salemahn

[salemahn]

What kind of kisses does Mizu enjoy the most?

Ohhh Anon. Such a difficult question!

I feel like Mizu is so touch starved that once she feels safe enough to be in a relationship, she likes all kinds of kisses:

(TW for spice under the cut)

Quick, drive-by pecks on your way past each other in the apartment, on the way out the door or between tasks. It’s so casual and easy–it warms her inside every time she's reminded that her lifestyle now comes with constant affection.

She loves the way you kiss her in greeting every time you've been apart–especially, she loves the way your face slowly lights up with the biggest smile, and how she can still feel that smile even during the kiss.

She likes the kisses that happen when she tries to kiss you goodbye in the early morning and you grab her with heavy, sleepy arms to drag her back down into the warm bed, which becomes …

… Long, slow kisses when you're both sleeping in, bodies nestled into one another, hands roaming without urgency, just appreciating each other’s bodies.

She loves the excited kisses that you pepper all over her face between squeals of joy when she surprises you with something that you like. She loves that your first desire when thrilled is to reach for her and kiss her. Plus, you're just so damn cute.

She loves the insistent press of lips on her neck when the movie gets boring and your squirming around in her lap isn't getting the attention you want. Sometimes she deliberately ignores you purely because you get so adorably demanding with those kisses … at least until you switch to wandering hands.

She loves that first, hesitant press of lips after an argument. How sometimes you still taste like salt, if it was an emotional disagreement, how you cling on to her like you hated every second apart. Every argument, even the minor ones, terrifies her that she will really lose you this time, and the yearning way that you kiss her afterwards is a relief.

She gets crazy for those toothy, playfully aggressive kisses during your wrestling/play-fighting sessions. The kind where every lick and nip of teeth tastes like a challenge being thrown down. She'll pull back, tongue flicking over the little swollen spot where you nipped her, her blue eyes flashing, before diving back in to go twice as hard.

She likes the deep kisses that come in the depths of making love, where she’s pressed as close to you as she can get, and your lips are soft and slack and open for her, your breaths panting out in soft whines between each kiss.

She likes the praise-whispering kisses that softly find their way along her temple and throat when she's moaning for you, lost in the pleasure of your hands. It fills her with an indescribable sense of safety, these tiny, pure signs of affection even in the depths of the filthiest lust.

She won't admit to this one, but it might be her actual favorite: the way you throw your arms around her and kiss her on the cheek in public–sometimes in pride as you’re introducing her, sometimes possessively when someone looks a little too appreciatively in her direction. Either way, she feels in constant disbelief that you actually want to be seen as being her romantic partner, that you're eager for everyone to know you are together. But despite the scoff she gives you, she always hooks a begrudging arm around your shoulders and plants an answering kiss on your temple. You both pretend not to notice the slight smile at the corner of her mouth afterwards.

[salemahn]

Hey can i please request a smau with Charles Leclerc x footballer reader and she's playing at the Euro right now in switzerland and just him being super supportive

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player to watch - cl16 smau

charles leclerc x footballer reader

a/n this was so much fun, thank you so much for the request<3

masterlist

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charlesleclerc God took all of my football abilities to give them to my beautiful talented and amazing girlfriend Yn Yln so please support her (and italy) at the Euro 2025

♡liked by lewishamilton & others

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yourusername game on⚽ #weuro2025

♡liked by charlesleclerc & others

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charlesleclerc player to watch. the Euro are not ready ♡liked by author

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leclercupdates charles in switzerland today

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charlesleclerc posted a story

her cheerleader forever and always❤️

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ynupdates charles leclerc, yn's boyfriend, supporting her today. if italy wins, they will be at the semifinals

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♡liked by weuro2025 & others

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charlesleclerc THAT'S MY GIRL i always knew you could do it

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yourusername thank you forever to my number 1 fan and the greatest person i know. ti amo charlesleclerc

♡liked by scuderiaferrari & others

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charlesleclerc mon chéri🤍

olliebearman parents ♡liked by author

olliebearman i'm taking that like as acceptance

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to be added to the taglist

[salemahn]

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.

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!!)

[salemahn]

Just some “Clark Kent who” thoughts about having him as your soft boyfriend 🫶🏼 bc I can’t stop thinking about him since watching the movie.

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Clark Kent who sends long voice notes instead of texts, rambling about his day because “I like hearing your voice, so I thought you might like hearing mine.”

Clark Kent who gets distracted mid flight while fighting some monster, because he heard your laugh from three blocks down when he passed through your neighborhood.

Clark Kent who loves to take you to small business fairs, filling his tote bag (and yours) with unnecessary amounts of things because “supporting local is punk”. Buying you multiple jars of honey because “the lady said it helps with allergies, she gave me a sample and I couldn’t say no after that.”

Clark Kent who says “be safe” and “call me when you’re home” when he can’t go with you because he has to stay late finishing an article, while he knows very well he’s gonna track your heartbeat every step of the way until you reach safely to your apartment.

Clark Kent who cries in every disney movie and tries to hide it by blaming “season allergies”. You just smile to yourself when you see the single tear rolling down his cheek, because superman definitely doesn’t get season allergies. But you still give him some of the honey he got you and kiss it better.

Clark Kent who casually does things like lift the couch to help you clean under it and doesn’t say a word about it, but then acts like he just did the most impressive thing when he parallel parks on the first try.

Clark Kent who stares at you so deeply while he memorizes every part of you, your laugh, your voice, the way you move, the way you’re his. So he can remember it when the world gets too loud and lonely while he’s on the other side of the globe.

Clark Kent who talks to Ma about you like you’re already part of the family, like he sees a future where he brings you home as his wife. So she sends you a jar of peach jam with a note that says “he’s always been a gentle boy, but he’s never been softer than he is for you.” Pa just tears up when he hears his son talk about you with so much devotion.

Clark Kent who still wears one of the friendship bracelets a kid gave him months ago, and he gave you the other one so “you can match with me”. That kid totally sees you at the grocery store at some point wearing the bracelets she gave to superman. Huh. Weird.

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Masterlist

[salemahn]

cooler than bruce wayne

( synopsis ) — after coming home from one of bruce wayne’s over the top gala’s, a drunk clark gets pouty n jealous that you didnt give him the attention he thought he deserved!

( warnings ) — drunk jealous clark, bruce wayne mention

“Mm.” Clark hums softly from where he’s stretched out across your lap, the back of his head resting against your thighs. His glossy, adoring eyes are locked on your face, as though you personally strung each star in the sky just for him.

“What’s on your mind, baby?” you ask without glancing away from your laptop. You’re making final edits on your latest article, one hand typing steadily while the other absentmindedly runs through Clark’s hair in slow, comforting strokes.

“I love you,” he slurs, his voice thick with affection. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dazed but focused entirely on you, utterly sincere in his lovesick haze.

You finally glance down, your brows lifting slightly in surprise. You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, your thumb gently brushing a bit of your lip balm from the corner of his mouth. “I love you too, Clark,” you whisper.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “You don’t love me like I love you. I love you so, so, so much more.”

“Clark, you’re drunk,” you laugh, unable to hide your amusement as you look down at him.

And he is, without a doubt. After clocking out from your shifts at the Daily Planet, the two of you had been dragged to one of Bruce Wayne’s extravagant galas. Clark had overindulged, far beyond what was advisable, even for a Kryptonian. Honestly, it’s impressive he’s still conscious.

You were both “strongly encouraged” to attend by Perry White, who insisted networking was vital for the paper’s exposure. Something about connections, public relations, mutual benefit… the usual spiel.

“I’m not drunk,” Clark mumbles, half heartedly burying his face in your stomach as he groans. “I’m Kryptonian. Takes a lot more than champagne and caviar to get me drunk.”

You shake your head with a fond smile, continuing to comb your fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t even look at me tonight,” he says, his voice thick with misplaced betrayal. His pupils are wide, his expression pouty and dramatic. “I was doing all these cool things to get your attention. But nope. You kept talking to Bruce. The whole time.”

“Baby,” you grin, holding back a laugh, “you were mixing condiments into your drinks and daring people to guess what was in the cup.”

“I was doing it for you,” he insists with a whine, utterly devoid of shame. “I just wanted your attention. But nooo, you were too busy chatting it up with millionaire playboy Bruce Wayne.”

“Clark,” you sigh.

“I’d catch the moon for you if you asked,” he rambles dramatically. “I’d split the planet in half if it meant finding the rarest gem to make you the prettiest ring. But you don’t care, do you?”

“Clark,” you giggle, finally setting your laptop aside and focusing fully on him, “of course I care, sweetheart.”

“You probably think Bruce Wayne is cooler than me,” he sulks, sitting upright and crossing his arms like a petulant teenager, though the dizziness from the motion immediately hits him.

Your laughter spills out freely this time. You gently pull him back down into your lap, letting him melt against you as your half written article is momentarily forgotten. He’s still pouting.

“What’s this obsession with Bruce Wayne, hmm?” you tease. “Is there something you know that I don’t?”

His eyes widen just a touch, clearly remembering that you don’t know Bruce’s secret identity. But Clark, of course, does.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters. “You were just… really focused on him all night.”

You cup his face and gently tilt it back toward yours. “I’m sorry, baby,” you say with a soft smile. “Next time, I promise all my attention is on you. Only you.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Tell me you think I’m cooler than Bruce Wayne.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you pull him in again, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. Clark eagerly kisses you back, arms wrapping securely around your waist while your fingers tangle in his soft curls. When you pull away, your voice is quiet but certain.

“I think you’re galaxies cooler than Bruce Wayne.”

He drunkenly smiles, instantly leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips, “I know.”

( tags ) —@pittsick @dumbbandpoetic @alvi-alvi-alvi @jordiemeow @hrtfilm @ryyvkkr @freddyfazblair @cryptic-doe @summerwriting @eeveedream @cestdommage @ohyouluckysaint @weeeeeeeeeeeezle @matildavol6 @fishie-baby-apple @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @plutosbearr @purple-1995 @i-wanna-be-your-muse @bbsaeko @rexthanatos @kaorisakamotofan @piatosniathenie @angelicp0etry @lacelottie @hailmary-yramliah [to be added]

[salemahn]

ANTI-BULLYING ASSEMBLY ♡

♡ pairing: husband!clark x teacher!reader

♡ summary: when your school's principal catches you on the phone with superman, not realizing it's your husband, you come up with an excuse as to why you were on the phone with him.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff! wc: 1.3k

♡ author's note: i feel like clark with a teacher wife makes a lot of sense!! i had sm fun writing this!! feel free to send me some clark requests + read something similar!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

"sooo, your ma finally gave me the recipe for her casserole. yes, that casserole." you laughed into the phone, when you heard your husband's excitement over the phone, "and i was thinking i'd drop by the store to get the ingredients and make it tonight. can't guarantee that it'll be just as good, but martha said that the most important ingredient was love."

"i'm sure it's going to be delicious." you could hear clark smiling through the phone, as well as a slight swoosh!

"what have we talked about texting and flying, mister?" you scolded playfully as you took out a stack of exams for your students, "well, technically i'm speaking on the phone and flying." "and technically i'm still gonna scold you when you get home tonight."

"i'll bring dessert from papa's donuteria?"

"fine, you're forgiven." you chuckle softly, "and you better make sure your superman duties don't take too long, or there'll be hell to pay."

"of course they won't. have a good day at work, honey."

"you too." you smile, hanging up your phone, only now realizing that someone was standing right outside your classroom door, the middle-aged woman's eyes wide and jaw slack. you clear your throat, putting on a friendly smile, "principal kelly! i was just on the phone with my hu—"

"superman."

"whhhaaaat?"

"i couldn't help but overhear you just say superman." the woman clapped her hands together, "mrs. kent, were you just talking to superman?"

"no, no." you clear your throat, "i mean, that'd be strange. how could i have superman's number?" you let out an awkward chuckle, your forming into a tight smile.

"well, your husband works with him, doesn't he?"

at the reminder of clark's supposed connection to superman, a lightbulb turns on over your head and you clapped your hands together, "oh, yes! i was indeed talking to superman. my husband gave me his number."

"how come were you talking to him at this lunchtime?" the woman looks down at her watch, "did you tell him about the bullying problem we've been having?"

"yes, i did!" you cleared your throat, "i actually asked superman if he could… come have a… talk. about how bad bullying is. i feel like he's a figure that many of the kids look up to and it might help."

