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romantisizes · 20 hours 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, 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—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, 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—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.”

A beat.

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—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—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—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 look. “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, 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—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 third 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—hear 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—slower 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 you—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!!)

#𐙚 : sitting baskets.#𐙚 : superman.#۶ৎ : david corenswet.#𐙚 : fluff.#𐙚 : smut.

3K notes · View notes

romantisizes · 21 hours ago

Text

commentary ── okay, im back for a review. i want to start off with saying that i really love how in the first smut, they had this seamless conversation that was lighthearted and funny between two friends. it was so cute and i love when that happens and its not just straight to fucking. it feels more natural to them. and even though we talked about the plot and planned it, i was still so shocked when he just dipped and i was hurt LMAOO

anyway, this fic was really good and yeeee audgey, you did your big one with this! here are my annotations for the fic:

no strings attached... unless?

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?

wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)

genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink

"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.

you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.

it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.

(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)

because now? you know no one else will ever come close.

you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)

all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.

and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.

– thursday, 9:42 P.M.

it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.

you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.

then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.

you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."

clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"

you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."

clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."

you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."

clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.

he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."

your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."

clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.

maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.

you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."

clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"

"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."

his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"

you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"

he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.

your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–

clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.

"okay."

your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.

his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."

you blink. "yeah?"

he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.

you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."

"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.

"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"

your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.

"um... now?"

and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.

a beat passes.

"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.

he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.

"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.

clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.

it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.

he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.

the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.

he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.

your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.

you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.

your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.

you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.

there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.

clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.

he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.

your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.

"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.

you nod breathlessly. "please."

he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.

it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.

but this...

this is different.

this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.

his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."

you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."

"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.

"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.

"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.

his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.

you swallow. "you want it back?"

clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.

he kisses you again.

it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.

clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.

"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.

a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.

clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.

with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.

"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.

you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.

clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.

then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.

"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.

he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.

you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."

he lets out a breath, nodding.

clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.

his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.

your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.

"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."

you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."

he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.

clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.

"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."

his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.

you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.

he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.

your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.

"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.

"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.

"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.

your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

"clark, i'm– oh my god–"

you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.

"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.

you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.

when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.

you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.

"your turn," you murmur against his lips.

clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."

you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."

he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."

you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.

clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.

you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.

"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.

clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.

your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.

your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.

"jesus, clark," you whisper.

"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.

"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.

"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."

he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.

"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.

"sweetheart..." he trails off.

there it is again. that damn pet name.

"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."

his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."

you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.

"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.

you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.

your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.

"feel good?" you ask.

clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."

you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.

you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.

you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.

he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.

you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.

clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.

you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.

"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"

you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.

"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.

why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?

you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.

clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).

you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.

he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.

"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."

"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."

and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.

your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.

you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.

his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.

"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.

"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.

you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.

he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.

you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."

clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.

you lift your hips up in answer.

he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.

you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.

"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.

you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"

he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."

your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.

you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.

it's clark after all.

any woman would be lucky to be with him.

you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."

the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.

clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.

is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?

then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folders, gathering slick.

you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.

"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you have to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.

"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.

he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.

you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.

clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.

"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."

"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."

he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"

how sweet.

"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.

he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.

"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.

you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?

with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.

for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.

"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.

you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."

clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."

and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.

he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.

"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."

his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.

he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.

you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.

"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."

you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."

clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.

you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.

then he presses a kiss to your forehead.

and that’s when you know.

you’re fucked.

totally, completely, emotionally fucked.

– friday 7:00 A.M.

the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.

the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.

your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.

you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.

his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.

you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.

how could he just... leave? no goodbye?

your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.

you shake your head bitterly.

but the ache in your chest says another story.

your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.

you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.

maybe not.

but still!

a text. a note. something.

you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.

it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?

you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.

within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.

you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.

"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.

you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."

he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."

your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.

he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.

apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.

still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?

you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.

the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.

around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."

you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"

"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."

and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.

you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.

but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.

and how different everything is now.

what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.

the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.

with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.

you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.

clark hadn't.

by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.

if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.

monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.

he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."

you blink. "thanks," you murmur.

the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.

now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.

you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.

at least not that you can tell.

lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."

you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.

"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.

you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.

by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.

you haven't looked clark in the eye once.

not really.

you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.

you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.

today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"

"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."

you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.

you don't touch it.

today 7:15 P.M.

and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.

but there's a knock at the door.

you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.

you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–

"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."

your stomach flips.

you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.

there he is.

normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.

you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.

"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.

you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.

"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."

it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.

clark doesn't say anything right away.

behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.

he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"

you nod and start the shut the door.

he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.

but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.

you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.

clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.

you freeze.

"what?"

"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."

your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.

clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.

you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.

"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.

clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."

"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."

clark waits. patient. unmoving.

the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.

but you don't.

you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.

"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.

clark's brow creases. "different?"

"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.

he waits.

"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."

clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."

"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."

with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."

you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.

"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.

clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"

you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."

a beat passes.

you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.

here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.

"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."

clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.

then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.

"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."

that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.

his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."

"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"

"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"

clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.

"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."

"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."

you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."

clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."

you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"

his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.

"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.

"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."

your breath hitches in your throat.

clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."

"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."

you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.

"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."

your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.

his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.

your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"

"i think you know."

"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.

he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."

your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.

"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."

your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.

so you choose to act instead.

you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.

it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.

he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.

he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.

his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.

"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.

you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.

"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.

you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.

the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.

so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.

"i need you," you whisper finally.

his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.

he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.

when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.

"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."

you shake your head. "please don't."

and that's his green light.

his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.

"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.

"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.

you smile �� grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.

his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.

he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.

you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.

you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.

your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.

he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.

he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.

you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.

"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.

that damn pet name.

he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.

then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.

you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.

you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.

except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.

"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.

he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.

"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "

you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."

before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.

you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.

he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.

"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."

you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.

"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.

he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.

he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.

and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.

so, so close.

he pulls back.

your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."

you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.

"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.

"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.

"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."

"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.

he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.

with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.

"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."

clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.

"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.

you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.

"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.

"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.

his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."

you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."

clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."

you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.

"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.

"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.

"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.

clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.

"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"

you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.

it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.

then, finally, he bottoms out.

a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.

clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"

you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.

his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"

you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."

he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."

"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.

his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.

you must have the kindest man inside you right now.

"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.

he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.

clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.

the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.

"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."

you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.

"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.

"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.

"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.

you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).

“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”

he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”

“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.

his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.

“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”

your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.

your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”

your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”

you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”

with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.

"you okay?" he asks softly.

you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."

he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.

"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.

clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.

the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.

"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.

his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."

"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.

he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.

"you better."

sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble anf without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.

for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

#𐙚 : picnic reads.#𐙚 : superman.#۶ৎ : david corenswet.#𐙚 : angst.#𐙚 : fluff.#𐙚 : smut.

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romantisizes · 1 day ago

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nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

#𐙚 : storytelling.

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romantisizes · 1 day ago

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(pop) sensational ──── nanami kento & fem-bodied!reader [ smut ]

you’ve got a fiery temper and a chip on your shoulder. it's gotten to a point where no one wants to work with you, and your career is nearly in shambles. the media wants to know: are you a diva or truly just a bitch?

in efforts of rebranding, your manager sends you on a resort to kuantan, malaysia, where you meet someone who truly speaks life back into you and once again, making you remember and feel the passion you once had.

𐙚 : idol!au, vacation fling, age gap relationship [ reader: early twenties & nanami: mid-to-late thirties ], mentions of stalking & light violence, lots of arguing, enemies to fuckers, brat!reader, brat taming, (pussy) spanking, rough sex, doggy style, manhandling, asphyxiation, hair pulling, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, dirty talk, etc.

minors, ageless & blank blogs do not interact ! ──── it's summer vacation for me & im feeling the summer vibes so strong.

BREAKING NEWS: [YOUR STAGE NAME] CAUGHT PUNCHING SUPER FAN IN THE FACE

“It seems like (Your Stage Name) will go to any means necessary for their privacy as a video’s been circulating the internet about a certain popstar losing their cool on a fan of theirs,” Gossip News Anchor, Gojo Satoru, introduces as he appears on screen. As the tall individual sits behind the large table, the gloss reflecting his incredible physique, Gojo’s sapphire eyes seem to be haunting you as to his left, the aforementioned video appears on his left. No matter the position you take on the couch, you’ve found that his eyes won’t leave yours and nearly put you in hysterics.

Your blood starts to boil all over again as you grip the plastic fork tightly and shovel more food in your mouth. “Previously charting number one on Billboards with their album Good Girls Cry, Hot Girls Fly, numbers are already starting to tank as people have created their own notion on the hot-tempered celebrity.”

Gojo snorts, pink lips contorting into a devious smirk as he adds his own commentary. “I don’t know which one applies to her— seems to be neither. ”

The smart thing would be to change the channel or turn off the television, but you have this sick want of knowing what everyone’s saying about you, especially the man you used to watch eagerly, always believing that when you make it big, you’d fly under his radar and keep a good image. Now, here you are, stirring in anger as he gets the best of you.

He continues talking as you continue to watch and eat away in anger. Orange chicken, broccoli, and rice being shoved in without a second to waste. You come to a point where you can barely chew properly when the events that have transpired relays in the back of your mind.

You scoff, grains of rice spewing from your mouth. What Gojo Satoru names a Super Fan, you deem a stalker. The moment you remember the clip becoming viral, the video relaying on your Tik Tok feed, you could immediately tell that it’s been seamlessly edited to fit the victim’s narrative. Though, you’d also claim that you’re the victim.

Halfway in between your dinner, you lose your appetite, forcing yourself to chew and swallow what’s already in your mouth and finally finding the strength to change the channel. The last thing you hear Gojo say is, “People coined her this generation’s top diva, but I beg you guys to ask— is she a diva or just a bitch? Remember guys, this isn’t her first rodeo. We need to think about who we make famous and—”

══════════════════

“We need to fix your image.” After days of ignoring your manager’s calls, you’ve finally decided to answer one of her calls. You knew that you couldn’t avoid the world and its consequences for too long. You chose this life and if you wanted to continue having this life, you needed to partake in whatever damage control your manager could conjure. But, would any of it be worth it?

The people loved a good diva. They love to hate on female celebrities and coin them as divas the moment they set healthy boundaries between them and their fans, but you’ve gotten to a point where you don’t know if you’ll ever redeem yourself from this. Especially because you’re hellbent on believing that you’re in the right.

“What for?” Slouched in the uncomfortable swivel chair, you’ve got your arms crossed and refuse to look up at the woman who’s managed to take you out of the gutters when you would make, yet again, another bad choice that the media always come to enjoy. You’ve been looking at the comments on all the social media platforms that you access too. (You’re figuring that they’ll come to confiscate that, too, by the end of this meeting). The accusations and statements are far more worse this time around— devastating amounts of death threats, misogynistic comments from both men and women, and vile dms that made your bones shudder in disgust and fear. It was an overnight shift that definitely confirmed your fears— this lavish life you’ve come to live will all be over soon. All because your stalker got the better hand. “I did what I needed to do to protect myself.”

“That’s not what social media’s saying.” You can’t quite understand how Shoko keeps such a level head with you, always managing to stay calm no matter what you throw at her. Setting her hands on the table, her nails shine in the clear coated polish she’s applied as she taps them in a rhythm you’ve always found calming. You wonder if she’s come to realize that with the way your shoulders lose tension. “They’ve already been collecting evidence to hate you and this seems to be the nail in the coffin. I know you’ve seen what people are saying. We need to get this under control before we can’t—”

“We needed it under control the moment I suspected that I had a fucking stalker.” Fixing your posture, you’re surrounded by your PR team, but only one woman who freely challenges and doesn’t have the fear to talk back to you. You slam your fist on the table. “The moment I contacted the police with my speculation, they should’ve been on it!”

“And you should’ve let your bodyguard do your job and handle things,” she fires back. “Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess if you had.”

The room gets strikingly quiet, quieter than before. Shoko’s rendered you silent before, but always telling you something that you needed to hear. This— this you fear, isn’t. Feeling the impact of her own words, you see her composure fall for a quick second and her mouth falls open in quick attempts to take back her own words. However, you’ve always believed that words spoken out in anger are always laced in a person’s truth.

You stand on your feet as people divert eye contact from both you and Shoko. “Before you try and apologize, don’t. Just start looking for someone else to work with.”

When you leave, the only sound the meeting room could hear is the creak of the door slowly shutting behind you. And then finally, with a heavy exhale as Shoko hides her face in her hands, she curses, “Shit.”

Two hours later, when you’re back at home and eating your anger away, you receive a notification. A text message from Shoko: I’m not here to apologize. I know you won’t accept it, but I really advise you to take a break. Somewhere far and not America. I know you’ve always wanted to go to Malaysia, what about Kuantan?

And against your better judgment, you click on the link she’s provided. You don’t respond to her, letting the read receipt speak volumes, and already contemplating outfits for the trip.

══════════════════

The sun shines brighter in Kuantan, Malaysia. And for a long time, you’ve been seeing your shine dim down under the warming lights of stadiums and arenas— burning your skin but never making it brighter. But, here— here — you truly glimmer underneath the hot rays of the sunlight. Sitting on a white blanket, stabilized by a water bottle, a tote bag, shoes and a cooler, you’re laying down in a dark green bikini and if you move ever so slightly, you can feel your belly button piercing against your navel. This has been the most relaxed you’ve ever felt since the couple years of stardom you’ve experienced.

Within this private resort, you’ve got booked, you remain untouched and unbothered for the remainder of your trips, only ever hearing the sound of your name from employees doing their job. And the only time eyes are on you is when passersby are walking past and shoot a quick glance. They never blatantly stop and stare.

You’ve grown the habit to always wear headphones or earbuds to silence the outside world, but recently, you’ve found the beauty in listening to the outside world. Right now, it’s the sound of waves from clear waters where you can see marine life in your own tranquil home while you and countless people invade it for the time being. It’s the sound of locals and tourists speaking in their native tongues, and it’s the sound of your ignorance to the current events being relayed about you back home.

You don’t want to leave.

When you no longer feel the warming hug of the sun against your skin, you figure it’s hiding amidst the clouds, but the dark shadow that casts over you is what startles your peace. Your eyes flutter open to a large body blocking the sun and you’re trying to be patient, you truly are, but the virtue’s never been strong for you. You’ve always told yourself that your lack of it is what’s driven you to such heights in your career, but now, it’s not your biggest strength, it’s a weakness and a flaw. Dark eyebrows scrunching together as you groan under your breath, trying to control the impending rage, but the longer that this blond brute stands in front of you the more you grow annoyed.

“Hello?” Your voice cracks, but you’re certain he’s heard you by the way he shifts on his feet. Nonetheless, you try again, louder. “Hello!”

“Hm?” you hear his deep voice finally turning towards you. Wearing round, tinted shades, you can’t see his eyes, but he has strong facial features. Dusty pink lips fixed in a relaxed frown, he looks down at your sitting frame while you scowl at him.

“Can’t you find somewhere else to stand?” you ask, attitude laced with every word. “You’re literally blocking my view.”

You expected a meek apology and for the man to sheepishly move out of your way, but to your surprise, he scoffs and turns back around, continuing to block your view and this time, purposely. In shock, you snort and further push yourself to sit up. “Excuse me!”

You’d have thought it was a language barrier, but just from his actions, you knew he understood you clearly. Your blood starts to boil, forcing yourself to stand up and approach the man, pushing at his shoulder to catch his attention. He matches your energy, this time, showing his annoyance when he spins around. “What?”

“I know you heard me,” you cross your arms, entering his personal space in hopes that he’d back up. However, he stands his ground, remaining an unmoving obstacle before you. “Move out the way! I don’t know how you didn’t see me before, but I was sitting here first.”

“And you can continue sitting there,” he states.

“Who do you think you are?” you snap.

“Who do you think you are?” he retorts back at you, crossing his muscular arms, prominent veins putting themselves on display. "This is a public beach. And don't you think you could've asked more politely?"

“I—” you stop yourself from continuing, clenching your fists as you try to control your anger. You know that he's right. You could've approached things better. Right as you’re about to say something else, an employee makes themself known. A petite woman looking in between you and the man, hoping to de-escalate the issue. “Is there something wrong?”

You groan, turning to the woman, nails digging into the palm of your hand as you try to find the words to calmly vent out your frustration. However, you remember the entire point of your trip— to relax. Seeing you flustered, trying to find your voice is comical. Typically, Nanami didn’t like the call of attention on him like this, but you’ve managed to dig under his skin with your snide remarks and disgusting attitude.

He never thought he’d find comfort in someone else’s anger, but he watches you with a sense of glee. He wonders what you’re going to do next, a young thing like you blowing gasket over such a simple matter, even though he did escalate this with his sheer stubbornness to oblige. Will you berate the poor employee in your rage or will you point at him pathetically?

In a deep huff, you throw your hands up in the air in defeat. “It’s fine!”

You give up, reaching down to grab your belongings. It catches Nanami off guard as you grab for everything messily, mumbling and cursing underneath your breath before stomping away. Presumably to another spot, but you’re marching right back towards the building, leaving both Nanami and the employee at a loss of words.

══════════════════

You never liked dining in hotels, preferring to explore other places and what they had to offer whenever you were in another state or country. However, after the long day you had, you find refuge in the hotel grounds. Also, having fallen asleep after your steaming hot shower and waking up at half past six in the evening, you don’t have the time to look for somewhere to visit right now. Instead of the green bikini you sported on the beach, you’re wearing an oversized t-shirt and biker shorts that stops a little bit past your mid-thighs. With a pair of sandals on your feet, they slap the ground with every step as you make your way down the elevator and find you a spot at a table near the bar.

A waiter comes to greet you, sliding a menu in front of you before giving you a few minutes to look through it. You’re all alone, enjoying the soft instrumental music playing overhead and hearing others talk amongst themselves when you hear the clink of glass hitting the table. You furrow your eyebrows at the waiter, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask for this.”

“It’s from the gentleman at table seven,” the waiter gestures, giving you a kind smile. Following where he gestured, your mood drops as you see the curt nod at who you can only assume was the man from the beach earlier today. You roll your eyes and scoff, pushing the glass in the direction of the waiter, reading his name tag, you hum. “Sorry, Yuuji, but tell him that I don’t want it.”

“You’re not gonna accept a free drink?” he asks, taken aback. “Wait, I’m sorry! I’ll—”

The chair across from you scrapes the ground, the same blond pulling out a seat for himself and sitting down before you could protest. Nanami quickly dismisses the waiter, holding the drink down before he could take it. “You’re really stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Oh—” Caught off guard and certainly not paid enough for instances like this, Yuuji finds himself uncertain on what to do. He looks at you, big brown eyes showing concern before going right back to the older man. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

Nanami dismisses the young boy. “I can handle it from here.”

“Who said I wanted you here?” you sneer, leaning forward on the table. “I don’t want your lousy attempts at an apology. Leave.”

