b.

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.

You didn’t even have time to adjust your sleep shirt when the knock came.

Three sharp raps.

Then silence.

You scrambled, fingers sticky, heart racing as you yanked the blanket up and tried to catch your breath. “Uh—yeah?”

Clark’s voice came low, strained, from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

You froze. “What?” you squeaked, already flushed.

A beat. Then: “I—I can hear you.”

Your entire body went cold. Then hot. Then achingly wet again.

“Clark,” you breathed, panic rising, embarrassment licking at your spine.

But when the door creaked open—just enough for his silhouette to fill the doorway—you saw the look in his eyes. Like it had taken every ounce of restraint not to burst in sooner.

“You—you heard me?”

His eyes dropped to the blanket still clutched to your chest. “I can hear a lot of things,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “But you? You were loud enough to drive me fucking crazy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when Clark stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, shutting the door behind him.

You were still holding the blanket to your chest, knuckles white. But Clark’s eyes were burning a hole straight through it—and you. “I tried,” he muttered, voice low. “I tried to ignore it. Tried to be decent. But you—you were in here fucking moaning my name like you wanted me to hear it.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know,” you whispered, lips barely moving. “I didn’t think—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to say my name?” he cut in, moving closer. Your bed creaked as he leaned a hand on the footboard. “Or you didn’t mean for me to hear you fuck yourself to the thought of me?” Your heart thudded so loud you were sure he could hear that too.

“I—I didn’t think—” you stammered, throat dry, skin fever-hot. “I didn’t know you could hear me.”

Clark’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry. “I always hear you.”

That made your thighs clench under the blanket. “Fuck.” Clark's eyes dropped, following the motion. He smirked—like he could see through the blanket. Honestly, maybe he could. “Can I please touch you?” He asked, almost a whine. 

Your back hit your bed. He bent low, hands gripping the backs of your thighs and dragging you down the bed so fast the mattress squeaked. His head ducked between your legs before you could even moan. 

Your head thrashed back, eyes rolling, and the second he sucked your clit into his mouth you came—hard—grinding helplessly against his face as he groaned and licked you through it

He pulled back only when your legs trembled uncontrollably, chin slick, eyes glazed over. “Get on top of me,” he growled, standing and tossing his shirt aside. “Ride me, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on me like you did with your fingers.”

You didn’t even think. You crawled into his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed, bare and fucking carved from marble. Your fingers wrapped around his cock—it was huge, thick and heavy and throbbing—and your stomach flipped.

“You gonna fit?” you whispered, teasing.

He smirked darkly. “You’re gonna take it.”

And you did.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, your moans turning to whimpers as he stretched you open. His hands gripped your waist, helping you rock, bounce, take every inch with filthy, possessive murmurs.

“That’s it, baby—fuck—look at you, takin’ all of it.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Clark—Clark—”

“I know you did,” he growled. “Could hear how bad you wanted it. Hear it every night, baby.”

“Every night?” you cried, jaw dropping.

“Every time you touch yourself.” His thrusts were brutal now, bouncing you like a ragdoll on his lap. “Every time you think you’re being quiet. You think I don’t hear how wet you get when I walk around in just a towel? You think I didn’t notice the way you moan into your pillow when you think I’ve gone to bed?”

You gasped, fingernails dragging down his chest. Your orgasm slammed into you with a scream—tight, fast, messy—and you came gushing around him.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me—” he grunted. “I’m gonna cum—fuck” He groaned into your neck as he came, hard, gripping you tight as his cock throbbed deep inside your soaked, spasming cunt. The flood of warmth filled you up until it spilled down your thighs, your entire body limp in his lap.

You collapsed forward, his arms tight around your waist. Both of you, panting and sweaty. Until he exhaled a laugh and brushed your hair back gently from your face. “Guess I should’ve told you about the superhearing sooner.”

You blinked. Still hazy. “You think?”

He grinned. “You gonna stop now that you know?”

You smirked. “What do you think, Superman?”

He slows without warning. One sharp breath in. Then he lifts an arm and shoves it across your body, forearm firm against your ribs, stopping you cold.

You tense. “What?” 

That’s when you hear it. A hiss, low and insidious, coming from behind the server rack. A sharp click, and then a spreading shimmer, green and iridescent, like powdered glass in sunlight.

It doesn’t explode. It blooms. A slow-motion detonation of mist, sparkling and cool. You barely have time to yank Clark’s sleeve, trying to pull him back, when it rolls over both of you like fog. It clings to your skin. Cold, but not icy. Tingling, like mint or menthol or static electricity crawling up your arms. It vanishes just as quickly as it arrived.

Clark coughs once, short and startled. He shakes his head, hand to his temple. “I’m fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t. You know that look he’s wearing as he turns away from you. But you have no idea how not okay everything in him is about to become.

-

Your apartment is quiet when you return. Too quiet. The sound of the door shutting echoes through the entryway like it doesn’t belong here. Clark brushes past you without a word, shoulder brushing yours in a way that leaves heat in its wake. You pause, frowning as he yanks off his coat, having changed back into normal clothes in the van, and lets it fall to the back of the couch with less care than usual.

His shirt sticks to him. Darkened at the chest and spine, completely sweat drenched.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask from the kitchenette, watching him warily. “That mist, whatever it was… Lex doesn’t exactly follow OSHA regulations, you know.”

“I said I’m fine,” his voice is clipped, snapped off at the root in a way you haven’t heard from him unless he’s worked up in an argument. He drags a trembling hand down his face. His knuckles are pale from the pressure.

When he finally turns to face you, your breath catches. His pupils have blown wide, black swallowing blue, save for the thinnest outer ring of color. His skin is pink, not just flushed but fevered—cheeks, throat, even the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in hard, shallow bursts. And his voice, when he speaks again, it’s lower, thicker, like it’s being pulled from somewhere deeper.

“Just… give me a second.” His hand lifts, a silent plea. “Please. Just… stay there. Don’t come closer.”

You go still.

He pivots away fast, faster than necessary, as though the sight of you is something sharp. His back is broad and tense, muscles twitching beneath the cling of his damp shirt. He grips the windowsill, hard, and the old wood groans. The room smells suddenly warmer. Earthy. Like something alive is cooking under his skin.

“Clark.”

“I said,” he bites it off. Another breath. Too short. Too fast.

You take a careful step forward. The sound of it is barely audible.

He still flinches. “Don’t,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”

“Clark, you’re scaring me.”

“I know.” His head bows. His shoulders shake once, violently. Then, quieter, he adds, “I think it’s affecting me.”

Your stomach drops. “The mist?”

He nods, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the floor. “My temperature’s spiking. My hearing’s off. Everything’s too loud. I can hear your pulse from here. I can smell your shampoo. Your skin.”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “What does that mean?”

His grip tightens on the sill until a crack splits through the wood beneath his palm. “It means,” he rasps, “if you come any closer right now, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

The room holds its breath. You do, too.

His voice, when it returns, is barely there. “I don’t know what it is. But I’m reacting to you.”

The words drop between you like a match into oil. You stare at his silhouette, so steady, so still, except for the way his body trembles. Not from weakness. From restraint. Every inch of him pulled tight like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. He won’t look at you. Not because he’s ashamed but because he’s frightened of what he’ll do if he does. And still, somehow, he’s trying to protect you.

That’s when you realize how bad it is.

You step back, just once. A single retreat. He exhales like it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe in minutes.

But you don’t leave.

You won’t.

Because something else is brewing beneath the fear. Something bigger than him. Bigger than this room.

Desire. Desperation. The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your teeth. The kind that makes your knees weak and your palms sweat and your body ache. It radiates off of him like heat. Like sunlight in a closed room. Like a tidal wave held back by one splintering dam.

You don’t touch him. Not yet. But just as you move one foot forward, as if to take a step towards him, the world seems to move twice as fast. 

The door to your guest room slams before you even register that he’s moved.

Not walked—but vanished. A rush of wind tears through the living room, ruffling your shirt, tossing a magazine from the coffee table. The curtain flutters against the window as if something huge just passed through it. You blink once, twice, and then hear it: a door at the end of the hallway slamming shut. A lock turning. Then another. Then there’s a scraping sound, heavy and dragging, like furniture being shoved into place.

You sit there for a second, frozen on the couch.

The stillness after his absence feels louder than anything else. The room hums with the echo of his body heat, like he left part of himself behind in the static. The silence thickens. It stretches around you like a second skin.

And you don’t know what to do.

He could have flown away. Through the wall, the roof, the earth. He didn’t.

He chose to stay.

And for a minute, you just let yourself sit with what that means. What you want to do with that. The ache in your chest, the need to help him, to soothe him, is practically overwhelming. 

So. you stand. The wood floor feels cool under your bare feet as you cross the living room. Your heart thuds in your throat. It’s quiet in the hall, except for a faint, rhythmic creak. Footsteps. Pacing. Uneven. Too fast. You reach the guest room and try the handle.

Locked.

Your palm presses to the frame. “Clark?”

Nothing.

Then, faintly, his voice calls through the door. “Don’t,” he says, but it comes out broken. 

You rest your forehead against the wood. “You’re not okay.”

“No.” His voice cracks like a fault line. “No, I’m really not.”

“Then let me help.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear him breathing. It’s ragged, not shallow, just strained, like every inhale is a battle.

“I don’t think I want help.” That lands with a weight you weren’t ready for. Not cold. Not cruel. Just true. His voice curls around the word want like it hurts him to say it.