"oh, that's a fantastic idea!" the woman exclaimed, "do you think he would do that?" "well, i think i can find a way to convince him..." you smiled awkwardly.

you hear the front door close the moment the infamous kent casserole is out of the oven, listening as he takes off his shoes and places his satchel down on its usual spot. you chuckle softly, your husband coming into the kitchen with a wide smile and a white box with 'papa's donuteria' written on it, placing it down on the dining table, his jacket already ditched and tie loose around his collared shirt.

"hi." clark bends slightly to press a kiss on your cheek, "i could smell the casserole. it smells just as good as my ma's." "good. i remembered her advice and put extra love in." clark turned to take some plates out of the cupboard, placing them on the table as you looked for forks and knives.

once the table was set and the two of you had sat down, you pursed your lips in thought, watching as your husband started serving himself food; however, when you didn't start putting food on your own plate, clark furrowed his brows, blue eyes flickering from your empty plate to your eyes, "what's wrong?"

"i... i have a favor to ask you." your husband nodded, telling you to continue, and you took your husband's ringed hand in yours, rubbing it, "so, today, principal kelly... heard me talking to you. well, more specifically, she heard me call you superman."

your husband's eyes turned comically wide at your words, and you could see his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "w-what...?" he mumbled, his throat dry. the hand that wasn't in yours took off his glasses, and he rubbed the corner of his eyes. "she knows?"

"oh, no! god, no." you let out a soft chuckle when you realized what your husband must be thinking, "no, she just knows that i have superman's number... she thought i got it because you two work together."

"oh." clark let out a breath, "whew, you scared me." the man shook his head as if shaking the thought away, stroking your hand with his thumb, "so... what's the favor, honey?"

"there's been some issues with bullying at my school, and i was wondering if superman would be willing to come by, maybe give a little talk on why it's bad...?" you looked at him with a slightly pleading look on your face, your husband simply smiling, bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a small kiss on it.

"of course. you don't even have to ask."

clark cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone on the podium in the middle of the school gymnasium, "hello. first, i want to thank mrs. kent for, uh, asking me to come speak to you about bullying."

"thank you, mrs. kent!" a gymnasiumful of students echoed back at him, making you let out a soft, quiet chuckle as you watched your husband, your head tilted to the side. "thank you, mrs. kent, indeed." principal kelly whispered in a hushed tone, "he really does look more handsome in person."

"he does." you smiled fondly as you listened to your husband speak.

after clark was done with his presentation, he received a round of applause that echoed throughout the gymnasium, and you started leading him towards your classroom. "you did really well. i think they really listened to you." you said with a wide smile, not even noticing the way your husband was itching with the urge to hold your hand, so used to doing that whenever you walked side by side, now tapping his fingers against his thigh to keep himself occupied.

"here's where the magic happens. aka where i pray that eight-year-olds don't pick their noses." you chuckle as you were pulling the door to your classroom open, "ta-da!"

clark looked around as he stepped inside, many of the walls covered with drawings clearly made by children, along with cards that had your name written on them in scrawly, colorful handwriting. you even had a picture of you and the children you taught hung up that had been taken on picture day.

"wow..." clark's reaction made you chuckle, your kitten heels clacking against the floor as you walked to your desk, picking up a stack of papers. "just wait until you see these."

your husband closed the small distance between you two, taking the papers you were holding and starting to shift through them; each of them a different kind of drawing of clark, of superman, a lot of them with messages like 'superman rules!' or something along those lines. "these are... of me?"

"they are. when i told them you were coming to visit, they got really excited, so i said that they could make drawings for you. i assured that superman would get them." you raised your brows with a grin on your lips, "did i do good?"

clark put the drawings down onto the table, bringing one of his large hands to cup your cheek, stroking the soft skin og your cheek, "how did i get so lucky?" he asked softly, his beautiful, bright gleaming as he looked down at you. "i love you so much."

before you had time to respond to your husband's affections, clark brought his lips down to yours for a soft kiss, your lips melting into his, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.

however, the moment was cut short when you heard a gasp at the door, your husband pulling away from the kiss, the two of you looking to see a small figure skittering away from the door, your eyes wide as you and clark turned to look at each other, his cheeks reddening.

"i think one of my students just saw mrs. clark kiss superman." you mumbled, a moment of silence passing between you before you both burst into laughter, clark pulling you close to him, "what a scandal."

[salemahn]

𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.) 3k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Good morning.” 

A stress ball goes careening off the edge of your desk as your body catches up. “Fuck,” you breathe, twisting in your seat to find the Daily Planet’s most puppy-eyed journalist towering over your desk. “Clark! You scared me.” 

Your whisper-shouting amuses him. He smiles, creasing a small wrinkle in the corners of his eyes, pretty pink mouth too much to deal with. If he notices you looking and then looking away, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding too sorry. 

“Are you?” 

“I’m so sorry. Really. What’s got you so, ah, immersed?”

You click the minimise button on your open window, clearing your desktop before he can spot your shoddy workmanship. “Nothing.” 

“Sure. I believe you. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you.” 

He lingers. Your office skews toward casual dress but Clark’s hardly the first to wear a proper suit, skinny black tie against a solid backdrop. You’d quite like to grab it, hoisting him downward, and you know you’d never do it, but the thought is nice. Your face and neck warm with it. 

Clark’s smile is soft and yet endlessly indulgent, like you’ve given him what he’d sorely wanted. “I can help, you know. I’d love to help you with whatever it is that’s making you all… cagey,” he says. 

“You’re always helping me.” 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you becs for proofreading quick before I posted !!

[salemahn]

oh what a curse it is to be a lover (boy)

some whipped clark headcanons ------

clark kent who never lets you wake up to anything but a freshly made breakfast— and he can cook. he knows just about every kent family recipe ma could teach him and he never lets you lift a finger in the kitchen. he insists that the view of you, in one if his old smallville t-shirts, bleary-eyed and giggly in the soft lull of the morning is worth the labor of a thousand breakfasts.

clark kent who is the perfect gentleman. before you even realize you’re cold he has his gray cotton suit jacket around your shoulders and an arm tight around your waist. you two go grocery shopping? he won’t even let you touch a bag, carrying them like it’s a badge of honor after you’ve long since given up on trying to help him. if there’s a puddle on the sidewalk? he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, twirling you over it so your shoes don’t get wet and pressing a kiss atop your head once he sets you down. 

clark kent who can’t keep himself off of you, like, ever. his hands, which are huge compared to yours, are always holding you, your hands, your waist, your thighs, etc. his fingers card through your hair constantly, and his nose presses into the crook of your neck like it belongs there. he wraps himself around you in giant bear hugs, refusing to let go for hours on end (not that you mind). it’s almost a compulsion, how close he has to be to you at all times to ground himself, to remind himself that you, the person he loves most in this world and any other, are real and somehow love him as much as he loves you. 

clark kent who is really good with kids, in the kind of way that makes your heart just melt to see. he takes conversations with children seriously, nodding along as they babble on like it’s the most important thing in the world, helping them without a second thought. when he meets your niece, it only takes about five minutes for him to swing her on his shoulders and earn the title of “uncle clark!” the whole thing makes you swoon. 

clark kent who is a giant dork and makes sure you know it. he practically pins you down against him and forces you to watch all six of the star wars movies in an order that seems completely random to you when you make the mistake of telling him that you’ve never seen them. he spoons you on the couch, arms wrapped around you, softly whispering his favorite lines along with the movie, his breath warm against your ear. 

clark kent who sees you as a literal goddess. he thinks you’re ethereal, full of warmth and made of light. he loves you like it’s worship, tending to you like it’s his divine purpose— because it is. he’s so gentle with you, large hands capable of great destruction ghosting over your body like you’re something fragile. he keeps you safe, happy, and warm with everything he has. you’re his girl, by some grace of god, and he’d rather die than let you feel anything but absolutely beloved. 

clark kent who kisses you like he forgets you have to breathe— because he does. after crashing into you, he gets so lost in the waves that it takes you nearly passing out for him to pull back, giving you a million apologies while you catch your breath, but you pull him back into it before he can feel any real guilt. 

clark kent who is undeniably the love of your life, in a way that is permanent and unbelievable. you have him whipped, barely able to think about anything but you and the way you glow like starlight in his eyes. perfection cannot begin to describe what you are to him, they way you make him weak in his knees and dizzy when he smells your perfume on his skin. he doesn’t need to travel to distant planets with red suns to get wasted when the sound of your voice makes him drunker than any beverage could hope to. yes, you, the woman of his dreams, are the owner of clark’s heart and if shattering it would make you smile he’d glue it back together so you could do it all over again. 

-------

he is all i can think about i think ate ive read over 100 fics about my sweet beautiful princess he is so beautiful to me. this obsession is a sickness but hot damn

[salemahn]

clark, who perks up when you call his name the way dogs react to hearing the word walk. pleasantly startled, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy in a six-foot-something frame.

clark, who insists on carrying all the groceries. so now you just walk beside him, one arm looped through his, watching him play pack mule with unconcealed joy.

clark, who sits beside you at the fountain, tearing bread crusts into little hunks for the doves.

clark, who taps your knee when he spots a squirrel in the park. stops mid-step and whispers, “look, look,” with the same excitement of one pointing out a comet—never mind it’s just a rodent with a peanut.

clark, who sets his lockscreen to a selfie of you both. candid, taken mid-laugh. your head resting against his shoulder, his smile half-formed, cheek pressed into your temple. he carries a printed copy in his wallet, too.

clark, who texts you pictures he’s taken. things that remind him of you, or things he knows you’d like. a cat loaf in a patch of sunlight, a diner chalkboard advertising your favourite pie, or a silly meme he figured you’d laugh at.

clark, who always ends up the big spoon, no matter how you start. even if you fall asleep facing him, curled into his chest. by morning, you’ll wake up with his arm around your waist.

clark, who really knows how to cook. real food, too—not just bachelor chow reheated in a pan. i’m talking soups from scratch or stews that simmer for hours. he doesn’t let you lift a finger unless it’s to taste-test something off the spoon.

clark, who hums commercial jingles around the apartment while doing chores, such as lifting the entire couch (with you still on it) so he can vacuum underneath.

clark, who carries you bridal-style to bed.

clark, who packs little sandwiches in wax paper when you work late. your name written in block letters across the front.

clark, who leaves post-it notes behind cabinets, in the pockets of your jackets. blue ink scrawled sideways. “i love you,” “you looked really pretty this morning.”

[salemahn]

Forgiveness

Cregan Stark x Reader

Summary: Cregan begs for his wife’s forgiveness when he accidentally injures her.

Warning: no use of y/n, dirty talk/mentions of smut, injuries, i'm pretty sure that's it

Word Count: 2.3k

Masterlist

Cregan sat in his study, buried in letters and decrees that claimed they required the utmost attention. They all said that even if they truly did not require that level of priority. However, everyone wanted their Lord’s approval and signature, leaving him to sort through what was a priority and what could wait. In some ways he missed the war, at least he was fighting and protecting his realm then. He felt like a true lord then. Now, he may as well be a bureaucrat locked in some tower of the Red Keep, imprisoned by his own position.

As he moved on to some sort of land dispute, there was a harsh knock on his door. “Enter,” he called, not even looking up.

The large, heavy door swung open, revealing a guard. “Lady Stark, my lord,” he announced.

Interest piqued, Cregan looked up just in time to see the guard step aside, revealing his lady wife. Without having to be dismissed, the man exited, shutting the door behind him to leave the couple alone.

“I haven’t seen you all day,” his wife explained her presence, approaching his desk.

For the first time that day, the Warden of the North took a break from his work, setting his quill down and leaning back in his seat. Sparing a glance out the window, he realized that it was dark. It had only been mid-afternoon when he sat down to begin his bureaucratic duties. “I suppose you’re right,” he confirmed, recalling that he had gently pressed a kiss against his sleeping wife’s head when he woke before disappearing for the day.

Opening his arms, he invited her to approach. Taking his cue, the lady of the north took a seat on his lap, easily slotting into his body. It was a well known fact that the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were unusually affectionate for a pairing of such high status. Typically, love was reserved for those who did not marry for status, or for extramarital affairs. But it seemed the Stark couple had been quite lucky in their match.

“The day has ended, we should go to bed,” Cregan’s wife asked in a soft voice, her fingers trailing through the hair she swept away from his face.

