🤍 JOSE 🤍

They’re all rich—you didn’t crawl out of the gutter to entertain virgins with piggy-bank pennies. The older ones arrive with soft bellies and wet mouths, breath sweet with mints. They try to lead with gallantry and end up asking permission for everything. They apologise when they touch your thigh. They ask if you’re warm enough. If you let them, they turn gentle; not the worst you’ve had by a long way.

The cheaters carry their houses on their backs: a faint line where the wedding ring sat in the lift, a florist’s receipt in the wallet, a text from ‘C.’ Claire, Cornelia? You don’t care. They bring you rehearsed fantasies they couldn’t sell at home. Stockings in a specific colour. A script that sounds like a podcast they half-remember. They want to be told they’re good at this without saying the words. They watch the door as if the door might answer back.

Then there are the upstarts—bonus fresh, watch too new, laugh too loud. Poor man’s Patrick Batemans until the trousers come off. They like the mirror and hate the sight of themselves. They push for rough, then come too fast and grunt ugly, a noise like a gym rep gone wrong. Afterwards they want to negotiate the meaning of it, which is tedious; you pour them water and let silence do the work.

They come in all shapes and sizes (and you don’t mean their wardrobe), and eventually you end up bored even before anything begins. You and the girls place bets on who’ll say the magic words: What is your real name?

Tonight’s man requires simple elegance—another one of those. Black dress, little, of course. Black lace underneath, nothing explicitly vulgar. Sheer black stockings with knickers pulled over the suspender belt, so he can fuck you and hold the straps, you presume. No preference about body hair—progressive sweetheart or merely old-fashioned; you can’t decide.

The glass sweats in your palm—a head-start whisky, neat. You watch the city below like a hawk: miniature dolls of people in their silly little cars, stalled in traffic. Buildings stand pointlessly lit, crowding the horizon, and you’re above it all—in a penthouse, perfumed and expensive; nails matched on fingers and toes; cunt waxed just enough to please most. Ready for another man of success to ‘rock your world’.

The lift chokes on a clean ping and your body aligns itself: the girl with rounded shoulders clutching a glass becomes the escort—lumbar spine dipped, neck long, feet crossed so the first thing he sees is clean lines of stitches running the backs of your legs. Not just a hooker—a luxurious experience, a night to remember.

“Right on time,” you say into the window, and school your face last. It becomes the image of what a woman should be—sweet, a little clueless, a little dangerous. Fuckable, if you will.

“I treat my appointments seriously,” he says, and the first anomaly hits you there and then. A foreign voice, soft and raspy at once; vowels deliciously rounded into the pockets of his accent. You’d be lying if you said it doesn’t make you hopeful for where the evening goes. It might not be horrible to hear him whisper you are so tight into your ear.

“It’s just a conversation starter, darling,” you say, setting the glass on the table. “Believe me when I say—you all take this appointment seriously.”

Your body turns—another performance, slow and catlike—to assess who’s the lucky guy today, and oh, you might just be the lucky one. 

You measure him head to toe: he’s much too pretty for a dull behind-a-desk job. Hair combed back, parted to the side, but stray strands betray its defiant nature—you can’t wait to make it messy. Brows strong and thoughtful, perfect to knit with the effort of pleasure. Nose, just right—kissable, suckable, sittable, all that. Beauty marks that point to where your thumbs will brush make him look as if he’d be better off in a white T-shirt and tight jeans rather than a suit (and you do love them in suits). Above sharp cheekbones, a pair of eyes like gold coins do exactly what yours are doing—cataloguing, measuring, checking.

What he’s wearing, though, is not half bad: a three-piece, dove-grey, with a crisp chalk shirt and a coffee-brown tie at the collar. You might have to ask him to keep as much of it on as possible.

In all that ogling, you almost miss it: where a briefcase ought to complete the look, his gloved hand holds a cane. Another elegant touch—a rod of polished, cognac wood—and from the way he leans on it, you know it’s no prop. Interesting.

As you step out from your window gallery, your thigh brushes the armchair facing the city skyline. “Viktor,” you say, coming closer, extending your palm for a businesslike handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m hoping it will be,” he hums, and bows instead of shaking—wraps your fingers in a cradle of leather and brings them to his mouth for a chaste kiss. Both touches make it feel like he’s good at this, truly—lips warm and not prematurely moist, goatskin so smooth you wouldn’t say no to feeling it run up your thighs and higher. “Were you informed about the range by the agency?” he asks, already standing straight before you’ve noticed him move.