You grip the doorknob, knowing he could tear it off its hinges in one second flat and hasn’t.

“Clark. Open the door or I’ll break it down.”

A sound punches through the silence. Not speech. A groan. Low, ragged, helpless. Then a sudden thunk as his fist meets the wall, followed by another scrape of wood dragging across the floor. You picture the dresser wedged against the frame, a barricade built by a man who could level a mountain… and who’s terrified of you.

“You have to go,” he snarls, voice cracking into something feral. “Please. I can’t. I can’t trust myself right now. I’d leave if I could but I can’t. My body won’t let me.”

You lay your hand flat against the door, thumb brushing the trim.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait. Count six full heartbeats. Yours. Maybe his too.

The lock clicks.

Then the barricade moves. Slowly. A soft grinding against the floorboards. You hear the sharp exhale he lets out through clenched teeth, like just touching the furniture costs him. The door creaks open an inch.

Then two.

Enough for you to slip inside.

He stands in the middle of the room, shoulders bared in the lamplight. The dresser is still half-dragged across the entrance, skewed at an angle. The air smells like salt and skin and lightning, like too many nights without rest. The overhead light is off, only the bedside lamp glows amber behind him, casting long shadows across the walls.

He’s not looking at you. It’s like he can’t.

His chest rises and falls like he’s been drowning for hours and just surfaced. Sweat drips down his temple. His curls are soaked and stuck to his forehead. His hands tremble at his sides, clenched so tight the skin across his knuckles has split—tiny crescents of blood bloom along his palms.

His eyes, when they flicker toward you for just a second, are nearly black.

He’s shaking.

He presses himself back against the far wall like he’s trying to phase into it. Both hands flatten against the drywall as if he could anchor himself there, stop his body from flying toward you like gravity itself can’t hold him anymore.

And he’s hard.

Painfully, visibly so. The outline of his cock strains against the front of his pants, thick and high and unyielding. His thighs tremble. A low vibration hums through the floorboards beneath your feet. The foundation quakes. The wall beside his hand spiders with a hairline crack.

“Clark,” you whisper.

His eyes snap shut. “Don’t say my name,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t…don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it.” The words are spit out, angry but desperate. “Because it makes it worse. Because I can hear every breath you take and smell your skin and all I want to do is,” he swallows hard, “is bend you over that bed and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

You flinch.

So does he.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, voice wrecked and horrified. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t… I don’t talk like that. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

He lifts off the floor slightly. Not fully, just the heels. Just enough to hover. He touches back down with a soft thud that feels louder than a gunshot. “I can’t stop shaking,” he says, more to himself than to you. “It’s not just my body. It’s everything. You’re too loud. You smell like soap and skin and heat. I’m trying to block it out, I swear I am, but your heartbeat’s been pounding in my head since we walked into the damn apartment and I can’t breathe.”

You take a step toward him. He twitches violently, shoulder bumping the light switch. The lamp dims, bathing the room in a low amber flicker. The wall behind him cracks again. Not from contact. But from restraint.

“Don’t touch me,” he begs. “Please. I need…God, I need you, but I can’t. I can’t.”

“I trust you,” you say, low and steady.

His laugh is hollow. Cracked in half. “You shouldn’t.”

You reach for him anyway. Slow. Palms up. He groans, a sound that comes from his chest, not his mouth. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s just barely still in control of himself.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he says, suddenly. Desperate. Like he didn’t mean to say it but couldn’t stop. “Tell me it’s okay and I’ll give you everything. Just say the word and I swear to God, I’ll make you feel so good you forget this started as a mistake.”

“Clark—”

“I wasn’t supposed to want you like this.” His voice breaks completely as he cuts you off. His head drops between his shoulders. “You were supposed to be safe from me.”

Your hand hovers near his wrist. Close enough that the heat of him pulses against your skin. “I’m not scared of you.”

His breath shudders. His arms tense against the wall. “You really should be.”

“I’m not.”

There is a beat of silence before he finally turns to look at you. He stands there, drinking you in. You feel yourself grow wet just looking back at him. It is perhaps the single most intimate moment of your life. 

His expression is wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Lips parted, trembling. Sweat trails down his temple, catches on the curve of his jaw. His hands twitch at his sides, opening and closing like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or fall to his knees.

“I can hear your heart,” he whispers, like it hurts to say. “Even when I’m not with you. It’s always calling me back to you.” Then, in a barely audible whisper he says, “Please. This is the last time I can ask. Please go.”

But he doesn’t want you to. Not really. It’s in the way his gaze drops to your lips. In the way his arms flinch toward you and freeze halfway, fists clenching to stop himself. In the way his whole body screams stay even as his mouth begs you to leave.

You step into his space. He doesn’t stop you.

“I trust you.” You say it again, not softer, not hesitant. Steady and solid, like a vow.

And something in him breaks.

You feel it before you see it. The air pressure shifts—dense, electric. Like a storm cell cracking open in the room. Heat rolls off his skin in waves, not warmth but fever, a suffocating kind of intensity that licks across your face and neck, makes the fine hairs on your arms rise. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling like they’re already memorizing the feel of your skin.

His breath catches sharp, uneven. Then his eyes meet yours.

And he lunges.

His mouth crashes into yours in a blur of heat and need and raw, wild hunger. You barely have time to inhale before his kiss swallows the sound whole. His lips are hot, parted, wet with need, and his breath tastes like ozone, like thunder about to strike. One hand fists in your shirt, dragging you up into him so hard your toes leave the floor. The other anchors behind your neck, fingers trembling as he cradles you close like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or devour you.

This isn’t a kiss. It’s possession.

His chest slams against yours, soaked through with sweat, the cotton of his shirt damp and clinging. You feel the frantic rhythm of his heart punching against your sternum like it’s trying to beat out of his body and into yours. His muscles shake with restraint, with need. His whole body vibrating like he’s holding back the force of his name.

Then your back hits the wall.

Not rough, just inevitable. Like gravity gave up. Like your body simply belongs there now, pinned beneath his.

The breath leaves your lungs in a stuttered gasp, but he doesn’t slow. His mouth drags down your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear. He groans low, the sound half-growl, half-prayer, and licks a stripe up the side of your neck. The wet heat of his tongue makes you jerk, and he chases the motion with a low moan, hips grinding forward.

You feel the full, brutal outline of his cock straining in his jeans, thick and heavy and burning. It presses against your stomach like a warning. Like a promise. The denim between you is too much, but not enough, and he thrusts again, groaning as he ruts against you like he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I-I can’t,” he gasps, voice cracking apart. His forehead drops to your shoulder, the heat of his breath pouring across your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please. I need you to tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You bury your hands in his hair, hot, damp, wild, and tug him back up to your mouth. He stumbles into the kiss with a whimper, and it breaks something in him.

“Oh my God,” he chokes. “You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted. You feel like….fuck, baby, I can’t think. You’re everywhere. You’re….God.”

He hoists you up. No struggle. No hesitation. Your feet leave the ground like you never needed them to begin with, and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The moment your core presses against the thick line of his cock, both of you gasp. The sound he makes, wrecked, guttural, rips through you like lightning.

“Please,” he moans into your neck. “Please just once. Let me inside you. I need it. I need to come inside you. Just once. I swear I’ll—God, sweetheart, please.”

Your hands are already between your bodies, fumbling for his belt. The metal buckle clinks in the quiet, your fingers moving too fast, too clumsy, but he doesn’t stop you. His breath hits your cheek in hot, broken pants, and he presses his forehead to yours as you work the button free.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice rough and frayed. “You have to be mine.”

You slide your hand into his jeans.

He bucks. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and glistening, and so heavy in your hand you feel your mouth water. The skin is hot, pulsing, the tip leaking, dripping, and you can’t stop staring. He’s gorgeous. Desperate. And glowing. Not just metaphorically. His skin glows faintly gold, his body flushed all over. Sweat beads at his hairline. His chest heaves like he’s run from the ends of the earth, and his pupils are bottomless. He looks down at you like he’s watching a miracle, mouth parted, chest rising and falling in stuttered, helpless bursts.

“Don’t,” he begs, eyes on your mouth as you sink to your knees. “Don’t do this. You don’t understand. If you put your mouth on me, I’ll-I’ll lose it.”

You do it anyway. You take him into your mouth, slow, steady, savoring the first taste of him. Salt and skin and something electric. Something other. The second your tongue swirls around the tip, he levitates.

You feel it. The floor falls away. Just a few inches. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to barely brush his thighs unless you reach. You steady yourself with one hand on his hip and suck him deeper.

He moans. Not quiet. Not controlled. “Fuck. Oh my God, baby, your mouth. Your mouth was made for me.” His hands hover for a second, but the moment you swallow around him, they snap into your hair. Not rough, just anchored. Like he needs you to stay or he’ll lose his mind.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. “You’re gonna break me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs squeeze together at the sound. You moan around him, low, hungry, and he shudders violently. His thighs go rigid, his cock pulsing on your tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, voice breaking, hips twitching. “I can’t stop. Fuck, I can’t.”

He comes. It hits like a wave crashing through him, hips jerking forward, a broken cry of your name tearing from his throat. His hands tighten in your hair as he spills down your throat in thick, hot pulses. You take it. Every drop. His whole body trembles. He says your name again, softer, reverent, worshipful. But when you pull back, wiping your mouth, heart still racing, he’s still hard. Still flushed. Still panting. Still needing.