“Do you really think you can just bark orders at people and they’d willingly follow them?” Nanami gives you a once over, ashamed to feel an attraction towards you even though you’re spewing venom right in his direction. And the poor waiter, Yuuji, left to witness this all by himself and trying to remember employee protocols to easily handle this. He should really really get someone else, but he feels stuck.

“Ma’am, do you want me to call security for you?” Yuuji interjects, to which Nanami replies with, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t be rude to him,” you snap, defending the employee.

“I should’ve said the same thing to you back on the beach,” Nanami retorts.

“It wouldn’t have gotten you very far,” you shoot back.

“Seems like the same thing’s happening here.”

“You suck at apologies, it seems,” you cross your arms. There’s a rush coursing through your body as your shoulders relax, tension released as you’re finding joy in this exchange. “For a man at your age, I’d expect better.”

“And for a young lady, I expected you to have better manners.”

“Seems like I wasn’t raised right,” you throw a faux smile, tilting your head as Yuuji just watches the scene unfold before him. With a shaky voice, he finally speaks again, “Uh— Ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, feeling remorse for dragging the boy into this petty debacle. “He can stay. I need a verbal punching bag right about now.”

Nanami snorts. “You think I’m so easy to beat up?”

“No, but it makes it all the more fun.”

Nanami pushes the drink in your direction, some of the contents splattering out the cup and onto the table. “Just take it.”

You slide it back in his direction. “No,” you smirk. “I don’t like drinks like this. Get me something else.”

══════════════════

Nanami has never deemed himself to be a rough man. He’s never deemed himself to be one who willfully disrespects a woman for his own pleasure, but you’ve thrown yourself into his temporary life. What should’ve been a relaxing vacation becomes infiltrated by a pretty nuisance such as yourself. You’re just some pretty little brat that couldn’t accept the answer ‘no’ and seemingly likes to rile people up. It’s apparent in your body language, how your shoulders relaxed while you argued with him at the dining table and how your eyes sparkled whenever he slewed another snarky remark.

You were having fun and somewhere down the line, while the check was set on the table— the thing that he made sure to snatch up before you could even point a finger outwards— you felt something stir deep inside you. You couldn’t name it, refused to, but you liked it.

“Stop trying to be so chivalrous,” you sneer, watching the man pull out a wallet and slip his card inside the leather-bounded item. “You don’t need to waste your retirement money on me.”

“You know,” Nanami sighed. “I’ve never called a woman a bitch before.”

“There’s no need to lie to me,” you exhale. When the waiter comes back, you watch as Nanami slides the bill his way. “I thought this relationship was built on honesty. Don’t worry, I won’t tell everyone else that you’re just like every other shitty man there is. They already see it for themselves.”

“How do I make you shut up?” he asks, feigning annoyance despite taking the same pleasure from this entire encounter.

“You lost that chance about an hour ago,” you gleam. “Now, you’ve got to be creative— obviously an area you lack in.”

“I’ve got a few ideas already,” Nanami smirks, leaning in his seat. “Just need to know if you’re up for it.”

“I’m sure that everything up your sleeve will surely put me to sleep in a matter of seconds,” you challenge. “But I’m willing to see what you’ve got.”

Ultimately, that seemed to be the goal.

Stumbling in the direction of his hotel room, you fell into the door with a hearty thud, a harsh breath escaping you in this flurry of moments. His lips taste strong of the whiskey he had alongside you, his pink tongue dancing against yours to savor your taste. Your hands wrapped around the nape of his neck while his hands went into search for his keycard, grabbing it and pressing it against the metal door handle until he could hear that click sound. Your moans sound like a high-pitched surrender to his touch. Throwing open the door, you stumble back, but he catches you from falling when you threaten to do so.

Hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, his cold fingers press underneath the cotton and dance against your bare skin. Your stomach clenches as you suck in a breath as his ice cold digits threaten your comfort. You allow him to take off your shirt, hearing it go disregarded to the ground in a soft thud while he follows next. Underneath his shirt, you feel the blond hairs against his chest. Despite the soft chub that you feel, there’s still muscle from his years of consistent workout in the past. And that muscle isn’t for show.

He picks you up with ease, strong hands holding the undersides of your thighs as you level you to his height. “By the time I’m done with you, that mind of yours will finally be empty.”

You give him a challenging once over, eyelashes fluttering in mischief. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be done in a matter of seconds, old man.”

You don’t believe yourself, but a spark’s been ignited and you don’t want it to blow out. You squeal the moment you feel yourself drop, landing on the bed in a shock that has your heart racing. Then, one hand around your ankle, you screech when he drags you towards the end of the bed. He chuckles, in a way that’s so deep and manly that it sends arousal straight to your core. Looking in your eyes, Nanami can tell just how much fun you’re having with being such a pain in the ass. But in due time, you’ll certainly learn your lesson.

Spreading your legs open, he palms in between your thighs, pressing against your covered cunt. He cups it, feeling the heat reverberate from it and how you pulsate. Underneath his tired brown eyes are excitement and anticipation as he smirks down at you. “Bet you’re so wet already. I know it… I know this pussy of yours’s just waiting to be fucked, hm?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, tugging on the elastic fabric to reveal your sodded panties. In contrast to the black attire, you’ve worn a matching set of pink undergarment that’s all too appealing to Nanami’s eyes. He hums in delight as he tugs on your leg once more, wrapping the limbs around his waist and pressing his thumb down against the cotton padding of your crotch, your wet mound clenching around the fabric being pressed down by his finger. Back and forth he rubs against your folds while your clit pulsates in a dire need and want for this man you’ve only met today.

The warmth in your stomach continues to boil as your juices seep and cling to the fabric in a desperation, creating a bigger wet spot that the older man gladly feasts on with his eyes. Pink lips that happily twist in a grin as he looks down on you. Coffee-colored pupils hold so much desire in them that it makes you antsy, back starting to arch off the bed as you push yourself further against him. Gnawing on your thick bottom lip, you let your body language speak in volumes.

You’ve dropped the facade so quickly, finding yourself easily succumbing to his touch now in hopes that he’ll give your body what it so desires. But, Nanami can’t forget what transpired in the earlier hours. And, he won’t let you forget either.

“Aw,” he coos, tilting his head. “Does this pretty doll want me to take care of her?”

You meagerly nod, back arched off the bed as you jut out your breasts. They poke out in the cute bra, and it’s a sight that should be captured and admired, but he won’t fall for such tantalizing beauty so quickly. He won’t fall under your strings of control.

Pulling your panties to the side, your pussy glows underneath your essence. It shines like fragile porcelain, your sweet cunt anticipating and aching to be filled up with his cock. Nanami watches it clench as his thick index finger glides seamlessly in between your folds, collecting your arousal. He creates a pathway to your clit, pressing the smooth pad against it and feeling how your body shudders. “Please…”

It’s faint, your begging, but he catches it. Eyes flickering up to yours, Nanami tuts. “Do you think you deserve more?”

You nod without a second thought, pulling out an incredulous snort from Nanami. “You do?”

Again, you nod before the lightning strikes. The sting to your cunt has you jolting, a surprised squeal leaving you. But just as the pain comes, it quickly dissipates when you feel the gentle rub right back on your clit. You take a relaxed breath before you feel your body jumping yet again. You squirm, trying to pull away from the pain, but one strong hand grips at your thigh to keep you still. “Try pulling away, and I’ll be out that door. You want that?”

You quickly shake your head, “no,” weakly falling from your lips.

“Good,” he breathes. Neither do I.

One more time does the sting of his slaps reverberate in your pussy. Your body shivered, back still not touching the bed as your legs tightened around the man. Your moans were sweet and breathy, eyes watching him despite their constant fluttering. Honey blond hair with streaks of silver peppered throughout. You wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through his scalp. More and more of your honeyed slick seeped onto his hand at the sheer thought of your imagination, toes curling when you feel a digit tickle and tease at your entrance before pulling away.

“Nanami…” you whine, but he ignores you, dropping your legs from around him before sending one last strike to your cunt.

“I’m gonna ask you again.” He puts one knee up on the bed, crawling to hover over your body and dip down to your level. You can feel his body heat vibrate off his chest as it rises and falls in a rhythmic manner. “Do you really think you deserve more than what I’m giving you right now?”

And again, you nod. Because, you truthfully do believe that you deserve all of him. You believe you deserve everything from this world after how it’s treated you. But with the furrow of his eyebrows, you can tell that you’ve answered wrong. Rising up from the bed, Nanami sighs and pulls at his pants buttons. ��Well, do you know what I think you deserve?”

Whining, you frown as you start to squirm. Bottom lip jutting out in a pout, you huff in annoyance. “Nobody cares what you think. Just come n’ fuck me already.”

Pulling down the zipper of his pants, his erection becomes more prominent as you lay pliant on the bed. Eyes fluttering down to his lower half, you can see how thick he is underneath and how he’s been gifted a dutiful amount of length with it. He chuckles, kicking off the garment and palms at his boner, feeling his pre dampen a spot against his upper thigh as you start to push yourself up on the bed, your elbows holding up your weight.

“Don’t worry,” he says, climbing up the bed once more. He easily has you under his trance despite your weak attempts to remain so bratty. You sit up straight, leaning into him, expecting to get a taste of his lips. Mere centimeters away from them, you receive a ghost of a smile. “Because, I’m so kind, you’ll get what you want—” His voice lowered. “—Get on your hands and knees.”

Your eyes sparkle with that fire that he’s come to adore in his moments of knowing you. “Are you gonna make me?”

Gaze hardening, he meets your challenge. “I won’t tell you twice.”

Face pressed into the soft pillows, your sobs are muffled. The bed creaks as Nanami plunges into your spongy walls with such vigor. The wet clapping of skin echoes through the room as he can hear your high-pitched cries and moans get swallowed by the smooth fabric. One knee digging into the bed with his foot pressed against your scalp, he’s brutal with how he fucks your sweet hole.

Your legs shake as your inner thighs are stained with his white seed and your sticky and glossy arousal. With the gasps of air you take, you can only whine and cry as your mind’s so fogged up and body weak and pliant against the bed. Your entire body feels hot despite the harsh beating your poor cunt is taking, fluttering for more as he presses into your cervix with each thrust. His touch sets you on fire, strong and veiny hands gripping at your hips as he plows into you, never relenting until he’s had his fill. “Finally got you to shut up, huh?”

You can only respond in weak and needy moans and whimpers— music to his ears. “Only thing you can do now is cry like a little bitch.”

Your cunt flutters at that, tightening around Nanami’s cock. He grunts, trying not to lose himself in you. “Fuck,” he whispers, before his quick moment of weakness is replaced with a chuckle. “What a filthy little thing you are. Letting yourself get used and disrespected by an older man. You have no respect for yourself.”

Even in your weak state, you manage to push your rear further against him in his visceral plows. Sweat beading off his forehead, Nanami grunts and groans in the heat of your pussy. His cock showered in your essence as your sweet cunt is begging and pleading for a release he refuses to give you. With every press of his tip against that gummy spot deep inside you, you feel that fluttering need to let go and release. But with every squeeze that lasts too long and when your sounds get all choked up, Nanami denies you yet another release and himself momentary pleasure. He pants, chest falling and rising as he watches you quiver below. Your ass jutting out in desperation as he eases the pressure he applies with his foot against you. It gives you just a moment to croak out, “Please… I want—”

He doesn’t give you more time to respond, gripping at your hair and forcing you up to have your back pressed against him. His excess seed slips past your folds and stains your thighs even more than they’ve already been. Whimpering, your eyes shut as you feel Nanami’s breath against the nape of your neck. “You asked for more. Isn’t this more?”

He tugs on your hair, your neck snapping back as he forces you to look at him through your welling up eyes. You shake your head, “Not enough. I need t’come. Please, Nanami!”

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” Nanami hums. “Beg s’more and maybe I’ll let you.”

You disobedient little thing, succumbing to him after all the fights you’ve put up. Eyes scrunching shut, you moan and whine out, “Please… Please, please, please! I need to cum— want t’come so bad!”

He doesn’t say anything, just pushing you back down on your stomach as he aligns himself within you once more. Sliding back inside you at ease, he returns to using brute force against your pussy walls. One knee digging into the sheets while his leg has its toes tangled in them, his sheaths himself greedily into your pussy. He’s still got a tight hold on your waist while his other hand snakes in between your legs to press down on your clit, eliciting a high-pitched sob from your lips. “Fuck!”

Gaining a bit of strength, you hold your upper body up with trembling hands that’ll soon give out, but it's worth it in the time being. With lidded eyes, you try your best to get a view of the man messing up your insides with his fat length, eyes fluttering when they make eye contact with the blond. You moan and mewl out in pleasure when that familiar coil returns. Eyes rolling back as you call out his name, “Nanami, please…”

He pinches your clit, sending a jolt through your body as your pussy clenches around his cock once more. There’s no pulling out this time, letting your walls hold his length in a death grip before you release yourself against him. He can feel himself twitch, buried deep inside your womb as you paint his cock in a smearing white. Your long-winded moan contorts into a hearty sigh, limbs falling as your chest hits the bed and your exhausted body having its fill. A few more languid thrusts of Nanami’s hips pull a few more high-pitched hymns from you before he’s completely emptied himself inside of you.

His length falls limp when he unsheaths himself from you, watching how your sweet hole leaks a mixture of each other’s release. It drips and stains the bed sheets and he only now feels guilty for the housekeepers tasked to clean it. Finally, you turn yourself on your back, hazy eyes pinned right on Nanami. “I’ll be seeing you after this, right?”

Nanami can’t help but snort, “Don’t tell me I’ve softened you up.”

“Oh, definitely not,” you laugh. “Just want to know if I have more to look forward to on this little trip.”

“I’ll let you know if I can fit some more time for you.”

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POP DIVA HAS RETURNED FROM BREAK! HAS SHE RETURNED A BRAND NEW PERSON OR HAS SHE REVERTED RIGHT BACK TO HER WAYS?

By Gojo Satoru | Thursday, June 12, 2025 | 12:00 PM

After viral videos of (Your Stage Name) has been released, they had dropped off the radar. Her record label claimed that she was taking a break from all the stardom while the people were demanding an explanation. It’s been six months since her disappearance and the people want to know if she’s learned her lesson or not. You all know how I feel about the crowned pop diva, but it’s not up to me to decide if she’s worthy enough to be back in the limelight. How do you guys feel? … Read More

𐙚 : this is my first time writing brat taming. y'all vibing with it? thank you so much for taking the time to read. please let me know what you thought down below in the comments, please. i will give you a slice of an apple.

#𐙚 : srb.

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romantisizes · 1 day ago

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the sooner people understand x reader as a literary device and not a blank slate for you get mad at for not actually being a blank slate, the more fun we’ll all have. the reader-insert will never be a perfect empty canvas. even without character and world motivation it’s just the sheer fact that these things are written by imperfect humans—some of them do it better than others but all of them will leave their dirty filthy thumbprints on ur precious mirror of a entryway, that’s literally just how creation works. it will never perfectly include everyone, it’s not meant to, they work exactly the same as other characters—the degree to which you relate to them will depend on the story, what they do, and who’s writing it (and you who’s reading it, of course).

#𐙚 : storytelling.

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romantisizes · 1 day ago

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your ask title is called [offerings] so i offer you me 😋😋

🚨 THAT'S GAY !!

#i love you so much audgey !!#𐙚 : dropbox.#𐙚 : golden apple.#𐙚 : kryptoclark.

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romantisizes · 3 days ago

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commentary ── the way i want to give this man the best head he's ever received in his life. to the point that he needs to be recharged by the sun

mornings like these.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you're trying to make scrambled eggs. clark doesn't really care. (he's trying to scramble your eggs instead)

wc: 3.8k

genre/tags: established relationship, boyfriend!clark, fluff, smut, morning sex, size kink, slight praise kink, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, implied protection (reader on bc), creampie, soft sex, p w.o p, no use of y/n, as domestically sweet and smutty as it gets <3

the apartment is quiet, save for the soft sizzle of butter in the pan atop the stove and the occasional clink of a spatula against the skillet. outside, the sun is beginning to rise, spilling orange light through the sheer curtains, casting long gold streaks across the kitchen tile.

you're standing at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of clark's old metropolis u shirts and humming quietly as you cook.

the eggs are nearly done, evident by their yellow fluffiness and you reach up to grab plates from the overhead cabinet above your head and then you hear a sound:

the faint creak of the hallway floorboards.

he's up.

you don't turn around yet. you just smile to yourself, turning the burner off and sliding the last bit of scrambled eggs onto the second plate.

then, after a moment, you decide to speak. "you're staring."

clark's voice is still rough with sleep when he answers, low and thick with that familiar farm boy drawl.

"i'm allowed to admire my lovely girlfriend."

then you feel his arms wrapping around you from behind, warm and firm as his hands find purchase splayed across your waist. he presses against your back, nose brushing your shoulder, and sighs like this is his favorite place to be. like you are.

"morning," you murmur softly, your smile audible now.

"mornin'," he says, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against your sides. "you always look good in my shirts," he adds lowly.

you lean back into him a little, slightly teasing. "you're only saying that because you enjoy the view."

"i always like the view," he corrects you, mumbling the words against your skin and his lips graze the base of your neck.

the words sit warm and heavy between you – sweeter than sugar and softer than the warm light basking his kitchen. you turn your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to brush his jaw.

"you always say the nicest things when you want something," you tease softly.

clark huffs a soft laugh, his breath fanning your skin. "and what if i do?"

his hands haven't moved from your waist, but now they're a little firmer like he's reminding you of his strength. as if you don't know how easy he could fold you over the counter if he wanted.

you smirk and shift slightly in his arms, grinding back just enough to feel the unmistakable shape of his cock, half hard and pressing into you.

"clark," you say, mock scolding. "i'm making breakfast."

"uh-huh," he hums, nosing along the curve of your neck, voice lowering. "but you started it."

"i said you were staring and now, you're the one all grabby."

his hands trail under the cotton fabric of his shirt, skimming your stomach and then up your ribs.

"you're wearing my shirt and no bra," he murmurs. "you're cooking and humming, looking like the reason i don't get out of bed on sundays."

you laugh, but it catches in your throat when his right hand trails down to pinch the soft flesh of your ass. "and in just panties under here. it's like you wanna kill me." he noses back up your neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "we can eat later," he says, dragging his fingers slowly back to your waist.

you're breathless already, trying to stay upright. "the eggs–"

"–will be fine," he finishes for you, turning you around gently in his arms.

and then he kisses you, soft lips meeting your for a connection that's slow, deep and filthy with intent all at once. his hands trail down to grip the backs of your thighs, squeezing the flesh there with a low hum.

you clutch at his bare shoulders, your fingers pressing against the hard contours of his shoulder muscles, his skin warm because of course he's always warm.

he lifts you like its nothing (because it is), hands slipping under your thighs to anchor you against him.