“Yes,” you say, pleased it’s straight to business. “But even if I wasn’t, I could tell.”

“Oh?” He humours you, the sweetheart. “So perceptive. Do enlighten me.”

Emboldened, you begin your stalk. You circle him slowly, eyes on his at all times. “I’ve been doing this for quite a while—call it an affinity. Or a talent,” you say, voice pure seduction, playful. “Control junkie—am I wrong?”

“Perceptive indeed,” he hums, amused, wearing your inquisitive stare like he’s trying it on.

“Don’t you ever get tired though?” you ask. “Of commanding people?”

Silence to that—tells you what you need to know. “Let us see how the evening unfolds,” he says after a beat, reaching for your hand again. “How do you usually begin?”

“Oh, it cannot be,” you chirp, delighted. “Am I your first?”

“Ah, a gentleman never tells.” He smiles. His teeth are crooked, and it both jars with and compliments the cane, the suit, the hair that resists a comb. A boyish grin that makes you want to claw the boy out of the businessman.

You smile back, fan your siren eyelids once, and lead him by the hand to the table, where his glass waits—vodka on the rocks. He downs it in three loud gulps and sets it back on the ring of condensation it left, precise.

“So, what can I do for you, Viktor?” you ask, watching him. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the sofa’s armrest. The vest hugs his waist in the nicest way.

“Be so kind and undress for me,” he says, beginning to undo his cufflinks, and you suck in a breath. He pauses. “Yes?”

You place a hand on his wrist and look up through your lashes, a come-hither plea made neat. “Would you consider keeping these on?” you ask, tracing the stitching on the leather. “And, possibly, all of this?” Your hands find his chest, slide down and toy with the bottom button of his waistcoat.

The smirk he gives you is priceless. “Eh, and here I thought I was the one paying to state demands,” Viktor says, leathered knuckles grazing your cheek—tender, testing.

“You strike me as a giver,” you say. “I thought there’d be no harm in asking.”

A smirk. “Very well then.” He fastens the cuff back with a quiet snap. “Continue.”

He takes the armchair facing the window, cane propped against the table, city thrown up in front of him in a spill of colour. You turn for the man and away from the view. The zip whispers; the black dress loosens and slips like you’re changing skins. You ghost it to the floor with two fingers. Knickers next—thumbs to the hips, a clean peel—and he breathes in, an honest little gasp that rings true. The bra unclasps; your breasts settle lower, human weight, and you nudge the heap aside with your foot so the stage stays tidy.

When you reach for the garter straps—

“These can stay,” he says, lifting a gloved hand.

You smile. A man is still a man.

You show yourself to him: a slow, steady circle while the city paints you—orange at the ribs, blue at the shoulders, a cut of red at the thigh. He crooks a finger. You prowl in, feline, taking your time. When you’re within reach he parts his knees for you to step between. The leather on the chair sighs as he leans in and finds your hips; gooseflesh rises where goatskin brushes.

He turns you to the glass and hooks a finger under a strap, snapping it once, playful little tease. “I strike you as a giver, you say,” he murmurs, breath ghosting the curve of your ass. “Let us check if I can live up to expectations.”

His palm travels from your lumbar to shoulder blades in one slow survey and you bend for him, hands braced on the armrests, legs set just so. The window holds your outline; the city keeps its counsel. Behind you, chair creaks as he settles, and you feel the first careful claim of his hands learning the map of you.

You hate when they merely try to make you come but love when they actually succeed, and he seems to know what he’s doing.

He takes your ass in both hands and opens you like a ripe peach—thumbs firm, patient. The leather sings against skin; seams leave faint, precise lines. One gloved thumb maps you in a single, unbroken stroke: brushes the hood where curls hide it, slips down the wet heat of your slit, pauses at the tight little bridge of perineum, then presses to where you’re smallest and most secret. You twitch and start to look back.

He tsks. “Ah-ah—” his grip tightens, a warning. “No peeking. Admire the view.”

So, you face the city. Glass cools your breath; lights stencil your ribs. Behind you, the thumb circles lazily, the barest pressure at your rim—nothing crude, just a tiny little pester, one you don’t mind—then travels back down, slicker now, to draw a slow figure over your clit without settling. He works in passes: glide, hover, deny. The gloves hold you open while he drags the pad of one finger through you again, slower, collecting whatever you leak. The smallest push at your entrance, not enough to breach, enough to make your knees talk.

