mentari

Ever since you set foot in the Daily Planet as the newly hired — or, what most preferred to call you, the new girl — the sound of low whistles and snide catcalling had become part of your everyday routine. Simply passing through just to get to your desk meant enduring lingering stares, muttered comments just loud enough for you to hear, and the same compliments you'd already heard a dozen times a week.

But it wasn’t the attention that bothered you. No — who doesn’t enjoy getting a little praise for simply existing and being attractive?

What was gnawing at you was that it wasn’t him saying these things to you.

Clark Kent was a klutz — awkward, clumsy, always tripping over his own feet or his own words. The lights were on but no one was home. And yet, he was so painfully, stupidly cute.

He’d caught your eye on your very first day here. You’d only spoken a handful of times since then, and each time he’d stumbled over his sentences. He’d get embarrassed, cheeks and ears flushed pink, lips pressing together making his dimples peek through. You’d just thought it made him even cuter.

He wasn’t like everyone else.

Not like the guys here who shamelessly look down at the open buttons of your dress shirts. Not like the ones who stared every time you wore a skirt — though, you’ll admit those skirts were pretty tight and did you plenty of favors. And he was certainly not like the men who kept asking you to dinner, or to ‘hang out’ back at their place.

Clark Kent was simply there to do his job.

And that made you want to grind your teeth into dust.

No matter how short your skirts got, how much leg you showed from skipping the tights, or how many buttons you left open — he wouldn’t look, he wouldn’t talk, he wouldn’t fucking acknowledge you. It was infuriating. Had you coming home from work pissed.

But despite him, your work ethic remained strong.

Even now you were too busy pounding away at your keyboard, focused on wrapping up your report, to even notice Lois perching herself onto the edge of your desk.

“Jimmy and I are going down to get a bite. You wanna come?” she asks, glancing at your screen.

“Sorry. Uhhh,“ You let out a sigh, finally prying your fingers from the keyboard. “Oh! The place with the really good croissant sandwiches?”

She nods with a cute grin. “Come with us.”

You groan. “I’d love to, but I got this report to finish. I’ll be stuck here for a little longer.”

She shrugs. “So finish it tomorrow.”

“Can’t. I won’t be able to sleep tonight knowing it’s not finished.”

“You love your job too much, you know that?” Jimmy teases, glancing down at you with a smirk.

“Yeah? Says the guy who spent an entire weekend with a girl he didn’t even like just so he could dig up information for his story,” you shoot back.

“Hey, I got a raise after that thanks to her!” he protests, pouting.

You grimace at him, rolling your eyes.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Lois asks again, tilting her head.

“Yes. Now go,” you say, swatting her thigh to shoo her off.

“Fine,” she huffs, sliding off your desk. “But you and I are going on a date tomorrow night.”

“Whatever you want, beautiful,” you grin, blowing her a kiss.

She catches it theatrically and blows one back.

“Where’s mine?” Jimmy chimes in.

You flip him off like it’s muscle memory. He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. Lois can’t help but laugh as she grabs his arm and drags him towards the door.

You watch them disappear down the hall, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips, before turning back to your report. Just a few more paragraphs and you’d be free — free to head home, warm up yesterday's leftovers, and call it a night.

“How’s the report coming?” a voice cuts in.

Your head snaps up. Clark Kent is looking at you from over his desk, glasses glaring from the dim office light. You’d been so caught up in your own thoughts you hadn’t even realized he was still here.

Clark. Fucking. Kent.

Still at his desk.

Still here.

Alone.

With you.

Alone.

With you.

You quickly compose yourself. “It’s going well — almost done, just wrapping it up.”

“Great job,” he says. “I just… didn’t wanna leave you alone. I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

Your crush on him will definitely get worse after tonight. Fuck you, Clark Kent, for being so perfect.

“Oh, you don’t have to! Seriously, I’ll be fine,” you insisted.

“No, it’s alright,” he replies with a soft laugh, that gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “My conscience will feel better knowing you’re not stuck here by yourself.” His dimples peek through, impossibly perfect, and it’s almost unfair how effortlessly flawless he is.

You can’t help but smile at his consideration, brows knitting in awe. “I’ll be quick.”

He only shakes his head. “Take your time.”

He turns back around in his chair, focusing on whatever’s on his desk, leaving you chewing on the inside of your cheek. Your eyes linger on his back — his very broad back — as you mentally scramble for something, anything, to keep him talking to you.

“Actually…” you begin, voice casual. He glances back at you. “Since you’re here, you wouldn’t mind helping me with something, would you?”

“Of course not,” he says with that gorgeous smile.

You rise from your chair, papers in hand, and stroll over to his desk like it’s nothing (even thought it absolutely wasn’t). Your heart was pounding so hard it felt ready to drop straight out of your ass. But instead of dragging a chair over or standing politely at the edge, you settle yourself right on the edge of his desk, crossing your legs in the space between his.

Clark goes rigid. Shoulders tense, back straight, hands slightly tightening around the armrests of his chair. The close proximity clearly threw him off — his adam’s apple bobs, and he looks everywhere but at you.

“So…” you drawl, flipping to a new page, “I’m working on this report about Superman. Since you and him are so close, I figured you’d have some… insight.”