He smiled, finding his tension soothed by her mere presence. “Aye, I wish that I could but this has to be done,” he sighed, gesturing to his desk still covered in documents.

Observing all the work, the lady sighed, leaning her head against her husband’s for a moment. “But you, my lord, are the Warden of the North. Who is to tell you when things must be done?” she asked suggestively, knowing what calling him ‘my lord,’ did to her husband.

Cregan let out the faintest growl, wanting to dive into his wife right there but he restrained himself. “Why I thought that was your job,” he teased.

Fortunately, she laughed, throwing her head back in a way that made Cregan want to mark her neck in the way he so loved. “Please,” she dismissed, “I can hardly get my own husband into bed. How can I tell you what to do?”

He chuckled. “Fortunately for no one, my discipline is strong enough to withstand your temptations. Although, I admit they are barely capable. I swear to you,” he began, gently lifting his wife from his lap, “that I will be in our chambers within the next hour,” he said, eyes flickering to the candle on his desk that was nearly at its end. “I expect you to be ready for me,” he uttered darkly.

His wife blushed like it was their wedding night again, despite hearing far more vulgar things from her husband. “And how shall you expect me?” she asked teasingly.

Cregan bit his lip. As adorable as he found his wife when she was shy and coy at the mere inclination of sex, he loved when she was daring and teasing. He thought for a moment, staying silent for longer than necessary only to create an illusion for his wife. “Naked. On our bed. With your fingers between your legs.”

~

Once again Cregan found himself locked away in his office, buried in endless paperwork. He was deeply entrenched in some matter of land disputes when the door suddenly burst open. Cregan looked up in astonishment, his mouth open to reprimand them for their dismissal of protocol.

“My apologies, my lord,” the out of breath guard interrupted. “But a wildling has attempted to enter Winterfell. Says he wants to be a southerner, like us.”

Cregan quirked a brow, utterly confused as to why this required so much urgency and why someone had dared call him a southerner. “And why does this require so much urgency that you have broken protocol?”

“The gatesmaster believes this may be some sort of ruse to breach the walls of Winterfell.”

Cregan nodded, standing up. As he exited his office, he found a group of guards standing outside, seemingly waiting to follow them outside. He did not say anything about the waste of manpower at his door but headed outside. “Which gate was it?” he asked.

“The north gate,” his guard answered.

Nodding, the Warden of the North headed out to the northern courtyard. As he exited the walls of the keep, he intended to greet the gatesmaster who stood talking to another sentry. But catching sight of the supposed wildling made him freeze. Standing there by the gate was a disheveled man, looking as if he had spent his entire life in the woods. And talking to him, unguarded, was the Lady of Winterfell.

Cregan abandoned his path towards his gatemaster to get his wife away from the wildling. Who would have possibly thought it would be wise to leave both the wildling and his wife unguarded, even more so to let them meet? He was not thinking clearly as he reached the pair, grabbing his wife’s arm to wrench her away from the vile man before her. He must have pulled harder than intended because she let out a yelp as he did so. Still, he did not comprehend it as he whirled around to face his men, still clutching her arm.

“Who left them unguarded?” he demanded, his voice booming so loud it silenced the entire courtyard. He watched in rage as the crowd of men all sent glances to one another.

The spell was only broken by his wife’s cry. “Cregan, you’re hurting me,” he heard his wife whimper. Finally looking at her, he realized just how tightly he was gripping her arm. He relaxed his grip a bit, but still held on tight enough to push her so she stood in front of him, making himself a barrier between her and the wildling. She let out another cry as he jerked her, her free hand reaching for the hand clutched around her arm. She grabbed his wrist in a futile attempt to get him to let go. “Cregan, let go,” she cried again.

Seeing his wife’s face twisted in pain, the Lord of Winterfell realized what he had done. Quickly, he released his grasp, her arm falling into her own grasp. The cold air that whipped through Winterfell became biting as Cregan watched his wife cradle her arm against her chest, backing away from him as if he were the threat. As she backed up toward a guard, gesturing for him to escort her away, Cregan’s heart broke as he realized that in that moment, she felt safer with a guard than with him.

His jaw clenched as he leveled a glare to the men that had followed him, realizing that they had all run to tell him what was happening rather than do their actual jobs. He turned to his gatesmaster who had approached them by now, the few guards who had remained now taking hold of the wildling. “Take him to the dungeons I will deal with him later,” he gestured to the potential threat. “As to this lot, see to it they have nights watch for the next week.” He leveled one last glare at the group of men before heading back inside, intent on finding his wife.

Cregan was already planning his apology to his wife as he reached the hall that housed their chambers. As he walked down the hall, the guard that had escorted her earlier exited his chambers before taking his post just outside the door, sparking some level of unfounded jealousy.

As Cregan walked up to the door, the guard gave him a slight bow. “My lord,” he greeted. He did not reply, simply continuing toward the door, waiting for the guard to open it. But rather, he just spoke again, “The lady has asked me to inform you that she wishes to be left alone.”

Cregan stopped, looking incredulously at the guard. His words stung to hear. He had sworn an oath to protect his wife and had promised her parents that he would be a good husband and never hurt her. Yet here he stood, being barred from his wife by her own wish, with a man of his employ guarding her against him. The sentry looked deeply uncomfortable under his lord’s glare. He truly wanted to honor the wishes of his liege lady but her husband’s orders came first. Reluctantly he reached over, opening the door for the Lord of Winterfell.

Satisfied with his influence, Cregan strolled into his chambers, intending to begin the apology when he stopped short upon seeing the room empty. He turned to look at the guard as if to ask where his wife was. “Some maids escorted her to the maesters,” he informed nervously.

Cregan leveled yet another glare at the man before clenching his jaw and exiting the room, storming towards the maester. As the lord of Winterfell left, his guard briefly considered alternative employment.

Although Cregan had stormed towards the maester’s turret throughout Winterfell, he slowed as he approached the structure. Despite the guards posted outside holding the door open for him, he paused before the building, taking a breath. His wife’s scared expression flashed through his mind and that was a sight he never wanted to see again, yet he knew he would never forget it. The image made all the rage evaporate from him as he slowly entered the turret.

Ascending the stairs, he reached the healing room that he had often visited as a boy. Always having his training injuries and general wounds of boyhood treated here. Sat on the bench in only her shift and skirts was Cregan’s wife, having her arm bandaged in a way that held it to her chest, just as she had chosen to hold it.

Maester Kennet noticed the lord first, slowly halting his movements to look at the man. His wife turned to see the reason for the maester’s pause. She turned, finding her husband standing at the top of the stairs looking like a hollow version of himself. His face looked crestfallen as if he were informing them of a death.

Before she could snub him with a turned gaze, Cregan fell to a knee, his head bowed. “My lady, I truly do wish to apologize to you. I truly never meant to harm you,” he began, his voice dripping with a desire to be believed. “I swore an oath to protect you, as that was all I was trying to do. But instead, I hurt you, and that is a failure I will carry with me until my grave. I understand if you are unable to forgive me, I was being brash and absentminded. But all I ask is that I may be near you.” He looked up slowly, meeting his wife’s gaze. He could not read anything from it aside from pain.

Cregan had felt the pain of wounds of war before, but nothing hurt more than when his wife turned to look at Maester Kennet. But she only whispered a dismissal before looking back to her husband again. Cregan stood eagerly as the man’s hands gently left his wife’s shoulder before he approached his lord. The aging man paused beside Cregan, patting his shoulder momentarily before continuing down the stairs, leaving the couple in privacy.

Cautiously, Cregan approached his lady, once again crouching before her. “I truly am sorry,” he repeated. His wife said nothing as her gaze fell to her lap. But she turned her non-bound hand over in her lap, inviting his hand in hers. Cregan took it eagerly, his other hand going to her face to brush her hair aside as he gently grasped it. “I love you,” he breathed.

“I love you too,” she cried, falling into him. Cregan caught her, careful of her shoulder as he held her close, even pressing a kiss to the injured area as if promising to care for her.

He continued to hold her and continued to apologize. “I truly did not intend to harm you. I just saw you standing with that wildling, unguarded and all I knew was that I had to get you away from him.”

A comforting hand in his hair soothed him, halting his words. “I know,” she assured. “Maester Kennet explained why you were so upset. I apologize for not being more cautious. I just felt he was being treated unjustly.”

Cregan pulled away only enough to look at his wife, nodding in understanding. “You have a large heart,” he commended. “And it is my job to protect it. Sometimes I get carried away with it.”

The lady smiled, ���Well I don’t suppose I can fault you for that.”

Cregan smiled at her forgiveness, once again holding her close. With all forgiven, he gained a teasing lilt to his voice. “Did you send that guard to our chambers to intentionally mislead me?”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, the teasing lilt finding her voice as well. But she attempted to distract from it with a stroke against his back. “I was quite irritated with you.” Cregan just chucked, the rumble of his laugh soothing his wife as they fell back into normalcy.

Masterlist

[salemahn]

In The River’s Calling

Mizu x Fem! Sweetheart gf! Reader || I know I’ve technically already done a fic praising Mizu but that was angst and she deserves all the fluff and love in the world and I would like to apologize in advance. I got freaky with it.

Summary: You and Mizu share some time together, alone, in a river

Romantic Fluff & Smut

Warnings: A lot of religious symbolism/metaphors are used in this fic, petnames(angel, baby, etc) lots of moaning/whimpering, lots of touching, fingering, Mizu does the ‘knee thing’, vivid descriptions of kissing if you squint/sex in general, eating out(M!receiving), breast play(M! receiving), mention of death/war, swearing, switch! Mizu, but mainly sub! Mizu, skinny dipping, reader is low-key lovesick & kinky..

_✍︎︎

The snow melts on your kimono as it tickets and freezes your feet. But the cold is welcoming to you with Mizu by your side. She squeezes your hand gently, her fingers being as soothing as the cold that surrounded you both. The blue moon was present too, it shined so bright on the white surface that blue was present in the night sky. It brought you comfort, safety, knowing that the color blue was your world now, your home.

A contrast of want Mizu warned of when walking along her path. Violence, death, sadness, lost, a never ending war. However you’ll gladly walked the demon path over and over again if Mizu was present, close, hand in hand as you walk through fire just like how she would describe.

Yet there was no fire, no violence, no death, no war, no one in her wake with the exception of you.

There was no red but only blue. Only peace.

You stared lovingly at your blue, who kept her focus on the wilderness passing through trees while her grip stayed firm on your hand. You loved how she was protective of you, it made you feel special, secured and you adored it was one of the ways she showed she loved you, that she cared. Along on how she spoils you sometimes; how she always felt the need to shower you with gifts. Rather it’s to keep you safe or just a “it reminded me of you.”

Even after all. After everything you’ve seen her do simply because she had to. Men she slaughtered, cut through, humiliated. You could not see the demon those around you saw. What they feared, criticized, mocked. On the contrary, you never saw a demon. What you see is an angel. An angel who had their own unique wings ridiculed and cut down by others but their halo still shines for only your eyes to see. Mizu is no creature of shame: she is beauty, heavenly. People can think whatever they wanted, and you’ll smile knowing they’re wrong. You don’t care to change their opinion you just wish you could change hers.

You heard the sound running water close by, of a small waterfall that calm the senses. Mizu stopped her tracks where it was surrounded by white trees.

The sight was beautiful, it was a mountain river, where several waterfalls rain like a shower. The snow and light fog created a charming mist with the stars above being like a beauty mark, a painting to see as you relax in the cold water. It made appealing, like it was whispering your name. Calling out to you.

“We can rest here tonight.” Mizu said, as she took a double look around the surroundings.

“The water looks so nice. Makes me wanna jump right in it.” You commented with a smile.

“Yeah, it does.” Mizu replied, admiring the view along with you.

“Do you.. wanna join me?” Mizu asked you, without even reconciling the thought. The open suggestion leaving tension in the Icey air.

You and Mizu have been together for a while now, and both you agreed on taking it slow especially on her side of things. Mainly allowing her to make the calls and the next step. Like in this instance.

“Only if you want. You don’t have to.” She said immediately after, and you could see a tint of blush on her cheeks. While she hid her face over the shade of her hat.

She fails to realize how cute she is.

“Sure.” You said with a smile, already getting fixed to take off your kimono.

“Really?” Mizu whispered shockingly, her expression changing wide eyed.