"clark," you breathe as he starts walking, already heading toward the bedroom. "the food's gonna get cold," you warn him softly. it's a half-protest because there's no real bite in your tone, evident by the lack of your body's resistance by the way your legs wrap around his hips for extra steadiness.

"that's why 've got a microwave," he murmurs lowly, eyes lidded slightly downward and glazed over. yeah, there's no getting clark out of this mood until you've exhausted yourselves.

clark carries you down the hall like he's done it a hundred times – granted, he has – with a quiet urgency, like he woke up this morning starving for you and now that you're in his arms, there's no sign of him letting go anytime soon.

might as well relent.

you're kissing him all the way to the bedroom, hands buried in his dark curls, mouth dragging along his jaw, and you don't need super-hearing to hear his pulse thudding hard against you. he barely manages to kick the door shut behind him before he's laying you back on the bed, cool sheets crumbling beneath your body as he hovers over you with a look that steals the breath from your lungs.

even in the soft glow of morning in his quiet apartment, there's a look of intensity in the deep blues of his eyes. one that reminds you that he's memorized every inch of you, but the hunger in them tells you he wants to do it again. slower. deeper. needier.

his hands are everywhere, first braced on either side of your hips, then smoothing up your waist, fingers skimming under his shirt, the delicate softness making your breath hitch.

the light bleeding through the curtains in his bedroom casts against his hovering frame above you, giving him a glowing aura on the right side of his body.

he takes his time taking your shift off, like he's unwrapping a precious gift, revealing your skin to the air and his intense gaze at the same time.

clark groans, quiet and low, like the sight of you takes something out of him, which it does, no matter how many times he's seen you before.

he palms gently up your thighs, his hands large and warm as they settle back on your hips. he leans down to kiss the center of your chest, between the valley of your breasts, his lips reverent and humming against you. you gasp as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the slopes of your breasts, one hand snaking upward to pinch at a stiffened peak. he silences a whimper with a hushed whisper of 'sorry,' against your smooth skin, despite continuing his ministrations, rolling the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

"clark," you pant softly. you arch slightly, breathing shallow and heart pounding in your chest. "enough teasing."

he half-hums, half-chuckles, lashes fluttering against your breast as he presses a kiss there. your words make him grin – lazy and lopsided and far too smug for someone of his usual candor.

"but, baby," he muses, trailing his lips down the smooth skin of your belly, "that's the best part."

you whimper softly, lower body squirming against the sheets, searching for any form of friction.

he chuckles again, nodding at your neediness. "okay, okay," he murmurs, soft and low. his finger hook into the hem of your panties, teasingly flicking them against your hip once before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside with a practiced flick.

your legs part for him instinctually, humming when his palms squeeze around the plush flesh of your thighs and pulls them further apart. he leans down pressing a kiss to the inner side of your knee. he peppers kisses up the side of your leg, meeting your inner thigh.

"so pretty," he murmurs, his lips going higher, then higher, until you're gasping, your finger tangled in the sheets.

you don't have to say anything. your hips shift restlessly and he hums in approval.

"'haven't even done anything yet," he says, voice low and reverent, almost smug. he has the full qualification to be, with the way you writhe and pant against the bed after he's done little to nothing.

"clark," you breathe again, tone bordering desperate.

he doesn't need to be told twice. his mouth descends upon you – warm, slow and torturously thorough. his tongue lazily flicks against your clit, lapping at the hardening bundle of nerves with just the right pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut and your back arch further off the bed.

your hands fly to his hair, tugging reflexively at the dark locks, and clark groans at the way you tug him closer to your core. he easily manhandles you, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, inhaling the scent of you while his tongue never wavers.

even now, with his mouth between your thighs and your body unraveling all from his doing, there's a special kind of care in the way clark touches you. he doesn't simply take from you, rushing to meet both of your ends. no, he draws it out. he touches you like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again.

clark is thoughtful.

he effortlessly swept you off your feet with his kansas farm boy charm on his first day working at the planet. and not because of grand gestures.

quite the contraire.

it's little things that clark does that made you fall in love with him.

like how he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. or how he carries an extra umbrella in his bag, just in case it rains and someone in the office forgot theirs. how he remembers your coffee order. how he'll fold your laundry if he stays over your place, not because you asked him to, but because he "had a little time while you were showering."

it's how he listens, really listens, like nothing in the world matters more than what you have to say.

it's the soft expression he holds when you meet his gaze, either at home or at the office.

it's the whispered words he reserves for only you to hear – sweet nothings, gentle praises, utmost compliments.

just like he's whispering right now against your core between languid laps that you can't even make out

"fuck," you gasp, legs trembling around his shoulders. your toes curl at the skillful precision of his tongue.

he pauses just long enough to murmur, "language," into your skin, then grins when he feels you glare down at him. (as if he doesn't swear like a sailor every time he's balls deep buried inside you.)

"i swear to god, clark–"

"blasphemy now?" he teases the inside of your leg again, gently kissing the juncture between your thigh and pelvis.

you shoot him a warning look but it's soon wiped off your face when his mouth returns to your core, this time swiping up your slit. his tongue gives a break to your puffy clit, circling the area under it, reaching your entrance, achingly fluttering.

he hums in satisfaction, dipping his tongue past the opening of your entrance, making your walls flutter.

you're already so close, and clark knows it. if he wasn't your boyfriend, it'd be embarrassing. he pulls away to meet your gaze with his heated one. the blues of his eyes are nearly nonexistent with the ways his pupils have dilated. "always so messy," he muses with a smug smile, bringing his fingers to swipe through the slick between your folds, spreading it around your twitching core.

clark is a giver.

so, despite having pulled away when you were oh, so close to an orgasm, it wasn't out of cruelty. it never is. it's always for something better.

and from the way he kneels up at the foot of bed, allowing you view to the large and hard outline visible behind his sweatpants, you have an idea what that is. the cotton clings to the outline of his cock, the fabric damp at the tip where precum has already soaked through.

his finger hooks into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down in a slow motion, making a show of it. tease, you think mentally and rolling your eyes with a smile. his heavy cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking with his arousal.

your mouth waters at the sight.

you've seen him like this several times, but it still knocks the breath out of you. you always remind him his cock is a good representation of his entire being. he's just so big, so achingly beautiful in a way that makes your center flutter at the sight.

clark meets your gaze, reads your expression and the way your hand twitches to reach for him and he shakes his head. "later," he rumbles, scooting closer to you on the bed, settling between your thighs. "need to be inside you," he adds.

you nod eagerly, panting as he lines himself, giving himself a few slow strokes and nudging the head of his cock at your entrance. "think i'll fit without prepping you with my fingers first?"

you're too needy to care, nodding anyway. "we'll make it fit," you murmur firmly.

clark laughs at your determination to take him without properly preparing your tight walls. the memory of your first time flashes in both your minds: how it took an hour and three toe-curling orgasms coaxed from his fingers before your pussy was able to take his cock.

safe to say, you believe you've conquered him since then.

you roll your hips purposefully against the engorged head of his cock, demeanor desperate. "clark," you whine softly.

"alright, alright," he hums with a nod, slowly pushing inside your welcoming walls with a soft hiss.

your walls stretch around him immediately, fluttering from the sudden pressure of his size. the head alone feels impossibly thick. already punching the air from his lungs despite how gentle he is.

"shit," you breathe, fingers fisting the sheets beside you as he slowly pushes in another inch.

clark groans above you, slack jawed as he watches the way your body tries to take him. "you're so tight, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth. "still... every time... so tight f'me."

your thighs shake around his hips, your whole body arching to meet him, desperate for more, even as your pussy clenches instinctively at the intrusion. "don't stop," you pant, voice breathless. "i can take it, i can-"

"i know you can," he cuts you off, murmuring the words and brushing his lips across your cheek as a gentle reward. "you're my good girl, right?"

your core clenches around him at his question and you nod frantically, nearly delirious with need as he pushes in deeper. the stretch burns in perfect way: so much, but not too much, just enough to make your mind muddled with fuzz.

slowly and steadily, he gives you another inch, and then another, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady to keep you from squirming too much.

"halfway there," he murmurs, but it's more to himself than it is to you. he watches, eyes glazed over and jaw open, as your pretty little body struggles to accommodate just half of his length. "you're taking me so well, sweetheart."

you whimper at the praise, arms winding around his back, clinging to him like a lifeline as your hips roll helplessly to attempt and meet his.

"more," you breath, voice broken and needy. "please, clark..."

his gaze darkens, pupils still swallowing up the blue. he leans down, resting his weight on one forearms beside your head while the other slides under your thigh, hooking your leg up around his waist for a better angle. "i know, baby. i know," he murmurs reverently. brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that's soft but hungry, his cock twitching inside you from the sheer intimacy of it all.

and then he pushes further.

you croon, mouthing falling open in a silent gasp as inch by inch, as he splits you open and stretches you to your limit, and then past it. your walls pulse around him, fluttering like your body can't decide whether to suck him in deeper or clamp down to keep him out because he's too much; too thick; too clark.

clark grunts softly, his voice soft husky at your hair. "i missed this," he murmurs, hips stilling so he can savor the way you're trembling beneath him. the ends of his curls, damp with sweat brush against your earlobe, tickling you. "missed the way you feel around me... like you were made for it," he muses. it's obvious he's drunk with sex, never so bluntly vocal about something so obscene.

you nod, feeling his forehead press to yours. "think i was," you pant, lashes fluttering as your lips brush against each others.

you weren't sure if fate travels across solar systems, but damn are you glad that earth was the planet he crash landed on.

your words do something to him. you can feel the effect rippling through every muscle in his body. his cock twitches deep inside you and his restraint falters.

he sinks deeper into you.

your mouth drops open with a strangled moan and clark swallows the sound with a hungry kiss. his tongue licks into your mouth as his cock continues to stretch your pussy. he's three-quarters in, then four-fifths, then–

"fuck," clark groans, voice raspier than ever. "that's it... that's my girl, taking all of me."

he bottoms out with a heavy press of his hips, the base of his cock flush against your soaked swollen folds. the hair above the base of his cock brushes against your clit, creating a delicious friction. you feel full in a way that should defy logic, as if he's reaching places inside you that no one has (and let's be real, no one else ever will).

and the best part?

it's not just sex. it's never just sex. not with clark.

he lifts his head, meeting your gaze, his lower lip trapped between his teeth because he's holding back oh, so much. "can i...can i move yet?" he asks, tone strained.

you smile at his unwavering consideration and chuckle through your nose, nodding. "mhm, 'm okay," you murmur softly.

his hips roll, slow and deliberate, easing out just enough for to you feel the loss, making you whimper, before he sinks back in with a deep needy groan.

your hands clutch at his back instinctively, fingertips pressing into the firm planes of muscles, anchoring you.

clark moves like he worships you – because he does.

each stroke of his is slow, reverent and full of maddening patient he always has, like he's determined to make you feel every inch of him. it's as if he wants to carve himself into your velvet walls (as if he hasn't already) in the quiet morning light.

"y'feel so good," you slur softly, voice featherlight. "always feels s'good."

"yeah?" he rasps, burying his face in the crook of your neck, gently nibbling on the damp skin. "you feel like heaven, sweetheart."

and you believe him. not just because of how he says it, but because of how he says everything. clark speaks with nothing but truth, softness, and, only with you, with an undercurrent of awe, like he's genuinely shocked that he gets to love you this way.

his pace builds, inch by inch, thrust by thrust, until you're gasping his name like a mantra. your bodies rock together in a practiced rhythm, slicked with sweat and tangled in warm sheets and sunlight. his name continues to spill from your lips from sheer instinct and without thought.

clark murmurs soft encouragements against your skin, his lips pressed to your cheek, down your jaw, down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder.

"you're doing so well for me, baby... so good..."

you're so full, so dizzy, so completely undone.

"clark, 'm about to... gonna..." you whine, feeling the pressure tighten in your lower belly.

he chuckles warmly, slipping his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. "you gonna cum already, sweetheart?"

you nod, eyelashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your brain nearly mush at this point.

clark reels at your expression, knowing he's the only one to subject you to this state of mind and body.

"cum then, baby," he says, voice tight with balanced control as he continues the relentless rhythm, rocking your body into the mattress. "wanna feel you cum around my cock."

your orgasm hits fast, no warning, save for the high pitched cry of his name spilling from your lips. you're thankful you're over at his apartment instead of your own because you really can't afford another noise complaint from your neighbors. you claw at his shoulders, leaving indents for sure (that'll heal in less than ten minutes), and your thighs squeeze around his hips as you cum hard around his cock.

clark groans as you tighten around him, barely managing before he rasps, "i'm about to– inside– can i?"

you nod eagerly, body flushing with heat. he never fails to ask despite every constant reassurance from you that you're on birth control and he's always welcome to cum inside. that's just another thing that makes clark, clark.

he manages a few more thrusts before he follows you over the edge. his hips still as he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills into you with a strangled moan of your name.

the room goes quiet, with the exception of your mingled breathing and birds chirping outside his window.

he doesn't pull out right away – he never does. clark never rushes to move. he always just holds you, pressing kisses to your temple while carding his fingers through your hair. he pulls back enough, just to look at you, just to see your hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and stupid in love. he presses a kiss to your forehead, a million words sealed into the intimate gesture.

you feel his cock soften inside you as he stays buried in the warmth of your body as if it's where he belongs. he likes to think so, at least.

you hum, lazy and content, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, pulling him flush atop you, unworried about how he practically crushes you.

"the eggs are definitely cold," you murmur against the sweat-slick skin of his neck.

he pulls back – too worried about his weight on top of you, bracing his arms beside your head – and sports a grin, lazy and crooked. "worth it."

you snort, tracing your finger along the hard expanse of his chest. "you always say that."

"and i always mean it."

again, you weren't sure if fate traveled across solar systems, but somehow, someway, it sent clark kent straight to you.

.... currently feral. hope you enjoyed <3

#𐙚 : picnic reads.#𐙚 : superman.#۶ৎ : david corenswet.#𐙚 : smut.

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romantisizes · 4 days ago

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commentary ── banger after banger after fucking banger, bro !

Sanctified Heat

Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows—until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children—but she can carry the weight of his sin.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (degration, dirty talk, BDSM, rough sex, deep throating, oral fixation, edging, cream pie, cheating, enemies to lovers)

Part One

Sister Marigold Baptiste was born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, in a shotgun house that smelled of starch, sweat, and scripture. Her mother kept the windows open but the curtains closed, her apron tied tight and her rules tighter. Her father was a deacon—stern, long-winded, and quick with a leather belt that hung on a nail by the front door. Not for show. For discipline. For correction.

There wasn’t much softness in the house beyond the quilting in winter and the gospel music that played low on the radio while her mother shucked peas and hummed. Everything else—clothes, posture, mouth, behavior—was pressed sharp and tight like Sunday pleats.

“The devil lives in idle hands and hips that sway too hard,” her mother would say.

By the time Marigold turned fifteen, she had learned to make herself small.

To close her knees when seated.

To drop her eyes when men looked too long.

To silence her laugh when it felt too full.

She was a quiet beauty—the kind that bloomed beneath layers. Skin the color of pecan shells, smooth and even. Lips full enough to tempt, but pressed thin in discipline. Her eyes were what people noticed most—dark, wide, deep-set and watchful. She wore them like a burden. Like she saw too much and dared not speak it.

The Church Raised Her, Then Took Her

Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance had been her second home since she was old enough to walk. Pentecostal. Strict. Spirit-led. A sanctuary full of shouting, swaying, and tongues—followed by rules that stitched your life together like a straight-backed dress.

Marigold was a model child of the congregation. By eighteen, she taught the girls’ purity class. By twenty-two, she caught the eye of Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, the newly promoted assistant pastor. He was tall, quiet, pious to a fault, with a strong voice and calloused hands. He offered her marriage, stability, and a place beside him—not as a wife of passion, but as a First Lady of virtue.

They wed in the summer of 1905.

And over the next twenty years, Marigold became the standard.

The First Lady.

The teacher.

The listener.

The one who visited sick mothers and wayward sons.

The one who pressed her skirts, smiled without teeth, and kept her voice at a modest octave.

The Women of the Church

They called her Sister Marigold like it was a title of honor.

They admired her posture, her modesty, the way she never raised her voice or let her hair loose in public. Her bun was always firm, her collar always buttoned, her lipstick nonexistent. They trusted her to lead them, and she did—with a tender firmness.

But even among the women, there was distance.

She was loved, yes.

Respected.

But not known.

None of them knew that Marigold had once stood behind the outhouse at fourteen and pressed her fingers between her legs, curious and trembling.

None of them knew that she sometimes lingered in the back pews after service, breathing in the leftover musk of men who had shouted and danced in the Spirit.

None of them knew that she dreamed—still—of the sound a belt made when it snapped through air.

The Marriage

Obadiah loved her the way one might love a hymn—reverently, distantly, never with urgency.

They did not make love.

They performed union.

It was quiet. Closed. Predictable. Their attempts at children had long since passed. The doctor said her womb “tilted wrong,” like a broken shelf. Obadiah took it as divine redirection and turned to fasting instead of fucking.

Marigold learned not to ask for more.

But her body still asked.

Quietly.

Late at night.

Alone under cotton sheets.

How She Dresses

Marigold’s clothing was armor.

Muted colors. Long hems. Sleeves to the wrist even in July.

She wore foundation garments that flattened her curves, even though she had a body that defied modesty—broad hips, full breasts, thighs that swayed even in prayer. She bound herself in linen and silence, because if the world couldn’t see her, maybe the hunger would stay hidden too.

But no matter how she dressed—

No matter how tight the collars or dark the dresses—

Her body still whispered: Touch me.

—-

Before the signs. Before the sermons sharpened with fire. Before she gathered the women in white and pressed hymn books into their hands like shields—

There was only her.

Sitting alone in the church pew at dusk.

And him, just outside the window.

She had heard the stories long before she saw him. The women in town whispered with both shame and delight when his name passed their lips.

“He a devil in a fedora, girl.”

“Talks like honey, but his hands like to bruise.”

“He got them whores calling out scriptures while he bend ‘em over.”

Elias Moore.

Better known as Stack.

A man too pretty for his own good. Skin like river-soaked chestnut, always glistening like the sun had claimed him. Eyes slow and heavy-lidded, like he was always plotting something.

He smiled with wicked dimples.

He laughed with his chest.

And when he walked, it wasn’t just a step—it was a rhythm. Swagger and power and temptation braided into one. He wore his shirts open when the heat got thick. Slacks always hung low on his hips, like he didn’t care if the world saw where he kept his sin. He didn’t walk past the church—he lingered. Smoked slow. Let his voice carry over the fence like molasses poured too thick.

And Marigold hated it.

She hated how close The Blackline sat to the church—right up against it, like it had been placed there just to test the faithful. From the upper prayer room window, she could see the whole front of the building. The porch where girls laughed, lips painted red. The long wooden bar where women perched like sirens.

Sometimes she could even see him.

Holding a woman by the throat, gently, as he kissed her hard enough to melt bones.

Slapping ass like he was beating drums.

Leaning over one of the girls, back arched against the window frame, her legs trembling as he drove into her from behind—Marigold had seen that.