Clark clears his throat, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “I- I wouldn’t say close. He just… shows up when I’m around sometimes."

“You’ve interviewed him more than anyone else here,” you point out, arching a brow. “You’re practically best friends.”

That earns a shy chuckle from him, dimples flashing again. “I don’t know about that.”

“Perfect. Then you can clear something up for me.” You grab your pen, ready to scribble. “So tell me… what’s he like in person?”

Clark adjusts his glasses, shifting in his seat (very careful not to bump his legs into yours, though you definitely wouldn’t have minded if he did). “Uh… he’s… kind. Polite. Always focused on helping people.”

“Anything you know that we don’t?” you press, tilting your head. “Is he funny? Serious? Awkward?”

“I- I don’t know,” Clark stammers, gaze drifting off anywhere but your face. “I haven’t really talked to him like that to know.”

You hum thoughtfully, pen tapping against the page. “Okay, serious question… do you think he gets lonely?”

He looks up at you, blinking rapidly, caught off guard. “I… think it’s possible. It’s not easy balancing relationships with that kind of responsibility.”

You nod, jotting his words down — before giving him a sly grin. “So what you’re saying is… Superman doesn’t date?”

Clark almost chokes on his spit. “I- wha- no that’s not what I’m saying-”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you lean just slightly closer. “So he is seeing someone?”

“I- I don’t know!” Clark blurts, voice pitching higher than usual. “That’s… private. We don’t talk about those things.”

“I mean, surely he is. He’s hot. Don’t you think?”

Clark’s ears turn a deep pink, his gaze immediately dropping to something on his desk that he finds so interesting. “I never… thought about him like that,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his glasses.

You bite back a laugh, watching him squirm. “Yeah, well, I’ll tell you — the ladies that swoon over Superman aren’t just doing it because he saves the world.”

Clark glances up at you, then quickly back down to his hands as he fidgets with his pen. A shy smile tugs at his lips. “Aren’t you and Jimmy…?”

“Jimmy?” you exclaim, half laughing. “God, no. Not my type.”

“What is your type?” he asks, a sudden thread of boldness creeping into his voice.

It takes you aback — but only for a second. A smile pulls at the corners of your lips as you lean in just a bit closer. “Tall. Glasses. Shy…”

Your foot glides to the side, the tip of your heel brushing his ankle before dragging slowly up the inside of his calf. The contact is light, teasing — but it still leaves Clark utterly rigid. His shoulders tense, knuckles turning white from gripping the chair’s arms too hard, and the look on his face gives him away more than anything.

When he finally looks up at you through his glasses, raven curls falling loose over his forehead, you meet his widened eyes without blinking.

“Ringing any bells?” you ask softly, one brow arched.

His lips part like he’s about to speak, but the words don’t come out. He swallows hard. “I- uh-“ He pushes his glasses up with a shaky finger, and you catch how the tips of his ears have gone red. “That’s… very specific,” he manages at last, the pitch of his voice just a little too high, betraying him.

You drag your foot a little higher, slow and deliberate, until the sharp point of your heel nudges against his knee. “Is it?” you murmur, feigning innocence that fools absolutely no one.

Clark clears his throat, as if he can cough away the heat crawling up his neck. “S- sounds a lot like-“

“You?” you cut in before he could finish, voice quick and playful, your grin absolutely wicked. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He gulps. “I hardly think this is appropriate, we’re still technically at work.”

Your foot presses against the inside of his thigh now. “We’ve been off the clock for half an hour,” you murmur.

His breath hitches, and he grips the arms of his chair a little tighter, knuckles pale. “S- someone could see us,” he stammers, eyes darting around the office even though the room has been empty since Lois and Jimmy left.

“There’s no one here, hon,” you say softly, reassuring him. “Just you and me.”

Then your foot finally reaches the end, the sharp tip of your heel pressing lightly against his crotch. He jolts, his chair squeaking as it rolls back an inch. You think it’s cute — how someone built like him could be so jumpy over something so small.

“You can say no, Clark,” you murmur, voice low and teasing. “I won’t be upset.”

“No- I- I don’t mind,” he stammers, every word tripping over the next. His voice is almost pleading, as if he’s afraid you’ll stop anyway. “It’s just… it’s been a while. And I usually don’t… do this kind of stuff in public.

You tilt your head, foot still resting exactly where it makes him squirm. “Me neither,” you say lightly, like this isn’t making his heart pound out of his chest. “First time for everything though, right?”

He exhales shakily, shoulders loosening as his hands slip from the armrests, fingers splayed like he’s searching for something else to hold onto. His lips part — not to tell you no, but because words fail him entirely.

You withdraw your foot just as you feel him start to unconsciously grind against it, and the sound he makes is somewhere between relief and disappointment, an unsteady breath that betrays exactly how badly he wants more.

“Relax,” you murmur, voice calm, commanding. You rise from the desk with deliberate slowness, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The soft swing of your hips as you close the distance isn’t for show — it’s for him, and he can’t stop watching, eyes wide behind the glasses, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“How long has it been again?” you ask lightly, as if you’re inquiring about something pure — not about to get on your knees in an empty office.

