Angel’s board

You should have known Adrian hadn't moved on from owls when he showed up at your apartment with a thermos, a backpack, and a pair of binoculars strapped to his chest like some kind of rookie wildlife documentary host.

“Babe,” he said, grinning like the world had finally made sense, “it’s time. Birds. They’re everywhere, and nobody notices them. We’re gonna study them, track them, learn their secrets.”

You blinked at him. “…Birds?”

“Yes, birds,” he said, gesturing dramatically toward the city skyline. “From pigeons to hawks, from robins to… uh… the ones that look like pigeons but aren’t. They’re amazing. Intelligent. Silent watchers of the world.”

You nodded slowly. “Right. Amazing.”

You should’ve known this was going to be a problem. Not because Adrian was suddenly obsessed with birds — you could handle that. The problem was that all birds looked the same to you. The pigeons, the sparrows, the hawks, the owls he suddenly had in his crosshairs — they were all just… birds. Fluffy, feathered, flying things. And apparently, that was not enough for Adrian.

By the second morning, he had you standing on your balcony, binoculars around your neck, pointing furiously at a particularly mundane-looking pigeon.

“That one,” he hissed, “that’s a European starling. Notice the iridescence on the wings? The way it angles its head to intimidate competitors? Classic territorial behavior. You see that?”

You squinted. “…It’s a bird?”

Adrian blinked at you like you’d just confessed you thought the sun was fake. “It’s a bird! Yes. But more than that. That specific bird, that starling, is a marvel of adaptation. Its species migrates thousands of miles —”

You held up a hand. “Wait. How do you know it’s a starling? They all look like… birds.”

Adrian’s eyes lit up, and he leaned closer, waving a finger at the bird. “Look at the iridescence on its wings! See how the sunlight hits the feathers just so? That’s a starling signature. And notice the slight curve in its beak — perfect for probing crevices for insects. Oh! And the way it tilts its head while walking? That’s classic territorial posture. You see that subtle difference from the other pigeon over there? That’s advanced avian behavior right there!”

“That pigeon? The one pooping on the fire escape?”

“Yes. That pigeon. Educational opportunity!”

By noon, your kitchen was covered in sticky notes with crudely drawn birds — sparrow, crow, robin, hawk, pigeon #7 — each with Adrian’s handwritten notes like “super smart,” “probably evil,” or “good for reconnaissance.” You stared at them and sighed.

“You do realize… these all look the same to me, right?”

“Wrong!” Adrian shouted, waving a hand like he was on stage at a TED Talk. “They all have unique personalities! Behavioral differences! Subtle plumage variations! Watch, watch.”

He grabbed you and dragged you out onto the street, pointing at a pigeon waddling past. “Notice how it angles its wing differently from the last one?”

You squinted. “…It’s… walking?”

“Exactly! Subtle! See, you’re learning already.”

Hours passed. You were exhausted. Your binoculars were fogged up. Your stomach growled. And Adrian? Adrian was in peak element, whispering facts to you like you were witnessing a secret rebellion of birds against the city.

Finally, as the sun dipped behind the skyline, Adrian collapsed onto your couch, curls plastered to his forehead. “You’re a quick learner, you know,” he said, smiling softly.

“…I think I just learned that all birds are birds,” you admitted, leaning back, utterly drained.

He laughed, running a hand over yours. “Close enough. Close enough for day one.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, watching as he fussed over his notebook filled with scribbled sketches and observations. It was ridiculous. Chaotic. Perfectly Adrian.

And for some reason, you wouldn’t have traded it for all the starlings (or pigeons) in the world.

One second, you were arching off the diagnostic table, breath catching as Clark murmured something filthier than sin against your skin, hair tousled between your legs like he lived there— And the next: a busted comm link hit the floor, and a very traumatized Hawkgirl stood frozen in the doorway. Wings half-unfurled. Eyes wide with horror.

She didn’t speak for eight whole seconds.

You and Clark just… froze.

He looked up slowly, like a deer in headlights.You grabbed for the nearest med blanket, which did absolutely nothing to preserve your dignity—or the sanctity of the Fortress.

Hawkgirl blinked. Then blinked again. Then— “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE—” And spun around so fast her mace got stuck in the doorframe.

It only went downhill from there.

An hour later, you and Clark were summoned to what can only be described as the Justice League’s most awkward virtual meeting in recorded history. Video on. Full attendance. Moment ruined.

Clark sat next to you, arms crossed like he was bracing for a military tribunal. You tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

Hawkgirl looked like she’d gazed into the abyss. Green Lantern looked like he wanted to laugh, cry, and pass out all at once. And Mr. Terrific—tactical genius, team lead, and current moral authority—stood in front of the screen with his hands clasped behind his back like this was a high-stakes Pentagon debriefing.