That was the first time she truly looked.

She hadn’t meant to.

But her eyes locked.

And he had seen her.

Stack looked right at her through that thin lace curtain, kept fucking that woman without missing a beat.

He grinned. Bit his lip.

Never broke rhythm.

Marigold had fallen to her knees and begged forgiveness that night.

But the image never left her.

The church sounded different after that.

Quieter.

As if the air inside had grown shy from the things she carried in her mind.

She tried to tell herself he was unholy.

That his girls were Jezebels and he was a false king.

But even the sound of his voice from blocks away made her legs clench.

Deep. Gravel-dipped. Smooth as a backroad sin.

She told herself he was dangerous.

He was lust. He was wrath. He was everything her Lord told her to run from.

But she didn’t run.

She protested.

Because protesting was the only way to get close enough to hate him up close.

And secretly, shamefully…

She wondered if he could tell she was already his.

—-

The first time Sister Marigold Baptiste stood outside The Blackline, the sun was high and merciless, burning through her starched collar and making the sweat gather between her breasts beneath her blouse. She didn’t flinch. She never did.

She held her sign upright:

REPENT. THE DEVIL PLAYS THE BLUES.

The other women flanked her like scripture—clean, pressed, expressionless. Wives of deacons. Church mothers. One girl just sixteen, trying not to fidget in her stockings.

They stood in silence, no shouting. That was the Baptist way. Pentecostals let the Spirit do the hollering. And from within the walls of that wicked place, the Spirit was moving—but not how Marigold had ever known.

Laughter spilled through the brick. Low music. A woman’s moan, so rich and brazen it made the sixteen-year-old next to her gasp and murmur a prayer. Marigold closed her eyes. Just for a second. The smell that floated from the door was thick—sweet and wrong. A mix of cologne, old smoke, and something darker. Something carnal.

And then—

he stepped out.

The door opened and Elias Moore—known to sinners as Stack—strode onto the porch like he’d been sent to test her will. Tall. Shirt hanging open. Suspenders draped low around his waist. Chest slick with sweat, like he’d just come off somebody’s body.

And she was for certain he did.

He dragged a hand over his hair, tipped his chin toward them, and smirked.

“Sister Baptiste,” he purred, slow and low, “Ain’t Sunday meant for worship? Or is that why you came… to be tempted?”

REPENT!

SINNERS!

UNHOLY!

Stack grinned wide, “Didn’t the Lord tell y’all to rest on the seventh day?”

Marigold’s lips tightened.

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” she replied, voice low and firm.

Stack stepped down one stair, just close enough that she could see the muscles flex in his chest with each breath. His left pectoral jumped and Sister Baptiste felt a shiver run down her spine.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he spoke, “I ain’t slept since Friday.”

The girls inside laughed from the doorway.

One of them—barely dressed in silk and shadow—leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and popped her gum.

“He ain’t lyin’ neither. Gave me three hallelujahs last night!”

Laughter. High, wild.

Marigold didn’t flinch, but her grip on the Bible at her waist tightened.

Stack cocked his head, tongue flicking between his teeth.

Filthy.

“Y’all got signs. We got hips and heat. Gotta admit—we winnin’.”

She didn’t respond. But when he walked back toward the door, he turned and said, quiet enough just for her:

“Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you, Sister.”

Then he disappeared inside.

That night, long after the protest had faded and the street had emptied, Marigold came back.

Not to protest.

Not to preach.

Just to look.

She stood in the alley beside the church donation crates, pretending to sort through a box of hymnals. From there, she had a clear line of sight to the side door of The Blackline.

It was open.

The heat inside poured out in waves. Women in red and gold stepped through the light, laughing, hair pinned up and glowing. One pulled a man in by the collar and kissed him so deep he nearly dropped his drink.

Marigold’s throat tightened.

She wanted to be disgusted.

She wanted to feel righteous.

But all she felt was hungry.

The way the women laughed—not politely, but fully. Loud and loose and alive. The way they walked, thighs unashamed. Bodies moving like they knew the power of being watched. Touched.

Then he appeared again.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway. Cigarette in hand. Shirt off now, just his bare chest shining under the amber light. A girl ran her hand down his stomach. He let her. Barely noticed her.

Because he was looking into the dark.

Right at her.

She stepped back instinctively, heart hammering. Had he seen her? Could he?

She didn’t wait to find out.

Marigold turned, lifted her skirt just enough to step over the gutter, and walked away fast—back toward the rectory, back toward her husband, back toward silence. But her thighs were slick, her heart was pounding, and her chest was full of something she hadn’t felt in decades.

Not holiness.

Heat.

—-

The next day, Marigold was locking the church doors.

It was quiet on the block. The women of the congregation had gone home, choir rehearsal had been dismissed early, and even the usual clamor from The Blackline hadn’t reached full swing yet. She adjusted her gloves. Tugged them up to the wrist with a frown carved into her brow, her Bible pressed firm to her chest.

And then she heard it—

“So it was you.”

That voice.

Low. Slow. Dipped in sin and thick enough to smear across the inside of her thighs.

She turned.

There he was.

Elias Moore. Leaning against the church’s brick side like the house of the Lord couldn’t burn him down. Shirt open, sweat-slicked chest gleaming, suspenders hanging loose against his hips. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.

His fedora shadowed his eyes, but not his smirk.

Not those dimples.

“You gone pretend you wasn’t watchin’?” he asked.

“Excuse me?!”

Her voice cracked. Not from fear. But from knowing.

Stack didn’t step forward. Not yet.

He just shifted his weight, rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

“That night…upstairs in the prayer room. Curtain cracked just enough. You was starin’ down at me while I was givin’ Peaches a good stretch against the window.” His grin widened, “And I knew it felt hotter than usual that night. Turns out it was you heatin’ up the glass.”

Her mouth parted.

“You filthy, unholy—”

“Say it again,” he interrupted, stepping off the wall.

One step. Just one. And her back hit the locked church doors.

“Say it again while your thighs clench.”

Her hands tightened around her Bible.

He was close now. Not touching, but close. She could smell sweat, leather, and that deep heat he always carried like a curse. His voice dropped.

“You peekin’ through windows now, Sister Baptiste? Hmmm?”

He cocked his head, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he was savoring her shame.

“You touch yourself after? Say a prayer with wet fingers? You imagine it was you bent over that sill? Your sweet holy mouth stretched open while I whisper all the ways I’ma ruin you?”

She gasped, but it wasn’t from offense.

It was the image.

The truth of it.

She tried to speak. Her lips trembled. Her knees weakened.

Stack stepped in just enough to let the buckle of his belt graze the hem of her skirt. His voice lowered again—filthy now, syruped with grit.

“Ain’t gotta watch through glass anymore, baby. You want a seat at the show, I’ll let you ride front row.”

Marigold’s breath stuttered.

He leaned in—nose brushing hers—and whispered.

“Or better yet…you can be the whole damn act.”

And then—like a devil disappearing into smoke—he stepped back, straightened his suspenders, and lit his cigarette without another word.

As he turned to walk away, he called over his shoulder:

“Next time you wanna see me fuck, just knock.”

—-

Her house was always quiet.

Not peaceful—just quiet in the way a tomb is quiet. Every corner was neatly pressed, every chair perfectly placed. No music played past sundown. No laughter echoed from the walls. Only the ticking of the hall clock and the occasional creak of old pine floors.

Sister Marigold Baptiste’s house smelled of lemon oil, starch, and ivory soap. The curtains were lace but thick. The wallpaper faded at the seams from years of sunlight, but no one dared replace it. Everything inside her home existed the way the church said it should: untouched, unbothered, unwavering.

The kitchen was clean. Too clean.

Not a spice jar out of place. No open jars of jam. Just tins sealed tight, cast-iron pans shining with lard that hadn’t been used in a week. Dinner had been plain—boiled greens, cold cornmeal, baked fish with barely any salt. Reverend Baptiste ate in silence, chewing slow, pausing only to murmur a prayer between bites.

Marigold sat across from him, her napkin folded just so in her lap.

No conversation.

No affection.

When he was done, he stood, kissed her forehead like a dutiful cousin, and retreated to the den to read scripture by lamplight.

“You staying up long?” he asked without looking.

“A little while,” she replied.

“Don’t let the bathwater run too hot. It weakens the body.”

“Yes, husband.”

And he disappeared behind the door like he always did.

The bathroom was cooler, tucked at the back of the house. A clawfoot tub sat in the corner, porcelain clean. She lit a single oil lamp, let her shadow stretch across the white tile, and ran the water slowly.

The scent of lavender and castile filled the air.

She slipped out of her house dress—gray with faint pinstripes—and hung it neatly on the hook.

Beneath, she wore a girdle and cotton chemise. Plain. Functional. She peeled them off slowly, folding as she went, revealing brown skin still soft, still untouched, still full. Her breasts were heavy, her hips wide, her thighs generous. But all of it had been hidden so long it hardly felt like hers.

She stepped into the tub and sank down, eyes closed.

The water was too hot. She didn’t care.

She leaned back and let the warmth kiss her neck, her collarbone, the creases behind her knees. Her hair stayed pinned up—until she reached for it.

The pins slid free one by one, clinking against the porcelain. Her coils tumbled down, thick and dark, brushing her shoulders.

She never let it down unless she was alone.

Not even for Obadiah.

He never asked.

Later, in the bedroom, she stood before the mirror in her nightgown. It was floor-length, high-necked, with pearl buttons and long sleeves. She had three of the same gown. White. Cotton. Worn thin at the seams.

She unbuttoned it only to her chest, then paused.

The mirror caught the curve of her waist, the shadow between her breasts. The lamp behind her made the fabric look sheer in places. Her thighs pressed together.

Her gaze dropped to the dresser drawer.

The Bible sat on top.

Beneath it, hidden in a box of old handkerchiefs, was a folded white cloth—a scarf she used during prayer, or when the Holy Spirit moved in service.

Her fingers hovered over the drawer pull.

She didn’t open it.

She slid beneath the sheets alone. Obadiah was already snoring faintly in the next room. He hadn’t touched her in years. Not out of cruelty—just disinterest. She had long ago accepted that her body was not for pleasure.

But still…

Stack’s voice lived in her mind.

Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you.

She turned on her side.

Her thighs clenched.

Her nipples ached.

Her hand moved beneath the covers. Then stopped. Hovered.

She couldn’t.

Not yet.

She stared at the ceiling and whispered, almost bitterly.

“God help me.”

But deep inside her, something whispered back.

I don’t want help.

I want to burn.

—-

The sanctuary was packed.

Wooden fans waved in slow rhythm, stirring the heat but not chasing it. Women in wide-brimmed hats dabbed at their foreheads with monogrammed handkerchiefs. Men in wool suits shifted in their pews, sweat trickling beneath starched collars. The choir was just finishing “Draw Me Nearer”, their voices heavy with spirit, but even heavier with July humidity.

Sister Marigold Baptiste sat front and center, her back straight, her hands folded neatly over her lap. Her prayer scarf lay draped across her knees. Her lips were closed. Eyes forward.

But her mind—her mind was somewhere else.

The night before.

Stack’s mouth.

His voice.

The way he stood in the doorway like he’d been sent to tempt her specifically.

She could still see the sweat on his chest. The way it beaded low on his stomach before disappearing into those dark slacks. The way his tongue flicked between his teeth when he grinned at her like he knew.

And he did know.

She had turned away too slowly.

Walked too fast.

Her hips had betrayed her.

Her thoughts had betrayed her.

She crossed her legs now, knees pressed tighter than necessary beneath her Sunday skirt.

From the pulpit, Reverend Obadiah Baptiste raised his voice.

“The devil is bold in these final days! He sets his roots deep in music, liquor, lust—”

The word lust hit her like a slap. Her stomach fluttered.

“—he sends his foot soldiers to the corners of our city! Juke joints! Brothels! The so-called blues halls where women bare their bodies and men throw their futures into bottles!”

The Blackline.

He meant The Blackline.

Everyone knew it.

Some nodded. Some hummed in agreement.

But Marigold sat still, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Her eyes drifted—not to the pulpit, but to the congregation. Somewhere near the back, two young women leaned into each other, whispering behind gloved hands. She recognized one of them—used to be in her girls’ purity class.

Now she wore lipstick.

Had her hair curled in waves.

Her stocking seam wasn’t even straight.

Loose, they would’ve called her once.

But now?

Marigold couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop thinking…

Is she the kind he touches? The kind he holds against the wall and fills with all that heat?

She felt her pulse in her thighs.

Her drawers dampening.

Her breath shortening.

She opened her hymnal.

Then closed it again.

Reverend Obadiah’s voice rose.

“We must be vigilant! The enemy does not rest. He preys on the flesh. He makes you think what’s unclean is sweet. He poisons the tongue and quickens the loins!”

Quickens the loins.

Marigold bit the inside of her cheek.

She thought of Stack’s belt, the sound it made when it slid from his trousers. She thought of being bent over her own prayer bench, her face pressed to the wood, tears and desire mixing together. She thought of him punishing her for every wicked thought.

And then—God help her—

She ached.

When the sermon ended, she stood with the others, but her hands trembled against the back of the pew. Someone asked her if she was all right.

She smiled.

Small.

Tight.

“Just the Spirit moving,” she said.

And the woman nodded.

But the Spirit didn’t move that way.

Not in the places she felt it.

—-

The house was darker than usual.

Marigold moved through it like a ghost, the hem of her nightgown brushing the wooden floor. The fabric clung to her legs with every step, the humidity making her feel bare even in layers.

Obadiah had gone to bed after prayer.

He didn’t ask if she was coming.

He never did.

She lit a single lamp in the bedroom. Its golden light pooled on the quilt, casting her shadow across the wall—long, full, womanly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped.

The collar of her gown had come loose. One button undone.

She didn’t fix it.

Instead, she moved to the bed and sat at the edge.

Her thighs were already pressed together.

She hadn’t touched herself in nearly two decades. Not since her wedding. Not since the night before Obadiah laid beside her, turned his back, and told her that—

the flesh is weak but the Spirit must lead.

But tonight?

Tonight the flesh was singing.

She leaned back on the pillows, let her legs fall open just enough to feel the cool air kiss the heat between them. Her gown rode up, soft cotton rising over bare knees.

And her hand…

Trembled as it slid down.

Over her hip.

Across the curve of her thigh.

Down between—

Wet. Soaked. Drenched unholy.

She gasped softly and bit her lip.

Her fingers circled slow, teasing herself like she was learning, like she didn’t already know what her body craved.

Then, without meaning to, she whispered—

“Elias…”

Just once.

Then again.

“Stack…”

Her free hand clutched the sheet.

Her mind filled with him—shirtless, belt loose, tongue flicking fast between his fingers. His voice telling her she was a sinner. That she needed to be broken. That he’d show her what forgiveness felt like.

She pressed deeper.

Slid her fingers in slow, the way she imagined he would—rough but careful. Her hips lifted. Her jaw fell slack. Her moans were breathy, choked, but steady.

And when she came—

It rolled through her like a hymn.

Silent.

Trembling.

Whole.

She collapsed back into the pillows, heart racing, mouth open in the dark.

The shame would come later.

But in that moment?

She was free.

—-

The sun rose cruel and bright.

By mid-afternoon, the church women were out again, signs in hand, heat sticking to every inch of cotton and conviction. The usual hymns were humming—faint, forced, fraying at the edges.

Marigold stood among them, Bible against her chest like armor.

But something had changed.

She couldn’t stop remembering how her hand moved beneath her gown. How his name had spilled from her mouth. How her knees had shaken when she whispered, “Yes, Stack…” like a confession.

Her skin still tingled.

Her guilt sat high on her chest.

She almost didn’t come today.

But she did.

She always did.

The Blackline’s door creaked open. The music dipped.

And there he was.

Stack.

Leaning against the frame, shirt undone, vest open, sweat licking the dip of his collarbone.

But today…he wore a belt.

Not fastened.

Draped over one shoulder.

A heavy, black leather belt with a silver buckle that glinted when it caught the sun.

He stepped down the stairs, slow as sin. Took one drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl around his words.

“Afternoon, saints.”

Cordelia laughed from inside, peeking over the top half of the door like a devil in silk.

“Look like we got a holy protest, Stack! You bring your scripture?”

“Better,” he said, pulling the belt off his shoulder.

He let it hang from one hand, low and loose, like he didn’t need to use it—but might.

His eyes locked on Marigold.

Everyone else disappeared.

He said nothing.

Just snapped the belt once.

CRACK!

The sound sliced the silence. Birds scattered from a nearby wire. One of the younger church women jumped.

But Marigold?

She stood frozen.

Hands clenched at her Bible. Chest rising. Lips parted. Her thighs pressed together so tightly it hurt.

Stack grinned.

“You keep showin’ up, Sister. You sure you ain’t here for the beatin’?”

The women gasped.

Cordelia howled with laughter.

“Ooh, he nasty!”

Stack stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the musk and cologne on his skin.

He leaned in, belt still swaying in his grip.

“I’ll put you over my lap and teach you what obedience really feel like.”

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed.

“And you wet.”

Her breath caught.

His voice dropped lower.

“You came last night, didn’t you? Whispered my name into that pillow? You think I ain’t know?”

Marigold turned to leave, nearly stumbling.

But as she walked away, he called out.

“That belt’s waitin’, Sister. And I don’t miss a mark!”

The other girls clutched each other, laughing and gasping, their heels clicking as they darted back inside, fanning themselves with cocktail menus.

And Stack?

He stayed where he was.

Belt in hand.

Watching her hips sway like they were already sore.

—-

The night air was thick.

Not warm. Not cool. Just heavy—like breath held too long.

Marigold lay on top of the covers, her nightgown clinging to her skin like confession. She had left the windows open and the fan on, but no breeze stirred. The room was still, the kind of stillness that listens.

Obadiah was in the next room again. They hadn’t shared a bed in years. The excuse had always been prayer, back pain, fasting, a calling toward celibacy. She never questioned it—not out loud. But tonight, lying alone beneath the shadows of her own house, Marigold wanted to scream.

Instead, she whispered.

“God help me.”

But the prayer felt thin. Hollow. Something she said out of habit more than hope.

She let her hand rest lightly against her stomach.

Then drift lower.

Over the soft slope of her belly.

Between her thighs.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Her eyes closed. Her breath slowed.

And she slipped into a dream.

It began like always—The Blackline behind her, signs in hand, sweat rolling down the valley of her back beneath her blouse. The other women were chanting something, but the sound turned watery, slow, like hymns in molasses.

Then he appeared.

Stack.

Sweat-slicked. Bare-chested. A cigar between his lips and a belt in his hand.

Not coiled.

Loose.

He said nothing at first.

Just circled her.

Slow.

Predator-like.

Marigold’s body stood still in the dream, but her thoughts raced—heat blooming low and fast, like a match to oil.

“Say you want it,” he spoke low and seductively.

She shook her head.

He chuckled.

“You already bent.”

And she was.

Bent over a pew.

Hands flat.

Breath shaking.

Nightgown raised.