You rise slowly, chest heaving. He meets you halfway. His kiss is filthier now, sloppier. Less like hunger, more like addiction. Like he needs your mouth open under his to breathe.

“Let me fuck you,” he begs, kissing along your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hands are under your shirt now, rough palms skating over your sides, your ribs, your breasts. “Let me put it in. Please. I’ve wanted this. I’ve dreamed about this. Please.” His voice, God, it shakes with it. Raw. Broken.

You nod and he doesn't wait. You don’t make it to the bed. You crash to the floor together, needy, breathless, half-undressed and already gone.

Your back hits the floor, cool beneath your shoulder blades, the contrast shocking against the heat radiating off your skin. The carpet bites softly at your spine, grounding you just enough to remember where you are. Who you’re with.

Clark stares down at you from the edge of the bed like he’s caught between gravity and godhood. Like he’s not sure whether to climb on top of you or fall to his knees and pray.

His chest rises and falls in stuttered, trembling gasps. His hair clings wet to his forehead, and his collar is dark with sweat. The vein in his neck pulses visibly, sharp and wild, like his body’s threatening to detonate under the weight of what he feels.

You sit up slowly, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt. “Let me.”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods, once, sharp, breathless. You peel the fabric upward, slow not to tease but to pace yourself because even this feels like too much. Each inch of skin you reveal is flushed and golden, his body gleaming like he’s been sculpted from sunlight. His abs contract beneath your knuckles, trembling as you drag the shirt over his head and toss it aside. You place both palms flat against his chest. His skin is burning.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You’re overheating.”

“I know.” His voice is strained, torn from the base of his throat. “Can’t cool down. Not when you’re,” he cuts himself off with a groan, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hands come to yours, locking them to his chest like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You move next, tugging off your top in one fluid motion. His eyes widen. He doesn’t blink. The second your skin is bare to him, your breasts rising with each breath, your ribs flushed with heat, Clark moans. A low, fractured sound, punched from somewhere deep in his gut.

“Oh gosh,” he breathes. “You’re…honey, you’re unreal.”

You take his hand and press it to your waist. He follows your lead, sliding his palm upward, the heel of it grazing beneath your breast. His thumb brushes the swell like he’s holding something sacred. You stand, shuck your pants and underwear in one smooth motion, and drop back onto the carpet, bare, open, heart hammering.

His eyes darken.

You spread your legs slowly, offering. Inviting. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move.

“Clark.”

His gaze snaps to yours. Dazed. Pleading. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, like confession. “Don’t deserve you.”

“Then earn me,” you say, steady and low. “Right now.”

It shatters him. He drops to his knees between your legs, big hands bracketing your thighs as he crawls over you. His body trembles, but the second your legs wrap around his waist and his cock grazes your inner thigh, the last of his restraint snaps like a live wire.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “Wanted you. For so long.”

He fists himself blindly, lines the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and pauses, barely. His eyes search yours, wide and unsteady, asking for more than permission.

You nod and he pushes in all at once. The stretch is intense. Sharp at first, then slow, molten, as he fills you. Thick, long, impossibly deep. You arch beneath him, breath vanishing from your chest like the wind’s been knocked out of you.

“Jesus, baby…you’re tight,” he chokes out, hips jerking. “I’m sorry, I’ll-I’ll go slow, I promise, I’ll…” He doesn’t move. Can’t. His cock is fully seated inside you, twitching, pulsing. He trembles like he’s trying to stay still while the earth shifts underneath him.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping across sweat-slick muscle. “Look at me.”

He lifts his head and it wrecks you. His pupils are blown, lips parted, hair a mess of damp curls and desperation. He looks like he’s about to cry. Like he’s still not convinced this is real.

“You take me so well,” he whispers, awestruck. “You feel like… home. Like I’m supposed to be here.” Then he moves. The first thrust is measured. Slow, grinding, a deep roll of his hips that lets you feel every ridge,  every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

The second makes you gasp.

He buries his face in your neck. “I can’t hold back,” he pleads, voice breaking. “You’re too good…I need, fuck, I need you.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “Then take me.”

He groans, a raw, desperate sound, and starts to move. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Over and over. He rolls into you with reverence and need, like each thrust might be the last. His cock drags across every aching part of you, hitting so deep you see stars. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet, rhythmic, intimate.

He keeps talking. Between thrusts, kisses, gasps. 

“You feel like heaven.”

“You fit me so perfectly, sweetheart.”

“I think about this… I think about you, every fucking night.”

“I tried to go slow. I did. But I’ve never needed anything this bad.”

“Then stop trying,” you murmur as you pull his face to yours and kiss him, open, messy, breathless.

He shudders and lets go. His pace sharpens. Each thrust drives into you with heat, with purpose. The carpet burns the backs of your thighs, your spine arches, your hips lift to meet his, chasing the next stroke like it’s oxygen.

Your moans rise unchecked, curling into his mouth. Your nails rake down his back. You’re close, so close, and he feels it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips at your cheek. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come with me inside you.”

You do. You shatter. Your whole body clenches around him, high and sharp and unstoppable, and you sob his name into the hollow of his throat. He follows, hips snapping forward, cock pulsing as he groans your name into your skin. His cum fills you hot and thick, spilling deep, and he presses all his weight into you as he shakes through it.

But he doesn’t pull out. He can’t. He stays inside you, chest heaving, forehead pressed to your sternum. You feel him twitch. He’s still hard.

“Sweetheart,” he pants, barely audible. “I-I’m still, shit.”

“I know,” you breathe. And then grinning, wrecked, and smug, you cradle his jaw. “So do something about it.”

His head snaps up. His eyes, dark, gleaming, and reverent, burn through you.

“You sure?”

“I’m not fragile.” You nod.

He groans. A real one. Guttural. Primal. Then he pulls out slowly. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, already clenching around nothing.

“Turn over,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Hands and knees, please baby.”

You do. Limbs trembling, thighs still soaked. You arch your back, push your hips up, and you know how you look, open, dripping, waiting. Clark swears behind you, low and violent.

“Fuck. Look at this. Still wet for me.” You feel his hand slide up the curve of your ass, spreading you gently. His palm burns against your skin. “Still begging,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Still mine.” He leans over you, mouth against your ear. “Say it,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Clark…please.”

That’s all it takes.He thrusts back into you in one smooth, brutal stroke. You cry out, back arching, fists grabbing at the sheets as he fills you again, deeper this time. Different angle. New pressure. He grabs your hips, anchoring you as he starts to move, harder now, relentless.

The sound of your bodies colliding is obscene. The wet slide, the slap of skin, the thud of the bedframe against the wall. You swear you feel the room shake.

“You like that?” he growls. “Like being filled so deep you can’t breathe?”

You nod frantically, jaw slack. He grabs your hair, tugs gently, and your spine bows. “Whose is it? Tell me, please.”

“Yours.”

“Again.”

“Yours. Yours, Clark…fuck.”

He pounds into you, and you unravel. Crying, shaking, babbling. He softens just a hair, fingers reaching down, finding your clit.

“Let me make you come again,” he murmurs, voice thick and tender. “Let me show you what it’s like when someone loves you while they do it.”

And you do. You come again, loud, broken, full-body. He holds you through it, kissing your spine, circling your clit until your vision whites out. 

His hips stutter as he spills into you again. He tugs you tight to his body and for a minute, you just lay there and breathe one another in.

You don’t know how much time passes like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe a lifetime. You’re sprawled on the bed in the aftermath of the last round, body limp, flushed and twitching, lips kiss-bruised, neck painted with soft, blooming marks that still throb when the air brushes over them. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, broken pulses.

And you’re still full of him. Clark hasn’t softened once. He’s still inside you, cock hard and throbbing, hips twitching in shallow, instinctive pulses like his body can’t stop, not when you’re slick and warm and wrecked beneath him. Not when you keep letting him. Not when you keep asking.

He pulls out slow this time. Almost tender. Kisses your temple, murmurs something soft that slips past your ears like steam. And then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you’re air and light and the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Your back never leaves the bed until he’s upright. Until he carries you across the room. Until your spine hits the cool wall.

You gasp.

He pins you there with reverence, his hands cradling your ass and lower back, your thighs wrapped around his hips, your toes curling against the heat of his skin. His forehead presses against yours, and for a moment, he’s still. His chest shakes with the effort of it.

You think he might kiss you. Might whisper something sacred. Instead, he thrusts back inside you all at once.

You cry out. So does he. “Oh fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, cock dragging deep. “Still so tight. So full of me.”

Your head thumps back against the wall. Your hands scramble over his shoulders, his biceps, his hair, anywhere. Everywhere. His rhythm is already brutal, unrelenting, every thrust slamming up into you like he’s trying to make you feel it. Feel him.

“Clark, please,” you cry. You aren’t even sure what you’re begging him for at this point. You’re so full, so overstimulated, but so high on the pleasure he’s been drawing out of you that you just don’t care. 

“Look at you,” he moans, hips snapping. “So pretty. All mine.”

You clutch tighter. He’s talking again, rambling, wrecked and breathless and barely coherent. “I dream about your pussy,” he gasps. “You know that? Wake up with my cock in my hand. It’s pathetic ‘cause nothing feels like this. Nothing. It’s you. Only you.”

You clench down around him, and he snarls, teeth flashing at your throat, biting back restraint.