“I want to be extremely clear,” he began, voice sharp enough to cut metal. “What happened today was a gross violation of mission protocol.”

You sank lower in your chair. Clark shifted beside you, jaw tight.

“The med bay,” Mr. Terrific continued, “is a sterile facility. It is not, under any circumstance, to be used as a sex dungeon, a romantic hideaway, or—god help us—a personal love grotto. Superman.”

Clark winced. “Yes, sir.”

“And you,” he added, pinning you with the full force of disciplinary disappointment. “We installed a biometric lock to keep unauthorized personnel out of restricted zones.”

“I… I didn’t know Clark’s tongue qualified as biometric,” you muttered.

Green Lantern choked on his own spit.

Clark turned bright red.

Mr. Terrific’s glare was legendary. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, sir,” Clark agreed quickly. “We’re very sorry.”

“We are,” you echoed, trying not to laugh. “Deeply sorry.”

“You’re both senior-level operatives,” Mr. Terrific said, beginning to pace like a principal prepping detention. “You’re supposed to set an example. Not—dear god—get caught in the Fortress with your pants down and your boyfriend’s cape on the floor.”

You blinked. “Wait. You seen what happened?”

“Oh, everyone saw,” Green Lantern muttered. “You tripped the internal security feed.”

You considered launching yourself into the sun.

Hawkgirl was pinching the bridge of her nose like she could physically erase the memory. “What I saw is not something you come back from.”

“Enough,” Mr. Terrific said, raising a hand. “We’ve reviewed the footage, the timestamps, the audio logs—and, of course, the distress scream that activated every emergency comm on site.”

“So,” Mr. Terrific continued, “in the interest of preserving morale, medical hygiene, and my remaining sanity, I’m instituting a temporary restriction.”

Then came the sentence. The curse. The collective punishment.

“Temporary. Sex. Ban.”

Silence.

Clark’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry—did you say—?”

“You heard me.”

You turned to Clark, slowly. “He can’t actually do that, right?”

“He’s the team lead,” Clark whispered, sounding absolutely broken. “I think… he technically can.”

Green Lantern raised a hand. “Uh, sorry—just for clarity, are we talking a full ban? Like, no kissing? No second base? Can we define terms?”

Mr. Terrific turned on him with the force of a thousand suns. “You want me to draft a formal clause list outlining what Superman can’t do to his girlfriend?”

“I mean, someone should,” Lantern muttered. “They’re a high-libido couple.”

You briefly considered using Clark as a human shield.

Clark looked like he wanted to die.

“Duration?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Until you both prove you can prioritize the mission,” Mr. Terrific said. “You’ll be monitored for absences. I’ll be reviewing comm logs. Patrol logs. Sensor pings.”

You groaned. “So we’re grounded.”

“You’re benched from boning,” Hawkgirl clarified dryly.

Mr. Terrific cleared his throat. “Meeting adjourned.”

The screen blinked dark.

And that was the day the Justice Gang imposed the world’s most infuriating, sexually repressive ceasefire— and started the longest, most torturous dry spell of your entire life. well, technically three days.

Three days. That’s how long Clark lasts.

Three whole days of being good. Of polite forehead kisses and aching distance. Of pulling his hand away like you’re made of kryptonite every time it drifts too low. Of muttering things like “We can’t,” and “Mr. Terrific said—” with that strained, boy scout grimace like he’s afraid he’s being watched from orbit.

He tries. He really, really tries.

He throws himself into patrol like he’s punishing himself, keeps his comm logs squeaky clean, even schedules “supervised sparring” with Green Lantern—who sees right through him and says nothing, mercifully.

But you?

You’re not helping.

You’re walking around in those soft shorts he likes. Wearing his old Metropolis U sweatshirt and nothing else. Curling up next to him on the couch like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing when your bare thigh brushes against his. Pressing slow, sleepy kisses just beneath his jaw when you're “not even trying anything.”

You bat your eye say you respect the ban. But you’re lying. And Clark is cracking.

Which is how you end up here.

Pressed flat against the kitchen counter, fingers tangled in his hair, while he grips the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees.

His voice is low and wrecked. “We shouldn’t—this is a—this is against orders, baby, I can’t—”

You hum, all sweet and innocent, even as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his suit pants. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. He can’t.

His breath catches hard against your throat as your fingers wrap around him—already hard, already leaking, already completely undone, and you haven’t even gotten the damn suit off yet.

