.” he pushed them towards you, almost as if it was obvious that they were for you. “what? you haven’t eaten all day, don’t tell me a hot dog will be enough. you better eat it all or i’ll throw you into the lake.” the small smile that appeared on her face made him smile too, but he quickly covered it up. “stop laughing, i’m serious!”

his fake anger only makes you laugh a little harder, biting into one of the hot dogs as you looked away towards the lake you could see through the windshield. “would you really throw me in the lake?” it was a little question just to tease you, though you can’t help but remember the nightmare you had. the lake and... everything else, it doesn’t matter anymore, you just got scared by it.

“if you don’t eat it all, yes.” he let his smirk show a little more as he sat down on the seat again, starting to eat his hot dog and letting the silence welcome the two of you.

the lake cut the city in half, you remembered walking with your parents around here when you were a child, but as you grew up, your parents moved to the rural side and consequently, walking along the lake became something that no longer happened. your sisters were babies, they needed care and you could understand that your parents’ attention was no longer yours.

there was a certain nostalgia there if you looked long enough, as if you could still hear and see perfectly a time in your life that you missed.

slowly, you finished your first hot dog and it wasn’t surprising, but he was right about one hot dog not being enough, even after devouring the first one, you were still hungry. a chuckle escaped him as he looked at you out of the corner of his eyes, he felt more relieved to see you eating like you should have done before.

“this lake seemed bigger when i was a kid.” bob grumbled, letting you know that you probably shared the same feeling when you looked at the lake, even though you hadn’t said anything about it, he could kind of tell on his own. “you know... my older brother used to bring me to ride my bike with him ’round here.” he laughed to himself. “that’s how i got my first broken bone... my left arm at eight.”

he was opening up, somehow, telling you something he didn’t usually show he missed. “my brother was so desperate that he cried more than me... afraid that our parents would freak out on him.” sweet memories for him, he kept each of these in a special place in his mind, trying not to forget them over the years.

you turned a little more towards him, curiously staring at him as he spoke so genuinely about it. “i don’t remember meeting your brother... i mean, not the older one.” your words made his smile grow a little weaker, he had to sigh, there were too many thoughts in his mind about the matter.

“yeah, he... left the city about seven years ago.” it was like seeing through the surface, the subject seemed complex to him and you would never force him to talk about it. but, bob still had a little bit of it stuck inside him, no matter how much he pushed it to the back of his mind and tried to disguise it. was still there when he slept, was still there when he woke up. “i think he moved to chicago... or something, it’s been a while since i last heard from him.”

the gears in your mind worked and you were able to understand that the relationship between his older brother and the rest of the family seemed troubled, so they all seemed to ignore his existence, but bob couldn’t do it, he secretly refused. he would never do anything his parents did to a son, it was just too late now.

“i see.” you said quietly, wrinkling the bridge of your nose as you finished eating your hot dog—you felt a little sorry for him, wondering what could be going through his mind.

he coughed, fingers stroking his chin in the way you’d seen before. “anyway... i’m gonna throw this trash away.” he started picking up the hot dog wrappers. “you can come with me if you want, we can take a look at the lake.” his offer was way too tempting when you noticed that you felt much better than before, of course you accepted, already getting up from your seat.

the breeze of the wind against your face made you sigh, opening your arms a little as if you were free, finally feeling free and it was... good, like eating too much ice cream on a hot day, was what you needed. you didn’t even know what you were thinking, but it felt good in your mind.

“don’t walk too fast... you might almost fall to the ground again.” he teased, tossing the wrappers into the nearest trash before shoving his hands in his pockets to walk beside you. “what happened to all that talk about this being weird, huh?”

the part near the lake was a little darker, probably because of the trees covering the streetlights, it was almost difficult to walk without tripping a little, so you ended up holding on his arm. he didn’t push you away, nor did he complain, he just kept you there. “it’s only weird if someone is watching us.” you answered him without much care, but you thought that perhaps you should have thought about your words better before... saying them out loud.

“it’s only weird if someone is watching us? damn, someone is getting bold with her words.” you were close, you could smell him when you were clinging to his arm. he smelled like his cigarettes, but it was a stronger smell than the one inside his car, you liked the way he smelled and the way it felt welcoming even when it shouldn’t be. the problem was probably with you, or him, or both, it was a matter of time until this question was answered.

it wasn’t that you were bold with words, you just... repeated what you thought you should. but if he thought you were bold, then maybe that could be a good thing, right?