“Sorry?” Clark blurts, blinking up at you like the question dragged him out of a trance. His gaze has already dropped lower, caught on the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden high on your thighs. You don’t even bother tugging it down.

“Since you’ve had sex,” you clarify, your voice lower now as you kneel on the hard floor between his legs. “How long has it been?”

“C- couple years,” he stammers, color rising in his cheeks. “That was… my first and only time.”

Your brows lift slightly, intrigued but not mocking. “How was it?”

“F- fine,” he manages, though his voice cracks when your nails skim up the inside of his thigh, dragging just light enough to make his muscles twitch. The fabric of his slacks do little to hide how tense he’s gotten under your touch — or how fast he’s hardening.

You hum, clearly unimpressed with his answer, fingers trailing higher. “Fine? That’s it?”

Clark swallows hard, eyes fixed anywhere but you, though they keep darting down against his will. “I- It wasn’t really about me,” he admits quietly.

That makes you smirk, head tilting. “So you’ve never had anyone take care of you?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he laughs weakly, though it’s breathless and shaky, cheeks burning red as his glasses slide down his nose.

“You ever gotten a blow job before?” you murmur, palm pressing against the obvious swell in his slacks. 

The sound he makes is unintentional, a small, choked moan that betrays him instantly. “N- no.”

Your thumb traces the outline of him through the fabric, feeling him stiffen even more under your touch. You glance up at him, lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Can you pull your pants down for me, Clark?”

He swallows hard. For a second, he just stares, like his brain has completely stopped working and he can’t process your request — or maybe it’s the way you’re still stroking him through the thin barrier of cloth.

His hands fumble at his belt, the sound of clinking metal echoing throughout the empty office. Finally, he gets it loose, shoving his pants and briefs down in one impatient motion.

His cock springs free — flushing pink, standing tall, with a single vein running along his shaft like it was made to be traced by your tongue. A bead of precum glistens at the swollen tip, dripping down.

He groans low in his throat, hands curling into fists like he’s physically restraining himself from grabbing it. The ache is painful now, unbearable.

Your eyes go wide, tongue caught in the back of your throat. Clark Kent — the awkward, shy, can’t even look you in the eyes kind of guy — was packing. Not just in inches, but in girth.

Figures.

It’s always the quiet ones that hide the most.

“P- please,” Clark whines, voice breathily and shaky, looking down at you through his glasses. “Touch me, please.”

Your hand travels to his bare inner thigh, so close he twitches, but not close enough to give him relief. His breathing skips a beat, chest rising and falling faster.

“Already begging?” you tease.

Clark swallows back a whine. “I- I can’t- it hurts,”

Finally deciding to stop tormenting the poor man, you spit in your hand before curling your fingers around his cock — or try to. He’s so big, your fingers couldn’t even wrap around him all the way. He’s hot and heavy against your palm, precum slicking your fingers almost immediately.

You start with slow, light strokes, just enough to feel him twitch. Clark’s head tips back against the chair, eyes squeezing shut, lips parting on a low, breathy moan. The sound is almost pitiful — raw, needy, like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

“So sensitive,” you murmur, dragging your fist slowly up his shaft, twisting slightly at the head just to hear that choked whimper again.

“I- ngh- oh god,” he stammers, but his voice cracks when your thumb smears his precum over the tip. His hips jerk off the chair before he forces himself back down, breathing through his nose.

You start stroking faster — not too fast, just enough to make his thighs tense and his chest rise and fall like he can’t get enough air. “Gosh, you’re leaking so much, already making such a mess.”

Clark lets out a strangled moan, knuckles white where they clutch the arms of the chair. His eyes flicker open, and he looks down — just in time to see you lean in and drag your tongue lazily across the slit, tasting him.

You look up at him, eyelashes batting before you lean down more, licking a slow stripe up his shaft. A moan lodges in his throat, rough and shaky, but he can’t tear his eyes away. He watches your tongue trace every inch of him, his throat bobbing when you swirl around the flushed tip before wrapping your lips around it.

“Ah-“ His voice cracks. “Th- that feels… ngh-“

You hum around him, sinking as low as you can — barely halfway, and your mouth already feels so full of him. Your hand works in slow, twisting movements over what your mouth can’t take. Clark’s head tips back, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he forces them open again. He can’t bear to look away from you — not when you’re taking him so slowly, like you’re savoring every second of it.

Your other hand rests on his thigh, feeling how tense he is under your touch. One of his hands finally lets go of the chair’s arm and reaches down, almost instinctively, to grab your tiny wrist in his large palm. Instead of pulling away, you slip your wrist free and catch his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together. 

It’s intimate.

Something far too intimate for something so dirty.

And it only gets dirtier when you take him even deeper, your lips sliding down his shaft until your throat constricts around the tip. His breath hitches sharply, eyes fluttering shut as he bites down on his bottom lip to keep the sound in. A low hum slips past anyway — restrained, muffled, as if he has no idea how to handle a sensation this unfamiliar.

You pull back slowly, then sink down all the way again. You repeat the movement, setting an even rhythm — up, then down, lips snug around him, tongue tracing the underside of his shaft with every pass. Every time your throat kisses his tip, it has him shifting in the chair, thighs tightening as he tries to keep still, breath coming out in shaky exhales.