The belt touched the curve of her ass—not a strike, just a whisper.

Then another.

Then the crack.

SMACK.

She gasped.

He pressed his hand to the sting.

“You take it so good.”

Another strike.

And another.

Her legs trembled. Her pussy dripped.

He bent low behind her, kissed the place he’d punished, and growled:

“Beg me for it.”

In the dream, she did.

She heard her own voice—breathy, broken.

“Please…Elias…I need to be punished. I want it. Make me feel it…”

He shoved his fingers between her thighs.

“You already do.”

She woke with a jolt.

Soaked.

Panting.

Shaking.

The sheets beneath her were damp. Her thighs slick. Her heart thudded like sin behind her ribs.

She sat up, pressing her palm to her mouth.

The shame was instant. Sharp. But underneath it…

Something else stirred.

Need.

Need that wasn’t fleeting.

Need that was coming back for her.

—-

The church was empty.

The hymnals had been closed. The final amen had drifted up like smoke into rafters built on faith and long-suffering. The women had left in pairs, heels clicking, voices hushed with evening gossip. Even the deacons had gone, muttering about supper and the rising heat.

Only Marigold remained.

She stood alone at the pulpit, hands clenched around the edges, her chest rising and falling faster than the sermon should have left it.

The sanctuary was warm. Too warm.

Her scarf clung to the back of her neck. Her blouse stuck between her breasts. Sweat trickled along her ribs and she hated it— hated the way the stillness felt sinful, hated the way her thoughts burned.

Not with holiness.

But with him.

With Elias Moore.

With the way her body had come hard and soaked the night before, whispering his name like he was the one baptizing her in bed.

She had scrubbed herself twice this morning. Prayed twice before noon. But nothing could cleanse her skin of the memory of how it felt to want something so violently it made her sob in the dark.

And now—

Now the sound from across the street was louder than ever.

The Blackline was pulsing.

Low bass. Laughter. Rhythm. Lust.

Every note that drifted from those cracked doors felt like temptation calling her by name.

It wasn’t just music—it was mockery.

“I ain’t yours,” the beat seemed to say.

But you wanna be mine.

She stormed from the church before she could talk herself down.

The street was almost empty, save for the soft hum of nightlife and the thick heat of late summer settling like syrup.

Marigold didn’t stop at the gate.

Didn’t pray at the stoop.

She walked right across the road like a woman possessed, her skirt swinging with fury, her heels striking the pavement like rebuke.

When she reached the side door of The Blackline, it was already open.

He was already there.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway, shirt half-open, suspenders low, a glass of dark liquor in one hand and that goddamn grin carved into his face.

“Well, well. Thought I smelled judgment comin’.”

She didn’t blink.

“You—”

Her voice broke, rage clenching her throat.

She stepped inside. Just a few feet. Just far enough to feel how hot the air was. How real he looked up close.

“You disgusting, vulgar, filthy man.”

He took a sip, unbothered.

“Guilty.”

“You stand out here like the devil himself, throwin’ filth at me in front of women who look up to me! You embarrass me. You—”

“You embarrass yourself, Sister,” he cut in, low and sharp, “All that fire in your voice and none in your husband’s bed. You mad at me ‘cause I noticed what he’s too scared to touch.”

She stepped closer.

Furious.

Breath shaking.

“You think just ‘cause you walk around with your chest out and your belt hangin’ like a weapon, you can say whatever you want to me?!”

He licked his bottom lip slow.

“Nah, Sister. I say what I say ‘cause every time I do—you clench. Just like you doin’ right now.”

Her hand flew—open-palmed, angry—but he caught her wrist mid-air.

Fast. Gentle. Firm.

She gasped.

He didn’t let go.

“Wanna hit me? Or wanna beg me?”

Her chest rose hard. Her cheeks flushed.

She tried to pull away, but he stepped in, the heat between them thick as sin.

“Tell the truth, Sister Marigold.”

His voice dropped.

“You touched yourself after I brought out that belt, didn’t you?”

She froze.

“You put your hand between them holy thighs and thought about me bendin’ you over.”

She shook her head, trembling.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he whispered, “I ain’t mad at you. You human. Just like me.”

“You’re not like me,” she snapped, trying to pull free again.

He didn’t let go.

“Not yet.”

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, the room was nothing but breath and want.

Hatred like kindling.

Desire like flame.

Then she finally yanked her wrist away and backed toward the door.

“You’re gonna rot in hell,” she spat.

He smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Only if you rot beside me, Sister.”

She turned and fled.

But he watched.

Watched the sway of her hips.

Watched the tremble in her spine.

And knew—next time, she wouldn’t run.

—-

At first, it felt like a blessing.

No signs.

No scripture-chanting at dusk.

No Sister Marigold standing tall at the curb, eyes sharp, mouth tight, Bible pressed flat against her chest like it could guard her from what he made her feel.

Stack leaned against the doorframe of The Blackline that first night she didn’t show, puffing a cigar with the girls buzzing behind him. Cordelia was laughing with her head thrown back. Odessa slipped between patrons like a serpent in silk. Mirabel twirled to the band warming up on stage.

But something was missing.

Something in the air didn’t bite the same.

No judgmental stares to push against.

No tight lips to tease.

No heat pressed beneath holy layers for him to unpeel with his eyes.

“Where the Bible Brigade at?” Cordelia asked, sauntering past with her hand on her hip, “Y’all finally scared ‘em off?”

“Maybe she laid hands on herself too hard,” Lana snorted, “Repented and ruptured.”

Laughter followed. Girls trailed into the night. Smoke curled up toward the moon.

But Stack?

He just watched the street.

Empty.

Clean.

Too damn quiet.

Days passed.

Then a week.

No protests.

No hymn humming.

No hard swallow from the Sister trying not to look at his chest when he stood in the sun. He didn’t say it aloud, but Stack started stepping out earlier in the evening—just to see. Lighting his cigarette before the music even started. Lingered near the gate. Checked the alley beside the church.

Nothing.

The following Friday, Cordelia caught him staring again.

“She ain’t comin’, baby,” she said, leaning into his space, “You broke her. Or maybe she finally realized how bad she wanna be broken.”

He didn’t answer.

Just clenched his jaw and lit another match off the brick.

“Or maybe,” Liza June chimed in, “she been touchin’ herself too good to risk fallin’ at your feet.”

Mirabel laughed behind her palm, “She’ll be back. Them holy ones always come back once they realize God ain’t the only one who likes to watch.”

But Stack didn’t laugh.

He stepped out to the edge of the porch, scanning the street again.

Still nothing.

No swishing skirt.

No pinched lips.

No belt-worthy tension bottled up in righteous fury.

Just the faint echo of her voice in his memory.

You’re vulgar. You embarrass me.

He licked his teeth.

Then muttered under his breath.

“Come back and say it again, Sister. I’ll give you somethin’ to be ashamed of.”

That night, when the club quieted and the music dipped into blues low and sweet, Stack sat in the corner booth alone. A girl tried to slide in beside him—he waved her off.

He nursed his glass, watching the door.

Wondering if maybe she really wasn’t coming back.

And why, in the deepest part of him, that thought felt like a loss.

—-

The Blackline ran smooth that night.

Liquor flowed easy. Music was hot and low. The girls were moving slow enough to tease and fast enough to earn. Every booth had company. Every room had noise.

And Stack?

He was restless.

He sat at the bar, swirling his drink, one elbow propped, watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

Cordelia was on stage, hips rolling slow, her voice a slow burn against the upright bass. Mirabel was on her knees at a table, flirting like a preacher’s daughter with a knife behind her back. Liza June was tucked between a businessman’s thighs, hand sliding up slow with a smile that promised sin.

Stack had broken every one of them.

He knew the moment it happened for each:

When Cordelia had dropped her robe and whispered, “What do you want me to do first, boss?”

When Mirabel had spread her thighs on his desk and asked if he wanted to watch or taste.

When Liza had crawled between his legs, a virgin with a filthy mouth, and said, “I wanna learn the hard way.”

He broke them all in his own time.

Not through cruelty.

Not with force.

With heat. Voice. Hunger. Control.

He trained them with looks, commands, the press of his hand low on their backs.

And they loved him for it.

But Sister Marigold?

She was the one he hadn’t touched.

Not yet.

She was the tightest lock he’d ever seen—and Stack was a man who collected keys.

He wanted her bent and begging.

He wanted to peel the starch off her, inch by inch—until her thighs were open, her mouth was filthy, and she was asking for what she used to condemn.

“Break her slow,” he muttered to himself, “Make her feel every crack.”

He imagined her again—nightgown clinging, thighs wet, mouth forming his name like it was the only scripture that still moved her.

He’d take her in steps:

First, a kiss—shocking, deep, with his fingers pressed just under her jaw.

Then, his belt—not striking yet, just dragging the leather over her thighs, slow enough to make her tremble.

After that? He’d have her on her knees, not praying. Watching her lips wrap around his cock like she’d been made for it.

“She’ll cry the first time,” he said aloud, “But not from shame.”

He stood from the bar and walked into the back hallway where it was quiet. The music dulled behind thick walls. His office door loomed at the end, but he didn’t go there.

He leaned against the wall.

Lit a fresh cigarette.

And stared at the front door like it might open and reveal her.

Come back so I can watch you fall apart.

And this time?

He wouldn’t stop her.

He’d make sure she never wanted to stand again.

—-

The fellowship hall smelled of deviled eggs, Pine-Sol, and slow-cooked rice. The women of Greater Calvary bustled between tables in church dresses and lace gloves, laughter echoing off whitewashed walls and pressed tin ceilings.

Marigold sat at the center table, her napkin folded neatly in her lap, hands poised around a glass of sweet tea that had already begun to sweat. She wore a soft peach blouse with a high neck and a gray skirt that fell to her ankles. Her hair was pinned back tighter than usual. Not a coil out of place.

She smiled where she was expected to smile.

Laughed when the timing called for it.

But her stomach was in knots.

Not from nerves.

From hunger.

Sister Ruth tapped her fork against her plate to get everyone’s attention.

“Ain’t this a blessing? We don’t gather enough outside of service. Just us womenfolk.”

A few amens fluttered through the room.

They went back to talking, eating, asking about children and neighbors and sore knees. Sister Lula mentioned her husband’s failing eyesight. Sister Anita bragged about her eldest joining the choir. Sister Bernice, always the sharpest tongue, leaned forward with a knowing squint.

“Y’all notice we ain’t protested outside that juke in two weeks now?”

That silenced the table for a moment.

Marigold’s fingers tightened around her tea glass.

“The Blackline,” Bernice continued, “Devil’s playground. Smut in stereo. Music that make your hips move without permission.”

“Mmm-hmm,” another woman agreed, “One of them girls strutted right past me on Saturday night. Smelled like bourbon and fornication.”

Laughter.

Someone muttered, “The jezebels multiplyin’.”

“What happened to our witness?” Bernice pressed, “We supposed to be light. But we ain’t marched by in days.”

Eyes turned, slowly, toward Marigold.

She smiled. Stiff. Careful.

“The Spirit led me to rest a while,” she said softly, “Let the dust settle.”

Ruth nodded, “That’s wise. Don’t want our protest to become performance.”

But Bernice’s eyes narrowed.

“Still. I heard that Stack Moore said somethin’ vulgar last time. Real shameful. Called out your name, Sister Marigold.”

Marigold’s throat closed.

“Is it true he said he’d—what was it—bend you over a pew and teach you obedience?”

Gasps and scandalous giggles rippled across the table.

“Men like that,” Ruth said, fanning herself, “need a swift stone to the head, like Goliath.”

“Or a woman to put him on his knees,” someone murmured.

They laughed again.

But Marigold didn’t.

She reached for her water. Took a small sip. Let it rest on her tongue like wine in a chalice.

They didn’t know.

They didn’t see the way her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.

They didn’t hear the way her breath caught.

They didn’t feel the way her skin burned remembering the belt he held, the way his voice sounded like sin wrapped in syrup:

Say you want it.

I’ll break you slow.

She swallowed and placed her glass back down, careful not to let her hand tremble.

“The devil has always used noise to distract the saints,” she said.

The women muttered in agreement.

But inside?

Marigold was buzzing.

Not from fear, but from want.

And she knew it wouldn’t be long.

Soon, she’d walk down that street again.

Not as a protestor.

But as a woman ready to be broken open.

—-

The parlor was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of an oil lamp and the last dregs of daylight bleeding through lace curtains. The house was still. Even the floorboards had gone quiet. Reverend Obadiah Baptiste had retired early, as always. He didn’t ask why she stayed behind in the parlor, kneeling at the small altar near the window with her scarf wrapped around her shoulders and her knees pressed into the worn rug like penance.

He never asked anything of her anymore.

Which made what she was about to ask of God feel all the heavier.

She had been kneeling for nearly an hour.

Back straight. Hands folded. Bible in her lap.

Whispers had long since turned to pleas.

“Lord, I rebuke it. Take the thoughts. Take the hunger. Purify my flesh…even if it withers.”

Her voice cracked.

Her fingers trembled.

Her thighs ached from being pressed so tight together for days.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night in bed.

Not once.

Not when she woke up sweating from dreams. Not when her breasts ached from wanting to be kissed, held, bitten. Not when her thighs clenched so hard she saw stars.

She thought denial would purify her.

But it only made her crave more.

And he was everywhere.

Elias. Stack. The devil in skin.

He lived behind her eyelids.

The way he stood with his shirt open and belt hanging loose, his voice low and slow, eyes full of fire.

Wanna hit me or beg me, Sister?

Say you want it. I’ll wait.

She hadn’t said it.

Not then.

But in her head, she said it every night.

Tears welled.

She opened her Bible, but the words blurred.

She pressed her forehead to it, whispering through clenched teeth:

“Why can’t I stop thinking about him?”

Her breath hitched.

The tears came harder.

“Why does my body betray me? Why does your name feel weak next to his?”

She covered her mouth.

She hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud.

She gasped.

And then she broke.

The tears came—hot, silent, wrenching. Her shoulders shook. Her face crumpled against the worn leather of the Good Book as though it could absorb the filth inside her.

But it didn’t.

It just sat there.

Like it always had.

Still. Unmoving.

While she burned.

She stayed there for what felt like forever.

Not praying.

Just breathing.

And finally, whispering the one truth she couldn’t outrun anymore:

“I want him.”

Not in marriage. Not in courtship. Not in righteousness.

“I want to be ruined.”

She let the words sit in the dark air. And this time, no voice answered back.

Only the distant, rhythmic pulse of The Blackline across town.

—-

The air outside the church was thick with Mississippi heat and choir song.

Women stood in small circles on the front lawn of Greater Calvary, fanning themselves with paper programs and sharing the latest on husbands, births, and backsliders. Their skirts were long, hems brushing the dirt. Their sleeves reached wrists. Not a bit of flesh where it could help it.

And still—

Stack Moore watched them like it was a burlesque.

He was leaned back against his black Buick at the far corner of the block, shirt open halfway down his chest, belt undone at the top, one foot crossed over the other like sin had manners. His fedora was tipped just enough to shade his eyes, but the glint of mischief could still be seen clear as day. A rolled cigarette hung lazy between two fingers.

He licked it once—slow.

Twice—slower.

Then smiled.

“Damn shame,” he muttered, “how holy a mouth can look when it’s meant for filth.”

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, licking and rolling like he was thinking of something far less sacred than salvation.

Then she came out.

Sister Marigold.

Her Bible clutched close, lips tight, spine straighter than judgment. She walked like royalty in a battlefield—chaste but carved like a woman who wasn’t made to be untouched. That skirt hugged her hips just enough to tempt a gaze.

And Stack gave in.

“Mmm,” he hissed through his teeth, low and hungry, “That walk could raise the dead.”

She didn’t look at him—but her steps faltered.

He watched her go, watched the sway, and when she passed the edge of the church gate, he called out:

“Don’t walk like that if you don’t want a man prayin’ on his knees behind you, Sister!”

Gasps cut through the churchwomen like wind through reeds.

Marigold didn’t break stride—but her jaw clenched so tight it could’ve split wood.

Stack just smiled, rolled his cigarette between his lips, and tipped his hat slow.

Then turned.

And strolled into the mouth of The Blackline like he was the one leaving worship.

The air was cooler inside, humming with jazz and slow motion. Cordelia was behind the bar in a silk wrap and no bra, pouring bourbon like she was serving confession. Peaches was perched on a stool with her legs wide, red lipstick freshly applied and conversation just as hot.

They spotted Stack the moment he entered.

“Lord, look who just finished leering at the flock,” Peaches teased.

“You see the way Marigold walkin’?” Cordelia added, “Like she don’t know she got two whole sermons sittin’ on her hips.”

They laughed, loud and knowing.

Stack didn’t even sit. Just leaned on the bar and grinned.

“She hold her mouth too tight,” he said, plucking the cigarette from his pocket, “Scared if she pout, somebody gon’ see what them lips really made for.”

That made Peaches slap her knee.

“You a fool, Stack.”

“Nah,” he drawled, “I’m just waitin’. Holy don’t mean hard. Just means it ain’t been touched right.”

Cordelia leaned closer.

“Heard some girls from church came in here last week,” she whispered, half thrill, half scandal, “Young things. Fresh-faced. Left with stockings down and men on they knees under tables. Sucking.”

Stack blinked, then he smiled, slow, wicked.

“Church got better altar calls than I thought.”

Peaches licked her straw.

“You know who else I bet be hidin’ somethin’ under them skirts? Marigold. Tight drawstrings don’t mean dry. Just mean she screamin’ behind her eyes.”

Cordelia whistled.

“Ain’t no preacher man alive know how to handle all that body. She don’t need a pastor.”

“She need a wolf,” Stack finished.

He lit his cigarette, eyes low and voice thick.

“And I got teeth.”

—-

The Blackline’s upstairs office was smoky and dim, the only light coming from the desk lamp and the sliver of moon slicing through the blinds.

Stack was reclined in the desk chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt open. He was flipping through the tally book with one hand and rolling his toothpick between his lips with the other—still damp from his post-bath grin.

The door creaked open.

Smoke stepped in, tie loose, vest gone, the scent of vanilla and woman still clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” Stack muttered without looking up, “Ain’t even need to ask where you been.”

Smoke gave a small smirk.

“You jealous, little brotha?” Smoke taunted.

“Mmm,” Stack drawled, slow and slick, “Ain’t touched pussy in eons. Walkin’ round here pussy drunk. That lil’ thing got you spellbound. What she got between her legs, a holy ghost?”

“Least I tasted it,” Smoke shot back, “Had her legs on my shoulders till she went to sleep,” he said, voice deep and smooth, “You ever eat a woman so slow she dream ‘bout it twice?”

Stack scoffed, grin twitching. He stood up and leaned in the office doorway, smirking with his toothpick caught between his teeth, watching Smoke pour himself a glass of bourbon.

Stack raised a brow, “Say what now?”

Smoke didn’t look up.

Didn’t smile.

Just took a sip and leaned back in his chair, cool and unbothered. Smoke met his gaze then—steady, bored, and deadly.