“Of course I don’t mind at all.” You assured her.

Mizu smiled shyly as you slipped off your kimono off your shoulders, the cold air instantly giving you goosebumps: making you shiver as you dipped your toes in the water. The water was freezing, and just dipping in it was like send electricity through your body. You eventually forced yourself in, wrapping your arms around you to make it somewhat bearable.

“You okay?” Mizu asked while getting undressed, hearing a hiss in your direction.

“The water’s freezing!” You exaggerated.

Mizu just responded with a simple “hum” with a amused grin on her face. You looked over to at Mizu’s long hair flowing on her back, looking like silk in the night’s glow as clothing swimming off of her gracefully; her warm skin dancing well in the blue hue, like she was carved from it. Sculptured. She looked smooth and delicate like melted ice. It was your first time seeing Mizu like this, it was first she physically opened up to you and honestly it distracted you from the temperature of the water. She caught your eyes, that stayed glued to her. All she did was smile. A soft smile that set your heart aflame, as she maneuvered into the water with no struggle, not even a shiver. Just flowed right in, right next to you.

“Hm, It’s not that bad.” Mizu said with a shrug.

“Easy for you to say.” You clapped back. She giggled.

“Want me to warm you up?” Mizu asked, both bluntly and softly.

You gave her a small nod, and she swim to you, the water announcing her thoughts while she wrapped her arms around you, strong arms that you trusted with your entire being. You rested your head on her shoulder, close to the crook of her neck; soothing skin being like a nice cold pillow against your cheek. Instantly you melt at her touch. Her skin on yours, chest to chest; it curdled you. Her firm slender fingers, traced on your back, nails scratching away the tension that lingered on you. Occasionally going up to the strings of your hair. The blessed silence of only her breathing and steams of water.

It was perfect like this, being with your peace. Your everything. It was euphoric.

And it didn’t help when Mizu placed a gentle, innocent kiss on your neck. Releasing a shivered whimper.

“Are you okay?” She pulled away to ask, a concerned response to your action as she held your head in her hands.

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine, perfectly okay.” You smiled in a daze.

“I just love you so much.” You said, high with love, drunk off her touch. Drunk off her in general.

“I know I could never truly convince you but I’ll happily die trying.” You slurred truthfully, bringing your hands to her face.

“You’re so beautiful. Everything about you is so perfect to me; Your eyes, your strength, your heart.” You spoked with lovestruck sigh. Mizu gave that soft shocked look as you held her face in your hands. That tender, vulnerable wide eyed stare that puppies make. It told you your words spoke directly in her build up caged heart.

“I absolutely adore you. I love being alone with you, where I get the see you: the real you and not the version the world makes you be.” You brush her flushed cheeks with your thumbs, keeping her flustered gaze to you; her eyes big and soft while her eyebrows curved. Taking every word like a direct hit on an open wound.

“I love getting to hold, to be this close, to feel you. I..” You stopped, resting on her forehead to think, you know what you need to say: to describe but you can’t find any other sentence except:

“I love you..!” You said with a laugh, repeating yourself.

“I love you a million times over and there no deity on this earth that could pull me away or shatter any image of you.” You finished and for a split second you saw another river in Mizu’s eyes. A small one, fill of an overwhelming happiness before she close the small gap between. Slamming her lips on yours.

Her lips curved perfectly on yours, a well fitted shape that pulled you to cloud nine. Mizu didn’t need to respond with a clever comeback to counterfeit you: her kissing did all the talking. Fill of love, passion and a never ending rain of gratitude. Even though you’ll never make her say thank you.

“I love you too..” Was the only thing she whispered back, repeating it to you with each peck. Angling your head to deepen the kiss. Her tongue sneaking past your lips, taking yours in a classical dance.

You wrapped around her neck to pull her even closer, in firm grip like you were scared she could escape. Mizu’s hands dived in the water to find your hips, fighting the current to push her leg in between your thighs. You broke off a moan so Mizu took the opportunity to tail her lips down your neck, to your shoulders, to your chest that rise above the water, tasting it on your skin. While her gentle whispers painted on you, Mizu took your arms, pushing along with the river until your back touched the stone that form the mountains surrounding you.

Mizu returned her gaze to you, that hunting blue that you see in your most beautiful dreams, full of desire and want. Her strong hands swimming on you, touching your arms, neck and chest, like she was sculpting you. Admiring you. The anticipation made you whimper. She whispered your name, like a prayer, finding your lips again. Just as slow and delicate but just sensual. Her arms got your glued in one spot, cornered securely in her grasp as her thigh teased you; creating a hot sensation in the water that struck you all over your body. Gripping her back and releasing squeaks on her shoulder. You felt her smile on your ear.

“Gave you different kind of warmth didn’t I?” She spoke sarcastically, a light charm to get you to smile. She always did, you thought but all you could do is nod in your submissive state.

“Yeah? I can feel it.” She said, voice low in dominance, high in sweetness like a true woman she is.

Mizu looked down at your crotch that hid under the water. She took notice of your squirming underneath, the act to need more. You hear her sigh lovingly at the sight while a hand trail down your stomach, silently telling you what she wanted, what was on her mind. It made your shiver more than any cold.

“I want to touch it. May I?” She asked you ever so sweetly, giving you that puppy-eyed stare again. You cheerfully gave in.

Her hand slipped deeper under the water, easily finding that stop that instantly raised the tension in her shoulders. Fight the river’s flow to rub gentle strokes on your lips, due to the water: Mizu was able to easily slip a finger and two in, replacing her thumb to rub circles on your clit.

Your head softly hit the rock behind you, while your legs began to give out. Surrendering to the current and letting flout until Mizu took a spare hand to your thigh to keep you guarded. Her fingers felt so nice inside, they were slender but still huge they were able to spend you open, fill every inch in and that’s not to say how her thumb worked wonders on you. You let out a shoveled moan.

“Mizu..” You cried out, crawling on her back.

“Oh.. Mizu, fuck!” She fastened up the peace a little making you gasp.

Mizu bit down on her lip, like she was trying to fight back a noise in her throat. Her fingers tried to soak up any juice that spill out, curling in the right direction. You clenched around them.

“..Your fingers…” You moaned pulling your head to the crook of her neck, grabbing her wet hair in your hands; giving a light tug.

“They feel so good… You’re so good.. always so good to me…” You praised and Mizu whimpered at your reaction, whispering more when the water announced your hip movements.

Grinding desperately against her hand. Mizu followed your rhythm with her hand, giving you exactly what you wanted.

“Y-yes.. just like that..” You called out again, your hand now tangled in her smooth hair.

“Keep going.” You begged in her ear.

“Don’t stop.” You almost commanded.

“I won’t.” She promised.

“You sound so pretty.. you feel so nice..” You heard her say with a held back moan, that hit directly in your ear. It encouraged you further, knowing she was taking pleasure in this.

“Mizu… I-I’m going to… shit, you’re gonna make me..!” You sent a warning as she has you cornered, legs tied closely to her hips as her fingers fucking away every single ounce of pain you ever felt in your life.

“Go on, you can do it.. Come on. Mizu encouraged, matching your pathetic whimpers.

“Please, you can do it.. do it for me.” She asked. No, begged and you fell apart soon after.

“That’s it.. for me, all for me.” Her words and movements turned you into a new puddle in her grasp, feeling her fingers taking up everything you released. That she pushed out.

“Wow..” You heard her say, like she was now the one on cloud nine. Looking down through the water at her hands while you took a moment to find your breath.

Most of it swim away, along with the river’s tie but some stayed on her fingers, even when she brought them back up the surface. You smiled shyly at her expression, that spoke with surprise and awe.

“That was… I’ve never done that before.” Mizu spoke honestly.

“I mean, I’ve never.. been the one to pleasure somebody else.” She tried to explain but you understood.

“Really? I never would have guessed.” You complimented with a tease, making her blush; wrapping your arms around her neck. Pulling her in for another kiss. Playing with her hair in the process.

Both of you smiled into it, giggling as it sent endorphins to both of you. You lean back to stared at her again and everything about her was soft. Her plushed lips that curved a heart-squeezing smile, her eyes that were gentle and bright like a star, that smiled along with her mouth. Her cheeks that were red and round that were push up from her grin. It was so hard not to get a cute aggression from her.

“You’re so cute. So beautiful.” You whispered sweetly, moving a bang away from her pretty face. She rolled her eyes.

“You are! Even when you slice men into tiny little pieces.” You said playfully, pinching her cheek.

“Ow.” She giggled playfully, putting a hand on yours to keep it on her cheek. Leaning in your touch, like your hand was a pillow.

The other hand took her other side, cupping her face again, to close the gap. You began to shower her in kisses, whispering her peace and calm that raindrops could never do. She laughed like a little kid as you poured all over her: face and neck. Listening to her giggles shaping into little whimpers as you went up her neck. Your kisses turn sloppy as it did, brushing her hair out of the way for more room biting and licking at the one stop that got her to open her mouth.

Her tiny moans was like an mandolin being played in your ear, they soft and harmonizing, they had the potential to be loud but you knew Mizu was holding back. Fine any other night, however not tonight. Not when the atmosphere is painted to surround her, allowing her to be her without consequences. You took her hands, moving her and yourself out of the water ignoring the cold and tiptoeing through the waterfall, it’s stream hiding your naked bodies. Mizu looked confused but she trusted your judgment, your actions. You set her far back behind the water’s roof: now she how was cornered and you standing tall. You positioned yourself between her legs as Mizu looked at you with so much vulnerability and openness, your sense the nerves in her eyes. You lean down to cuddle her face again.

“Do you trust me Mizu?” You asked her, voice as strong as hers as before.

“More than anyone.” Mizu spoke small but with certainty.

“Then relax, I got you my angel.” You said, kissing her soft lips again.

When your tongues danced again, it wasn’t as slow like before: it was a full blown tango, need and desperation being said by both sides. Mizu whimpered and moan against your mouth, while her hands acted like glue against your skin, holding on to balance herself. A string of spit kept you too connected as you pull away. You moved down to her chest, looking up from her breast for silent permission. Once Mizu gave a small nod, you press mouthy kisses all over. Bringing her hands that rested on your hips up to them, squeezing and massaging them. Giving love and affection after being hidden away for so long. Fondling them like you were trying to erase the pain they received: that Mizu received.

You felt her body give in your touch, her moans getting weaker and louder with each kiss, each action. Her back arched against your mouth allowing you to move arms behind, pressing any knot her bandages left behind. She knew exactly what you doing, what was going in your head, she saw the words in your lust fill eyes. She moaned in acceptance, want. She open her legs out further as you sat directly in their middle. You gave a slutry smile in return.

“Good girl.. didn’t even have to ask.” You said, Mizu swallow down a noise as a response. Her hands in the strands of your hair as move down to her stomach. Leaving a path of kisses.

You moved Mizu’s hips to angle her, her inter thighs locking your surroundings. You kissed them to, causing her entire body to be soaked of you, in need of more. You looked up to see her silent begging: eyes squeezed, calling your name, cheeks flushed matching her buttons nose:,hands on head, ready to push you in. You’ll spare her the teasing, gods knows she’s been though enough.

Gripping her wet thighs, you lick up one, nice stripe and hummed at her taste: tasting the water and her juices all in one go and this time, Mizu didn’t hold back a moan, she couldn’t. She groan loudly on her tongue. It bounced off the walls, hitting you. Past the sound of the rain pour behind you. It captivated you. Resting your nose on her clit, you press kitty licks on her lips; even past to get her to shiver.

“Ah— oh my… a-ahh.. Ah!” You never imagined she would be this loud, it sang to, pounded you right to your core. Mizu had a firm grip on her hair, she suffocated you between her legs. What a wonderful way to die by her hand.

You looked up to see your goddess with her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth hung open with untellable words coming right out. Past the sound of mist, water, and creatures, Mizu out shined them all just like she always has. After taking a split second to slip your fingers in mouth, inserting them in her to hear that delicious gushing sound coming out of her. She gasp so loud, attempting to fight with a grant with turned into a high pitched moan when you also sucked her clit. Swallowing more and more of her.

“Holy shit… I c-can’t— I can’t f… fuck.” She cried, now both hands on head to kept from stopping. As if you were planning you.

“Shh.. you don’t need to. Just force on the feeling.” You reminded her on her clit, in that same rhythm of your fingers that she put you in.