Clark’s speechless. Words fail him completely — every sound that escapes is broken, incoherent, nothing but raw instinct. For a man who was just scared of getting caught (by absolutely no one), he’s surprisingly loud — his moans bounce off the walls, unrestrained and desperate.

He's trying so hard to stay composed, to let you set the pace — but every time your throat flexes around him, his whole body trembles. He’s close. Too close. He can feel it building fast, an ache low in his stomach that burns hotter with every second. God, it feels so good. He doesn’t even remember his first time feeling remotely like this.

Then your throat tightens just right around his tip, and it’s over. A sharp, choked sound tears from his throat as he spills into your mouth. It’s sudden, overwhelming — hot, salty, sweet — and you take it all without even pulling back. He watches, eyes widened, stunned, as you swallow every last drop like it’s candy.

Finally, you pull off with a soft pop, a thin strand of spit breaking between your lips and his tip. Your knees are screaming from the pressure against the hard floor — they’ll definitely be bruised tomorrow — but you ignore the ache as you rise.

Clark’s still catching his breath, chest rising unevenly, his glasses sitting crooked on his face. You reach out to straighten them, and the simple touch makes his cheeks flush again. Then you lean in, brushing a quick kiss against his lips. Then another. Almost innocent, like you didn’t just have him coming apart in your mouth moments ago.

You smile, leaning back just enough to take in his completely wrecked expression. “How was that for a first time?”

He chuckles softly, still catching his breath. “It was… perfect. You’re amazing.”

“Yeah?” you tease, tilting your head, a small smirk playing on your lips.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling back, cheeks still tinged pink.

You pull off of him, leaning back onto your spot on the edge of his desk, legs dangling. “Can you handle more, or should we… save this for another time?”

Clark’s still catching his breath, cheeks burning hot as his eyes dart anywhere but your face. “I- I don’t know if I’ll be as good-“

“Nonsense,” you cut him off with a soft laugh. “C’mere, baby.”

He hesitates, but the way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips lures him in completely. Step by step, he closes the distance until he’s standing between your legs. You tilt your head back to look up at him — he’s tall. Much too tall.

But then he bends down anyway, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s hungry and unsteady, like he’s been craving another taste of you since the second you pulled away.

Your hand slides down between you, fingers curling around his cock again. You stroke him in slow movements.

Clark jolts, lips parting with a breathy moan, his hands bracing against the desk on either side of you — unintentionally trapping you there. He’s still so sensitive, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t even try.

“You know how long I’ve been trying to get you like this, Clark?” you murmur, giving him another languid stroke. “How long I’ve tried to get your attention?”

“Y- you have?” he breathes out through a moan, his voice shaky. His face hovers just inches from yours, looking down at you through his glasses, which have slipped low on the bridge of his nose. His gaze keeps darting from your eyes to your lips, like he can’t decide which temptation is worse.

“Mhm.” You hum, still pumping him slowly, his cock still slick with your saliva. “Every day, Clark. The way I dress, the way I walk — it’s all for you. And you didn’t even notice.”

“I- I noticed,” he stammers, swallowing hard, hips unintentionally jerking into your hand. “I just- oh- just thought someone else had your eye.”

“I’ve been eyeing you since my first day here,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw, your breath warm against his ear as your hand works him in an unhurried rhythm. “All those times you kept your head down when I walked past you… all the miniskirts I bought, every glance I made obvious — and you thought I was doing it for some sleazy asshole in this office?”

His breath hitches. “Didn’t think you’d even… l- look in my direction.”

Your other hand slips down, tugging your panties aside. You shift on the desk, drawing him in until his tip grazes your slick entrance. His breath hitches, the sound breaking in his throat.

“Now you know,” you murmur, voice brushing against his ear as your fingers dig into his hips and guide him forward. The thick head of his cock parts you slowly, a delicious stretch that has your lips parting in a quiet gasp. “I want you, Clark. No one else.”

With your hand urging his pelvis forward, he sinks into you all the way. The stretch forces a gasp from your lungs, and Clark’s thoughts scatter — you take him so easily, like it’s nothing. The last time he’d done this, he couldn’t even get in halfway, but here you are, pushing him in deeper yourself.

He starts to move, hesitant at first, his rhythm slow and careful. Your hand braces behind you on the desk while the other presses against the solid surface of his chest, feeling muscle tighten under your touch.

“You’re s- so big,” you gasp, voice breaking around a moan as your eyes flicker down, watching him slide in and out of you, every withdrawal glistening wet before he sinks back into your warmth.

Clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath shaky and uneven. You can feel his lips brush your skin every time he exhales. “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush to his chest as if he needs your body against his just for the sole comfort. “You feel so good, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Your hand reaches the nape of his neck soothingly, fingertips stroking his hair in gentle passes, grounding him. “You’re fine, baby,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice low and coaxing. “Just don’t hold back so much.”

But he shakes his head against your neck, hips still rocking in that slow, measured pace, every thrust deliberate and restrained. “I don’t wanna be too much.”

“Just fuck me, Clark,” you beg, desperate now, needing to feel him deeper and rougher. You can already feel your orgasm approaching so quickly from how far he was reaching you, even at this pace.