“You’re evil,” he groans, resting his forehead against your shoulder like it’s the only way to keep from breaking in half. “I’m trying to be good—”

“You are good,” you coo, dragging your hand slow along his length. “Think Mr. Terrific would give you a gold star?”

Clark swears—a low, desperate sound, almost reverent.

And that’s it. That’s the last thread of his self-control snapping.

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, stumbling backward in a haze of need. Your mouths crash together halfway to the bedroom, his kiss open-mouthed and wild, breath catching like it’s been years, not days, since he last tasted you.

His knees buckle when he hits the bed, and you push him down without mercy, straddling his hips with one smooth motion. He sucks in a sharp gasp as your weight settles over him, hands flying to your waist like a man gripping a lifeline.

You lean in, lips brushing his as your fingers find the edge of his suit.

The zipper hisses down slowly.

“I missed you,” he breathes, voice hoarse, dragging his mouth down your chest, chasing the rhythm of your heartbeat like it's his gravity. “I tried to be good—I swear, but those pictures—”

You laugh, breathless. “Clark… those were just selfies.”

“You were in my sweatshirt,” he growls, like you committed a war crime.

“That’s not against the rules.”

“It is,” he snaps, kissing deeper, moving lower, “when you’re not wearing anything else.”

Now...

Clark Kent knew he was strong—the strongest. Faster than light, invulnerable to bullets, capable of hearing a whisper from the other side of the planet. He could carry the weight of the world on his back and still ask if you were okay. Could stop time with his bare hands if he really tried.

And yet—

The moment you shove him back into the sheets, suit half off, chest heaving, flushed and trembling like a man starved?

Clark Kent knows he’s fucked.

“Y-you’re not playing fair,” he tries, voice breaking as you drag your slick heat along the thick length of his cock. You haven’t even taken him in yet—just teasing him, grinding slow and deliberate, letting him feel every pulse of you.

“You deserve it,” you whisper, watching the way he shudders beneath you.

Maybe he does.

Maybe the ban was there for a reason. Maybe dragging Superman to bed in nothing but his hoodie and a wicked little grin was not on the League’s approved interaction list. But the way he shakes? The way his hips twitch every time you rock forward?

He’s a man in freefall.

His breath stutters. “You know I could beg, right?” he murmurs, voice gone dangerously low. “You think I won’t get on my knees for you?”

You lean forward to press a kiss to the curve of his jaw, feel it flex under your mouth.

“I know you will.”

And then—finally—you sink down onto him.

Clark’s entire body locks.

The breath leaves him in one long, broken moan. His hands fly to your hips like he needs to anchor himself, like he’s hanging off the edge of the stratosphere and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Jesus—” he chokes out, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “You—baby, you can’t just—God—”

You take him inch by inch, slow and deliberate, letting your walls flutter around every thick stretch of him. He’s already shaking under you. Eyes glazed. Lips parted. Helpless.

“Clark,” you murmur, voice as sweet as honey, “what happened to being good?”

He looks up at you through heavy lashes—cheeks flushed, sweat curling at his hairline, voice ragged beyond repair.

“That was before you got on top of me like that,” he groans. “Now I’m just—I’m done for, sweetheart.”

His knuckles go white in the sheets.

He’s trembling—actually trembling—like a live wire, every nerve in his body tuned to you. Overwhelmed by the heat of your body, the way you roll your hips down and lock him in like you were made to ruin him.

You move slow. Purposefully slow. Dragging yourself up until just the tip catches, then sinking down again until he’s buried to the hilt and gasping like it’s killing him.

“You’re so deep,” you whisper into his ear, syrupy and cruel, “Look how good you fill me up, baby.”

He groans—breaks—at the sound, his cock throbbing inside you.

“God, sweetheart,” he rasps, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna kill me—”

“You’re Superman,” you purr, twirling a damp strand of his hair around your finger before letting it spring free. Your nails rake lightly through his curls, slow and teasing. “You’ll live.”

But Clark is barely holding on.

He looks wrecked beneath you—his chest flushed, lips swollen, brows furrowed in desperation. His hands clutch at your thighs, guiding you down harder, deeper, until your legs burn and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths.

The only sounds in the room are the slow, obscene slap of skin, the soft creak of the mattress, and the desperate little moans Clark can’t stop from slipping out—like you’re dragging the air from his lungs with every grind of your hips.

You lean in, teeth grazing his neck before sucking a deep, dark mark below his jaw—one that definitely won’t fade by morning. He shudders.

“Thought you were gonna behave,” you murmur, dragging your mouth along his neck.

“Yeah?” His voice is sandpaper and honey. “Then you probably shouldn’t’ve—fuck—ridden me like this, baby.”

You grin against his skin.