“Ahh… ah.. it’s too much.” She sang, so feminine, so desperate, so submissive. Knees weak, legs shaking. You move your tongue past the gap, swirling it in and out, both you and Mizu let out lewd moans.

She practically squeaked head glued to stone, with her hair sticking to it like styrofoam. You felt her clenched around your mouth with everything getting heavier, her breath, her voice, her juices that coated you chin. Selfishly, you wanted more, you wanted all.

“Almost there baby?” You asked, she answered with a noise that sounded like birds chirping and her nails scratching your back.

“Yes you are, I can taste it. You taste so good.. taking me in so well, sounding so beautiful.” You praised, she got even wetter from that.

“Aww, you like that, huh? Being praised? Being treated as a beautiful being as you are?” You chuckled between licks. Mizu agreed with a loud whimper.

“That’s good.. my sweet girl deserves to be treated like an angel, to be eaten out and fucked like she’s the most delicate thing on this planet.” You moaned against her, your movements as sloppy and moist as the river. Mizu moaned your name, said it like a song, a calling from the sky.

“My perfect girl, my blue eyed angel.” You praised, you tongue managing to that spot inside her: the one that made her see stars, scream, release. Stretching out a moan while you swallowed down all of it, licking it clean to help her ride out her climax. She told you she had enough when she patted your head, pushing you away from her crutch.

You gave it one last kiss before crawling back up to her, allowing her to see the mess on your mouth before wiping it off, kissing her again.

Basking in each other‘s presence, you held one another closer, skin to skin chest to chest, masking the blue peace. Your home. You rested your head on Mizu’s, accepting the silence once more, that you already said your piece more than enough. As much as the same as hers.

“How do you feel?” You asked her after a brief harmony of crickets.

“Loved.” Mizu said, that brought butterflies to your stomach.

“You?” She asked.

“Whole.” You answered.

Mizu smiled so brightly, so wide and soft you most didn’t recognize it: it was like the first time you’ve seen it. It was her turn to take your face in her hands, pressing her calming water lips to yours whispering a sweet nothing to you.

“You’re my angel too.” She said softly, almost shyly brushing your hair behind your ear.

“I would be lost without you.” She said, like she’s been hiding it for a long time.

You pulled in a hug, a tight, somewhat awkward one but it didn’t matter. You squeezed her, absorbing her, swimming in her affection, hugging like you might lose her soon.

“Thank you, for being my ember.” She whispered, kissing your neck and rubbing your back. You want to pause time, be in this blue haven forever: to hold Mizu close, to love her to be with her. To keep being her light, her guide as she was yours. And with the night still up, the stars still shining, you can. Even only for a few more hours.

“You never have to thank me.” You reminded her. Kissing her forehead.

“We should.. finish bathing and get to bed. It’ll be dark soon.” She said, standing up the best she could— legs still wobbly.

“We never even started.” You commented.

“Yeah, because someone got distracted.” Mizu poked

“Hey! Don’t pin this on me, you got distracted too so don’t even!” You called out playfully and Mizu just splashed you with the waterfall.

“Hey!” You giggled.

“I saw the way you looked at me.” Mizu counterfeited.

“It’s not my fault you have a gorgeous body!” You try to defend, blushing.

“Pervert.” Mizu teased again, pushed into the rain of the waterfall, laughing when your hair got in your face.

Even harder when she saw how defeated you looked. As pay back you pulled her in along with you. Ending the last few hours of the night in laughter, and smiles until the sun rises again; replacing the quiet nightly blue with the white bright sky that hid it: you’ll still be in the arms of your guardian angel. In the arms of your only home.

[salemahn]

— rainy day movies ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: cuddles, teasing, domestic softness pairing: alex albon x reader a/n: i may or may not have once fallen asleep on my long-time crush’s shoulder during a movie too🫣

you hadn’t planned on staying in all day.

the morning had started off clear enough. soft sunlight through the curtains, coffee in matching mugs, alex’s hair sticking out in five different directions while he blinked at you from across the kitchen island. you had laughed, told him he looked like a dazed bird. he’d squinted at you, mumbled something about disrespect before padding over in socks and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“you like it,” he’d whispered, voice still sleepy.

you did. you always did.

but somewhere around midmorning, the clouds rolled in thick and heavy. the kind of gray that blurs the skyline and makes everything feel a little slower, a little quieter. the first drops of rain tapped gently at the windows, and within twenty minutes, the sky had opened up completely. it poured.

you watched it from the couch, tucked into the corner with a blanket around your legs, your laptop balanced on one knee. alex had disappeared into the kitchen again, raiding the cabinets with the focus of someone preparing for a minor emergency.

“we need snacks,” he’d declared, popping his head out dramatically. “movie day rules.”

you had raised an eyebrow. “you don’t even know what movie we’re watching yet.”

“doesn’t matter. popcorn is non-negotiable. we’re doing this properly.”

now you’re sitting side by side on the couch, legs tangled, a giant bowl of popcorn between you and at least four blankets layered over your laps. the rain is steady outside, soft and rhythmic, the kind that turns the whole apartment into a cocoon.

you scroll aimlessly through the streaming queue while alex frowns at the options like you’re choosing a stock to invest in instead of a romcom.

“we could watch something funny,” you suggest.

“we always watch something funny.”

“because life is depressing enough?”

“fair.”

you keep scrolling. he shifts, the couch creaking slightly under his weight, and his thigh presses against yours a little more.

“what about something old?” he asks.

“how old are we talking?”

“like early 2000s. bad outfits. better soundtracks.”

you grin. “iconic. i’m in.”

you settle on something with a ridiculous title and a poster that looks like it was made in powerpoint. alex pumps a fist like you’ve just agreed to a team strategy call.

“i love when you support the classics.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

the movie starts. the opening credits roll. alex steals the popcorn bowl and props it on his chest, looking far too smug about it. you curl further into the couch, legs brushing his.

it’s comfortable in the way that only comes with time. not just the physical closeness, but the way you don’t have to think too hard about what to say or do. the silence is easy. his presence is familiar.

he tosses a piece of popcorn at your face without warning. it bounces off your cheek and lands in your lap.

“rude,” you say, turning to look at him.

“precision aim,” he replies, clearly proud.

you reach into the bowl and flick one back at him. it lands in his hair.

“direct hit,” you say.

he mock gasps and sets the bowl down, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’ve escalated this so quickly. then he shifts closer and drapes his arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly.

“you’re lucky i like you,” he murmurs.

your chest tightens in that quiet, happy way it always does when he says things like that. simple. casual. real.

“i’m very lucky,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder.

the movie plays on, mostly ignored. you both throw occasional commentary at the screen — bad acting, questionable hairstyles, plot holes wide enough to drive a team bus through. you laugh, and he laughs with you, and somewhere in the middle of a slow montage set to an early 2000s indie ballad, his hand finds yours under the blanket.

his thumb rubs soft circles against your knuckles. your breath catches a little.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look at you.

just holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the movie plays on, long forgotten in favor of soft glances and lazy comfort.

your head is still on alex’s shoulder, and he hasn’t moved in minutes. not that you mind. he’s warm. steady. he smells like the fabric softener you both always forget to replace and the faintest trace of his aftershave from earlier that morning.

you shift slightly to get more comfortable, and he adjusts without a word, guiding you to lean more fully against him.

“you good?” he murmurs.

“mmhmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering closed. “too good.”

he smiles. you don’t see it, but you can hear it in his voice.

“don’t fall asleep on me.”

“can’t make promises like that.”

he wraps his arm more snugly around your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm through the blanket.

you let yourself sink into him, the weight of the day slowly leaving your limbs. the rain outside is still falling in gentle waves, the kind of rhythm that makes your body slow down whether you want it to or not.

the dialogue on screen fades into background noise. the popcorn bowl sits forgotten on the floor. your breathing deepens, one soft inhale after the next, and soon enough, you’re still.

alex glances down. your head’s tucked into his collarbone now, your lashes brushing your cheeks, hand still loosely curled into his sweatshirt.

his smile softens.

“hey,” he whispers. no response.

he shifts carefully, brushing your hair away from your face. you’re definitely asleep now.

he stays there for a moment longer, letting the stillness settle over both of you like another blanket.

then, as gently as possible, he slides one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.

you stir just a little, murmuring something unintelligible as he lifts you off the couch.

“shhh,” he soothes, voice low and warm near your ear. “i’ve got you.”

you don’t wake.

he carries you slowly through the apartment, your body limp and trusting in his arms. he nudges open the bedroom door with his foot, carefully pulls back the covers, and lowers you onto the bed like you’re made of porcelain.

you curl automatically toward the center, one hand reaching out like you’re still searching for him.

he doesn’t leave you hanging.

he tugs off his hoodie and climbs in beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. as soon as he settles, you find him again — arm around his waist, face tucked into his chest.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“you’re the best part of any rainy day,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

and with the storm still humming gently outside, he lets his eyes close too.

[salemahn]

In Every City, It’s Still You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After weeks of hiding your fears that Max cheats on the road, your confession leaves him heartbroken that you think so little of his love. (Requested)

2.2k words / Masterlist

Max's texts come in at 2:13 a.m.

Landed. In the hotel now. I miss you.

Try to sleep.

Talk tomorrow. Love you.

You stare at your phone for a while, the bluish light casting sharp shadows over your face in the dark room. The words are sweet, comforting even, but they don’t settle the unease coiling low in your stomach. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.

You type, Miss you too. Sleep well, and hit send. But it feels... hollow.

It’s not him. Not really. Max hasn’t changed, he still texts you every time he lands, still calls you baby in that low, tired voice that makes your heart ache. But something around him has shifted, and you feel it all the way from home. The messages feel like a thread stretched too thin, too tight, trembling, like it might snap if you pull just a little harder.

Because it isn’t the distance anymore. It’s everything else.

It’s the way girls throw themselves at him in the paddock every day, effortlessly pretty, sun-kissed, always laughing too loudly when he’s around. The influencers in the hospitality suites who watch him like they already belong to him, cameras flashing like they have something to prove. The blonde in Canada who sat on the pit wall like it was her throne, perfectly poised and knowing exactly where the lenses were. The brunette in Imola who wore Max's number on her cheek like it meant something personal.

And you were... here. Alone in bed, scrolling through tagged photos with a growing ache in your chest and a nauseating swirl of insecurity you couldn't quite explain.

You know Max loves you. He told you. He shows you. But some nights, like tonight, you can’t stop the slow, creeping doubt. The fear that love isn’t always enough when you aren’t there. When someone prettier or bolder or more his world is.

You turn your phone face-down and blink hard into the ceiling, trying not to cry, because it isn’t him.

It’s you. Spiralling.

And you hate that you can’t stop.

It isn’t like Max has ever given you a reason to doubt him. He doesn’t flirt. He isn’t sneaky. He never makes you feel small or uncertain. He makes time for you, even when he’s exhausted and halfway across the world. He calls when he says he will. He texts when he’s landed. He checks in between meetings, between media, between practice sessions.

But even the most reassuring routines begin to feel fragile when you spend your nights alone, scrolling through social media feeds that turn love into a ticking time bomb.

On Twitter or TikTok it’s like cheating wasn’t just a possibility, it was a guarantee. People talk like it’s an open secret. Like all of them do it. Like staying faithful is a joke, not the norm.

And you hate how easily those posts get under your skin.

One comment in particular has lodged itself somewhere deep in your brain, rotting quietly.

You think any of them are faithful on the road? They’ve got girls in every city babes. You’re just the one they come home to.

You remember reading it in bed, the words hitting harder than you ever wanted to admit. You’d stared at it for too long, re-reading it like it was some kind of warning meant specifically for you.

Maybe it isn’t about Max. Maybe it’s just a bitter stranger talking from experience. But what if it wasn’t?

What if Max is different without you, surrounded by constant temptation and girls who don’t hesitate?

What if all the love you give to each other at home isn’t enough to hold his attention in Singapore, or Brazil, or Vegas?

What if you’re stupid for thinking you’re the exception?

The thought makes your stomach twist, hot and cold at the same time. You hate yourself for even questioning him, but the doubt creeps in anyway, quiet and venomous. Because love isn’t always louder than fear. And lately, fear has found a voice you can’t ignore.

It comes out on a random Wednesday.

Max has a few days off and is finally back in Monaco with you, curled up on the couch, wearing sweatpants and eating cereal out of the box like he’s a college student and not a multiple world champion.