He lets out a relieved moan before his pelvis rocks into you faster. Lifting his head off your shoulder, his eyes roam across every feature of your face. No reason — he just wants to look at you.

“So pretty, almost there just by looking at you,” he murmurs, voice shy despite the vulgarity of his words.

You’ve had a crush on this man for nearly two months, and now here he is — stuffed inside you, calling you pretty and he doesn’t even realize what it’s doing to you. Your cheeks burn hot, and you pray he doesn’t notice how wrecked that one little compliment makes you.

He looks divine. Heavenly. Every good word that should ever be said about Clark Kent. His glasses — your weakness — have slipped lower down his nose, threatening to fall off completely with each thrust. His brows are drawn tight in concentration, balancing the chase of his own pleasure while still making sure you’re feeling every inch of him. His lips, swollen pink from biting back the noises he’s too shy to let out. A hoarse whine escapes anyway. And lord, that dimple — it shows when his jaw tightens, when his hips slam forward just a little harder.

You’re so close you can barely think or speak — but he finds it first.

For the second time tonight, Clark comes undone, spilling into you, hips jerking erratically as he buries himself deep. A broken sound leaves his throat, one hand gripping your hip to hold you down.

He spills into you with a deep, shuddering groan, but even as his body jerks from the (very large) load he released, he doesn’t stop bucking into you. Each thrust is messy, sinful. You push at his chest, not really to stop him since your hips still arch to meet him.

“Clark… fuck,” you moan, voice breaking.

It’s almost funny. Not even an hour ago, he was all shy about getting his dick sucked in the same seat he worked in — and now he’s fucking into you like he’s got no restraint, skin slapping against yours, heavy pants echoing throughout the office.

“Wanna make you feel good too,” he pants, still concentrating. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You yank him closer by his tie, crushing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. Your lips move with his until they part in a quiet moan, your body locking up as your orgasm rips through you in waves.

Clark feels it immediately — the way your walls grip him tighter, the way your thighs tense — and he slows his thrusts. His lips trail down to your neck, pressing light, reverent kisses against your heated skin while you tremble beneath him.

And when you’re done, he rises back up, looking at you with dark eyes behind his glasses. Neither of you speak. So you lean in, pressing a soft, innocent peck to his lips — almost like a quiet thank you. He smiles, so you do it again. And again. And once more, until his boyish laugh fills the space and his hands hold your face still, holding you there for a slower kiss.

You pull back, pressing your palm to his chest, gently urging him back. Clark pulls out of you slowly, and the sudden emptiness makes your breathing stutter — his release already threatening to spill. You tug your panties back into place in a quick motion, letting the thin lace catch everything for now. You’ll clean up the mess when you get home.

Clark looks away, suddenly all modest as if he hadn’t just been inside that. He picks up his slacks with fumbling hands, the clink of his buckle filling the silence.

“You know,” you say lightly as you hop off the desk, smoothing your skirt down. “I really did just want to ask a few questions.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, teasing despite the shy tone in his voice. “I can ask Superman your questions and get the answers back to you. A messenger, if you’d like.”

Your eyes light up, excitement breaking through. “Seriously?”

His boyish smile widens as he nods.

A delighted squeal slips out before you can stop it. You fling your arms around his neck, feet leaving the floor as you kiss him — hard, grateful, a little breathless. He laughs into your mouth, catching you with those big, steady hands.

“Thank you,” you murmur between kisses. “Thank you.” Another one. “Thank you.” And another, a quick peck again, just to see the pink creep into his cheeks.

“Of course,” he says, voice warm, still smiling because he can’t help it.

“I still can’t believe you thought Jimmy and I were a thing,” you laugh, smoothing your skirt back into place.

“You two look close!” Clark protests, his grin doing nothing to help his case.

“You’re not seeing things right,” you mutter with a playful grimace, pulling away to gather your things.

“What?” Clark shrugs. “He’s everyone’s type, isn’t he?”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gather your papers. “Not mine. I’m more of a… Clark Kent kinda girl.”

His eyes dart to the floor, the corner of his mouth twitching as that familiar blush creeps up again.

Despite having the softest smile you’ve ever seen on a man, there’s absolutely nothing soft about what he’s hiding in his pants.

And you’re already wondering when you’re going to try him again.

you're new to the waitress game, new to the city too, and if anyone had told you falling for a line cook was a defining moment in every waitress' life you forgot it as soon as you saw Simon Riley's hands. something about them seemed so... suckable.

and then he'd barked at you to watch your plate and you'd nearly spilled the already tipping dish all over your front. you scurried out with your humiliation following quickly behind, and tried to keep from making eye contact the rest of the night.

the other waitresses gossip while you sit rolling silverware, and when you ask about Simon they all give you a knowing look.

"he always has a wrong order if you're hungry," one of them supplies after you insist it's just professional curiosity.

"and he'll walk you to your car if a customer is hanging around," another chimes in.

"stinks like a chimney," a third grumbles, and you press your thighs together thinking about his stained fingers.

it gets easier to interact with the kitchen staff, the cooks are nice enough once you get past the sharp tongues and annoyed tones. the younger guys working the line make kissy noises every time Simon hands you a plate, and you have to listen to the head chef yell at them just to get your table's food. Simon always stays quiet.

he's a quiet guy. at least around you. the bus boy calls you a headcase when you mention it, claims getting the man to shut up is a feat.