And you don’t stop—slowly, grinding circles that make his thighs twitch under yours. That make him arch and whine,breath hitching every time your hips slam back down and the stretch makes your eyes roll. It’s filthy. It’s heaven. It’s—

beep. beep. beep.

The sharp alert cuts through the haze.

The "Justice Gang" comm unit pings from the nightstand—blinking red. Urgent. Active threat level.

Clark freezes.

Just for a second.

Then he thrusts up into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist—like if he holds you close enough, this moment won't end.

You clutch at him, stunned. “Clark—”

“Just a sec,” he pants, rolling his hips again, pulling you closer. “Just… a little longer—”

“You have to answer that,” you gasp, trying to sound firm, but it comes out ruined—high and trembling as he rolls his hips, slow and devastating. “You said if it was serious—”

“This is serious,” he breathes, voice cracking. “This is so serious, sweetheart—”

“Clark.”

He groans, tortured, and finally—pulls back just enough to reach blindly toward the nightstand, his other arm braced beside your head. He doesn’t stop moving. Just stretches out—flushed and glowing, breath shaky—and fumbles for the blinking comm unit with trembling fingers, his hips still rolling slow and deep like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out.

There’s a hiss of static. Then:

“Superman here,” he breathes, voice rough and just a little cracked, like it’s been dragged across gravel. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red. There’s a blooming mark on his neck in the exact shape of your mouth.

“I’ll be there in five.”

And then he looks back at you, still buried deep inside, still trembling with restraint, and smirks—smirks.

“You better finish what you started,” he murmurs, voice low “Because the second I get back…”

His hips roll up again.

“…there’s no ban anymore.”

Meanwhile, at Watchtower Command.

When Superman arrives, it’s a problem.

Because he’s not exactly subtle.

His suit is on—barely. The collar of his undersuit is stretched askew, the zip only half-done up. His cape’s twisted over one shoulder. His curls are still damp with sweat and your fingers, pressed flat to his forehead like he raked both hands through them hard before takeoff. And on the left side of his neck—

A dark, unmistakable mark.

Right where your mouth had been.

The kicker?

He smells like you.

The second he enters the room, heads turn. Conversation dies. Everyone looks at him.

And then immediately looks away.

Green Lantern raises a brow but says nothing — until he spots the bitemark on Clark’s throat.

“…Was the threat level internal?”

Superman doesn’t answer.

He just straightens his shoulders like a man walking to his own trial and silently hands over the datapad he retrieved from orbit, lips pressed in a flat line. His ears are red. His knuckles are still trembling.

From behind the console, Hawkgirl makes a noise like she’s begging God to strike her down. “Oh come on—”

Mr. Terrific’s head turns slowly.

His eyes scan Clark. The disheveled suit. The blooming hickeys. The faint tremor in his left hand. His faintly-glossed lips.

“…You’re late.”

Clark nods once. “Traffic.”

“You flew here,” Hawkgirl deadpans, crossing her arms.

Clark clears his throat. “We’re not—uh—discussing that.”

Mr. Terrific glances toward the holographic map they’d been reviewing and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s physically in pain. “We said temporary ban.”

“We agreed it was necessary,” Hawkgirl adds. “Necessary, Clark. For mission focus. For discipline. For—” She gestures vaguely at his entire very un-mission-ready state. “—this exact reason.”

Clark tries to look apologetic. He really does.

But there’s something smug twitching at the corners of his mouth. That little boyish, aw-shucks grin that slips out when he knows he’s been caught but isn’t all that sorry.

“I’m still functional,” he offers, way too earnestly.

Guy lets out a low whistle and mutters, “Barely.”

“Look, I got here, didn’t I?” Clark says, running a hand through his hair again—and only making it worse. “I didn’t skip the mission. I just… had to finish something.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “I swear to Rao,” Mr. Terrific mutters, turning away.

“Oh, you had to finish something?” Hawkgirl repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Or she did?”

Clark doesn’t answer. Just kind of… smiles into his shoulder and scratches at the back of his neck.

Guy leans in. “Okay, serious question,” he says, nodding toward Clark’s throat. “Did she brand you? Like, should we call Batman? That’s got Batman-level trauma written all over it—”

“I don’t need Bruce’s opinion on this,” Clark mumbles.

“Oh, I’m calling him,” Guy says gleefully.

“Please don’t.”

Too late. Hawkgirl’s already pulling up a comm link. “Batman? You might want to see this.”

Clark sighs and looks up at the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.

From across the room, a monitor blinks to life.

Bruce’s voice comes through, flat and judgmental. “What did he do this time?”

You barely got one foot back into the apartment before you heard it:

“POV: You just got Ohio Rizz’d by a Skibidi Sigma 💀🔥.”