“Oh, you like that?” he pants. “Knowing I can’t sleep without you? That I jerk off thinking about this, about you, and it’s never enough?” He grinds deeper, dragging his cock against every swollen, sensitive part inside you. You cry out, legs locking harder around him.

“I could split you open,” he growls, words slurring with heat. “Fill you so deep you’d leak for days. You’d take it all, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes…yes, please.”

“You have,” he grits. “Already fucking have.” His pace sharpens. Your body jerks. The wall trembles with every slam of his hips, the entire world narrowing down to the stretch, the fullness, the delicious, dizzying ache.

“You feel like home,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like heaven. Fuck, I’m gonna come just from being inside you.”

And he does. His thrusts falter. He buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching, and he shudders as he spills so deep it punches a gasp from your chest. He groans your name against your jaw, clutches your body tighter, holds you through it like if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

You pulse around him, overstimulated and aching and trembling, but not finished. Not even close. You press your forehead to his, breath fogging between you.

“You still with me?” you whisper.

His smile is shattered. Raw. Worshipful. “Barely,” he admits. Then, with a breathless laugh, “But I’m almost done.” He shifts you higher against the wall, your bodies never separating. His hips roll again. Slow. Deep. You whimper, overstimulated nerves lighting up again.

“I love the little sounds you’re making,” he pants, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before thrusting back in hard enough to make your ribs quake. “Can’t get enough of them. Can’t get enough of you.”

You cling to him. His hair. His shoulders. Your body slick where it meets his.

“You still want me?” he asks suddenly, voice cracking. “Even like this?”

You lift your hips into his, thighs flexing. “Always,” you breathe. “More.”

He makes a noise like prayer, like something sacred and shattered in one, and his mouth finds yours again, messy and bruising. “Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “There’s my good girl.”

His forehead presses to yours. His movements slow, not retreating, just deeper. More deliberate. His voice drops into your mouth like a secret he’s never told anyone else. “Let me do the work right now, hm?” he breathes, thumb stroking your hip. “Take my hands. Show me what you need.”

You guide one to your throat.

The other to your breast.

He groans so hard you feel it in your chest. His palm cradles your throat, thumb resting just beneath your jaw. The other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice unraveling. “This what you needed?”

You nod, choking on his name.

“You feel so perfect,” he says again, reverent. “I could die like this. Buried in you. Wouldn’t even care.”

You arch against him, your back to the wall, your chest to his hand, your body a livewire. He kisses your mouth, your cheeks, the tear trailing from your lashline. “Let me stay inside,” he whispers, voice broken. “Just for a second. Please. Don’t make me leave you yet.”

Your breath is stuttering. Your limbs tremble. Every inch of your skin is hot, marked, open. Clark is still inside you, barely moving, barely breathing. He cups your jaw with one trembling hand, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight.

You finally nod, lips brushing his. “I want that too.”

His hips twitch once, then still. He sinks deeper into the space you make for him, into the sweat-slick cradle of your body. His breath hitches, but not from lust this time, from something softer. Something more fragile.

You slide your fingers into his hair, and he exhales a long, shaky breath. The weight of him, the heat, the fullness, it settles into your bones like a lullaby. Like the storm is finally passing.

Eventually, his movements stop entirely. Just the press of his chest against yours. Just the way his hands cradle your body like you might vanish if he lets go.

-

It’s quiet when he wakes. Not just the silence of the room, but the silence inside him. The frenzy’s gone. No compulsion. No gnawing need.

Just… you.

You’re draped over him, cheek resting on his chest, fingers curled into the space just beneath his ribs, one bare leg hooked across his hip like your body knows where it belongs. You’re soft. Warm. Still tangled up in him. And he’s still inside you. Soft now. Nestled in your heat like his body couldn’t bear to part from yours even in sleep.

Clark doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare breathe. Because if he does, he might break the spell. You might vanish.

He shuts his eyes, tries to hold on, but it’s already unraveling. The memories crash down in waves. Your voice. Your tears. His hands. His mouth. The way he couldn’t stop. The way he didn’t want to.

He hadn’t just touched you…he’d taken. Let instinct rule. Let himself fall apart inside the one person he never wanted to hurt.

You gave him everything, and he…he tried to bury himself in it like penance. Guilt claws its way up his throat.

He doesn’t deserve to be here.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He starts to pull away.

Quietly. Slowly. A coward’s retreat.

But before he can fully untangle himself, your arm curls tighter around his waist. And then, softly, sleepily, you tug him back to you.

Clark blinks.

You’re pulling him into your chest now, arms wrapping around him from behind. He lets it happen. Lets you mold him into the cradle of your body, like you’re trying to tuck every broken piece back into place.

You press your lips to the slope of his shoulder. Then to the nape of his neck. And then just… hold him.

“I don’t understand how you’re still here,” he whispers after a long moment. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I was… I wasn’t myself. I didn’t stop. I should’ve stopped.”

You kiss his spine. “You did stop. Every time I needed you to. Anytime I asked.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I said things I shouldn’t have. Touched you like I couldn’t help myself. Like I owned you.”

You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. “You didn’t own me,” you murmur. “You worshipped me.”

He’s quiet. Still trembling. You slide one hand down his arm, threading your fingers through his.

“Clark.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to see you out of the corner of his eye. “I know what it looked like last night,” you whisper. “But I wasn’t lost. I wasn’t swept away or powerless or broken. I wanted you.”

You kiss the curve of his jaw. “And I want you now.” His breath catches. You shift closer, pressing your body to his back, nuzzling your nose against his neck. “I want to show you how much,” you whisper. “Will you let me?”

He nods. Slowly. Like he doesn’t trust it, like he still thinks he’s dreaming. So you kiss him again, soft and sure, and ease him onto his back. His cheeks are pink already. His chest rising and falling in slow, careful breaths. You straddle his hips, guiding him to rest against the pillows. His hands hover at your thighs, not quite grabbing, still asking for permission.

You lace your fingers through his and kiss his knuckles. “Let me love you this time.”

He swallows, nodding. “Okay,” he says softly. “Please.”

You lean in and kiss his throat. His collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. You take your time. Let him feel it. Let him breathe in it. And when you finally reach down and guide him back inside you, he gasps like it’s the first time all over again.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You feel…you feel like heaven.”

You roll your hips slowly, easing him deeper with every rock of your body. His hands rise to your waist, holding gently. Reverently.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice trembling. “You always are, but like this…I don’t know how to look at you and survive it.”

You ride him like a promise. No rush. Just the slow ache of him filling you, the soft slick sound of your bodies moving together.

“You should see yourself right now,” he whispers, eyes wide, voice thick with wonder. His hands drag up your thighs.“You’re… breathtaking.”

You moan, letting your head tip back.

He groans softly, hands tightening slightly. “Every time you move like that,” he says, voice shaking, “it feels like you’re letting me have something I never thought I’d deserve.”

You gasp again, higher, needier, and he exhales like it’s knocking the wind out of him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You sound like you're mine.” His voice is reverent. Wrecked. And so full of love you almost fall apart from it.

“Please don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, Clark.”

His gaze burns into you. “I won’t,” he says, lifting his hips to meet yours. “I’d stay like this forever if you let me.”

And then you realize you’re floating. Just a few inches off the bed. Your knees suspended above the mattress, his body rising with yours, his grip gentle but sure.

“Clark,” you gasp, clenching around him. “You’re…oh my god. You’re floating.”

His eyes fly open, dazed. “I—oh shoot—I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, rocking harder now. “Please, Clark. I’m so close… please please please.”

His hands steady you. “Ride it out, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft and sure. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You whimper, mouth falling open, as he starts to move with you, slow and deep, guiding your hips in time with his.

“I love you,” he whispers, reverent. “I love you, and I’ve never felt anything like this. Never.”

The tension builds again, higher, sharper, brighter. You cry out as you come, your whole body locking down around him. He follows, groaning into your mouth, spilling inside you with a shudder. And for a long, perfect moment, you stay like that. Breathless. Floating. Loved.

You're both breathless and still tangled in each other. Still floating just a bit. And then his body finally gives out. Not from exhaustion exactly, but from everything else. The overwhelming emotion. The quiet joy. The fact that, for once, he’s not holding back.

You sink together into the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and slow, uneven breathing. His arms wrap around you instinctively, one hand splayed protectively over the small of your back. You press your cheek to his chest, heart still hammering. For a moment, there’s only quiet.

“…I broke the bed, didn’t I?”

You lift your head. Glance around. The mattress is halfway off the frame. The headboard has a crack running straight down the middle. There’s a suspicious dent in the drywall to your right, and is that a curtain rod on the floor?

You snort. “Technically,” you murmur, “I think the bed broke us.”

Clark groans and buries his face in your hair. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I am! Look at this place! It looks like a tornado made out with a thunderstorm in here.”

You grin and glance down at his chest, where a vivid trail of nail marks curves along his pecs. “I think we did a little more than make out, Kent.”

Clark groans again. “You’re not helping.”

“You’re adorable when you spiral.”

“I rearranged the furniture with my ass.”

You giggle into his neck. “Okay, that part was impressive.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes soft but sheepish. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

His gaze skims over your features like he’s searching for any sign of discomfort. You let him look. Let him catalogue the soft flush of your skin, the curve of your smile, the little hickeys scattered along your throat and shoulders like confessions.

Eventually, he exhales. Still cautious. Still Clark. “…I didn’t mean to float. Again.”

“I know.”