You’re quiet, distracted, picking at the hem of your sleep shorts while some Netflix show runs in the background.

“Babe?” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been weird since I got back from Canada.”

“Have I?”

Max sits up a little straighter, the playfulness gone. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow, staring at the bowl in your hands. You don’t meant to say it, but maybe you need to.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter than you expected. “I sometimes wonder what really happens when you're away.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

You feel your heart begin to race. There was no easy way to explain it, no version of this that wouldn’t hurt him. But keeping it inside had only made it worse. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to look at him, to see the confusion on his face.

“Okay… just don’t take this the wrong way,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls. All the time. At afterparties, on boats, in clubs. They throw themselves at you. And I know you say you love me, I do, I hear you, but…”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Max, people like you… you have options.”

Silence.

You keep going, even though your throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not. I just, I’ve seen what people say online. About how no driver, no athlete stays loyal. That it’s just how it is. That they all cheat. That it comes with the territory.”

You glance up again, and what you see in Max’s eyes feels like a punch to the stomach. Hurt. Pure, disbelieving hurt.

He stares at you like you’d just slapped him.

“You think I cheat on you?” he asks, voice low, almost stunned.

You flinch. “I don’t know. I think… I think maybe you could. One day. And I wouldn’t even know.”

He stands up so fast the phone on his lap clatters to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, how could I not take that the wrong way?” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You really think that little of me? You really think I’m capable of looking you in the eye and lying to you like that? Of touching someone else and then coming home to you like nothing happened?”

Your heart drops. “No, Max, that’s not—”

“You think I’m out there fucking around in every city I go to?” His accent thickens, voice rising with disbelief. “That I land and what? Just start looking for a warm body?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, pacing now. “You just implied that for all this time what, you’ve been sitting here imagining me cheating on you and not telling me?”

Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to seem insecure.”

“You’d rather just assume I’m a liar?”

“No, Max, fuck—no. It’s not like that. It’s not even about you, it’s... God, it’s not even logical, okay?” You were scrambling now, words tumbling faster than your brain could sort them. “It’s just there’s this stigma, okay? That athletes are cheaters. That they all are. And I guess some part of me thought that was just… part of the deal.”

Max stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So because other people fuck up their relationships, I’m guilty by association?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You are, though,” he snaps, stepping back like your words burn. “You’re saying you don’t think I’ve done anything, yet, but you’ve already decided I probably will.”

“I’m saying I’ve seen it happen!” you cry. “To people who swore they’d never do it. Who looked just as in love as we are.”

Max stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling.

Then, quietly, “You think I’d put you through that?”

Tears well up in your eyes. “No. But I’m scared that you could. That one day I won’t be enough.”

“You think I’d just wake up one day and decide you weren’t enough?” he asks, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “That I’d throw us away for what, something easy? Something empty?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whisper. “But it’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, don’t get too comfortable. Saying people like me don’t keep people like you.”

Max looks like he wants to yell or be sick. His fists are clenched, jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

Then, just as suddenly, his face crumples.

He sits back down.

And says, more softly than you expected, “I love you.”

You sniffle. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, a barely-there fracture that makes your heart squeeze. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like the words were caught on something sharp on their way out. He looks down for a second, just a flick of his eyes, then back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, more deliberately this time. Slower. Like he wants you to feel every syllable. “I love you.”

His hands ran over his thighs before curling into loose fists again.

“Like… when I’m away, I go to bed early because I miss you,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And I mean physically miss you. Like my chest fucking aches and everything feels too quiet and I stare at the ceiling hoping you’ll call even though I know you’re asleep.”

You blink, stunned by the rawness in his tone.

“I check my phone like an idiot,” he goes on, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Every five minutes. Just to see if you sent a stupid meme or said goodnight again. And if you didn’t, I reread the last thing you said. Because it makes me feel closer to you.”

You feel your eyes start to burn again, but he isn’t finished.

“When I come home and you’re here? It’s like—” He breaks off, searching for the right words, his brows knitting together. “It’s like I can breathe again. Like I stop being whatever version of me the rest of the world expects and I just… exist. As me. As yours.”

He let’s out a breath, slower this time. Measured.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what some idiot online thinks is ‘normal’ for a driver or a man or anyone in this life. I don’t care what the stereotype is. I don’t need a club full of models or some yacht party to feel important.”

His gaze locks onto yours, eyes fierce but tender.

“I don’t want options. I want you. You’re it for me. You always have been. And I need you to know that. Not just hear it, not just nod and say okay know it. Because I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t want one.”

He exhales, like saying all of it left him exposed in the best and worst way.

You wipe at your cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice hoarse. “Do you have any idea what it does to me to think you’ve been carrying that around? That you’ve been hurting because you’re afraid I’ll leave or stray or whatever the fuck people think drivers do?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair to you. I know that.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not. But I get it. I do.”

You look up.

“I’ve seen what fame does to people,” he says. “I’ve seen guys ruin good things for a pretty face and some attention. And I hate that you’ve had to wonder if I would do that to you.”

You feel like the smallest person alive. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “Not the version of me that strangers make up. Me. The guy who texts you at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing from you. The guy who thinks about you twenty-four seven even when I’ve got a million other things to focus on. The guy who looks at other girls and doesn't feel a damn thing and only thinks, ‘none of them are you’.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I do trust you, I’m just terrified of losing you and—” you whisper, “I just let the noise get in my head.”

He pulls you into his chest.

“Next time it gets loud in there,” he murmurs against your hair, “you come to me. Let me be louder.”

You nod, arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I love you so much.”

Max presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine. You hear me? I don’t want anyone else. Never have. Never will.”

You let the truth of that settle into your bones like warmth.

Maybe people will always talk. Maybe they’ll always be stories and rumours. Maybe they’ll always be stereotypes and assumptions and endless temptations.

But you aren’t dating a stereotype.

You’re dating Max.

And Max? He only ever wants you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds

[salemahn]

Strong Enough For Me - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - kinda smutty

You could always tell when Alexia was holding something back.

Even now. Her skin warm against yours. Flushed from your kisses. Breath soft and shallow from the slow heat that had been building for what felt like hours. There was a hesitance in her eyes.

She straddled your hips but hovered, like her body didn’t know if it had permission to take what it wanted.

“Lex,” you murmured, hands smoothing along her strong thighs. The muscle beneath your palms undeniable. Solid. Beautiful. “Why are you still holding yourself up like that?”

Her lip tucked inward for a second. A tell.

“I don’t want to crush you,” she said finally. Her voice quieter than usual. Vulnerable.

Your heart ached a little. She always carried herself like a queen on the pitch. Confident. sharp. Untouchable. But here, in your shared bed, she was just your Lex. Your Lex who sometimes worried about taking up too much space.

“You won’t,” you said, rubbing circles into her skin. “I promise.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You say that, but I know what I weigh. I’ve seen you wince when I’ve laid on top of you.”

“I wince because you landed on me like a bag of bricks after the Champions League final,” you teased gently. “You were drunk and victorious. That’s a very specific exception.”

That coaxed a quiet laugh from her, but it faded quickly.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I know I’m… strong. Heavy. It’s not exactly sexy to crush someone.”

You sat up slightly, bracing yourself on your elbows as you looked her directly in the eyes. “Alexia Putellas Segura. You are sexy in every way. You know what turns me on most about you?”

She arched a brow, only slightly intrigued.

“Your strength,” you whispered. Letting one hand drift upward to rest over her stomach. “These muscles? This body? It’s powerful. It’s yours. And right now, I want you to use it.”

Her breath hitched as you brought her hand down. Guiding it between your bodies. Letting her feel the strap nestled between your thighs. Already slick. Already aching for her.

“I want you to ride me,” you said, voice lower now, more raw. “I want to watch you take control. Feel your strength. I want your weight on me.”

She blinked, a blush blooming on her cheeks. Her fingers tightened slightly around the base of the toy.

“You’re sure?” she asked, almost breathless.

You leaned up, kissing her softly, lovingly. “Yes. Lex, I’m so sure. And I trust you. Completely.”

There was a long pause, like she was turning over your words, trying to let them sink deep into places that had long held quiet doubts. But then... slowly, beautifully... she nodded.

Her thighs flexed as she adjusted. Guiding herself down with a small gasp as the toy began to press inside her.

Your mouth parted at the sight. Her chest rising and falling in time with yours. Her eyes fluttering shut as she sank deeper onto you. Inch by inch. She was taking her time, and it was perfect.

You moaned softly. “That’s it… just like that.”

Alexia opened her eyes then, and you saw it. Something new and unguarded in her gaze. Confidence reclaiming itself. Not the performative kind the world saw in press conferences and goal celebrations. This was raw. Earned. Honest.

As she began to move. You placed your hands on her hips. Nt to guide, but to feel. To anchor yourself in her rhythm. The weight of her atop you was grounding, intoxicating.

“You feel so good,” she murmured, her voice rough, breath catching. “So full…”

“You’re stunning,” you whispered. “God, look at you, riding me like you were made for it.”

Her hips rolled, slow and deep. “You really like it?”

You nodded, almost overwhelmed. “I love it. I love you.”

The words slipped out, not in the heat of climax, but in the quiet intimacy of the moment. You hadn’t said it before. Not like this.

Alexia stilled for a beat, chest rising sharply. Then she bent forward, capturing your lips in a kiss so gentle it made your eyes burn.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

And just like that, all her weight pressed into you. Her body. Her love. Her trust.

And you held it all, gladly.

[salemahn]

Nervous

~~

Yes, it's your wedding day, but Mizu knows this is just a formality, a civil service. So why does everyone seem to keep thinking she's nervous? She's not. She's never been nervous a day in her life.

~~

A/N: I heard ilblue's cover of lovestory x golden brown. (If you haven't heard it, please, it's fucking transcendental). I ascended, my soul left my body. Straight up put it on repeat, opened my word doc and blacked out. When I woke up, I'd written 1k words of the most sappy, sentimental fluff I think has ever escaped my brain.

I just think Mizu deserves to have a sweet wedding to someone that adores her, while her found family tries their best to be supportive in their own ways. :,)