You froze.

Then blinked.

Then turned slowly toward the living room like you were creeping up on a crime scene.

And you weren’t entirely wrong.

Franklin Richards, age five and three quarters (he will correct you if you forget the three quarters), was perched on the couch cross-legged, iPad in hand, eyes wide and sparkling like he’d just seen God. Johnny Storm—grown adult man, superhero, menace—was sitting next to him, phone in hand, TikTok blasting.

Franklin giggled maniacally. Johnny nodded solemnly like he’d just handed down sacred knowledge.

“Now if someone says ‘ratio,’ you hit back with ‘You fell off + no bitches + L,’ okay?” Johnny said seriously. “Gotta defend your honor out there.”

You stared.

“Johnny.”

He didn’t look up. “What’s up, babe?”

“WHAT are you doing?”

He looked so proud of himself as he turned to you. “I’m teaching him the language of the youth.”

“You are corrupting a literal child.”

“I'm enhancing his social skills. C’mon, he’s gotta be prepared for the digital hellscape that is modern internet culture. This is survival training.”

Franklin chirped, “He showed me a video of a toilet with eyeballs fighting a cameraman!”

Your jaw dropped. “Johnny—”

“It’s educational,” Johnny argued. “We had a whole thing about Sigma grindsets, NPC energy, and Ohio-core. He’s basically fluent.”

“Fluent in what?” you cried. “Digital madness??”

Franklin nodded. “I’m learning memes.”

You rubbed your temples. “Sue is going to kill you.”

“She won’t. She can’t. I’ve made the kid too powerful now.”

“I can say 'Skibidi rizz' in a sentence,” Franklin offered helpfully. “Wanna hear?”

You held up a hand. “Please don’t.”

Too late. He cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and declared, “Skibidi Sigma walked into Ohio and rizzed up the NPCs like a GYATT.”

You stared at him.

You stared at Johnny.

Johnny beamed like a proud dad at a spelling bee. “You see that delivery? The timing? Kid’s got it.”

“Johnny. He just invented a sentence that felt like it shaved five years off my lifespan.”

Johnny shrugged, grinning. “Welcome to the internet, baby.”

You walked over, plucked the iPad gently from Franklin’s hands and handed him a juice box. “We’re going outside. Touching grass. You’re gonna learn about bugs and clouds and things that don’t make your neurons scream.”

Franklin pouted. “But what about Ohio?”

“Ohio will still be there.”

Johnny leaned back on the couch, arms behind his head like he’d just finished a shift at the meme mines. “You’re just mad ‘cause the kid’s got more rizz than you.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “If you say ‘rizz’ one more time, I swear to God I will ratio you into next week.”

Johnny blinked.

Then smirked. “She speaks it now.”

“I will throw you out a window.”

“And I will give Franklin unlimited screen time”

---------------------------

Later that night…

Franklin was finally asleep, snuggled under a spaceship-print comforter, one arm still loosely wrapped around his plush dog. You checked on him twice—once to be sure he hadn’t smuggled the iPad into bed, and a second time just to hear that soft, whistling snore that meant he was well and truly out. He looked peaceful. Innocent.

Totally unaware of the brain rot Johnny had injected into his young, impressionable mind.

Sue was still out—presumably having no idea that her child had learned the phrase “Skibidi Sigma Rizz God” and now believed Ohio was an actual dimension of chaos. You’d debated texting her. Maybe sending a vague warning. But you were still figuring out how to phrase “your brother turned your son into a meme lord in under an hour” without sounding completely unhinged.

So instead, you let it slide for now.

You padded back to the living room in fuzzy socks, where Johnny had settled onto the couch with a blanket over his lap and his phone dimly lit in his hand. The TV was off, but the room glowed faintly blue from the Baxter Building’s ambient tech—and from HERBIE, quietly whirring in his corner charging station, emitting soft chirps and robotic garbled sounds that suspiciously resembled words.

“Bee-boo... Hiiiiiim-booo... thyyyy…”

You paused mid-step. “Did HERBIE just say ‘Himothy’?”

Johnny didn’t even look up. “He’s practicing.”

“…He can’t talk.”

“He can’t officially talk,” Johnny corrected. “But he vibes. Let him vibe.”

You sank down beside him on the couch with a sigh, tucking your legs up beneath you. “This whole household is infected.”

Johnny smirked, leaning slightly against your shoulder, not-so-sneakily reading your phone screen. “Not my fault the youth respond to me.”

“You’re the youth,” you scoffed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I am the youth. The blueprint. The moment. The meme.”

You scrolled a bit more before turning your phone to him. “Okay, explain this one. What does this mean?”