“well... it’s getting late and i’m supposed to get you home safely. your parents will want my head.” he grumbled, staring at the lake, probably imagining that your parents really wanted to kill him for taking so long to bring you home. the point is: your parents didn’t know you were with him, even more so in the city center—you had created kinda a terrible situation to deal with.

you gently let go of his arm and moved a little closer to the edge of the lake, staring at the water as the noise of traffic seemed to be further away. “they won’t want your head,” anyone else wouldn’t tell and would let the story go, but why not tell him? you made it a secret, so he should know he was involved. “they don’t even know that you give me a ride or that i’m with you now. they won’t know, will they?”

he watched silently as you turned to him, staring at him as you said your words as if you were questioning whether or not he would tell your parents. bob didn’t want to get in the middle of your family relationship, if you didn’t tell them it was because you had a reason, he knew that better than anyone. “no,” he sighed. “but, that’s just one more reason for me to take you home now... or they’ll think about things i know you don’t want them to.”

and he was completely right. your parents couldn’t suspect that you were doing things you shouldn’t, your mother couldn’t.

you were inside his car again, the same thing, staring at the rearview as he drove back to the rural side. you heard him clear his throat to get your attention, but he spoke before you even had time to look at him. “i thought it’d be better not to ask, but...” bob didn’t know how to approach certain subjects, especially family ones. he didn’t talk about it comfortably most of the time, so he preferred to think it was the same for other people. “why didn’t you tell them about me? i mean, i'm just giving you rides... it’s no big deal.”

it was cute how he thought it didn’t mean anything when people would rather assume things of their own free will. “i get why you don’t want the neighbors to see us ’cause they’re such fuckin’ gossipers... but, your parents? they should know.” he didn’t want any trouble, but he was also worried about you and your reasons for not wanting to tell your parents something so simple.

this conversation wasn’t the kind of thing you enjoyed, it was the kind of conversation that made you feel a lump in your throat every time it started. “my dad maybe, but my mom? no way, you don’t know her.” you replied, not being able to look at him, just keeping your eyes on the road with an unhappy expression. “she’d make my life a living hell if she knew about this, ’cause nothing to her is truly innocent unless she decides it is. so, i won’t tell... and she won’t get the chance to treat me like i’m someone’s other woman.”

bob swallowed hard. he didn’t know it was like this for you. he figured there might be something more beneath the surface, but he didn’t realize you saw your own mother more as an enemy than a friend. once again, you had more similarities than he first imagined. “i’m sorry for... getting you into this, i guess.” he kept his eyes on the road like you were doing, he didn’t know the reason for the apology but he asked for it anyway, if he hadn’t offered the ride then you wouldn’t have had to lie.

“don’t apologize, bob.” you said almost immediately when he stopped at the red light. “i think you’re the last person who should apologize to me. that thing i feel everywhere... that heavy feeling in my chest disappears when you’re talking to me and i don’t know why, but it feels good. i like to be myself when i’m around you, so... you shouldn’t apologize for making me feel better.”

you couldn’t completely understand why you said all that so quickly, but you said it anyway, and you could see out of the corner of your eye how confused and surprised he was by it. “i...” bob didn’t know what to say to you, the words died on his tongue before he could just say them. but, he appreciated how vocal you were about how good he was doing for you, even though you had only spent a short time together.

“you don’t need to say anything.” you grumbled, he could feel that maybe silence was the best option now, not the bad silence, it was the comforting silence when you were really understanding each other without having to actually say something. he understood you, you understood him, one way or another, you chose to believe that there was some connection between you in this.

the silence lasted until you heard the car pulling up near your neighborhood, but not exactly there, not in the same place as before. he didn’t say anything for a moment, but you turned to look at him and he knew what you would ask. “wanna go to the city with me again? friday.” he asked, a little apprehensively but genuinely, you saw the way he was shaking his leg.

“bob... we shouldn’t,” you answered him immediately, but the look of “please” on his face almost made you forget what you had said. your voice trailed off, you just scratched the back of your neck and sighed, as if you were giving up. “fine. but, you know, no one can see us and... neither can my parents.”

he knew that, those were the rules you created for that and bob wanted to be close to you, he wasn’t going to deny that now, after what you said it made him realize that he felt the same way. “i know,” his leg stopped moving. “no one will see us, i promise.”

something in you told you not to do it, not to agree to just go out with him—because that’s what it was—he had a fiancée, but he hadn’t mentioned her, not once, as if he had forgotten her. you thought it was... something to think about, but you decided not to think about it, not so much.

“it’s okay.” you started to unbuckle your seatbelt, noticing how there was something in the air and it wasn’t exactly the smell of his cigarette that seemed stuck there.

“7pm, here. i think it’s safer here than... inside your neighborhood.” he had a point. within your neighborhood someone could see through the windows much more easily, now here... it was just dark, but not far, you could walk home and it would be as if nothing had happened. nothing had happened between you and him.

you thought about saying something but stopped, just nodding as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder to get out of the car. his eyes were on you and yours met his blue ones. how dangerous, you felt a chill in your stomach, something that shouldn’t be there, but suddenly it was.

his large hand reached your knee gently, squeezing it the same way he had done before and he leaned towards you. you should have moved away, but you didn’t, you stayed there, feeling his approach and enjoying it, enjoying the rush that surged through your body when he did it.

the tips of your noses touched, your breaths slowly mingled and you smelled that marlboro red scent again, his scent, the scent that meant him. a little more, a little closer, his lips touched yours in the gentlest way a touch could be, you closed your eyes and felt the sin, the best sin you ever committed, the one which made you feel good once again.

a kiss, just a little kiss, so quick you barely tasted it, but it was... reassuring, calming, real and you imagined it that way, he imagined it that way. that was a problem, you would drown in your own feelings, but he made you not want to think about it anymore.

to be continued...

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