~~

TW: I guess Ta*gen is technically there for a hot second. But I've decided I'm rehabbing him into the problematic brother he's always meant to have been. Trust me. I sent him to therapy.

~~~~

“Bet you're real nervous,” Taigen says, polishing his fingernails on the shoulder of his horrible flashy suit.

“Nope,” Mizu deadpans. The morning breeze stirs her wayward curl, the only part of her moving as she kneels in the early sunlight. Behind them, through the open French doors, her suit is waiting, laid across the dressing table of the back room she's been given to get ready in.

“I would be, if I were you. I'd be fuckin’ terrified she’d wise up at the last minute and book it.”

“Classy. Nice well-wishes.” Mizu curls her lip without opening her eyes. “Who let you back here?”

Taigen chuckles, leaning on the railing of the little patio where she's trying to meditate and center herself. A beer swings precariously in his hand. The good luck beer he brought Mizu–’to bro out before you get tied down ’–sits untouched on the little patio table. “My wife owns the venue. Nobody has to let me in.”

Mizu growls lightly, irritated, regretting letting Akemi talk them out of eloping. She might be on speaking terms with the man these days, but he's never lost his unique ability to needle her faster than anyone else she knows.

He's right, though, says that traitorous little voice at the back of her head. She could already be gone, and you don't even know. It’s so stupid, but it won't go away. What if she walks out there, and someone hands her a letter from you, explaining that you've suddenly realized–

A hand thumps her hard on the shoulder, surprising her. She looks up as Taigen pads past. His voice is studiedly casual, he carefully doesn't once look at her.

“Relax. She's just enough of an idiot to be crazy about you.”

Mizu says nothing, only listens for the click of the door shutting behind him. She shuts her eyes and tries anew to focus on the meditation, but her mind won't cooperate. All she can see is the way you had rolled over and smiled at her this morning, calling her my soon-to-be wife, and cupped her face like it was your entire world.

—

“You must be so nervous, huh?” Akemi says cheerily, tucking the last flower into Mizu's hair. Mizu sits still, just barely tolerating the touch. She was more than prepared to go out in her usual high bun, but Akemi had dug her heels in. It's your wedding day, you need some kind of pizazz, she had insisted.

They had argued for a full week before they had compromised; the normal bun … with flowers. Neither of them is actually satisfied; both have accepted sulking in silence about it.

“No.” Mizu says shortly. She shoots Akemi a sharp drop it look in the mirror.

“Really?” The woman asks, plucking at this hair and that petal until Mizu wants to scream. She just wants to be alone. To center herself. To stop wondering what you look like right now, if you're in your dress yet. If you're thinking of her. She stares at the flowers in her hair. Will you like them? Do they look stupid?

“Why should I be.”

Akemi frowns, wondering if she should tell her that you’re pretty close to an anxiety attack. That when she left your room to come back here, you'd been bent over a bucket for the last hour, and she'd had to redo your makeup twice.

Best not to, she decides. She knows Mizu, and the last thing the wedding needs is Mizu bringing the whole production to a screeching halt by rushing through the whole venue to hover anxiously over you, refusing to let anyone else near.

“Well, you look great,” she says instead, sincerely, and is rewarded by the smoothing out of Mizu's brow that is the closest the woman usually gets to a smile–for anyone that isn't you.

—

Eiji insists, despite the flowers, and the fancy suit, that something is missing from Mizu’s wedding attire.

Mizu’s face creases in confusion for a moment, before she sees the little box in the old, scarred hand.

“You didn't have to–”

The other hand is held up flat, silencing her.

“My daughter,” Eiji says very seriously. “...is getting married. Do not tell me what I had to do.”

He opens the box, gesturing her forward. Mizu swallows back the rush of tears when she sees the little pin in his hand; a perfect copy of her prized blade. It’s rare that Eiji works with anything small–he complains at the fiddly nature of it, how difficult it is to feel out the details on such a tiny canvas with his callused fingertips.

She bends for him as he reaches up, and he smiles, pats her cheek, carefully doesn't mention the wetness he can feel there. The words I'm so proud of you float between them, unsaid but understood.

“Remember, there is no need to be nervous,” Eiji reminds her sagely as he affixes the little sword pin to her lapel.

“I'm not nervous,” she retorts, her brow furrowing slightly, frustration creeping into her voice.

“Mm,” Eiji says, shaking his head. When he had brought you your own paired pin this morning, you had all but fallen across his shoulders with sobs, stammering how grateful you were to him for everything, how much you loved Mizu, how you hoped you would make him proud as a daughter-in-law.

“I must go. I want a good view,” he quips dryly, and pats Mizu once more on the shoulder before he leaves the dressing room.

—

Ringo sidles up closer while they're standing at the front of the ballroom, looking down the aisle. He’s been preening in his tailored new suit the whole opening of the ceremony, puffed up with joyous pride. He'd openly wept with happiness when Mizu had informed him--not asked--that he was the best man, and has since run a constant, gentle interference between you two, and Akemi's taste for extravagance in planning. Mizu knows the understated blue shades of the decor are partly thanks to him.

“Akemi says you aren't nervous,” he whispers.

“Shh.”

“Not at all?”

“No,” Mizu hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Shut up.” She tugs at the lapels of her suit again for the fifth time, hands shaking slightly.

Ringo sees the shaking and smiles, a warm fondness shining from every corner of his face. He steps back into place.

He knows.

—

The music is starting. It’s the one you chose together; the song you’d danced in the kitchen to, so far back that you hadn't even confessed yet, both of you pretending this was just a fun way to teach her to waltz, both of your chests burning up with yearning.

You'd played it for her as a suggestion for the wedding, snuggling up next to her on the couch, telling her how nervous she used to make you. You were so gorgeous, you'd said, smiling up from the crook of her arm. It felt so right to be in your arms. That's when I knew.

She didn't know how to tell you I always knew.

Now, it's playing through the entire room, rich and full and swelling with the weight of the emotions you've shared through it for so long. Suddenly her entire body seems to be fluttering strangely. Her palms are sweating. This is it, she thinks. The start of forever.

Part of her still scoffs in response to that; you loved her before this ceremony, you’ve lived together, slept together, she trusts that you're committed. This shouldn't even be necessary. It's outdated. It’s expensive.

You step around the corner, and the doubts about importance fall away as her mind goes blank. You raise your eyes along the aisle until they find hers waiting at the other end. Your smile is trembling through shining eyes; every ounce of love shows across the distance. Her knees feel like they're going to give out, and her gut clutches on a pang of love so strong that it aches.

You look beautiful.

–

She's reaching for you when you’re still feet away, hands outstretched unconsciously, uncaring of who can see her moment of vulnerability. She just wants her skin on yours, right now.

“Okay?” She asks you softly, wrapping your hands in hers, holding them like she always does; like they're something precious, to be cradled with utmost care. The delicacy of your touch still makes her heart race after all this time together.

“Nervous,” You murmur, smiling shakily. “Excited.”

She squeezes your hands, lips curving up as her eyes soften. Her voice is a quiet undertone, for your ears only.

“Me, too.”

[salemahn]

Vroom vroom rookie reader pulling up to the paddock dressed so good ? compared to her usual maybe lazy outfits ? and it’s because Lewis started to style her and give her tips bc yk showing up w style ✨

Styled by 44

Rookie!Reader x Platonic! Lewis Hamilton/Paddock

Rookie!Reader Series here

SULI: Rookie Reader is back! Love her relationship with lewis and lando(I can't help myself) hope you enjoyyyyyu

Warnings: none

She was minding her business—coffee in one hand, phone in the other—when she felt a shadow. A judgmental shadow.

“Okay. I’ve held it in long enough.”

She looked up. Lewis. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Dressed like a goddamn magazine cover.

She blinked. “Hi?”

He pointed at her outfit like it offended his soul. “What... is this?”

She looked down. Hoodie. Baggy sweatpants. Crocs. “It’s cozy?”

“Cozy is not a personality trait.”

“I disagree.”

He leaned down slightly, like he was talking to a small animal or a child who just drew on the walls. “Listen to me, yeah? You are a professional. You’re walking into the paddock. This is Formula One. It’s not your living room.”

She sipped her coffee. “...It kind of is though. I nap here.”

Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. Nope. I’m intervening. This is a style intervention.”

She tilted her head. “A what?”

“Style intervention.”

A long pause.

“…You want to style my inventions?”

He blinked. “No. I said—”

“You want to style... inventions? Like my car? The race suit? Because I don’t think that’s allowed—”

“INTERVENTION, baby. Inter-ven-tion. Like help. Like when your friends corner you because your life is off track—”

“Ohhhh,” she said slowly. “Like rehab but for ugly?”

Lewis stared. “Yes. Exactly. That.”

She nodded like she understood. She did not. “So you want to... dress me?”

“Correct.”

“Like, in clothes?”

He squinted. “Yes?”

“That’s... a little weird.”

Lewis physically took a step back like he was in pain. “Why is this so difficult?”

“I’m just making sure I understand! English is weird! One minute you're saying 'fit' means outfit, next minute it means you think someone’s hot, and now you’re trying to put clothes on me—”

“I’m not putting clothes on you, I’m choosing the outfits!”

She pointed at him. “SEE? That’s what I mean. That sentence is terrifying.”

He ran both hands over his face. “Okay. Look. I’m not trying to marry you, I just want you to stop dressing like a lost intern at a tyre warehouse. That’s it.”

“…Tyre warehouse?”

Lewis gave up. “Just—Thursday night. My suite. I’m fixing this. No crocs allowed.”

She perked up. “Can I bring snacks?”

“Yes. But if you show up in that hoodie again, I’m setting it on fire.”

She looked down, offended. “This hoodie has sentimental value.”

“It has mystery stains.”

She took another sip of coffee. “Fine. But if you make me wear heels, I’m pushing you into a lake.”

He smiled, victorious. “Deal.”

Later that night, he texted:

🕘 Thursday 9PM. Come humble.

👜 Style godfather is waiting.

🔥 RIP hoodie.

...

The outfit was offensive in the best way:

Low-rise office pants in faded blue. A tiny, ruched baby tee—barely brushing her waist. A silver belt hanging loose on her hips. Thin sunglasses. Heeled boots. Her hair actually done for once.

It looked like 2002 met office core.

From inside the bathroom, she shouted:

“Lewis?!”

“Yeah?”

“Is this shirt meant to stop this high up?"

“Yes!”

“It’s basically a sports bra!”

“Exactly!”

“Lewis.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stared at her reflection. There was a little sliver of stomach showing. And the pants—they:re classy, but that shirt was anything but.

She cracked the door open. “If you say anything mean I’m stealing your dog."

Lewis turned around from the couch—then froze.

She stepped out. Slowly. Did a little awkward spin. “You’re quiet.”

He looked like he forgot English. “You... look wicked.”

Her face dropped. “Wicked?? As in bad??”

“No! No, no—wicked means fire. Wicked means good. Like... crazy hot.”

She squinted at him. “Are you lying? Because I look like I just stepped off a Bratz doll bootleg commercial.”

“You look like a problem,” Lewis said. “In the best way.”

She blinked. “A... what?”

He stepped closer. “I mean if I were twenty-four and dumb again, I'd walk into traffic for you in that outfit.”

“I think that’s a threat.”

“No. That’s admiration.”

She eyed the sunglasses on the table. “Do I need the glasses? I feel like a backup dancer from 2003.”

“Put them on,” he said.

She did.

Lewis made a sound that was not human. “Fuck. Okay. You’re going to cause injuries tomorrow.”

“Good,” she said, smug. “Maybe they’ll crash from staring too hard.”

Lewis laughed, but he was still clearly struggling. She looked like trouble. Like she had somewhere better to be and was only gracing the paddock with her presence out of pity. It was perfect.

Then he held out a hand. “Now. The hoodie.”

She hugged it. “You can’t take it. It’s my comfort hoodie.”

“No. It’s a war crime. Hand it over.”

She dramatically let it go. “This feels like betrayal.”

Lewis tossed it across the room. “It feels like fashion.”

She turned once more in the mirror. “You sure this isn’t too much?”

“I’m sure. You’re going to ruin lives tomorrow.”

“Yay.” Then she looked him dead in the eye. “You’re a wicked, wicked man.”

He pointed at her. “You did it again. That’s not how we use it—”

...

She wasn’t supposed to be early.

In fact, she was known for being five minutes late to everything—press, media, even the damn grid once (she blamed traffic; no one believed her). So when she pulled up to the paddock before the rest of her team, people noticed.

But it wasn’t the timing that stunned them.

It was the fit.

Slick black trousers, tailored within an inch of her life. Open-collar white shirt, cufflinks gleaming under the sun. Hair actually done. Designer sunglasses that looked like they could cut glass. And a slow walk like she knew every single camera was on her.

People stared.

Phones came out.

Someone dropped a coffee.

“Since when does she dress like that?” Pierre asked, eyebrows up.

“Since Lewis got to her,” Alex muttered, already scrolling through her tagged posts.

And sure enough, there it was—an Instagram Story from the night before, half-cropped but unmistakable: Lewis holding up a rack of clothes while she stood in front of a mirror, frowning at herself in an oversized Balenciaga jacket.

@lewishamilton: “She finally let me help. It’s over for you all now.” ✨👗

Lando didn’t say anything.

He just stared from across the paddock, helmet still in hand, half-stunned.

She looked dangerous. Not just because she was fast, not just because she drove like she had no concept of fear—but because now she looked good doing it.

Scary good.

Effortless in that “I-didn’t-even-try-but-my-suit-cost-more-than-your-car” way. Minimal makeup, but enough to make her eyes hit different under the paddock sun. A slight curve to her lip like she knew she was being watched and didn’t care.

“What is this?” her engineer asked when she got to the garage. “You look like you walked off a Vogue cover.”

“Lewis,” she said simply, tossing her bag on the counter.

“...as in Hamilton?”

“Yeah. He said if I’m going to drive like the devil, I might as well dress like I own the place too.”

Post-practice interviews were chaos.

Every question: “New stylist?” “Big debut?” “Was this planned?”