Johnny’s grin turned slow and smug, like a sensei about to bestow forbidden wisdom. “Ah… Grasshopper. You are learning.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. You didn’t stop scrolling.

By the time midnight rolled around, you were both curled up under the same throw blanket, shoulders touching, legs tangled. Your phones kept flashing with new reels and TikToks as you took turns shoving them in each other’s faces.

You blame Johnny.

Kind of.

Maybe.

The file room wasn’t supposed to lock from the inside.

At least, that’s what you’d muttered the second the heavy door clicked shut and the handle refused to budge—after Clark had followed you in, offering help in that familiar gentle way of his, all low voice and warm smile.

Now it was just the two of you, locked in a 10x12 room with boxes stacked to the ceiling and only the hum of the building’s ancient ventilation to break the silence.

You sat on the floor, back against the far wall, arms resting on your knees. Across from you, Clark paced—quietly, thoughtfully, like he didn’t want his steps to disturb you. Always considerate. Always polite.

It would have been easier to be annoyed if he wasn’t so relentlessly kind.

“I texted Perry,” he said finally, phone still in hand. “He’s sending someone down to pry the door open.”

You didn’t respond.

Clark’s eyes drifted to you, brows drawing together ever so slightly. “You okay?”

You blew out a breath, resting your head against the wall. “I’m fine.”

“You seem…” he hesitated, adjusting his glasses, “…mad.”

“Not mad.”

“Frustrated?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant to. Then, more quietly: “Not exactly.”

Clark paused, then sat down across from you, mirroring your posture. “Talk to me.”

You stared at him. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything’s fine. Like nothing gets to you. Like you’re just—perfect.”

His brows lifted, surprised.

Huffing, you pushed yourself to your feet, still keeping your back against the wall. “You’re the best reporter in the building. The most dependable. Everyone likes you. You never screw up, and you always manage to make people feel safe even when everything’s falling apart.”

Clark tilted his head, watching you carefully, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

“You’re the best journalist here,” you continued. “You’ve never noticed?”

It came out as a challenge, curling off your tongue like bait, and you locked your gaze on the side of his face. He was trying not to smile. You saw the twitch of his lips. The clench of his jaw.

That asshole.

He was holding back a smile.

Instead of answering, Clark finally turned toward you, slow and unhurried. He crossed his arms over his chest, and your eyes couldn’t help but flick downward—briefly, stupidly—to the way the fabric of his sleeves stretched over solid forearms.

You looked away fast.

“Do you really think that?” he asked quietly.

You frowned. “Think what?”

“That I’m perfect.”

You crossed your arms too, matching his stance, but you felt far less steady doing it. “They didn’t make you front-page material for your sparkling humor.”

Clark let out a quiet huff—his version of a laugh, almost—but his smile faded before it could fully form. Silence settled in again, broken only by the faint hum of the emergency light over the door.

When he finally spoke, it was soft.

“Do you really think I hate you?”

That made you blink.

“…What?”

“Earlier. You said your boss hates you.” His voice was calm, but something about it felt tighter than before. “Do you think I hate you?”

You faltered, surprised by the question. The memory came back in a blur: something you’d muttered under your breath earlier that week, half-joking, something like “God, my boss hates me”—meaning Perry, of course. But maybe Clark had thought—

“No,” you said finally. “No, I didn’t mean you.”

He was still watching you. His posture had shifted again—leaning forward slightly, head tilted, the curiosity in his expression raw and honest.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“You seem like you do.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You always seem like you’re keeping me at arm’s length. Like you’re waiting for me to disappoint you.”

You pressed your lips together. “Maybe I just didn’t want to get too close.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d start hoping you felt the same way.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You didn’t mean to say it. You never meant to say it. Not to him.

But now Clark was very still.

His eyes widened just a little. “You’ve been hoping I felt the same way?”

You swallowed hard. “Forget it.”

“No.”

The answer came fast—too fast for him to think it through. His voice was low, almost hoarse. “Don’t take it back.”

You looked away, heat rising in your throat. “Clark—”

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you spilled coffee on my tie.”

Your head jerked back toward him.

His cheeks were flushed now, the tips of his ears red, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t backtrack. He just kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.

“You were so flustered,” he said, a soft laugh slipping out. “Then you spent the next week leaving sticky notes on my desk with coffee coupons.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You—wait, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He hesitated, then met your eyes. “Because you’re brave. And sharp. And stubborn. And I guess… I didn’t think I deserved to want someone like you.”

That hit harder than you expected—like something you didn’t know you’d been waiting to hear.

Before you even realized it, you were stepping closer. “You’re… kind of like Superman.”