“You the one leering through church windows like a starving hound,” he said, voice low, “That holy woman got you pressed up against the glass like a boy who never learned what to do with his hands.”

Smoke kept going.

“You talkin’ slick, but you ain’t even tasted what you obsessin’ over. All them dames in here throwin’ pussy and you sittin’ in your car waitin’ for a woman who don’t even speak your name unless it’s followed by ‘hellfire.’”

Stack chuckled deep, but it was tight in his chest.

“She gonna say my name,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Smoke said, mouth tipping into a lazy smirk, “Right after you make her come so hard she forgets the Book of Psalms.”

He took another sip.

“So don’t talk to me about bein’ pussy-whipped when you out here tryin’ to baptize in backshots.”

Stack chuckled, slapped the book shut.

“Yeah? That little thing got you lit up like a Sunday candle. Been hummin’ her name since last week.”

Smoke leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyebrow raised.

“And you over here sweatin’ behind windows and doorways for a woman who still tucks her blouse in with a cross ‘round her neck.”

Stack’s grin dropped just a little.

“Say what you want. That woman’s mouth tight ‘cause she afraid to let it moan.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, slow, “She tight ‘cause you ain’t broke her yet. And it’s killin’ you.”

Stack looked away, flicked his toothpick once.

“You don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about.”

Smoke chuckled, deep and low.

“Don’t I? You watch her like a dog at the fence. Lickin’ your lips every time she quote scripture.”

“So?”

“So next time you jack off thinkin’ ‘bout Sister Marigold, try not to say ‘amen’ when you nut.”

Stack barked a laugh despite himself.

“Fuck you.”

Smoke shrugged.

——

The sanctuary was nearly empty.

The last of the women had gone an hour ago, the scent of their perfume and powder still lingering in the air. A few hymnals lay closed across the pews. The lamps were low. The cross above the altar cast a long shadow down the center aisle like a wound still bleeding.

Sister Marigold Baptiste stood alone.

She was collecting donation slips. Fixing the flowers in the vestibule. Pretending she was busy and unbothered when truly, her body was still humming from what she almost did in the alley the night before.

She turned to reach for a stack of folded linen.

And froze.

The door creaked.

Bootsteps echoed—slow, deliberate.

He didn’t call her name.

Didn’t announce himself.

Just let the sound of his walk fill the air, followed by a lazy, Southern drawl that settled like sin against stained glass.

“Ain’t no service tonight. You stayin’ back to pray for me, Sister?”

Stack Moore.

She turned so fast the linen slipped from her hand.

“What are you doing in here?”

He stood just past the back pew, the brim of his hat dipped low, shirt unbuttoned at the chest, sleeves rolled like he’d come straight from work—or a sin he didn’t regret.

“Saw the light was still on,” he said, slow and easy, “Thought maybe somebody holy could teach me somethin’.”

“You need to leave,” she whispered, trying to sound firm, but her voice shook.

He didn’t.

He walked.

Each step toward her made her pulse trip faster. He passed the pews like they weren’t even there, eyes locked on her the whole way.

“Where your holy preacher husband at?” he asked, stopping a few feet short.

“He’s home.”

“Home?” Stack repeated, cocking his head, “And you out here by yourself? In the dark? In this big ol’ church?”

He smiled without warmth.

“Ain’t wise, Sister. Lotta crazy niggas and worse out there. Crackers too. You shouldn’t be alone.”

She didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Because now he was closer, leaning against the edge of the pulpit like the weight of the Lord didn’t press on him. Like the church didn’t scare him. His fingers tapped the wood like a slow ticking clock.

“Let me ask you somethin’,” he said, voice low, “Why you protest?”

She blinked, “Because—because that place is a den of filth and—”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

He straightened, took a step closer.

“I said why you protest? Every damn week. You ain’t tired? Ain’t got better things to do than shout about sin to people who already made peace with it?”

Her chin rose, stubborn.

“It’s wrong what y’all do in there. Wrong what you allow.”

“Ain’t no one draggin’ them girls in. They come on they own.”

“Because you tempt them.”

He smiled.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just wanted somethin’ they never had before.”

He took another step. They were close now. His scent wrapped around her—tobacco, musk, sweat. Her knees locked, and her fingers gripped the edge of the hymn stand.

“Let me ask you one more thing,” his voice dropped an octave, “He touchin’ you right?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your husband,” Stack said, tone dipping into something darker, “He fuckin’ you right? He get between them thighs and eat that holy little pussy ‘til you cry?”

Her hand flew up—instinctive. But he caught her wrist before it landed.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm.

She tried to pull away.

“Let me go.”

“Answer me.”

“You’re sick—”

“Nah. I’m just honest.”

He stepped even closer.

Now his chest brushed hers. His nose nearly touched hers. His breath was warm on her lips.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

She was trembling.

He could see it.

“I bet he never made you cum on your knees with your face in the sheets beggin’ for more.”

“I refuse to fall into sin,” she breathed, trying to hold her ground.

“No,” he whispered, “You already there. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

She turned her face away, but he followed, slow as syrup, pressing the words right into her ear.

“Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.”

Marigold broke free with a gasp.

She fled down the aisle, out into the night, her steps wild and uneven.

Stack didn’t follow.

Didn’t move.

Just stood at the altar, a devil in Sunday shoes, watching her run like the temptation hadn’t already claimed her.

—-

Marigold didn’t speak on the walk home.

Her shoes scuffed the dirt in hurried steps, her heart punching at her ribs, throat raw from the way she had almost said his name. Not his title. Not “Mr. Moore.” But his name.

Elias.

The name sat like a bruise under her tongue.

The street was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the distant throb of music still bleeding out of The Blackline. Even from here, she could feel it—the bass of blues pulsing like a second heartbeat between her legs.

She hated that she could tell which song was playing.

She hated that the memory of his scent was still clinging to her skin.

She hated that her thighs were slick.

She crossed the porch and unlocked the door with trembling hands.

The Home of a Preacher’s Wife

Their house was modest. Clean. Prim.

Lace curtains. Polished oak floors. A hand-carved cross above the mantle. The air was still, as if the walls themselves bowed under the weight of Scripture.

There were no pictures of passion. No laughter in the corners. Just discipline and devotion.

And silence.

Her husband was asleep already. His plate from supper still on the table, barely touched. A folded napkin. His Bible resting beside his chair like a faithful shadow.

She walked past it all.

Into the bathroom.

She locked the door.

Turned the knob on the tub and let the water fill hot and fast, her hands working in jerks as she undressed. She folded her clothes slowly—habit—but her fingers shook so badly she dropped her camisole on the floor.

She stepped into the tub and sank beneath the heat.

It burned.

She didn’t flinch.

She needed it to.

Letting Down the Veil

She washed her skin like she could scrub away memory.

His breath on her cheek.

His words like fingers trailing down her spine.

Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.

Her thighs clenched.

Her mouth trembled.

When she rose from the bath, steam curled around her like a ghost.

She wrapped herself in a towel and walked to the bedroom.

Her husband lay turned toward the wall, breathing soft and shallow. She watched him for a moment.

She didn’t feel love.

She felt guilt for not feeling love.

She moved to her vanity.

Pulled the pins from her hair.

Let the thick, dark coils fall down her back in a heavy wave.

The image that looked back at her in the mirror wasn’t the preacher’s wife.

It wasn’t even Sister Marigold.

It was something else.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Skin still flushed from fire.

She slipped on her nightgown—thin cotton, high collar—and slid into bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Her breathing shallowed.

Her hand slid beneath the covers—and paused.

No. No. No. No.

Tears burned.

She turned onto her stomach and bit the pillow.

Don’t. You. Dare.

But her hips rolled once.

Twice.

She whispered his name into the linen—once.

Twice.

Bit down until the shame stung harder than the pleasure.

And when she finally came, it was with a stifled cry and the crushing weight of her own betrayal.

—-

The Blackline was quiet for now.

The crowd had emptied in the early hours, their perfume and sin still hanging thick in the walls. Upstairs, behind a hidden panel in his office, Stack’s private quarters were dark but warm with steam.

He stood at the mirror, body still wet from the bath. A white towel clung low around his hips, water beading down the carved slope of his chest, across his stomach, slipping past the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fold of cotton.

He moved slow. Controlled.

A comb in one hand, the tin of pomade open beside the basin. He slicked his thick black hair into place with steady strokes, jaw clenched just slightly, eyes locked on his reflection.

The girl behind him watched in silence.

Mirabel.

Newer than the others. Quiet but sharp. Loyal to him in a way that was unspoken. She had already laid out his shirt and slacks on the bed. His shoes shined to a spit-polish black. She didn’t speak. Just moved around him like a soft breeze. Waiting. Watching.

Stack stared at himself.

Flicked his wrist and smoothed his part with precision.

“Mmm,” he muttered low, the memory hitting him again.

Her face.

That holy little mouth twisted in fury.

The heat coming off her skin.

The sound of her breath when he leaned close.

Sister Marigold.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

His dick twitched beneath the towel.

Mirabel noticed.

Didn’t say a word.

Just moved forward on silent feet and sank to her knees behind him.

Stack didn’t stop her.

Didn’t need to.

Her hands eased the towel loose. His cock fell heavy and rising.

She took him in hand, warm and obedient, lips parting around the crown like a sacrament.

Stack closed his eyes.

Leaned forward on the vanity with one hand braced against the wood, breath hitching as her tongue circled just right.

But it wasn’t her he saw.

“Yeah…that’s it,” he groaned, “Right there…holy mouth…”

He could see Marigold on her knees.

Hair unbound.

Cross still hanging from her neck while her lips stretched around him, tears sliding down her cheeks, not from pain but shame.

Desire.

Her hands gripping his thighs. That tight mouth forced open for the first time in her life.

And he’d teach her.

How to suck.

How to use her throat.

How to beg while choking on him.

Mirabel bobbed deeper. Sucked harder. Moaned softly around him like a good girl.

But Stack’s body was tight with something darker. Rougher.

He bit down on a groan, hips twitching once—twice—and then he spilled, mouth open, eyes rolled, thinking only of Marigold.

His fingers dug into the wood.

His breath shuddered.

And he smiled.

“Lord help her,” he whispered, “She don’t even know what she in for.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

#𐙚 : picnic reads.#𐙚 : sinners.#𐙚 : elias moore.#smut.

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romantisizes · 5 days ago

Text

PRECISELY, YOU | N.K.

SUMMARY: in an office full of chaos, nanami kento might just be an angel disguised as a salaryman—if only you could prove it without getting caught staring.

PAIRING: angel?nanami kento x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff, gentle romance, office au, no curses au, humor, slice of life, mutual pining, crack??, small acts of kindness, reader is slightly unhinged/deranged, mundane divinity?, domesticity, haibara yu & higuruma hiromi are reader's friends and nuisances NOW PLAYING: divine thing by fly by midnight WC: 9.3k WARNINGS: none!

THE CURIOUS CASE OF NANAMI KENTO, ANGEL ON EARTH (CASE STATUS: PENDING FURTHER INVESTIGATION–AND PROOF)

In this vast world, there are certain phenomena for which no scientific theory can truly suffice.

No rational explanation accounts for the electric hush before a storm, as if the earth is holding its breath, nor for that aching, inexplicable longing for a place you’ve never seen. Even the finest neurologists cannot bottle the uncanny shiver that runs down your spine when you sense someone’s gaze–or pin down why the heart turns traitor at the sound of a certain song, a melody capable of splintering a soul into memory and hope.

But you would argue, with all the ferocity of a crazed theologian and all the hubris of a bored office worker at 8:59 a.m., that the greatest mystery on this blue and battered planet is none other than Nanami Kento.

You have made a study of small, unexplainable marvels (possibly due to sheer ennui):

The exactness of a dew drop trembling on a spiderweb at sunrise; the slow, sacramental hush as the first snow falls over the city; the way certain people walk into a room and tilt the gravity of the place, pulling eyes, thoughts, fates.

You have catalogued these things–out of curiosity, boredom, and sometimes desperation–because it feels like a defiance against the monotonous tick of clocks and the office’s pale, lifeless fluorescence. And of all the inexplicable marvels that have crossed your desk, filed past your tiny cubicle, or drifted through your half lucid dreams on company time, Nanami Kento remains the only one you’ve encountered daily and still failed to classify.

There are men who seem assembled by fate with meticulous care, as if the universe, weary of loose ends, resolved for once to craft a being with no unfinished stitches. Kento’s shirts are always pressed and uncreased, his hair arranged with the solemn grace of ritual (and maybe hair gel), his shoes unscuffed even after trudging through a Tokyo downpour. The word ‘composed’ is insufficient for him; he wears tranquility the way most people wear fatigue. He does not slouch, not even at the tail end of a fiscal quarter, when even the copier emits existential sighs.

You, who once believed in the random cruelty of Mondays and the entropy of morning commutes, find yourself faltering when faced with the empirical evidence that is Kento:

How he will pause, with the precision of a seasoned surgeon, to repair the vending machine after it eats yet another intern’s coins, then quietly slide the drink to its rightful, grateful owner.

How he folds origami cranes from the edges of his own receipts and tucks them into the stacks of paperwork destined for Hiromi’s beleaguered desk, an offering to an unamused god of legalese.

How he nods to the night janitor each evening, addressing her by name, thanking her for her work as if her efforts are not only seen, but sacred.

You have even watched him in the break room, fingers deft and careful, slicing an apple with an old pocketknife, then passing half to Yu–who, true to form, attempts to balance it on his nose, fails, and eats it anyway. You have watched him on the train, posture unyielding even as exhaustion pools in the seats around him, reading Camus with a steady, meditative air as if waiting for the philosopher to grant him a reprieve from humanity’s absurdity.

And you’ve told all this, with an almost certain religious zeal, to Yu–your best friend and perennial chaos incarnate, who believes in the divinity of free refills and the heresy of early meetings.

“Listen,” you’d said once, practically vibrating in the break room, “that man is not real. He’s an urban legend. A figment conjured by a collective yearning for workplace decency. Have you ever actually seen him curse? Or lose his temper? He’s like if the HR manual had a baby with the Book of, I don’t know, Psalms.”

Yu, who has made it his life’s work to puncture every bubble of your awe, only grins over the rim of his mug.

“Or,” he says, voice drenched in skepticism, “he’s just a guy with a savior complex and the discipline of a Navy SEAL. Maybe he’s just… good.”

You cannot accept this. Blasphemy, you think. Goodness is a currency in short supply and you are absolutely sure the world has not, by mere accident, produced someone who spends it as freely as Kento does.

Even Hiromi, the other perennial skeptic with a lawyer’s eye for inconsistencies and an allergy to whimsy, has admitted–begrudgingly, in a moment of weakness over a jammed stapler–that Kento “may possess supernatural patience, or at least a pact with the gods of office supplies.” (You have reason to believe that Hiromi may have been poking fun at you.)

But you–your conviction practically borders on fanaticism. You know there is a kind of magic at play. Not the firework kind, not the playing cards kind, but the quiet, sustained enchantment of presence.

You can hear it in the way the room stills when Kento speaks, or in the way people–adults who should know better–lean forward to catch even the smallest word, as if he might reveal some secret route out of the corporate labyrinth.

You have begun to invent your own theology. You tell yourself that if the Powers That Be ever decided to exile one of its angels for being too gentle, too measured, too unwilling to abandon hope for the fallen world–he would look exactly like Nanami Kento.

You imagine the offense was something tragic, too: perhaps he argued for mercy when the heavens demanded justice. Perhaps he loved humanity too well, and the price was exile among them, doomed to wear a tie and clock in each morning as penance.

This, you explain to Yu, is why he thanks the janitors, and why he always knows when to bring an umbrella.

This, you insist to Hiromi, is why he never gossips, why he corrects reports in blue ink instead of red, as if even criticism ought to be something soft.

The office, for its part, has woven Kento into its mythology. The intern who cried during her first week still keeps his origami crane. The temp in accounting claims he can sense Kento’s presence before he rounds the corner. The barista at the corner cafe, who sees him every Thursday at precisely 7:37 a.m., has started adding an extra sugar to his coffee “just in case he’s secretly carrying everyone else’s bitterness.”

Still, Kento himself remains serenely oblivious to his own legend. He greets each day with the same calm, the same steady eyes, the same careful nod. If he notices your staring, your private devotion, he gives no sign.

And you, despite your best efforts, have become a true believer.

You watch him in the small hours and in the half-light, at copy machines and crowded train stations, and you wonder if miracles, like angels, are only ever visible when you are ready to see them.

In a world ruled by chaos, you have found your proof.

The greatest mystery is not why such goodness exists–but how it found its way, day after day, precisely here, into the orbit of your ordinary life.

Into the circle of your longing, your hope, your faintly ridiculous faith.

It is, perhaps, the one phenomenon for which you pray no one ever finds an explanation.

You are halfway convinced that Mondays were designed as a test of mortal endurance, proof that some cosmic force absolutely delights in small, unspectacular miseries: alarms ringing before sunrise, trains packed so tightly your soul briefly leaves your body, and shoes that betray you just as you step into the lobby, lurching you into the week on an uneven keel.

The break room is sanctuary and purgatory in equal measure. This one, dimly lit and smelling faintly of burnt popcorn and artificial lemon, is populated only by you and Haibara Yu–the latter perched atop the counter, next to the broken coffee maker, like a bored house cat, flicking through his phone.

You jab your coin at the vending machine for the third time. (Third time’s the charm, yes?)

Nothing.

The machine stares back, silent, unyielding, as if offended by your need for a drink.

Yu glances up, takes in your posture–the sag of your shoulders, the battered shoe dangling from your hand, one foot on its tiptoes while the other rests comfortably (debatable) in the embrace of a perfectly intact pump–and grins. “Rough day at the salt mines, boss?”

You glare at him, voice pitched with irritation. “My shoe broke before I even made it to the train. I spilled coffee on myself. I got cornered by that guy from HR who thinks ‘circle back’ is a personality trait. And now–”

You drop your shoe and grab the vending machine with both hands, rattling it for emphasis, “–now this infernal machine has chosen me as its victim. I just want a damn drink, Yu.”

Yu shrugs, utterly unsympathetic. “You ever think maybe the universe is trying to tell you something? Like, stay in bed?”

You press your forehead to the cold plexiglass, groaning. “I have done absolutely nothing to deserve this.”

Yu is about to reply–almost certainly with something infuriating and unhelpful–when the door swings open. The air seems to shift, just slightly, as Nanami Kento enters.

He is, as always, immaculately put together: shirt pressed to mathematical precision, tie a deep navy, hair neatly combed back. He carries a bento in one hand, a book tucked under the other arm, and somehow manages to radiate the kind of calm that makes you feel instantly seen, instantly steadied.

He glances from you to the machine, then to your ruined shoe and back again to your face, a small, sympathetic (Yu should take lessons from him) smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Rough morning?”

There is no judgement in his voice. Only that quiet, attentive warmth you have come to associate with him, the kind of care that feels rare and effortless all at once.