“I definitely didn’t mean to shatter the lamp.”

“I didn’t even like that lamp.”

His lips twitch. “You really okay?”

You press your forehead to his. “Clark. I’m great.”

“But your legs were shaking.”

“From happiness.”

He hides his face again, groaning into your shoulder. You feel the smile against your skin even as he tries to pretend he’s not grinning like an idiot. You comb your fingers gently through his hair, tugging just enough to make him peek back up at you.

“Hey.”

He hums, eyes half-lidded.

“You were gentle. You were sweet. You were amazing.”

“I…” He swallows. “I just… didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. With you. And now that I do,” his breath hitches. “I don’t want to do anything that could make you regret it.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. “I don’t.”

“Promise?”

You nod. “You’re mine. Floating furniture and all.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, burying you in the warmth of his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear. You both lay there, tangled and safe, legs twisted together beneath the wreckage of the sheets.

“…I should probably fix the drywall…” He says quietly, sheepishly

You laugh so hard you wheeze. He grins, cheeks flushed, and for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

-

Clark knocks. Not with superspeed. Not with X-ray vision scanning the walls. Not by floating outside your bedroom window like he has every night since. Just… knocks.

You hear it from the kitchen where you stand barefoot, sleep-mussed, one of his old flannels, clean now, hanging loose over your tank top. You wander to the door, unhurried, and open it to find him standing there on your front step like a prayer you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He’s in a navy sweater that clings a little too well to his arms, sleeves shoved to the elbow, curls damp from a shower. His glasses are slightly fogged from the early chill. His cheeks are pink, like he blushed on the way over and it never faded.

He’s holding a brown paper bag and a bouquet that’s half wildflowers, half… whatever he could reach in a field somewhere off Highway 6. It’s completely him. And completely yours.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t feel like phasing through the wall today?”

His mouth twitches. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

You arch a brow. “Clark. You’ve had me pinned to that wall.”

His ears go bright red.

You glance down at the bouquet. “What’s this?”

He clears his throat, shifts his weight, tries to smile like it’s casual. “Thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

“Just breakfast?”

“Breakfast and flowers.” He pauses, then adds, a little more nervous, “And maybe… a proper start.”

Your smile softens. “You already started.”

“I know. I just…” He shrugs helplessly. “I wanted this part to be normal. Not fevered. Not floating. Not…” His voice dips. “Not something I regret getting wrong.”

You reach out and take the bouquet from his hands. “You didn’t get anything wrong.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“I’m serious, Clark. You didn’t ruin me. You didn’t hurt me. You… loved me.” You step aside. “And I’d like for you to come in now. Preferably without apologizing again.”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. Then steps inside.

You trail him into the kitchen, watching as he unpacks the bag: coffee from that little corner café, real cream, strawberries, your favorite bagels. There’s a container of jam that definitely came from the farmer’s market.

You cock your head. “Is this a breakfast date?”

His hand stills. “Only if you want it to be.”

You cross the kitchen slowly, arms slipping around his waist from behind. He’s warm, soft, still a little damp from his shower. You press your cheek to the center of his back and feel him sigh. “I do,” you murmur. “Want it to be.”

He turns in your arms, eyes wide, glasses a little crooked. “You sure?”

You smile and reach up to fix them. “Clark. You’ve seen me naked, sobbing, laughing, riding you mid-air. I think we’re past the part where I pretend I don’t want you.”

A full flush blooms across his face. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs tracing the hem of your flannel. “I still can’t believe you want me,” he says quietly.

“I always did.”

His brow knits. “Even after everything? After what I said? What I did?”

You cup his jaw. “Clark. I wanted it because it was you. Every word you said. I heard all the love underneath. Even the parts you didn’t mean to say out loud.”

His eyes drop, and you nudge his chin gently back up.

“I see you. All of you. And I’m still here.”

His breath stutters. “You make me feel… human.”

You grin. “You make me feel like flying.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “I’m really glad I knocked.”

“Next time, bring more bagels,” you whisper. “And maybe some patching supplies.”

He groans. “I am going to fix the guest room.”

You hum. “Eventually.” Then you reach for the strawberries and say, sweetly, “Or… you could leave the wall dent. As a little trophy.”

He huffs a laugh. “What would we call it?”

You pop a berry into your mouth, then smile against his cheek. “The night Clark Kent lost his mind.”

He kisses you then, slow, deep, his hands warm against your waist like they never want to let go. When you break apart, he murmurs, “So… this is real?”

You nod. “This is real.”

And just before he can lean in again, you add, “But if you drop those bagels, I will find a way to toss you into the ceiling.”

He grins, teeth flashing. “That a promise?”

You smirk. “That’s a threat, Kent.”

Or maybe it was how, despite being soft-spoken and a little clumsy, Clark always made you feel seen.

It crept up on you. One minute, you were just colleagues sharing a workspace. The next, you were trading dumb jokes late at night, texting about breaking stories, sitting too close, brushing hands too often, your heartbeat leaping at things that shouldn’t have meant anything—but did.

You liked him. You really, really liked him.

And Clark, well you weren’t sure. He looked at you like he wanted to say something, like he was biting back words that danced at the edge of possibility. But he never said them.

Maybe he was scared.

So were you.

You both let it sit there, a quiet thing curled between you. Familiar. Tense. Beautiful.

Something just waiting to break.

The morning had barely started when Perry White barreled out of his office, a thick manila folder clutched in one hand like a weapon. You were halfway through your first cup of coffee, bleary-eyed and trying to make sense of the headlines on your screen, when the folder slammed onto your desk with enough force to rattle your mug.

“Superman. Hob’s Bay. You’re on it,” he barked, voice gravelly from too many late nights and stronger-than-necessary cigars. His shirt was rumpled, tie askew, and his suspenders were doing little to rein in the barely-contained fury of a man who hadn’t seen a quiet news day in twenty years.

You blinked, then looked down at the folder. It was thick, stuffed with incident reports, clippings, witness statements. You could already tell there was more here than Perry had time to say.

“What’s going on?” you asked, flipping it open.

“Superman’s been working overtime down there,” Perry said, pacing like a caged animal. “Drug raids, rescue ops, late-night disappearances, maybe even gang retaliation. Something’s brewing. And I want a real story—not just another puff piece about a cat in a tree. Human angle. Give me people, faces. Give me something true.”

You nodded, adrenaline already buzzing in your veins. You’d done harder stories before, but there was something about this one that felt different. The kind of story that dug under your skin and stayed there. You stood, grabbing your camera from under the desk.

“I’ll head out this afternoon.”

Across the bullpen, Clark Kent shifted in his seat. You hadn’t even realized he was listening until he cleared his throat.

“You’re going alone?” he asked, voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant. You turned to him, surprised. He wasn’t the type to weigh in on assignments, especially not yours.

“Unless you’re offering to be my assistant,” you said, teasing. “What do you think, Kent? Want to lug my gear around for a day?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just meant… it’s not the safest neighborhood. Maybe someone should go with you.”

You paused, studying him. His hands were clasped tightly on his notepad. His shoulders were tense, eyes flicking to the folder on your desk like it had personally offended him. Something about the way he said it—something restrained, almost protective—made your heartbeat slow just a little.

“You volunteering?” you asked again, more serious this time.

Clark opened his mouth. A second passed. Then another. His brow furrowed like he was struggling with something, some silent argument happening behind his eyes. But then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Just… be careful, okay?”

You softened. For a moment, you weren’t in the middle of the newsroom. For a moment, it was just the two of you, and that unspoken thread that had been tugging between you. Always there, just out of reach.

“I always am,” you said gently.

He looked like he wanted to say more. There was a flicker of something in his expression—worry, guilt, something deeper—but before he could speak, Perry called his name from across the bullpen.

“Clark! Now!”

Clark winced, gave you a quick nod, and rose from his chair. His movements were stiff, reluctant, like each step toward Perry’s office was a step away from something important. You watched him go, and a strange ache settled in your chest. Not quite fear. Not quite longing. Something sharper. Something that curled behind your ribs and stayed there.

You glanced back at the folder. The top sheet was a police report—timestamped just after midnight. A warehouse fire near the docks. Superman had arrived minutes before the fire department, pulled four people from the blaze, then disappeared before anyone could thank him. No injuries. No arrests. Just smoke, soot, and silence.

Beneath it, another report: a gang bust in the same area. Superhuman strength reported. No official confirmation. Witnesses described the suspect as “a blur” and “a shadow with a cape.”

You exhaled slowly. Hob’s Bay had always been a rough patch of Metropolis, but this was different. Something was happening there, and Superman was right in the middle of it.

You packed your things methodically—camera lenses, notepad, a recorder, extra batteries. You threw on your coat, then hesitated.

Across the bullpen, you could still see Clark through the glass of Perry’s office. He stood stiffly, hands behind his back, listening to Perry with the same intense focus he gave every assignment. But every so often, his eyes flicked to the door. Flicked toward you.

Like he was still thinking about what he didn’t say.

You shook your head and headed out.

The elevator doors closed with a quiet sigh behind you, and as the city opened up outside—sunlight slanting across steel and glass, the hum of taxis and pedestrians like the pulse of something too big to hold—you couldn’t help but wonder what Clark knew.

Because he did know something. You felt it in your bones.

The way his voice had dipped when he asked if you were going alone. The hesitation. The way his eyes had darkened when Perry mentioned Hob’s Bay. The way he flinched at the name Superman. You’ve known Clark long enough to know when something was eating at him, you’d figure it out sooner or later.