"always has some shite joke," he groans, "two legs and bleeds- i nearly killed 'im fer that one."

you consume information about him ravenously, you ask questions sparingly, make observations frequently, and spend as little time as possible actually interacting with the man. you barely know what he looks like, not just because he always seems to be wearing something dark and food safe over the lower half of his face, but because you cant look him in the eye. you're too scared he'll see right down to the core of you, that you'll twitch or blink and he'll know in an instant that you want him in a stupid way.

so, you keep your head down. you listen to the line tease Simon about bullying you. you live on scraps, on the curve of his fingers on the edge of a plate, on the press of his thumb, on the neat blunt trim of his nails, and on imagining the way he would push those fingers into you. you're starting to get a little dizzy whenever you have to grab food.

apparently dizzy enough for one of the other servers to steady you with a concerned look in their eye.

"why dont you go outside and grab some fresh air?" she offers and you nod, swallowing down the guilt that you're not sick just irreparably horny and failing to hide it.

it's only when the scent of tobacco hits you that you realize how unfresh the air behind the restaurant really is. it makes your nose wrinkle, its easy to forget in a fantasy how bad cigarettes smell, but standing between the dumpsters you don't know how you could have forgotten.

you won't forget now, not with Simon attached to the memory.

not with smoke swirling from between parted, scarred lips as he stares you down from across the alley.

"what d'ya need girl?" he asks, his words still smoking and his vocal cords rough with use. the sound of it makes your knees weak. he asks it like you followed him out here, like you came looking for him. as if it wasn't just bad luck that brought you out here with him.

the words die on your tongue, mind working overtime to come up with something to say to a man who you've never said two words to outside a squeaked 'thanks.'

"air," you mutter dumbly. simon hums around his cigarette, the smoldering stick held tight between four fingers as he holds it to his lips. your eyes keep flicking between the skull on the back of his hand and the sunken depths of his eyes, so dark they're almost black. you wonder if that's a trick of the streetlight or if you'd have found the same cursed coloration under the kitchen lights had you ever dared to look up from the offered plates.

"right," he says after a long exhale. he eyes you warily, letting silence lapse between you with a raise of one pale eyebrow. he doesn't believe you.

"i didn't follow you." you watch his lips curl back over his teeth at your hasty attempt to explain yourself.

"didn't say ya did."

"but you were thinking it."

another hum, another burning inhale, the light from his cigarette more potent, more damning than the churn of emotion in your gut. "didn't know ya were psychic too." he exhales. the smoke curls between you. "gonna guess what i'm thinkin' all night?"

"n-no, i-" he jerks his head, nods you closer, and when you don't move he bears his teeth.

"c'mere."

you're quick to comply, a shuddering prey instinct rising in the back of your throat as he seems to consume the alley with his demand. your hands shake, your breath held. you don't move fast enough, and flinch when he reaches to drag you closer.

he grabs your jaw, his thumb forcing its way between your lips to sit between your teeth. he presses down on your tongue until your jaw hurts, but the grip of his other fingers keep you from following the pressure. his thumb tastes like tobacco and soap, and you cant stop yourself from sucking it, dragging your tongue over the thick digit even as your eyes start to sting from the ache.

it's not like you can just roll up with a box of chocolates and call it a day. this man's used to the best of the best, and while he's never made you feel like you weren't enough or didn't fit into his world, the reality is you're still a varsity student, still trying to stretch your monthly budget to cover textbooks, takeout, and the occasional night out with your girls.

and trent? well, trent can have anything he wants, whenever he wants. you've watched him casually browse designer websites like he's scrolling through twitter, picking out shoes that cost more than your rent with a kind of nonchalance that makes your head spin.

so, no, a simple birthday card from the campus bookstore isn't going to cut it. this is your first birthday together as a couple — you've got to make it special.

but how?

like, you've been lying in bed for hours now, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through shopping websites, pinterest, and even resorting to typing "what to get your rich boyfriend for his birthday" into google. nothing is helping. in fact, everything's making it worse. because even though you've got a list of ideas in your notes app, none of them seem to match up to the weight of what you feel this gift should be.

"babe, you don't have to go all out," trent had said during a conversation you had with him earlier in the week, flashing you that pretty smile that somehow makes everything feel like it'll be fine. "whatever you get me, i'm gonna love it. i'm just happy to spend the day with you."

but that's the thing, though. you want to go all out. he deserves it. even if he's not asking for it, you know he would never say anything if you just showed up with something basic—but it would eat away at you. you'd remember it every year.

so, yeah, no pressure or anything. just your sanity slowly slipping away as the days inch closer to his birthday and you still have no clue what to do.

your friends have been no help either. a bunch of suggestions that are either way too expensive or feel way too impersonal. "just get him something sentimental," one of them had said, but you're not even sure what counts as sentimental when you've only been dating for a few months.

like, are you supposed to pull some dramatic pinterest diy project out of nowhere? is that your lane now? because you're not crafty. you're not about to break out the arts and crafts just to end up frustrated and glue-stained.