You muster a crooked smile. “Just another Monday miracle, am I right? I was hoping for a drink, but I think the vending machine is on strike.”

Kento sets his bento and book on the counter, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate grace.

“May I?” he asks, and though he waits for your nod, you have the feeling he would have helped regardless.

He surveys the machine first–frowning in concentration, his brow knitting as if solving a riddle worthy of the Sphinx–then gives it a precise, gentle tap at just the right angle. There’s a mechanical clunk almost immediately, and the machine whirs, spits out a can of your favorite lemon soda, and almost seems to sigh in relief.

He plucks the can from the tray and offers it to you, his expression soft. “Here. It’s important to stay hydrated after battling bureaucracy.”

You accept, only just remembering to thank him before he turns to Yu, who is openly smirking.

“Kento, my man,” Yu grins, “is there anything you can’t fix?”

Kento shakes his head, half a smile at his lips. “Plenty. But vending machines are simple. People are much harder, in my opinion.”

You snort–that’s the type of thing an angel in disguise would say–as you crack open the can, and catch the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

Without another word, Kento moves to the counter, opens his bento box, and extracts a few slices of crisp apple. He places them on a napkin, pushes them towards you and Yu with the kind of unobtrusive generosity that never draws attention to itself. Then he adds a neatly halved rice ball, as if sharing food is the most natural extension of breathing.

Yu, never one to pass up free snacks, grabs a slice of fruit, still watching Kento like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

“What’s in it for you, Kento?” he asks, mouth full. “Why help us lowly mortals?”

Kento’s gaze lingers on you for half a second longer than is strictly necessary. “Someone once told me the world doesn’t have enough small kindnesses. I try to add a few, where I can.”

Your heart stutters. You hope you don’t look as awestruck as you feel.

He cleans up without a fuss, returning bento and book to hand, then offers a gentle nod to each of you. “I’ll let you two get back to plotting corporate revolution. Try to take it easy today.”

He slips out as quietly as he entered, leaving behind a faint, citrus-bright warmth and the vague sense that you have just witnessed something sacred.

For a moment, you and Yu sit in silence. Then Yu bursts out laughing.

“That’s it. I’m convinced. The man’s an actual angel. Sent here to atone for the rest of us.”

You round on him, eyes wild with vindication. “I’ve been telling you this for weeks, Yu! Did you see the way he fixed the vending machine? The way he just knew to bring apple slices? That’s not normal. That’s divine intervention.”

Yu chews thoughtfully. “Or maybe he just pays attention and likes apples. You ever think of that, Saint Obsessed?”

You ignore him, obviously, too busy replaying every Kento gesture in your mind, constructing the liturgy of his goodness. “He’s too good. It’s unnatural. It’s–”

The door swings open again. Higuruma Hiromi enters, briefcase in hand, suit only slightly less sharper than Kento’s, hair mussed in a way that suggests he’s lost at least one argument with a stack of paperwork this morning. He pauses, takes in the tableau–Yu lounging, you vibrating with barely contained zeal, apple slices neatly arrayed on a napkin–and raises an eyebrow.

“Are we having a sermon?” he asks, deadpan, setting his case down and sinking into one of the brittle plastic chairs with a sigh. “Should I bring a hymnal, or is this more of a call-and-response?”

Yu grins, tossing Hiromi a slice. “You ever notice how Kento just fixes everything? I’m starting to think he’s the office’s patron saint for real.”

Hiromi snorts. “Please. If Kento is an angel, I’m the tooth fairy. He just has a high tolerance for nonsense and a savior complex the size of Chiyoda Ward.”

You protest, launching into the evidence: the cranes, the coffee, the umbrella incident from last week (“He walked out into a downpour just so someone else could stay dry! Hiromi, he didn’t even flinch!”).

Hiromi listens with the grave patience of a man who has heard every closing argument and knows all the ways the world falls short of your faith.

“People like Kento are rare, I’ll give you that. But you might want to dial back the angel talk before someone calls HR.”

Yu leans in, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to scare him off. He might ascend to a higher plane and leave you pining at the vending machine.”

You huff, wanting to throttle Yu by the neck, but can’t quite banish the smile tugging at your lips.

Through the window, you spot Kento back at his desk, head bent over a stack of reports, sunlight limning his hair in gold. He looks up, catches your gaze, and for a fraction of a second, his expression softens–a mere flicker of warmth, of something almost shy, perhaps, before he returns to his work.

Your heart beats a little lighter, and a little faster, and for once, the day feels not just survivable, but oddly charmed.

There is an art to office foraging. You’ve developed it in self-defense, really: the quiet reconnaissance missions for the last working stapler, the calculated raids for printer toner, the slow meditative sift through drawers full of ancient memos and half-dead highlighters. You take your search seriously, though there are days when you wonder if the supply closet is less a storage space and more a test of faith–shelves stacked with the detritus of past budgets and broken promises, a shrine to bureaucratic entropy.

This morning, you’re on the hunt for sticky notes. Not just any sticky notes, but the pastel kind–the ones Yu insists boost morale and which you are convinced make your handwriting look marginally more competent (and whimsical). It is the sort of quest that demands both stealth and audacity: you must slip away from your desk while the coast is clear, brave the suspicious gaze of the accounting team (the poster children of hoarding stationery), and, most importantly, avoid Hiromi’s pointed ‘Resource Request’ form that materializes every time someone takes a pen without signing for it.

You slide open the closet door with the practiced caution of an archaeologist unearthing a particularly cursed tomb. The smell of dry paper and ambition gone stale wafts over you. You kneel, rooting through the drawers with one hand, phone flashlight in the other, when your fingers brush something unfamiliar. Not a sticky note. Not a paperclip. Something folded–crisp edges, the delicate weight of care.

You pull out a tiny origami crane, made from a receipt with faded, looping print. You smile despite yourself. Even in the supply closet–Kento’s calling card.

You’ve found his cranes all over the office. One in the potted plant outside HR. One perched atop the communal microwave (where the data entry intern swears it brings good luck and prevents popcorn explosions). A flock of them nested on Hiromi’s monitor, like a squadron of tiny, papery witnesses to the never-ending parade of legalese.

And now, here, in the shadows of the supply closet, you find yet another. For a second, you consider pocketing it–a small, secret treasure–but your scientific rigor kicks in. This is evidence. This is the breakthrough that will finally convince Yu and Hiromi and every single non-believer that Kento is, if not an angel, then at least some kind of benevolent spirit haunting your workplace.

You tuck the crane into your palm and make your way back to your desk, only to find Yu sprawled over two chairs, dramatic as ever, feet propped up on the trash can.

He looks up, interest instantly piqued by the look on your face. “Did you find the sticky notes?”

“Better.” You hold up the crane like a relic. “I found another one.”

Yu sits up, eyebrows raised. “What is that now? Crane number seven this week?”

“Eight,” you say, beaming. “And this one was in the closet. The evidence is mounting, Yu. I’m telling you, this isn’t normal office behavior.”

Yu snorts. “You know, in most offices, people just hoard pens. You make it sound like he’s leaving sacred relics or something.”

You set the crane down, straightening its wings reverently. “It’s a sign. Kento’s a celestial being, and this is his way of bestowing blessings upon the chosen.”

Before Yu can even respond, Hiromi materializes at your side, holding a mug of black coffee with the grim resignation of a man who’s read all the labor laws and found them, to his horror, perfectly legal, utterly useless, and just hopeful enough to be cruel. He glances at the origami and sighs.

“If you’re going to start a shrine, please keep it off my desk. The last one you made blocked my view of the fire exit.”

You grimace, remembering how you’d collected all the hidden cranes you’d found over the course of two weeks and decided that Hiromi’s desk was the perfect place to deposit them, then you grin, because it’s inconsequential now. There are bigger fish to fry.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered, Hiromi. Why does he do it? Why does Kento spend his break time folding these tiny animals out of fiscal-year receipts?”

Hiromi levels you with a stern look. “Some people meditate. Some people go for walks. Some people–” he looks pointedly at Yu, “–rearrange the office furniture for fun. And Kento folds paper. That’s hardly divine.”

Yu leans in, all mischievous energy. You can never tell if he’s about to side with you or Hiromi.

“But he leaves them for people. It’s not random. It’s always when someone’s had a rough week, or pulled overtime, or–” he glances at Hiromi, who sips his coffee with a world-weary sigh, “–needs a sign from a higher power.”

You nod, relieved and triumphant. “Exactly. It’s totally intentional. It’s–it’s almost like he’s watching over us or something.”

Yu arches a brow. “So what’s your wacko theory this time, O Prophet of Office Mysteries?”

You spread your hands, already warming to your subject. This is where you excel. “I swear, he’s an angel in disguise. Banished for, I don’t know, compassion fraud, excessive empathy, whatever. The point is, now he wanders the earth, folding receipts and bringing small moments of peace to the stressed and the sleep-deprived.”

Hiromi shakes his head, but not unkindly. “If Kento’s an angel, then I’m the CEO of this dumpster fire of a company.”

“Just you wait,” you insist. “Today, I’m going to find out why he does it. Scientific investigation. Direct inquiry. Operation Angelic Intent.”

Yu grins, settling back in his chair. “Now this I have to see.”

You spend the rest of the morning plotting your approach. When you finally spot Kento in the break room, alone, standing by the window with his lunch and a handful of receipts, you seize your moment. You clear your throat, sidling up as nonchalantly as you can manage.

“Busy day?” you ask, trying for casual.

Kento glances over, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Not especially. Just reviewing some purchase receipts.”

You watch, fascinated, as his fingers move–precise, deliberate, folding a square of paper into neat, familiar angles. “Another crane?”

He nods. “It’s a good way to pass the time. Better than constantly checking my phone.”

You gather your thoughts. It’s time to be bold. Small talk does nothing for your investigation.

“You know, you’re something of a legend around here. The, um–” you glance around, trying to think of a name (because you need to at least sound believable), “–Origami Angel. Yes. People say your cranes have magical properties.”

He raises an eyebrow, but his lips twitch with humor. “Is that so?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, leaning in. “The intern who does data entry claims the one you left on the microwave saved him from a catastrophic popcorn incident. Hiromi keeps the one from last week as a protective charm against paperwork.” You freeze. “Don’t tell him I told you that. He can barely acknowledge it himself.”

Kento gives a short, low laugh. “I won’t say a thing. But magical properties? That would be a first.”

You press on, unable to help yourself–once you start, once you’re on the railroad, brakes don’t exist. “So, why cranes? Why these receipts? Is this some sort of… celestial mission? Paper-folding penance?”

He glances at you, eyes searching, warm. “If I told you I’m secretly building an army of paper birds to stage a corporate coup, would you believe me?”

Well. You blink, startled, then burst out laughing. “You know, that actually explains a lot. All those cranes on Hiromi’s desk? A soft siege.”

He smiles, softer now. “Honestly, I started folding them back when I was in college. Old habit. Receipts are always on hand here, and I end up having to toss them away anyways. Besides… people seem to like them.”

There’s a pause. You tilt your head, considering his answer. “Is that it? No secret message? No grand cosmic plan?”

Kento shakes his head, but there’s a gentle glint in his eyes that lingers on you. “I think… sometimes, people just need to know they’re seen. That their efforts are accounted for. That someone’s noticed a hard day, or a rough week. It doesn’t have to be much.”

You can feel your face warming almost as quickly as the planet, heart caught in your throat. You so terribly want to tell him that you see him too, that his small gestures mean more than any grand miracle. But instead, you settle for a quiet, almost inaudible, “You really are too good for this cursed place.”

Kento laughs, tucking the finished crane beside his lunch. “Maybe. But you make it too interesting for me to leave.”

And so you return to Yu and Hiromi with your findings, clutching the latest origami (you’d sat down next to him and watched him make more until he’d eventually handed you one) like it’s evidence from a divine crime scene.

Yu’s smile is akin to the Cheshire Cat’s. “So, did you crack the code? Did he confess to angelic mischief?”

You sigh, half in awe, half in exasperation (and half(?) in flusteration, because had he really said that you were one of the reasons he still worked here?). “Well, he said that people just need to know they’re seen. That’s it. That’s the reason he makes these.” You hold the paper creation up for them to see.

Hiromi shakes his head, but he’s smiling fondly. “I suppose there are worse things to believe in.”

The rain is relentless–a city-wide baptism, scrubbing the world down to its bones. Fat drops drum on the pavement, sending up the cold, mineral scent of wet concrete. The streets are awash in reflections, neon and headlights blurring together into a mosaic, puddles deepening in every dip and gutter. The office building, usually so sure of itself in glass and steel, looks vaguely beleaguered, as if even skyscrapers have days they’d rather hide indoors.

You stand beneath the overhang, sheltering in the thin slice of dryness offered by the awning above the revolving doors. It’s just enough to keep the worst of the downpour from your hair, but the damp has already crept up your slacks and seeped into your socks. Your fingers curl around your phone–Yu’s last text bright on the glowing screen:

Lost the spot, going around the block again. Stay dry. Or at least don’t drown and die.

You squint out into the storm, the rain coming down in diagonal slashes, the city’s edge made soft and strange. It feels like you’ve been standing here for centuries, waiting for the waters to part, for the day to let you go.

You try to focus on the little things–the squelch of your shoes, the thrum of distant thunder, the flicker of your reflection in the glass. But your thoughts slide, inevitably, back to the week: the endless meetings, the broken stapler, the vending machine’s vendetta. It’s the kind of tiredness that seeps into your bones. You find yourself wishing, for the one thousandth time, for a little cosmic mercy–a sign, a reprieve, a miracle.

And then, as if summoned by your longing, Kento appears.

He steps into the overhang’s edge, out of the swirling rain, his presence so quiet it’s almost a trick of the weather. He looks somehow untouched by the chaos–coat draped over his arm, a dark umbrella in one hand, hair only faintly ruffled at the tips. There’s a moment where he pauses, gaze sweeping the threshold, and then his eyes settle on you.

He gives you that small, almost secret smile; the one that’s barely there but always feels like it’s meant just for you. He leans in close to shelter you.

“You’re still here,” he observes, not a question so much as a gentle acknowledgement of your stubbornness.

You shrug, wry. “Yu said he’s coming around with the car. I think he’s trapped in the seventh circle of traffic at this point.”

He stands beside you, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus-and-clove of his aftershave, the clean wet-wool scent of his suit. The silence is companionable, broken only by the rain’s unhurried music. For just a moment, you both just watch the world dissolve–pedestrians huddling under newspapers, taxis throwing up arcs of spray, the neon reflected in the river that used to be a street.

“Forgot your umbrella?” Kento says, after a while.

You gesture helplessly. “In my defense, it wasn’t raining when I left this morning. Clearly, I’ve offended the weather gods.”

He considers this, a thread of amusement tugging at his mouth. “That’s a serious accusation. I hope you have an alibi when they decide to smite you.”

You snort, hugging your bag closer. “If I get struck by lightning, tell Yu he can have my stapler.”

A beat. Then, without a word, Kento turns his umbrella toward you, holding it out with a calm, unhurried certainty. The gesture is so understated, so matter-of-fact, that it almost feels like a spell being cast upon you.

Taken by surprise, you manage to blink, thrown for a loop. “Wait, what about you?”

He meets your eyes, his own steady and unreadable. “I have a coat, and I don’t live that far from here. You should take it.”

There’s something in his voice–soft, yes, but lined with finality. It’s not a suggestion, not really. It’s more of an assurance, a quiet promise that you are safe, that someone has noticed your struggles, that even on a day like this, the world has a little kindness left to give.

You hesitate, not wanting to inconvenience him in any way, but he doesn’t budge. The umbrella hangs between you, handle out, water beading along its edge, and he waits, patient as the rain.

And so you take it, your fingers brushing his–cool and dry, steady as always. The warmth lingers longer than you expect, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

“Thank you,” you say, a little breathless. (Who wouldn’t be?)

Kento shakes his head, almost smiling. Almost. “You don’t need to thank me. It’s nothing.”

You try to picture him walking home through the rain after this, collar turned up, shoulders squared against the weather. The image is at once beautiful and strangely heartbreaking–Nanami Kento, striding into the storm with only a coat and that old, unflappable dignity, as if nothing in this world could touch him.

He nods, turns to go, and steps out from the shelter of his umbrella. For a moment, he is outlined by the harsh city light–tall and calm, the rain slicing silver around him. The water beads on his hair, trickles down his coat, but he walks as if he’s immune to discomfort, as if he belongs to the weather itself. (Or perhaps he belongs to the heavens. Food for thought.)

You are left standing under the borrowed umbrella, watching as he disappears into the shifting veil of rain. For a long minute, you can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stare at where you last saw him. The ordinary world feels thin, like a stage that’s fallen silent after witnessing a miracle. There’s a hush, electric and reverent.

You can’t decide if you want to laugh or cry (why? You aren’t quite sure), so you do both, a little, settling for the quiet awe that fills the space behind your ribs.

It is then, while you’re standing there with rain pooling at your feet and Kento’s umbrella clutched in your hand like a relic, that Yu’s battered Civic screeches up to the curb. The window rolls down, Yu craning his neck out, hair an absolute disaster, grin too wide.

He takes in the scene–your dazed expression, wet eyes, the umbrella, the empty overhang. “Well. Either Kento just blessed you, or you joined a cult while I was looking for the car.”

You glare at him, still halfway in another reality. “That man was never meant to walk among us, Yu. I’m telling you. He’s–he’s something else. He just walked out into the rain. Gave me his umbrella. Didn’t even hesitate. It was like he knew I’d been having the worst week.”

Yu lets out a low whistle. “He just… gave you his umbrella? And walked off into the monsoon? You see, that’s how you can tell he’s just a good person. Or a cryptid. But not some angel.”

You slide into the passenger seat, umbrella balanced in your lap, dripping water into your slacks as you try to hold onto the warmth of Kento’s touch, the memory of his kindness. Yu peeks over, smirking, probably making sure you’re not getting his seats wet.

“You look like he gave you the Holy Grail.”

“I’m telling you,” you huff, “he’s not normal. He didn’t even look back or think twice. He just vanished into the mist like–like a ghost.”

Yu cackles, slapping the steering wheel. “That’s it. You’ve finally convinced me. He’s not human. I bet if you check the security cams, he won’t even show up on the footage.”

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s making fun of you, but can’t help smiling. The rain blurs the world outside into a watercolor, and the city feels–if not smaller, then at least gentler. For a moment, you let yourself believe in miracles, in everyday angels, in the quiet, luminous goodness that sometimes slips into your life without warning.

As Yu merges into traffic, he casts you a sidelong glance. “You know, if you ever decide to start the Church of Nanami, I’ll be your first apostle. But only if I get Fridays off.”

You laugh, clutching the umbrella, feeling lighter than you have all week. “Deal. But you have to run the bake sale.”

The rest of the drive is filled with music and easy jokes, but your thoughts drift back, again and again, to the image of Kento walking away–solid and sure, completely unbothered by the rain, a silent promise echoing in the space he left behind.