The night air at Hob’s Bay had the sharp bite of early autumn. It carried the scent of exhaust, rusted metal, and something else—burnt plastic maybe, or chemical fumes. You couldn’t tell.

The entire construction site had dissolved into chaos.

An overturned fuel truck had jackknifed near the edge of the pit, spewing smoke into the dark sky. Fire crews were shouting orders over the roar of engines. Workers and passersby had formed a confused, panicked circle just beyond the emergency tape.

You clutched your notepad with frozen fingers, nerves crackling under your skin like static. You were trying to stay focused—interviewing one of the site supervisors about what caused the collapse—but his words barely registered. Sirens screamed from every direction. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered. Your pen shook in your hand. And then came a sharp, metallic shriek of something massive giving way.

You turned.

A support beam—thick, rusted, groaning—had torn loose from the upper scaffolding. You watched in stunned silence as the framework began to crumble, metal lurching downward in a cloud of sparks and grit. Everything slowed.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

The sky vanished in a storm of falling steel.

And then the wind changed.

A sudden gust slammed into you from the side, and a pair of strong arms wrapped around your torso.

Warmth. Strength. Security.

One moment you were standing on solid ground, and the next, you were airborne—swept into the sky with impossible speed. Your surroundings blurred into motion: fire, sirens, orange haze and gray-blue sky bleeding together.

Your breath caught.

It was him.

The arms holding you were solid, steady, one curled gently beneath your knees, the other pressed protectively between your shoulder blades. You clung to the fabric of his suit out of instinct—cool beneath your fingers, but reassuring in its firmness.

And his heartbeat—it was calm. Steady.

Superman.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was tight with shock, lungs still trying to process what had happened.

He carried you silently through the air, his expression furrowed with concentration. You noticed his eyes flick downward every few seconds, scanning for danger, making sure he wasn’t just moving you—but moving you somewhere safe.

A few moments later, he touched down gently on the rooftop of a nearby parking garage—flat, isolated, high enough above the chaos to give you air. The moment your feet touched the concrete, your knees buckled.

“Hey hey, you’re okay” he murmured quickly, catching you before you could collapse. His voice was warm but soft, like he was afraid to speak too loudly. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

You gripped his forearm, fingers trembling. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. He steadied you, hands holding onto you so gently, with such care that he was afraid he’d hurt you. He stroked your hair softly muttering that ‘you’re safe now’, more to himself than you.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, “I—I didn’t even see it—” you pull back softly and wipe your eyes. You stared at him. His features were striking, lit faintly by the emergency lights from below. The suit clung to his frame, the red cape fluttering faintly in the breeze—but his face,

There was something gentle there. Not just heroic. Familiar.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice quieter now. Genuine.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Just shaken.”

He nodded slowly, and you saw his shoulders loosen—only a little. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner,” he said, barely audible.

“You saved me.” You replied back softly

Your chest twisted. He wasn’t standing tall and triumphant the way the news captured him. He looked like someone who carried weight he couldn’t share. Like he blamed himself for almosts.

“I wasn’t watching closely enough,” he added, more to himself than to you. “The beam snapped before I noticed the tension. I thought the pressure was stable. I should’ve—”

You reached out instinctively and touched his chest, your hand delicately placed on top of the iconic ‘s’ on his suit. His breathing hitched for a moment—but he didn’t move away.

“You’re not supposed to be everywhere,” you said, gently. “But you were there when it counted.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Closer now, he seemed vulnerable, less untouchable. “I saw you from the air,” he murmured. “You were asking questions. Standing right in the danger zone. I-I panicked-.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You panicked?”

A faint smile touched his lips—melancholy more than amused. “I couldn’t let my favorite journalist get hurt.” He says without thinking, his eyes shut in embarrassment.

You swallowed. “You read my work?”

His eyes flickered away, cheeks darkening.

“I do,” he said softly. “You write about the right things. The things others don’t care to acknowledge even though it’s important. It’s admirable.”

You didn’t know what to say. Compliments from civilians were flattering. From Superman? They felt unreal. He turned slightly, scanning the edge of the building, checking the skyline for further threats. But his body was still angled toward you, like his attention was split—and you were keeping most of it.

“I should take you back,” he said. “Or to medical, just to make sure—”

“No,” you said quickly. “I mean—I’m okay. Really.”

He hesitated. And then you saw it again: that flicker of tension in his jaw. Something else simmering beneath his composure. Guilt, maybe. Or something closer to sadness.

“What is it?” you asked.

He shook his head, clearly debating something. “I shouldn’t have taken you here alone,” he said. “It’s not standard protocol.”

The wind pulled at his cape again, tugging it to the side. The silence stretched between you, full of words neither of you could name.

Then—slowly, tentatively—he stepped closer.

He wasn’t trying to be suave. If anything, he looked nervous. His fingers brushed the air near your hand before retreating again.

“I don’t usually stop and talk,” he said nervously. “I fly in. Handle it. Leave. But you were scared and I didn’t want to leave you like that.”

Your heart beat louder. He looked at you again—really looked—and something in his face wavered. You felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. His hand lifted slightly, hovering just beside your cheek but never touching.

“I saw you down there and I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I got scared something would happen. I thought I wouldn’t get to you. And then I did, but it still wasn’t enough. You could’ve been—” the words tumbled out of his mouth.

You didn’t realize you were crying until he blinked and touched a single tear from your cheek, his hand feather-light.

“Please don’t-” he whispered. “Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. You’re safe now.” He pulled you closer to him, embracing you. You leaned into his touch just slightly, your breath catching.

“Thanks to you” you said again, softer this time.

The look he gave you after that almost undid you. Raw. Unsure. Terrified of what he was about to do. Your faces were now just inches away, lips so close he could smell the strawberry lip gloss that coated them.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. You saw the exact moment he gave in—not to impulse, but to emotion. He kissed you and it wasn’t bold or fiery.

It was cautious. Almost apologetic. His lips were soft and slow against yours, like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

You pressed in just slightly. Just enough to tell him it was okay. When he pulled back, he did so slowly. Like it hurt. And when he looked into your eyes again, guilt was written all over his face.

“I’m so sorry I- god I’m such an idiot” he said, and his voice cracked.

“Why?”

His jaw clenched. “Because I should have done that as someone else.”

Your breath hitched.

You were still trying to process what he meant when he turned—fast, like he had to stop himself from staying—and lifted into the sky with one final look.

And then he was gone.

The wind swept around you in his absence. And you stood on that rooftop, your lips still tingling, your chest aching in ways you didn’t understand. Superman had kissed you. But it felt like someone else had been behind that kiss. Someone warm. Familiar. Someone who knew your favorite articles.

And cared too much.

You barely slept that night.

After Superman vanished into the sky, you’d stood on that rooftop for what felt like hours, the city humming beneath you, wind wrapping around your shoulders like a second skin. Your mind ran in endless loops — replaying the fall, the flight, the sound of his voice.

And the kiss.

Soft. Guilt-ridden. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from a man the world called invincible.

He kissed you like it hurt him to do it. Like he wanted to, but hated that he did.

You had no answers, no context. Only that flicker of emotion in his voice — “I wanted to do that as someone else” — haunting you long after the sky swallowed him.

The morning light felt too bright.

You dragged yourself through your routine, hair twisted into something decent, your press badge clipped to your blazer. You were halfway to the Planet before the first notification buzzed on your phone.

Then the second.

Then twenty more.

By the time the elevator dinged open to the bullpen, your heart was already racing. Because the newsroom was buzzing. No — exploding.

You stepped inside and the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter. Shouting. The rhythmic thrum of keyboards going to war. And all of it — every eye, every whisper — was aimed at you.

“Hey! Speak of the devil!” Jimmy Olsen practically sprinted toward you, brandishing his tablet like it was the Holy Grail. “You saw this, right?”

You blinked. “Saw what?”

He tapped the screen and turned it around.

There it was. You.

Up on that rooftop. Superman’s cape billowing behind him, your hand resting gently on the “S” of his chest, lips pressed to his. The photo was unmistakable. Not blurry. Not doctored.

It was you. Your stomach dropped.

“Where—” you started, your voice dry.

“Some guy in a condo across from the lot took it!” Jimmy said breathlessly. “He was recording the fire response and just happened to pan over at the perfect second. It’s been circulating all morning. Every outlet’s got it now. Even the foreign ones.”

You stared at the photo, numb. The wind in your hair. The way Superman’s eyes were half-lidded, almost reverent. The kiss frozen in time.

“Y/N, I mean this in the best way possible,” Jimmy grinned, “but you are blowing up right now.”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, someone else called your name. Then another. And another. You were suddenly surrounded — people flooding from their desks with questions. The swarm of coworkers came at you with delighted disbelief:

“What’s he like up close?”

“Is it true he smells like clouds or something?”

“Are you dating now?!”

You held up your hands, flustered. “Guys, I—It wasn’t planned—”

“You look so calm in the photo though! How were you not losing your mind?”

“I was!” you said nervously. “Internally, I was screaming my lungs out”

Your cheeks were burning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You thought it had been a private moment. A quiet, strange, world-tilting slip of vulnerability between you and him. But now it was public. Immortalized. Viral.