She rolled her eyes. “I wear sweats one day and the world loses its mind the next.”

“You always wear sweats,” the reporter laughed.

She glanced at the camera and said dryly, “And you always wear that tie, but I don’t bully you for it.”

Lando laughed—just loud enough for her to hear.

She looked over. Raised an eyebrow.

He mouthed: You look good.

She smiled.

Back in the garage, Lewis was already texting.

Taglist, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @miniaturedreamchild @nishimura-mimura @pookynknowntranger @elliott-calls @nemo-fish @sadprimrose

Make sure you can be tagged!

[salemahn]

Brunette roots - Alexia Putellas

Summary: You love brunette Alexia, and you'll do anything to get her back

Word count: 2.6k

a/n: they could NEVER make me hate you, baby

Also last fic of the week!

..

The blonde was beautiful. It was hot, sexy. It made Alexia look powerful. 

Alexia has had her fair share of blonde shades, going from dark blonde to bleached hair. Her blonde hair was almost like her signature by now. Some people forgot she was actually a brunette.

But you didn't. You never did.

You started dating Alexia when both of you were teens at La Masia. Alexia was serious about her football, it was her passion, it was who she was. You, not so much. You liked to play football, but that was it. Just a hobby, just something to do after school.

When it got to the point where you needed to choose between pursuing a football career or another career path, it was easy. Off to university you went. Alexia stayed, and she grew into it, winning every challenge thrown at her.

It was difficult to balance your relationship, but you guys always did.

The hardest phase of your relationship was when Alexia tore her ACL. Saying she was depressed was an understatement; she was completely devastated. Her mental state showed through her physicality, especially in her hair. She stopped dyeing it, she stopped eating.

When she got back on her feet again–literally–she was back to her old self. She got back to dyeing her hair.

You were happy and relieved that Alexia was okay again, that she was feeling like herself, but you missed the brunette so much. It not only looked beautiful on her–it made her eyes pop–but it also reminded you of the young Alexia. 

The one who was sixteen when she first kissed you, the one who would pick flowers on the way to La Masia to give to you.

Blonde Alexia belonged to Barcelona, to football, to the media.

Brunette Alexia was... yours. Completely yours.

It was turning into an itch you longed to scratch.

Whenever you saw a little bit of brunette root, you had to hold yourself back from jumping on Alexia and kissing her. But then, days later, she would be back to bleaching it, and you'd be back to pouting and whining.

So you realised... all you needed was a plan. It started small, but it grew.

..

"Fuck!" Alexia said as she was packing her suitcase to go to yet another camp. She was looking at her watch. "You let me sleep too much! You knew I needed to dye my hair before I catch the flight."

She had a frown on her face, a small pout that she would never admit doing, on her lower lip. She was mad at you.

You had promised her to wake her up from her nap three hours ago so she could get everything ready to leave. But she was so sleepy and tired, you didn't have the heart to do it.

"Just don't dye it then," you said, giving her boots and shin pads to pack.

"But I wanted to dye my hair before going. I won't be able to do that at camp," she said, annoyed, taking her sports gear from you before closing the suitcase more aggressively than needed. "I hate when my roots are showing."

"I love when they're showing," you said teasingly. If Alexia was annoyed, you would make sure to annoy her even more. 

She got riled up easily, and you liked that.

"Well, you do," she said. "Yo no!"

Alexia put the closed suitcase on the bed before heading to the big mirror in your room. "Look, it's awful." Her eyes were squinting, as if she were counting each strand of hair that needed to be dyed.

You rolled your eyes but walked toward her, hugging her from behind. "You look pretty, hair dyed or not." You kissed her neck sweetly and smiled when Alexia didn't pull away.

"I like blonde," she stated firmly, but her body language was anything but firm. She was soft now, realising that she wouldn't see you for two weeks.

"I like you whatever," you said, your cold hand making its way under her shirt before stopping at her bra.

"If you really liked me–" Alexia breathed, her body shivering when your hand found her nipple. "You would have woken me up."

You laughed a little. "Oh, are we being dramatic now, la reina?"

"Sí," she breathed, eyes closed. "You were mean to me. You promised me you would wake me up, but you didn't."

"I didn't because you looked too pretty," you said. "You can't blame me."

..

"I bought it," Alexia said, taking the pillows from the sofa and throwing them one by one on the floor. "I know I did. I put them in a separate bag, too."

"Alexia," you held the bridge of your nose. "The bottles of blonde dye are not under the sofa's pillows, for the love of God."

"Then where are they?" Alexia turned to you, an exasperated expression on her face.

"I don't know!" you said.

You were lying. You knew where they were: at the bottom of your office's trash. You wanted brunette Alexia back, and you were willing to do it, even if not by the most righteous of ways.

"I haven't dyed my hair in two months," Alexia said angrily, sitting beside you on the loveseat and wrapping an arm around your waist, bringing you closer. "This is my first day off... I wanted to finally dye it!"

You put the book you were reading aside and lifted your head to look at her. "Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? You have a full day off in sixty days and you want to spend it dyeing your hair rather than being with your wife?"

Alexia was silent as you began kissing her jaw. 

"I'm still spending time with you, though," Alexia said, tilting her neck to the side so you would have more room to kiss.

"Uh huh," you shook your head. "You spent the last thirty minutes looking for a bottle of bleach when you could've spent it with me... that's thirty fewer minutes of our life that were thrown in the trash."

"Don't be so manipulative," Alexia mumbled, holding your body so you were straddling her.

"But you like it," you whispered against the skin of her cheek.

"Yes, I do," she agreed eagerly as you slipped your tongue inside her mouth, kissing her deeply.

..

"Ale, come here," you said as you sat on the other end of the sofa. Alexia was playing FIFA.

"Un momento," she said without looking at you. "Almost done."

You waited while flipping through the pages of the very new and handmade album you had just finished. It took you a few weeks, but it was finally done.

When Alexia scored a goal–really Alexia, because her game character was the one who scored–she closed the game and sat beside you, kissing the top of your head.

"What do you have there?" she said, curious eyes gazing at the photography album opened on your lap.

"Just a little thing I've done for Valentine's Day," you said. "Take it as an early gift."

You handed it to her, watching as she flipped through the pages. They were filled with pictures of you two.

It began with you and Alexia at thirteen, both too small in Barcelona's jersey. Alexia's hair was cut very unevenly, she had told you her mom was mad about that. You said she looked cool. That's when your friendship started.

There were pictures of games you shared together, both of you playing for Catalunya under-15s, then more pictures of you dating. Alexia kissed your cheek when you were both sixteen.

"This is so beautiful, amor," Alexia said. "You did it yourself?" she asked.

You nodded, smiling. "Yes, I asked our moms if they had pictures of us when we were younger."

"I love it, thank you," Alexia said. "We were so young."

"Yes, literal kids," you said.

You did the photography album because you knew Alexia would like it, yes. You didn't have millions of dollars to give Alexia an expensive gift, actually, you did, because Alexia's bank account was your own, but you didn't like to use it. Instead, you wanted to create something intimate, something meaningful to give to her, something only you could make.

But this wasn't the only reason. You wanted to show–very subtly–how much you loved her brunette hair, wanted Alexia to associate her brunette hair with the first few years of when you started dating.

Some would call it emotional manipulation. You just called it psychology.

..

Well, psychology didn't work.

Alexia kept buying bottles of bleach, and you kept throwing them away, while very artistically pretending not to know where they were as you helped her search the whole house for them.

Your last plan was something, between the lines, criminal.

You started to pretend to be someone else.

Yes, you weren't proud of it. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

When Alexia would mention she was going to book an appointment to dye or bleach her hair at a salon, you were faster. You would call all the salons you knew Alexia could go to and book appointments during all of Alexia's possible free time.

"This is the fifth salon already!" Alexia complained while eating the fruit salad you had just given her.

"What?" you asked as you were making coffee for both of you.

"Somehow all the salons that specialise in blonde hair are fully booked today," she grumbled, taking a bite of a strawberry. "That can't be normal! I even said they could book me during lunch, and even that time slot had someone already booked."

"Oh," you said in faux pity. "That is so sad, baby."

You were beaming on the inside.

"I think I'll need to go to France to get my hair blonde again," she said.

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Another crime you would have to commit: steal somebody's passport

..

Alexia didn't go to France, but she did find herself a salon in Madrid, of all places. She told you the night before that she was catching a flight to go there, but that she would be back the next day. She was literally just making the trip to get her hair done.

You, of course, couldn't let that happen. Her roots were almost at eye level now—the brunette was coming out beautifully.

When she had her small backpack ready, that's when you began your show.

You lay down on the sofa, legs pressed against your chest, pout on your face. You didn't call Alexia, you didn't need to. She was by your side the moment she noticed you were in pain.

"Hey, princesa," she said worriedly. "What happened?" Alexia was kneeling on the couch, her backpack long forgotten somewhere by the door. Her flight was in one hour, and she would still have to get through Barcelona's traffic. You needed to keep her with you for at least half an hour.

"Cramps," you said, pout on your face. "Got my period this morning."

Alexia looked at you, confused. "Your period? What do you mean? You were on your period two weeks ago."

You almost rolled your eyes. Why did Alexia have to remember everything?

"Well…" you said, trying to think of some excuse. "Guess my hormones are all wrong. My period has been irregular for a few months now."

"It has?" Alexia tilted her head. "Why didn't you tell me? I can book a doctor's appointment for you."

"It's okay–"

"No," Alexia said. "I'm booking a gynaecologist for you tomorrow, sí? Maybe they can get you on the pill. You can't be having two periods a month…you'll get anaemic."

You wanted to hold Alexia, tell her to stay with you, but she was already up. For a moment, you got scared that she was leaving for the airport. But she wasn't.

"I'm going to the pharmacy," she said, hand brushing your cheek gently. "Gonna get some ibuprofen and some iron pills."

You froze. Alexia was taking this too seriously. You didn't need any medicine. Hell, you weren't even on your period, you just wanted a reason for her to stay home and not dye her hair.

"No, Ale, it's alright. Just stay with me."

But Alexia thought she was the one responsible for fixing everything. Of course, she went to the pharmacy like her life and dignity depended on it.

In the end, you had to take two ibuprofen pills that day, plus iron pills for a week, and go to the doctor Alexia had booked for you. 

But hey, at least Alexia's roots were growing during that time.

..

At the end, you didn't need to formulate any more elaborate plans. It was Tuesday night, and Alexia had come home after a long day at training. 

Her hair was now half brunette. You had worked hard enough that Alexia wasn't able to dye it, even if she wanted it a lot.

Alexia walked into your shared bedroom. She looked different, like she had something to say. You knew that look very well, it was the same look the same look she got when she was thinking of something for a long period of time and had finally made up her mind.

"I'm not dyeing my hair anymore," she said, just like that.

She dropped her body on the bed like a starfish. On a normal day, you would smack her arm playfully and tell her not to lie on the bed with her training jersey filled with grass, but you were completely caught off guard.

Alexia's words felt like an angel had just materialised in your room, telling you your biggest dream would come true.

You looked up from your laptop, where you were definitely not researching how to sabotage a bottle of bleach to make the hair of whoever uses it darker.

"What?"

"Yeah..." she said, looking at you, a small smile on her face.

She wasn't necessarily close, your feet were just touching her torso from the way she was lying, but you could smell her post-training scent, the smell of the deodorant she uses.

You couldn't help but peek at her little brunette roots that were getting longer every day.

"I'm letting it grow out–" she stated.

Why? You wanted to ask, but you were scared that if you said anything, she might change her mind. So you just stared at her, trying not to smile too big, trying to keep casual. You let her talk.

"--because," she said quietly, and then, in an instant, she got up and pulled the photography album from the little drawer on your nightstand. She began flipping through the pages. 

"I was seeing these pictures again the other day, and realised how cute I looked with brunette hair. It makes me look younger, I think."

Your heart was doing something weird in your chest.

"And also," she continued, and there was this little smirk on her face, "because I know you've been throwing away my hair dye, amor."

Shit. Your face went hot. Your heart was beating faster, but not because of her brunette roots, but from nervousness. You were caught.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, avoiding eye contact.

"Mhmm." She moved closer, her voice dropping. "And booking appointments at every salon in Barcelona under fake names."

You opened your mouth to deny it, but she put her finger against your lips.

"I'm not mad," she said. "Actually... It's kind of hot how obsessed you are with my hair."

"So you're really going to let it grow out?" you whispered against her finger.

"Sí," she said, settling against you, her head on your shoulder. "Blonde Alexia can take a vacation, don't you think?"

You nodded eagerly, wrapping your arms around her and kissing the top of her head, breathing in her hair, already imagining how perfect she was going to look in a few months when all the blonde was gone.

"Te amo," you whispered.

"Te amo también," she replied. "Even though you're completely loca."

..

a/n: i had so so so much fun writing thisss!! <3