you're definitely overthinking this, and you know it, but you can't stop. you keep picturing the day itself. like, what if you get him something and he likes it but doesn't love it? what if he's too polite to say it but deep down, he's thinking, "wow, she really couldn't put more effort into this?"

it doesn't help that every time you bring up his birthday, trent just brushes it off like it's no big deal. "it's just another day," he says, shrugging, but you know it's more than that. his birthday is a big deal to you because he's a big deal to you.

you can't let this flop.

days are passing by faster than you'd like, and you still haven't made any progress. now it's the weekend before his birthday, and you're sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by discarded ideas. you've gone from designer cologne (too basic) to a surprise trip (too expensive) to planning a cute dinner night in (too... ordinary?).

it's gotten to the point where you're spiralling. full-on stress mode. you're overthinking everything, imagining how disappointed he might be, how awkward the whole thing could feel, and for what? he hasn't said anything that makes you think he's expecting something grand, but it's like your brain is running on a loop, replaying worst-case scenarios.

you're deep in your thoughts when your phone buzzes. it's trent. a simple text.

trent: wanna come over?

you sigh, conflicted. on one hand, you'd love to see him and spend the day wrapped up in each other like you usually do, but on the other hand, you feel like you should be using every spare second to figure this gift thing out. but it's trent, and maybe seeing him will take your mind off the stress for a bit. so, you grab your keys and head out.

when you get to his place, trent's already waiting for you at the door, looking casual as ever in sweats and a hoodie. he greets you with a grin that immediately makes some of the tension in your shoulders ease up. you can't help but smile back, even though the stress is still simmering in the back of your mind.

he pulls you into a hug, kissing the top of your head as he mumbles, "missed you."

"you saw me yesterday," you laugh softly, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne. it's the same cologne you thought about getting him for his birthday, but now that you're here with him, it feels too safe, too... expected.

"still missed you," he murmurs, pulling back slightly to look at you. "you okay?"

God, how does he always know?

"yeah," you lie, but it's not convincing. trent raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but he doesn't press. instead, he just leads you inside, hand slipping into yours like it always does.

you spend the afternoon curled up on the couch, watching some random show neither of you are really paying attention to. trent's arm is draped over your shoulders, his fingers occasionally brushing against your arm, but your mind keeps drifting. keeps thinking about the damn gift.

it's not until he asks, "you sure you're alright?" that you realise you've been quiet for too long.

you glance up at him, debating whether or not to just tell him. you don't want to admit how stressed you've been about something that probably seems insignificant to him. but trent's looking at you with that soft, patient expression, and before you know it, the words are tumbling out.

"it's just... your birthday," you mumble, picking at the hem of your shirt, avoiding his gaze. "i wanna get you something special, but i don't know what to get you. you have everything already."

there's a pause, and for a moment, you worry you've said too much. but then you hear him laugh. not in a mean way, but in that gentle, amused way he does when you've overcomplicated something in your head.

"babe," he says softly, cupping your chin and turning your face so you're looking at him. "you don't have to stress over that. i don't need anything fancy or expensive. i just wanna spend time with you."

you feel your chest tighten a little because, logically, you know he's right. but still... it's his first birthday with you. it feels like it should be more.

"i know," you mumble, eyes flicking away from his. "but i just want it to be perfect."

"it will be," he promises, leaning down to steal a kiss. "because you'll be there."

and maybe that's all that matters, but still...

—

the next couple of days are a blur.

classes, assignments, and late-night scrolling sessions trying to figure out the perfect present. you've moved past the point of practicality. now, you're grasping at straws. googling things like "unique gifts for the man who has everything" and getting absolutely nowhere. your notes app is full of crossed-out ideas, your stress level rising with each passing day.

by the time thursday rolls around, you're a full-on wreck. trent's birthday is next monday, and the thought of showing up with something underwhelming—or worse, empty-handed—has you on edge. you've always been the type to put pressure on yourself, to want everything to be just right, especially when it comes to people you care about. and trent? well, trent's at the top of that list now, no question.

it randomly hits you at 2:19 in the morning, that spark of inspiration you were so desperate for, the puzzle pieces of your chaotic brain finally starting to click into place. and as you brush your teeth before class a few hours later, you replay the idea in your mind.

you obviously still need to work out the details, but at least you have direction now. no more over-the-top ideas. nothing that screams, "i tried too hard." instead, you're going for something more personal, something that shows trent how much you've been paying attention to the small things.

because, really, that's what this relationship has been about for you—finding beauty in the details. sure, trent's life is loud and flashy, but what you've learned in the past few months is that it's the quiet moments, the ones where it's just the two of you, that really matter.

like the nights where you read him your biochem thesis because you want a second opinion (and, bless him, he never understands a thing). or the mornings where you wake up tangled in his sheets, 15 minutes late for whatever morning class you have. or the late-night talks where he opens up in ways you know he doesn't do with most people.

that's what you want to capture. that's what his birthday should reflect.

the rest of the week passes in a blur, a whirlwind of classes, your part-time job, and late-night planning sessions. every free moment you get, you're jotting down notes, sketching ideas, making phone calls, and somehow managing to keep all of this hidden from trent. it's not easy—he's nosy as hell, always asking what you're up to, but you've gotten good at playing it off, keeping him in the dark just enough to maintain the element of surprise.

you've already set everything in motion. well, mostly. there are still a few loose ends to tie up, but it's all coming together in a way that feels right.

on the morning of his birthday, you both settle on a time that works—right after your last class and after he's done with training. by the time he gets to your place that evening, you're all giddy, eyes beaming as you open the door for him.

and he's instantly on you, arms smoothly slipping around your waist, pulling you to him just as you close the door. he leans down, pressing his lips to your exposed shoulder — gentle, lingering kisses, his breath warm against your skin. "hi, baby."