The door to Perry’s office slammed open. You turned, startled. Clark stood in the doorway. His eyes found you instantly. And your heart nearly stopped. He looked exhausted. His glasses were slightly askew, his tie loosened like he hadn’t bothered tightening it properly. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes — which was odd, because Clark never looked tired. Ever.

But now?

He looked like someone who hadn’t slept. And the moment he saw you and something in his face shifted. He blinked once. Slowly. Then his jaw tightened, locked in place

You stepped toward him without thinking, muscle memory from spending almost every day with him “Good morning Clark—”

“Morning,” he said, cutting you off. His voice was low. Bitter.

You stopped in your tracks. He walked past you toward his desk, not meeting your eyes. Your stomach turned.

Everyone else seemed oblivious to the change in air, still caught up in the photo frenzy. But you could feel it. The way his shoulders curved inward. The way he was trying to look casual but was clearly anything but.

You watched him sit, power on his monitor like it might distract him.

You waited.

And when the crowd finally dispersed and chatter softened into the background buzz of another news cycle, you crossed the floor and stopped by his desk. He didn’t look up. He clicked his mouse once. Then again. Like that was more important than the words trying to form between you.

After a few moments he stood. Slowly. The chair squeaked quietly behind him as he pushed it back. He looked at you then and something in him cracked. His expression — usually calm, polite, gentle — was stormy now. His brows were drawn tight, his jaw clenched like he was fighting to keep something from spilling out. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then exhaled slowly through his nose, as if steadying himself.

“Superman kissed you?” he said.

The words weren’t angry, but they weren’t easy, either.

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It all happened so fast. He saved me and after he took me to this rooftop and-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself” he said too quickly.

He hesitated. His hands curled into fists against the desk, like he was anchoring himself there to avoid reaching for something — or someone.

“I just…” He trailed off, voice quieter now. “It’s hard.”

You stepped closer. “What is?”

He glanced away, then back at you.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, his voice low and rough, “to see the person you care about look at someone else like that.”

You froze.

And Clark — sweet, shy Clark — blinked and looked down, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “It wasn’t like that” you whispered. “It wasn’t planned, It just—he caught me off guard. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t expect—”

“I know,” he said, finally meeting your eyes again. There was something in his gaze — a quiet guilt. “That’s the part that kills me.”

He stared at you, lips parted, he wanted so badly to tell you. But he didn’t. Instead, he laughed under his breath — sharp, humorless — and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further.

“Because it was me” he whispered, so softly you didn’t hear.

You frowned softly, “What?”

But he shook his head. “Nothing.”

You stepped closer again. Close enough to feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “Clark, what aren’t you telling me?”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, chest rising and falling like he was at war with himself. And he was.

Because he’d kissed you. As Superman. Held you like the world was ending, tasted the truth of what he’d felt for so long — and you had no idea. He has wanted nothing more than to do that but he’d gone and done it as Superman, not Clark.

You didn’t even know it was him. And now here you were, trying to explain it like it had nothing to do with him, and he had to pretend he wasn’t burning with jealousy of himself. God he felt like such an idiot.

He clenched his fists again. Clark stepped in then — closer than before. The closest he’d ever dared. “You talk about him like he’s someone else” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like you don’t know him. Like he’s a stranger.”

Your chest tightened. “He is a stranger.”

Clark gazed at you for a long while. Then gave the saddest smile you’d ever seen, those soft dimples appearing ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess he is.” Before you could say anything else, he stepped back. “I have to go.”

“Clark just wait a second-“

In the end, you decided on pancakes. They were relatively hard to mess up, or so you think, and they have some cute memories attached. Of course the added bonus that Clark favoured breakfast for dinner. 

To you, following recipes was just as hard as cooking itself, maybe even more so. Before long, the words would become an indecipherable mess and you would be lost between the steps, unsure when to add whatever is next. But with pancakes, there is very little room for error, the lack of order meaning all ingredients can be dumped into the bowl at the same time.

The batter was relatively easy to throw together and by now it was chilling in your fridge, waiting while you chopped fruit and whipped cream — making use of time before Clark finishes work and comes over to yours. 

You sneak a look at the time and begin to get things ready for his arrival, noticing that he shouldn’t be too far away. You place the frying pan onto the heat with a knob of butter and make your way to the little dining nook, giving everything a quick once over: repositioning the candles, adjusting the glasses, rearranging the flowers he had gotten you this morning, doing whatever deems necessary to make the area pretty. 

Quickly going around your little apartment, you make sure everything is away, even though you were fairly certain everything was just as you left it when you speed cleaned a couple hours prior. It's not that Clark had never been over, he’d been over many, many times really, he was even over this morning following the night before, but you just wanted everything in place, everything to be special for your anniversary dinner. 

Your nose practically twitches as the smell of smoke hits it, the smell of butter burning presumably. And so you dart back into the kitchenette, uttering a string of curses when you see the whispers of dark smoke permeate through the pan, fat turning almost black. You’ve learnt your lesson from the past, so you grab a dish towel and hold it around the handle to protect your hand while you move it off the heat and place it on the burner at the back. 

You were already running low on time, so instead of standing there scraping off the muck, you place it into the sink and grab another —slightly less kempt— pan and place it onto the stovetop, adding more butter, but this time, keeping an eye on it. Once it reaches the temperature you presume to be right, you pour a scoop of the batter into the pan and shape it, molding it to how you planned in your mind. 

Watching over it, you wait for the right moment and prepare to flip it, but just as you’re about to, your apartment door opens and Clarks greets you, calling your name in that soft, velvety way he often does. His arrival puts a hold to the flipping and you step a few paces towards the door, welcoming him by throwing your arms around him.

“Hi,” he says, uttering between half a dozen quick kisses to your lips. “How was your day?” he asks while he hangs up his bag and jacket.

“Uh,” you chuckle as you smooth over his arms, palms gliding down his shirt as you offer him a weak smile. “Busy,” you add, face playfully scrunching. 

“Does it have something to do with the smell?” his eyes narrow, head tilting softly.

Your features widen upon the reminder and you gasp, trotting away and dashing back towards the stove. You scoff in frustration when you see the state of yet another pan, the batter turning an unsalvageable shade of brown. Clark follows behind you slowly, situating himself behind you and wrapping his arms around your front, seemingly trying to distract you from your annoyance. 

“I thought pancakes would be foolproof,” you sigh, poking at your burnt dinner with the spatula. 

“Well,” he hums and places his chin onto your shoulder, resting on you. 

You turn around and face him, his arms following suit, still encompassing you though now his hands are clasped around your back.

“They’re supposed to be like those pancakes we got from that diner near your parents that one time. When we first started dating,” you playfully frown and reach up to kiss him, hands raising to cup his face. “I thought it would be cute.”

“It is,” he’s quick to reassure, but his head faintly shakes as if he’s struggling to find words. His gaze hangs low, trusting eyes cast down to your mouth like he tends to do. “But it’s just… you know.”

You humorously scoff. “Terrible? Burnt? Black?”

His grin widens and he chuckles earnestly, dimples prominent. “Oh I wouldn’t say that,” he pauses and presses another kiss to you, and another. Quite like he was softening you up. “Inedible.”

“‘Inedible’? Wow,” you tut, head shaking with faux disapproval. “That’s even worse than burnt.”

“Yeah,” his face scrunches impishly as if to offer an apology he didn’t really mean. “Isn’t it?”

Clark leans in to kiss you once more, attempting to reverse the sting of his honesty, but you turn your head away at the last second, ludically declining him with a swift twist of the head. He pulls away, slightly taken aback, and so he tries again — knowing your lack of invitation came from a place of teasing, rather than something else. Though he’s too fast for your quick turning head and lands a kiss to your lips. 

You don’t pull back, instead you welcome it gladly. You reach upwards as if to keep him close, arms wrapping around the back of his neck as you melt into it. Clark's hands momentarily drift from the small of your back as he twists the knobs on the stove, turning the heat off — using his head despite blood rushing away from it. 

The lack of his touch is short lived, but this time his hands connect under your ass rather than above it, his fingers interlocking on the backs of your upper thighs as he pulls you up, lifting you like it was no such problem. Your arms tighten around him as if to keep yourself stable, though it's pointless, there’s really no need for that at all.

He walks you towards your bed and gently places you down onto it — putting you on the edge and he follows suit, lowering with you until he eventually kneels on the floor, sitting on his heels between your legs. He places his hands over your knees and slowly slides them up, fingers shimmying the hem of your dress aside so his grazing can continue underneath. 

Like it was pure instinct, you scooch yourself towards the edge of the bed, hips rolling underneath yourself as it to get closer, exposing yourself in modest increments. He keeps his gaze soft as he peers at you, tender and loving eyes meeting yours before they momentarily drift down to your lips — keenly surveilling on you, watching the microexpressions play out across your features. Like he’s reading you, essentially. 

He observes you, adoring eyes watching the way you respond to his touch, how you still respond to his touch. Quite like he’s compiling the sight of you for safe keeping. His hands slip from the top of your thighs to under them, grasp travelling to hook under the backs of your knees. He lifts one and leans in, pressing a kiss to the inner of it, and then he repeats with the other knee — searing a spot of warmth into either one. 

Though he does not pull back quick, instead he keeps his lips to your skin and scatters a small, slow line along the inner of your thigh. And when he reaches as close as he can with your restricted seated position, he continues the trail up your other thigh, giving each the same amount of attention. 