Lunch hour in your building is an exercise in ritual and small rebellion. The cafeteria food is passable at best, but the act of escaping fluorescent lights and passive-aggressive memos for a while is a grace you take wherever you can find it. You most definitely prefer it to the dingy break rooms. Now, belly comfortably full and drowsy in that post-carb haze, you walk the slow circuit back to your office with Yu and Hiromi, recounting, as is tradition, the morning’s miracles.

“He thanked the cafeteria worker,” you insist, voice alight with wonder, “like, really thanked her. Full eye contact, actual gratitude. You know how most people just grunt and keep moving? Not Kento. He says her name. And then–when he got his pudding? That intern from HR was staring at it, just about vibrating with sadness, and Kento just. Gave it to her. Didn’t even hesitate. Just handed it over like he was dispensing blessings or something.”

Yu, walking backward with the athletic confidence of a professional nuisance, grins at you. “It’s possible he just doesn’t like cafeteria pudding. Or maybe he has a side hustle as a motivational speaker.”

Hiromi, whose walk is all straight lines and clipped efficiency, shakes his head. “Or he’s just incapable of enjoying anything remotely sweet. I heard he puts salt in his oatmeal.”

You glare at both of them, dramatic and unrepentant. “You’re missing the point. It’s not about the pudding. It’s the principle. He does this all the time! Remember last week? Printer jam at 8:15, paper everywhere, everyone losing their minds–and then there he is, fixing the tray like it’s nobody’s business, handing out origami cranes like it’s a spiritual balm. Not even annoyed. Just… patient.”

Yu puts a hand to his chest, mock-serious. “The Gospel according to Nanami: Blessed are the organized, for theirs is the working printer.”

You try to muster your sternest look. “Laugh all you want. He’s not normal. He’s–he’s the office equivalent of a guardian angel. No, better, actually–he’s like if a saint had to fill out time sheets.”

Hiromi finally halts, turning to face you and Yu squarely, the faintest thread of exasperation in his voice. “You are being ridiculous. Nanami Kento is not an angel. He is a deeply repressed, borderline ascetic man who once corrected my grammar during a performance review. He is–”

“Punctual?” Yu supplies.

“Overqualified?” you add.

Hiromi ignores both of you, already building rhetorical steam. “He is a person. A person with, what do you call it, neurotic adherence to structure. He doesn’t even eat snacks at his desk. He alphabetizes his bookmarks. I once saw him refuse to use a blue pen because it didn’t match the rest of his notes. That is not angelic. That is obsessive.”

The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, like even the wind is waiting for a verdict.

And then, as if conjured by your devotion or summoned by Hiromi’s skepticism, Kento materializes behind him. He moves with that signature quiet–his footsteps lost in the cafeteria’s bustle, coat sleeve rolled just so, expression unreadable but intent. In his hand is a small USB drive.

He doesn’t interrupt. He simply steps up, reaches towards Hiromi, and places the USB in the palm of his hand.

“You left this in the conference room,” Kento says, voice low and even. “You’ll need it for your two o’clock.”

There’s a hush–brief but absolute. Kento’s gaze lingers on you for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something gentle in the lines around his mouth. Then, as silently as he appeared, he walks on. “See you upstairs,” he offers, already halfway down the corridor, posture as measured as a metronome.

Hiromi stares at the USB drive as if it’s a message from the gods. His mouth works soundlessly.

Yu leans close, barely restraining his glee. You can never tell whose side Yu is going to take–one moment he’s teasing you, the next he’s poking fun at Hiromi. Loyalty does not exist in his vocabulary.

“So… what were you saying, Hiromi?”

Hiromi blinks, struggling to recover his dignity. “...Maybe he’s just half-angel,” he concedes, voice soft.

You let out a triumphant noise, hands lifted like a victorious preacher. “You see? You see? Who does that? How did he even know? He’s omniscient, or at least omnipresent.”

Hiromi rubs his temple. “Or he just pays attention. Or maybe the cleaning staff told him.”

Yu grins, elbowing you. “Face it, Hiromi, you’ve just had a close encounter of the celestial kind. Happens to the best of us.”

The three of you resume walking, energy lighter, laughter trailing behind. The building lobby looms up ahead–glass door beading with leftover rain, the echoes of footsteps and the distant rattle of the elevator. You glance back, half-expecting Kento to vanish in a shaft of sunlight or slip through some secret passage in the walls.

Yu nudges you. “How many points does that make for your theory?”

You pretend to keep score in the notebook you keep in your pocket. “Let’s see–miraculous vending machine repairs, spontaneous origami, umbrella endowment, cafeteria sacrifice, now prophetic retrieval of lost property and possibly a cognitive empath… I’d say that’s at least five confirmed miracles.”

Hiromi, resigned, gives you a sidelong glance. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t start multiplying the coffee or walking across the parking lot puddles.”

You snort, picturing Kento parting a sea of interns with a wave of his hand, Hiromi at his side muttering about safety regulations.

But the truth is, you like the idea that someone like Kento exists–someone whose kindness is so reliable, so matter-of-fact, that it bends reality a little, making the everyday miraculous. Maybe it isn’t entirely supernatural. Maybe it’s just decent (a stretch), practiced so faithfully it starts to look like grace.

Still, just as you enter the elevator and press your floor, you catch a glimpse of Kento through the glass–moving through the crowd with the poise of someone who is exactly where he’s meant to be.

And you think to yourself: Even if the world is ordinary, it feels less so with him in it.

Yu sees your look, smirks, and whispers, “Don’t forget to ask him for a blessing before your next quarterly review.”

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, and so is Hiromi, even as he clutches the USB like it’s a talisman.

There are certain objects the world offers up with no explanation–small, inexplicable treasures in the debris of the everyday. You find yours on a Saturday afternoon, wandering a thrift shop that’s more a labyrinth than a store, its corners stacked with chipped teapots, stained cookbooks, picture frames full of strangers’ ghosts. Dust motes drift through slanting light as you trail your fingers along cluttered shelves, not searching for anything in particular, but letting yourself be surprised. The city outside is loud and insistent; here, you can hear your own thoughts loud and clear.

It’s on a tray by the register, nearly buried under costume jewelry and a handful of mismatched buttons: a little pin, gold and fine, cast in the shape of a single feather. Something about it glimmers in your palm–a relic, or an omen, or simply a trinket you’d like to see again on a rainy day. For a moment you consider its fate–forgotten, sold for pennies, lost again to some future drawer.

So you buy it. Not for yourself, not for anyone, really. It’s just pretty. Maybe you’ll wear it, you think, pin it to your blazer. Maybe you’ll tuck it away with your old train tickets and other fragments of days you want to remember.

On Monday, the feather rides in your pocket. You touch it at red lights, during boring meetings, during the blank hour between lunch and the inevitable afternoon crash. It feels lucky, almost–weightless and bright, as if it could change your whole day if you let it.

And then you forget about it, mostly, until you pass Kento’s office after lunch.

He’s alone in there, which is rare. Usually, there’s a steady flow of people–interns with questions, Hiromi with contracts, Yu with opinions on coffee and existentialism (anything that isn’t directly related to work). Now, though, he stands at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sorting paperwork with a precision that makes it almost look like art. The midafternoon sun filters through the blinds, gilding the dust motes and turning his hair to amber.

You pause in the doorway, the feather burning cold in your fist. There’s no plan. You just find yourself moving, drawn in by gravity or habit, or something harder to explain.

He glances up. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring.

“Hello,” he says, voice even as always, but the hint of surprise in his eyes makes your heart lurch.

You fumble with the pin, suddenly twelve years old, the words thick in your throat. “Um. Hi. Sorry–I just, uh…”

He waits, giving you the space to flail about, patient as ever.

You open your hand, palm up. The gold feather catches the sun, flashes between your fingers. “I found this at a thrift store. It made me think of you.” You say it like a confession, and when his eyebrows lift in mild astonishment, you almost backtrack–almost, but not quite.

“I mean, not that you’re… you know. Feathered. Or anything. It’s for your jacket. For good luck. Or, um, for being patient with us mortals.”

The silence expands between you, full of all the things you don’t say.

Kento takes the pin from your hand, careful and reverent, as if it’s something incredibly fragile. For a long moment, he just studies it, turning it between his fingers, thumb stroking the curve of metal. His face gives nothing away, but his eyes–they are gentler than you’ve ever seen.

Then, without a word, he fastens it to the inside lapel of his jacket. It sits against the dark wool like a secret, a glimmer only you can see.

Your chest aches with how much you want to ask him what he’s thinking, if he knows what this means, if you've given yourself away completely. Instead, you say, far too quickly, “Okay–um, I’ll let you get back to your spreadsheets and… stuff. Sorry for interrupting.”

You turn before he can answer, heat flooding your face, the mortification a low-grade burn that follows you all the way down the corridor. You nearly trip over a recycling bin in your rush to escape. You retreat to your desk, force yourself to open your inbox, but the image of Kento fastening the feather to his jacket has burned onto your retinas.

Yu strolls by later, coffee in hand. “You look like you swallowed a lightbulb. Everything all right?”

You mumble something about thrift shops and existential crises. Yu doesn’t pry. He just grins, pats your shoulder, and tells you to let him know if you see any more miraculous signs. Hiromi, passing by with a folder, eyes you and the flush in your cheeks, then wisely says nothing at all.

The rest of the day you spend on autopilot, hyperaware every time you pass Kento in the hallways, every time he smiles (just slightly) in your direction, every time you catch a gleam of gold under his jacket. You become obsessed with the idea that you’ve overstepped, that you’ve ruined everything. You Google ‘apologizing for awkward gifts’ and learn nothing useful at all.

You hide in the stairwell when work is almost over, needing a break from the hum of the copier and the endless, rising noise of your thoughts. The stairwell is cool and quiet, painted in the kind of light that only comes at dusk–soft, gold, almost apologetic. You scroll your phone aimlessly, trying not to replay the scene in Kento’s office for the hundredth time.

That’s when you hear him. Footsteps–soft, measured, familiar. You look up, startled.

Kento stands on the landing, a paper bag in one hand (dinner, maybe) and his jacket draped over the other arm. The gold feather pin glints at you slyly from the edge of the fabric, like a secret sigil.

He doesn’t approach right away. He looks at you, carefully, as if weighing something. Then, silently, he joins you at the railing.

For a moment, you both just stand there, letting the silence breathe.

He’s the one who breaks it. “Why an angel?”

You blink, heart hammering in your chest. “Sorry?”

He’s not teasing. He’s not accusing. He just wants to know, you think. “You keep calling me one. Why?”

You laugh, nervously, looking down at your shoes. Hearing it come out of his mouth makes you realize how outlandish it all sounds. You could make a joke, sidestep it, but something about the way he waits–the gentle curiosity, the way he always gives you time–makes you want to answer honestly.

You choose your words with care. “Because you do things people pretend not to notice. You help even when no one’s watching. You fix things without making a scene. You thank people like you mean it. You remember everyone’s names, even when they don’t remember yours. You give up your pudding. You walk into rain without an umbrella just so someone else won’t have to. You leave cranes on bad days. It’s not just what you do–it’s how you do it. Like it’s… deliberate. Like it’s a choice you keep making, even when no one really deserves it.”

You take a shaky breath. “You make the office feel… safe. Like maybe it’s possible to be decent, even if the rest of the world is a mess. You make me want to be a better person, just by being here. I know it’s ridiculous. But sometimes, when I see you, I believe in good luck and kindness again.”

You look up, finally, to see if he’s laughing, but Kento is just watching you, eyes soft and unreadable. There’s a shadow of something on his face–surprise, perhaps, or gratitude, or something gentler still.

He doesn’t speak for a long time. The stairwell feels suspended, a world apart from the grind and hum outside. At last, he says, very quietly:

“Then I suppose I’m lucky the one person who thinks I’m more than just a mere salaryman is none other than you.”

Your breath catches.

He smiles–a real one, fleeting but dazzling, like sunlight on water. He doesn’t offer you certainty, or answers, or any kind of denial. He lets the word ‘angel’ rest between you, fragile as a feather, shimmering in the dusk.

You find yourself smiling back, warmth rising up in your chest, something bright and impossible and good.

For just a second, you imagine what it would be like if the world were full of people like him–kindness folded into the seams of every day, small gifts traded for nothing but the joy of giving.

He turns, makes as if to go, then pauses, hand on the rail. “Thank you. For the pin. And for… believing. It helps.”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat thick with the ache of wanting and hope. You watch him go, the echo of his steps lingering long after the door closes behind him.

You stay there a while longer, tracing the rail with your thumb, heart beating out a new rhythm, quieter and braver than before.

In this vast world, there are certain phenomena for which no scientific theory can truly suffice.

Take, for instance, the exact moment the city quiets at dusk–the fluorescent lights of the office flicker and hum, then give way to a deeper hush, as if the building itself is sighing in relief. The streets below glitter with rain-washed reflections; the last train rumbles off into the distance, leaving only ghosts and overtime stragglers. You, for reasons both tragic and self-inflicted (see: overdue deadlines; see also: poor time management), remain hunched over your desk, haloed in the cold blue glow of your screen.

The document you’ve been working on for hours–meticulously color-coded, bullet-pointed, and, if you may say so, virtuosic in its mastery of passive-aggressive corporate language–glitches once, twice. Then, with a cheerful ping, it vanishes. Your notes, your work, your last sliver of professional pride–completely obliterated by the indifferent gods of software.

You mutter something that would get you written up if HR were still in the building. Then you bury your head in your arms, wondering how many points this earns toward sainthood by sheer suffering alone.

There are footsteps in the corridor, soft and steady. Fabric rustles, the sound as delicate as the turning of a page. A chair slides quietly beside you.

You lift your head.

Nanami Kento stands there, gentle as always, neither startled by your dishevelment nor the fact that you’ve just used your files as a pillow. In his hand: a tiny paper crane, folded from the pale gold of a lunch receipt. He places it next to your laptop–a small, ordinary miracle.

“You’ve been working too hard,” he says.

You can’t help but smile, the tension unspooling from your shoulders. “How do you know?”

Kento’s eyes soften. “You only sigh like that when you’re on your third cup of coffee and you haven’t blinked in twenty minutes.” He glances at your screen. “Besides, Yu texted me an hour ago. He said if I didn’t intervene, you’d become one with the ergonomic chair.”

You snort, glancing at the paper crane–its wings are neatly creased, the faint print of ‘Vegetable Curry: ¥550’ showing along its back. “I knew I couldn’t trust Yu with state secrets.”

“He meant well,” Kento says. He sits, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see if we can salvage what the computer gods have taken from you.”

And so you work, side by side–his presence a kind of calm gravity, the chaos of lost files fading under the soft tap of keys and the measured cadence of his suggestions. He doesn’t take over, doesn’t fix everything in a grand, angelic gesture. He just… helps. Finds the right tabs, retypes the points you remember, asks questions with infinite patience, letting you feel, somehow, as if you’re the one doing something miraculous.

Eventually, the file is rebuilt, less pristine than before, probably, but, in a strange way, more real for all the small mistakes and quick fixes. You lean back, stretching your arms overhead, feeling the familiar ache in your shoulders, the strange, giddy lightness of surviving one more late night.

“Kento?” you ask, the name surprising you as it leaves your mouth.

He looks up, glasses slipping a little down his nose.

You hesitate, then plunge forward, because if not now–after three lost drafts, four cups of coffee, and a record-breaking session of existential dread–then when?

“You’re not really an angel banished from the heavens, are you?”

For a moment, Kento just watches you, his gaze unreadable. Then he exhales, almost laughing, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“No,” he says. “I’m only human, unfortunately. I make mistakes. I get tired. I get frustrated, and sometimes I wish the coffee here were just a little less terrible.” He glances at the paper crane, thumb tracing the fold of its wing. “But if I’m anything good at all… it’s because of people like you.”

You freeze, heart skipping–because he says it so simply, so honestly, that you have to believe him.

“And you’ve paused for dramatic effect,” you tease, grinning, but your voice is softer than before, trembling at the edges. “People like me?”

Kento nods. He looks at you, really looks, and for a second it’s as if the empty office, the ghostly blue light, and even the world itself seems to tilt. Not from gravity. From grace.

“To be more precise, I mean you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You laugh–helpless and bright–feeling the tiredness slide off your bones. “You know, you’re terrible for my scientific credibility. Yu and Hiromi will never let me live this down.”

“I suspect Yu already has a group chat,” Kento says, dry as ever. “But he won’t get the full story.”

You nudge the paper crane with one finger, considering his words. “So… you’re not an angel. Just a man with an industrial-grade savior complex, a world-class bento habit, and a disturbing fondness for office supplies?”

Kento smiles–really smiles, the rare, dazzling kind that makes you want to believe in all your wildest, softest theories. “That sounds about right.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning from ear to ear. The crane stands between you like a flag on the moon, proof that you’ve reached some impossible place together.

Outside, the city is quieter now, the lights of the building winking out floor by floor. The office feels less like a mausoleum and more like a sanctum: private, hopeful, aglow with all the small, inexplicable marvels you have catalogued since your first day here.

You think, suddenly, of that old ‘case file’ you started–a document of little oddities, office folklore, paper cranes, and impossible kindnesses. You’d titled it THE CURIOUS CASE OF NANAMI KENTO, ANGEL ON EARTH (CASE STATUS: PENDING FURTHER INVESTIGATION–AND PROOF).

Now, as you gather your bag and shut off your computer, you think you’ll have to amend the file:

THE CURIOUS CASE OF NANAMI KENTO, ANGEL ON EARTH (CASE STATUS: INCONCLUSIVELY, JOYFULLY UNSOLVED) Observations: Patient, kind, possibly divine. Performs small miracles (vending machines, umbrellas, cafeteria sacrifices). Responds to celestial allegations with plausible deniability. Conspires to make mortals feel less alone. Final finding: If he is an angel, he is the quiet, steady kind–one who brings coffee, leaves cranes, and reminds you, even on the worst days, that the world can be gentle. Recommendation: Further study required, especially in the vicinity of stairwells, thrift stores, and desks at dusk. Caution: subject may induce acute symptoms of hope. Note to self: Sometimes the miracle is not the explanation, but the fact you keep looking for one.

As you and Kento walk out together, the paper crane safe in your pocket, you feel the day close not with exhaustion, but with a kind of ordinary, sacred wonder.

And you think, for the hundredth time perhaps (but never the last):

Some mysteries are meant to be lived, not solved. Some angels are best found in pinstripes, in quiet acts, in the soft affirmation of simply being seen.

And if grace exists anywhere, it is precisely here, now, in the slow, miraculous orbit of Nanami Kento and you.

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! definitely not my best work by a milestone BUT i did have fun writing this one! (art by riritzu on X)

#𐙚 : sitting baskets.#𐙚 : jjk.#𐙚 : nanami kento.#𐙚 : fluff.

157 notes · View notes

romantisizes · 5 days ago

Text

commentary ── it's midnight and i should be ASLEEP, but this was so good !

: ̗̀➛ but he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening. And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,�� you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

#𐙚 : picnic reads.#𐙚 : superman.#۶ৎ : david corenswet.#𐙚 : fluff.#smut.

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