His eyes widened, just a little—caught somewhere between surprise and something softer, unreadable.

But you didn’t stop.

“You’re the one people look up to. You’re the one they trust when things are falling apart. I admire you, Clark. That’s the problem.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“It is,” you said, and suddenly your voice wavered. “Because you’re gentle. And kind. And I’m not always. I’m sharp-edged and loud and too much sometimes. And I didn’t want to say anything because… if you didn’t feel the same, I think it would’ve broken me.”

Clark stood up slowly. He was taller than you, but he never used it to intimidate. Instead, he stepped in close—close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to count the freckles across his cheekbones.

“You’re not too much,” he said quietly. “Not for me.”

Your breath caught.

The silence between you bloomed into something warmer. Softer.

And then—slowly, like gravity was pulling him—Clark leaned in.

He kissed you with all the gentleness you expected from him. Like he was still scared he might break the moment if he moved too fast. But when you kissed him back, something shifted. His arms wrapped around your waist. Yours tangled behind his neck. And it wasn’t just slow anymore.

It was inevitable.

When the door finally creaked open half an hour later—thanks to a very annoyed maintenance guy—you were sitting next to Clark on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, flushed and slightly dazed.

You stood up first, brushing imaginary dust from your pants.

The janitor gave you both a weird look.

Clark smiled sheepishly. “Got stuck.”

“Uh-huh,” the janitor grunted. “Try not to get stuck near the supply closet next time. Or the third-floor lounge. I’m not a locksmith, you know.”

You both mumbled apologies and fled as fast as humanly (or super-humanly) possible.

Back in the newsroom, as you returned to your desk, Lois gave you a slow, knowing look.

You froze.

“What?”

She smiled, sipping her coffee. “Took you two long enough.”

You swore it wasn’t going to happen again.

You swore.

But then Clark Kent had shown up at your apartment the night before—looking like sin in glasses, apologizing for missing your lunch date with a bouquet of actual starflowers from actual space—and next thing you knew, you were shirtless on the couch, Clark was holding you like you weighed nothing (because you kinda didn’t to him), and the couch was now definitely crooked.

You woke up tangled in sheets, kissed him goodbye, and got to the office first, smugly sipping your iced coffee like the world hadn’t just been shaken by Kryptonian strength and very human hands.

Everything was fine.

Until Clark walked into the bullpen two hours later, waving and greeting everyone with that impossibly soft “good morning,” and the newsroom... paused.

You didn’t notice at first. Too busy pretending to type something while eavesdropping on the city desk. But then you caught it.

Whispers.

Not suspicious ones. Not Superman-level whispers.

No.

These were gossipy whispers.

And Clark, bless him, looked completely unaware. His tie was slightly crooked (you did pull him down by it last night), his hair was still a bit too perfectly tousled (your fault again), and most damning of all—

There it was.

A Hickey.

On full, blotchy display, just above the collar. A perfect little bruise in the shape of your mouth.

You died inside.

Clark had no idea. He just kept smiling his golden-retriever smile, walking around like a walking HR violation, asking if anyone had seen the sports section.

It wasn’t until Lois passed him with a smirk and a very pointed eyebrow raise that he frowned.

“Is there something... on my face?”

“No, farmboy,” Lois said, sipping her coffee with the same delight as someone watching a house burn down. “Just your neck.”

You watched the light drain from his face. He practically slow-motioned back to his desk, dropped into his chair, pulled out his phone, and subtly turned the camera on himself.

The second he saw it, he slapped a hand over his neck and swung a look straight at you. Mortified. Betrayed. Deeply blushing.

You, being a professional, pretended not to notice. You typed something like “weather patterns Metropolis July heatwave” to cover the fact you were silently losing your mind.

But then the email came.

Subject: URGENT: Supervisory Review

From: Janet Harrows, Managing Editor

To: You

“My office. Now. We need to talk about damaging company property.”

You choked on your water.

You stood in Janet’s office five minutes later, hands behind your back like you were being court-martialed. She leaned back in her chair with a look that was half-stern, half-glee.

“Close the door.”

You did.

“Sit.”

You did that, too.

She steepled her fingers. “You know we take workplace professionalism very seriously here at The Daily Planet.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said, doing your best not to implode.

“So when one of my top reporters strolls in looking like he got mauled by a very affectionate octopus, I’m forced to ask: who did it?”

You blinked. “I—I wouldn’t say mauled, exactly—”

“Clark Kent,” she continued, ignoring you, “is a treasured employee. Polite. Punctual. Alarmingly sweet. Company property, one might say.” Her brow lifted. “And you’ve marked him.”

“Technically, he’s not—”

“Marked,” she repeated, like a gavel strike.