With his face closing the distance, you lean back slightly and rest on elbows behind you, propping yourself up in a way that still allows you a great view. Clark slips his fingers into the elastic of your underwear, nails skimming your skin as he drags the material down — teasing, untimely manner emphasising his lack of haste when it comes to you. 

You lift your hips to help him rid you of your underwear and he continues with the dragging, pulling them down your thighs until he reaches the end of the course: slinky fabric on the floor as opposed to you. As Clark adjusts and leans in, you bunch up your dress, hiking the fabric around your stomach area to allow him better access to you. 

His eyes flicker over you in that way he often does, gaze locking with yours momentarily before they flutter closed, his lips briefly coming into contact with your cunt acting as the reason why. He places a kiss to the centre of your pussy, and another and another and another, tongue swiping up you by the fourth time he reconnects his lips to your clit. 

His attention draws south and his tongue lowers, the tip of it temporarily entertaining your clenching entrance as if he couldn’t quite help himself. And when he travels back up your cunt, the muscle acts as a divide, tongue parting your folds as if to redistribute the wet he’s coating you with. 

He adjusts his grip on the backs of your knees and instead latches around the tops of your thighs — big burly arms engulfing your upper legs to keep you close, hold you there as he buries his face within your cunt. Like that of a starved man, he begins to lap at your pussy, motion languid as if to savour you, keen on the way you taste on his tongue and the way you feel on his lips. 

Small puckers and smooches and licks resume on your cunt, his attention purely immersed on you as he works you up little by little. The heavy breaths of you act like fuel to the already burning fire and he continues with what he’s doing: keeping the rhythm and pressure the same right up until that moment when your thighs begin to shudder and hips start to wobble — the tell that you’re right on the edge.

And when you reach that edge, you’re convulsing against him, cunt winding against his face like you had no control of your own body, no hold over what you were doing. His grip remains tight on you, fingers interlocking above your pubic bone to stop you from wriggling away from your own climax. And only when you’re tapping out, rather literally, your hand slapping at his forearm as a way to communicate —currently incapable of communicating through the deep gasps and whines— he slows to a gradual halt. 

But he keeps his face nuzzled between your thighs for a moment longer and presses soft, light kisses to your quivering cunt and to the crease just beside it. Quite like he’s easing you down steadily. The kisses resume in a patch at the inner of your thigh before he eventually pulls himself away from your pussy, the entirety of his face only just coming into your sight.

A dopey, lazy, dimpled smile spreads on his face when he locks eyes with you, the lewd, dishevelled view of you exciting him all the more. He stands and cranes over you for a moment while he leans to hover atop you, eager to rekindle his lips with yours. The kiss is slow and deep, unrushed movement allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. And when pulls away, he sees the patch of wet on your chin that matches that on his, each of you practically sharing your juices. 

He pushes himself away and stands like he did just a moment ago, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt as he begins to undo it — ridding himself of his clothes right between your legs. You follow suit and remove your dress, pulling it off within a few short seconds only to throw it off the end of the bed. While he unbuckles his pants, you excitedly roll up the length of the bed, situating yourself longways to ensure Clark can fit comfortably with his huge height. 

Not even a moment later, he joins you, placing himself beside you — twisting and propping himself up on a forearm so he can reach your face easily. You meet his lips and pick up from where you left off a few moments before, haste completely out of the question. 

Clark reaches down to his cock while you twist at the hips, turning your lower half away from him while keeping your mouths connected. You also reach downwards, snaking a hand between the cheeks of your ass as you lift one, opening yourself up to accommodate your lover a little more easily. 

The head of dick clumsily bumps at your cunt for a moment, fat tip teasing you almost before he slots into the dip and eases in, motion gentle as he slowly fills you with his well-endowed cock. 

He swallows the gasps and heavy breaths from you, each one sounding like a hum as it vibrates against his tongue. With the hand he had on his cock, he moves it to hold the side of your face, palm to your neck as if to keep you close, hold you there while he deepens the kiss and simultaneously reaches deeper inside you.

And when his dick is fully sheathed within you, bottoming out completely, he adjusts his hold on you and slips the arm he rests on, under your head. Clark begins to move his hips, the rolling into you aided by the slow, half-winds. Movement unrushed like again, the sole purpose was to just feel you: feel the warmth, feel the tightening, feel the way you shudder against him. 

You break the growing sloppy kiss and the strength in your neck is lost, head tilting back into the swell of his arm as your mouth hangs slightly agape — lewd, strained breaths getting past between. Each little noise from the pair of you synchronised to movement of Clark's hips, sounds utterly in tune with the motions. 

His hand to the side of your throat lowers and he clasps your tit closest to him, the weight of it being held comfortably within his rather large palm. A gentle, mindless toying ensues as he runs over your nipple, the nub caught between his thumb and forefinger.

And before long, you’re practically fused to him, sticky, sweaty skin searing to the other as his grip envelops you: the arm beneath the back of your neck now curling up to wrap around your head, his other now draped over your stomach to latch on the opposite side, retaining his hold on you like he couldn’t bear the thought of not touching you like he is right now. 

You peer up at him with heavy eyes, the rest of your features relaxed and blissed as you reach up kiss him again, suddenly consumed by a sense of neediness with the way he’s holding and fucking you. 

“Happy Anniversary," you mutter against his lips, voice shuddery and strained. 

He moves the hand from around your breast and puts it back to your neck, thumb resting in front of your ear as if to pull you in for another kiss. “Happy Anniversary," he repeats after you, teeth grazing your lips as a lazy smile spreads across his. 

“Maybe,” you pause and swallow thickly. “Maybe you can fly us to that diner— get some real pancakes?”

His head shakes softly, lips gentle as he kisses you again and again. “I think I can make yours work.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re asking for a miracle.”

There’s blood on his lip, slowly trailing down to his chin. His suit is in pieces, torn in too many places to count, revealing scrapes and bruises along his torso and arms. His eyes are red, glossy with unshed tears, and for a second he just stands there, chest heaving from exhaustion. Then he moves.

He crosses the room and collapses onto the bed on top of you without a word, his arms wrapping tight around your middle. His face presses into your chest, the heat of him soaking into your skin. You hear him sniffle before everything else goes still.

“Clark..?” you whisper, hesitant, your hand slowly lifting to rest in his hair. Your fingers begin to move without thinking, brushing gently through the tangled strands. He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders starting to fall, the tension draining from his body with every slow movement of your hand.

“No,” he mumbles into your chest. His voice is rough, strained. “Don’t wanna talk. Just hold me.”

“I can do that,” you whisper, your fingers continuing to move gently through his hair, the quiet rhythm comforting for both of you.

You sit together like that in silence for a while. The room is dim now, lit only by the last slivers of sunlight filtering through your window. The sounds of the city outside feel distant, like they belong to another world. All you hear are the soft groans of pain Clark tries to muffle against your chest.

Eventually, your other hand lifts to tilt his face up. His cheek is warm against your palm. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, barely there but enough to make him look at you. His eyes are glassy and tired, and your heart breaks all over again.

“Let me clean you up,” you whisper. “Just some ointment. A few bandages. We’ll get you home to heal tomorrow. The sun’s already down.”

Clark nods. The motion is small, slow. Tears slip from his eyes again, rolling down his cheeks and soaking into your shirt as he whispers, “Alright… yeah.”

You help him out of what’s left of his suit, easing him into a clean pair of sweatpants. His skin is warm and bruised under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sits on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, his hands moving under your shirt to rest against your sides. He keeps his touch gentle, steady, like he needs the connection to ground him.

You press the last bandage over the cut on his forehead, then place the ointment tube aside. Your hands come to his face again, thumbs resting on either cheek as you look at him closely.

“How’s the pain medicine feeling?” you ask quietly.

“Hasn’t kicked in yet,” he mutters. His tone is flat, but you can tell it’s more than the pain. It’s everything else. The failure he thinks he’s shouldering alone.

“You did a good job out there,” you murmur, brushing one of the bandages flat softly. “That was more than anyone should’ve been expected to handle.”

“I lost,” he says, barely above a whisper. His hand moves from your waist to wipe at his eyes. “I didn’t do anything good.”

“You did everything you could, Clark. That’s what matters,” you say softly, tilting his chin up again to keep his eyes on yours. “You might be a metahuman, but you’re still only one man. And you saved people. A lot of people. That thing would’ve crushed half the city if you hadn’t slowed it down. You gave others time to escape. You gave the Justice Gang time to arrive. You did that.”

He doesn’t respond right away. You can see the war behind his eyes, the stubborn pride he’s trying to hold onto, clashing with how much he wants to believe you.

“I’m really proud of you,” you whisper, and the change in him is immediate. His eyes lift to meet yours again, wider now, a new kind of emotion breaking through.

“You are?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. His pupils dilate by ten sizes at the simple fact that you’re proud. He made you proud, that’s all he’s ever wanted. “You’re proud of me? You mean that?”

“Of course I do, baby,” you reply, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. “Everyone’s proud of you. You’re Superman. The one people count on. The one kids pretend to be when they play heroes. You’re more than just strong. You give people hope. And you’re loved for it.”

“And what about you?” he asks after a second. His hands slide up your waist, pulling you closer between his legs.

“And I also love you, Clark,” you whisper with a chuckle, leaning in until your forehead rests against his.

He presses a soft kiss to your lips. There’s no urgency behind it. No need for anything more. It’s slow, full of gratitude, and when he pulls back, your hand rises to nudge his chin playfully.

A small, tired smile appears on his face.