"trent..." you murmur, trying to sound disapproving because you can almost guess where this is going, but failing miserably. it comes out softer than you intended, more like an invitation than a scolding.

he hums against your skin, his lips brushing the curve of your neck now, his hands tightening just a bit on your waist, pressing your back to his front. "hmm?"

his lips move to your jawline next, and you reach back with one hand, tangling your fingers in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. he takes the hint, pressing more kisses along the side of your face now, trailing up to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

"so pretty," trent turns you around slowly, his hands still on your waist, guiding you until you're facing him. his eyes are dark, a little playful, but there's something else there too—something softer, deeper.

you barely have time to register that look before his lips are on yours, soft and sweet. it's not hurried or frantic, but there's an urgency to it, and you kiss him back just as passionately, your hands clutching his shirt, your body leaning into his. it's instinctual now, the way your whole being responds to him.

when you finally pull back, both of you breathing a little heavier, trent rests his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. there's a lazy smile on his lips, the kind that makes your heart do a little flip in your chest.

"wait, you're distracting me," you laugh quietly, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. "i have a surprise for you."

he smiles, his lips brushing against your forehead now. "yeah?"

you nod, grinning as you lead him over to the living room, where you've set everything up. on the coffee table, there's a small collection of items: a few handwritten letters, a disposable camera, and a small, leather-bound journal.

trent raises an eyebrow, glancing between you and the table, clearly intrigued but not sure what to expect.

"so, i know you don't need anything," you start, your voice suddenly a little shaky as you sit down beside him. "and i didn't wanna get you something you could just buy yourself. so... i thought about what would mean the most to you. and, well... this is what i came up with."

you hand him the journal first, feeling a knot of nerves tighten in your stomach as he unties the string and carefully opens it.

the pages are filled with handwritten notes, photos, and little mementos from your time together so far. it's not just a scrapbook or a diary; it's a love letter. every page is a piece of your relationship — the silly inside jokes, the photos of the two of you at your favourite café, the pressed flowers from the first bouquet he ever gave you, the ticket stubs from the movie you saw on your second date. it's a collection of memories, a reminder of how far you've come in such a short time.

it's quiet for a while, the only sound being the soft rustle of paper as he turns the pages. you watch him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face is unreadable.

finally, he reaches the last page—a note you wrote, a few simple words; happy birthday, trent. thank you for being you. thank you for seeing me. i love you.

he's quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the words, thumb tracing over the ink. when he finally looks up, there's this... softness in his eyes, a depth of emotion you don't always see from him.

"this is perfect," he sets the journal aside and pulls you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your temple. "thank you, baby."

you feel a wave of relief wash over you, but you're not done yet. next, you hand him the disposable camera.

"i know you're used to having a million pictures taken of you all the time, but... i thought it might be nice to have something just for us. we can take pictures whenever, wherever. and at the end of the roll, we'll get them developed and see what moments we've captured."

trent turns the camera over in his hands, a warm, appreciative smile gracing his lips. "this is... yeah, this is really thoughtful. i didn't expect this."

and finally, you hand him the letters. "these are from the people closest to you. i asked them to write you something personal, something that shows how much you mean to them."

he looks up at you, his eyes soft, a mix of gratitude and something deeper reflecting in them. "you really went all out for this, didn't you?"

you shrug, feeling a little shy now that everything's out in the open. "i just wanted you to feel appreciated. i didn't want to get you something that didn't mean anything."

trent's quiet for a moment, just looking at you, and then he sets everything aside and pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

"you're amazing," he says, his voice all soft and thick with emotion. "seriously. this is the best gift i've ever had."

you feel the tension drain from your body as you bury your face in his chest, a smile spreading across your lips because, yeah. all the stress, all the overthinking, it was worth it.

"i love you," trent pulls back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek as he looks down at you. "more than i even know how to say."

your heart stutters at that. you've both danced around the words for a while now, neither of you wanting to rush into saying them, but hearing him say it now, in this moment, feels right.

"i love you too," you whisper, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as you pull him closer, your lips meeting in a soft, lingering kiss.

when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours again, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip. "best birthday i've had," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your cheek, and you laugh softly, your heart full.

"i'm glad," you say, smiling as you snuggle closer to him, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. "but it's not over yet."

he raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "oh? what else do you have planned?"

you grin, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze. "i figured we'd spend the rest of the night doing... whatever you want."

trent chuckles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "whatever i want, huh?"

"yep," you nod, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "you're the birthday boy, after all."

"careful," he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "i might hold you to that."

and he does hold you to it.

all night long.