You opened your mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.

Janet leaned back in her chair. “I’ve had two photographers ask me if they can pitch a Valentine’s special called ‘The Mysterious Hickey Chronicles: Love Bites in the Bullpen.’”

You buried your face in your hands.

She chuckled. “Next time, maybe aim below the collarbone. Or bring a scarf. He’s making the interns who thought they had a chance cry.”

She waved you off. “Go. Shoo. Get your story in before five.”

Back at your desk, Clark was pretending to do work but was definitely Googling “how to fade hickeys faster.” He glanced up, looking wounded.

“I thought we said no visible marks.”

You dropped a post-it note on his desk. On it, you’d scribbled:

"Tell that to your neck, Smallville."

He blushed.

You winked.

And Lois, two desks away, let out a dramatic groan. “God, get a room. Or at least an office with a door.”

“Already did,” Clark muttered under his breath.

You kicked his foot under the desk.

And from Janet’s office, a voice rang out:

“KEEP IT PG, PEOPLE!”

You’ve worked crisis PR long enough to know what real damage looks like. You’ve seen people torn apart by headlines. You’ve written the copy. Cleaned the blood off the pavement with spin and charm and pretty numbers. But this—this feels bigger. Not messier. Just wrong.

Still, you close the folder and say, “Got it,” because the benefits are good and your lease is expensive.

You carry the folder back to your desk—one of a dozen identical cubicles lined up under too-bright fluorescent lights. It’s not the kind of place meant for high-stakes assignments. But the contents of the folder say otherwise, and as you sit down and flip it open, the weight of it settles in.

You start with the basics—Superman press coverage, sighting maps, archived interviews. It’s a mess. The internet’s full of theories—alien clone, government weapon, future god, literal angel. Nothing solid. Just speculation stacked on top of wishful thinking.

And at first, it feels like another dead end. Then it doesn’t.

Clark Kent.

His name shows up again and again in Superman features. Not a household name, not a flashy byline—but his writing stands out. Grounded. Specific. Less spectacle, more story. It doesn’t sound like someone describing a myth. It sounds like someone describing a person.

You start reading. One article turns into five. Then ten.

The man writes like he’s been in the same room as Superman. Like he’s seen the hesitation before the flight. The way he fidgets with his hands when someone calls him a hero. The way he always—always—glances toward the sky before answering a hard question.

It feels too personal. Too familiar. You scroll back through his work history.

Small-town beginnings. Local columns. No profile picture. Just years of quietly published articles that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.

You sit back in your chair, letting the quiet hum of the office settle into your bones.

If anyone’s got a lead on Superman—if anyone’s gotten past the performance—it’s this guy.

You type the message carefully.

Polite. Vague. Just enough interest to seem legitimate. A media firm working on a piece about Superman’s image. You don’t use your real name. Just initials. A burner email. Professional enough not to alarm, anonymous enough not to trace.

You hit send.

You expect silence. Maybe a polite decline. Maybe nothing at all.

But less than an hour later, your inbox pings.

“Sure. I’ve got some time Monday.” —Clark Kent

NSFW Headcanons: (Now stay with me here, this man is a FREAK and you can't tell me otherwise.)

Praise Kink Hall of Famer: Everything is a cheer session. “You’re takin’ me so good, baby.” “Look at you—MVP of my heart.” “Fuck, your body’s my favorite sport.”

Built Like a Tank, Fucks Like One Too: He’s big. Thick. Always stretching you just a little too wide—but slow at first, always checking you're good before he starts really moving. He’s the type to leave you shaking and full.

Loves When You Wear His Gear: Especially his knee pads or sweatbands. Sees you in just his jersey and malfunctions. Will bend you over the nearest bench like a post-game press conference doesn’t exist.

Very Loud. And Very Into Yours: Grunts. Growls. Whispers “so fuckin’ hot” into your neck. But the thing that gets him off? Hearing you. The more noise you make, the more unhinged he becomes.

Into Overstimulation, But In A Loving Way: The kind to go multiple rounds and keep you in his lap, whispering, “You can give me one more, right?” while rubbing slow, lazy circles over your most sensitive spot.

Dom With a Sub Braincell: Will absolutely rail you senseless while calling you “coach.” Has no shame in begging for a taste, going down on you like it’s his pre-game meal. Big tongue. Big effort. Always finishes the job.

also did I forget to mention dunk is 1000% an ass over tits man, He lives for standing behind you while you squat, pretending it’s about your “form,” but his hands are already on your hips, eyes locked in. And don’t even get him started on the treadmill—he’ll suddenly “need” to stretch right behind you, pretending to tie a shoe while blatantly enjoying the view.