Have you had a cock, you’d be standing proud already—tip beading, strings of wet dropping between your legs—but alas—all you have are nipples hoarding blood until they peak, and your insides knotting to a tight tunnel that wants the leather deeper.

“Good,” he murmurs, and the word lands right where his thumb does. He keeps spreading and sets a tidy rhythm—two strokes teasing the top, one long draw down, a press that makes your breath misbehave, repeat—each motion measured so your body starts answering without your leave. The leather warms; the creak turns intimate.

He’s allowed to pick a hole—that’s the basis for your bonus. Of all the things he’s struck you as though, you didn’t expect an explorer.

He settles his left hand into the crease of your thigh, snug in the pocket by your belly. Draws you closer until warm breath turns you warmer.

Choice made obvious, his right glove keeps at it, thumb teasing down to gather body’s natural lube; then his mouth closes over your clit, clean and full. You gasp—reflex, unpretty—then remember the part you’re playing and give him a long, expensive moan, worth every note in his wallet. He lifts a fraction; his lips leave with a soft wet pop. “None of that, please,” he says, the p brushing you wicked. “I’d rather know when you’re getting something out of this.”

Instinct bows you lower; your belly covers his wrist completely. When he does begin to slip a finger inside—there—he’s careful. He circles first, patient, smears what he’s stolen, then feeds the tip in halfway, retreats, feeds again. No rush; he lets your muscles do the courtesy work. His tongue holds a steady seal—little pulls of suction, a slow letter traced and retraced—all that while he keeps you steady at the hip, glove-heel locked to the crest of bone. He tests what you’ll give, angles, finds it, and you hear your own keen—small, bitten-off—bounce off the pane.

“Now, that’s a lovely sound,” he says, softer now. “Eyes front. Let them watch you glow.”

You let the praise do the work—flexible like that. When a nice, pretty client signs your rehearsed courtesan act off on holiday, you take it.

He makes the kind of sounds you trust: the small hungry ones that slip out between tasks. A quiet mm when your hips answer; a pleased breath through his nose as his tongue settles to worry you properly—slow, insistent effort that turns sense to pulp. Leathered thumb eases lower, teasing the rim; there’s the clean sting that blooms sweet when it’s done right, the little ache that writes its own heat. You find yourself moving exactly where he wants you—tiny rolls, mean little twitches—giving him better angles without being asked.

A wisp of hair slides free of your updo and tickles your nose; you huff it off. He chuckles against you—cocky, delighted—and the laugh lands as vibration, wicked as any trick. He noses up, sets his mouth again, draws a longer pull that drags your breath out with it.

The city wobbles on the glass. Your neck complains from holding the view, so you let your head hang and steal a look down the line of your own body. Between your legs you catch him: shoulders square, jaw working, and his hips grinding air—an unconscious cant, the rise under his fly promising enough that you give him an honest sound for it, a moan shaped round his name.

He takes the cue. Pressure tightens; the tongue loses patience in the best way—shorter strokes, ruder tempo, the suction firmer at the crest while the leather presses in, then retreats, then presses again, easing you open by degrees. Your thighs tremble; the window fogs where you’re breathing; the world narrows to three points of contact and a rhythm he’s carved into you.

One orgasm imminent, another queued (judging on that mouthwatering bulge), you stop finicking and let it happen. Spine locks; your pelvis pushes back into his face until you’re riding it—clit on his tongue, cunt on his nose, ass on his thumb—taken neatly apart and built again on the beat he keeps. Not the sittable arrangement you had in mind when you first clocked that slanted nose, but you’re not complaining.

He keeps at it until you whimper and wriggle, smug bastard. He kisses where the thumb withdraws and snaps the garter once.

You laugh, honest and spent. “I might give you a discount if this is how you treat me.”

“Let’s not be hasty, shall we?” He slaps your butt and watches the flesh ripple. You rise on spongy legs; your thighs meet and slide, slick. Viktor stands with a visible effort and you have to stop yourself from helping him. He takes your hand and presses it to his crotch—rigid, hot through the cloth. You tip your chin up. He leans to your ear, mouth close. “Now you have this to take care of, don’t you?”

You’re still humming with it—most clients want a lazy fuck where you do the work. This is a welcome change. “And where do you want me?” you ask, coy.

“Against that window. Hands on the glass.”

You reach to the table, pass him a condom, biting back a grin. He plucks it from your fingers, teeth working one glove off, and watches you take your place. Cheek to glass, you hear the zip sigh, the foil tear. He steps in, one foot heavier than the other, and then his hand is on your lower spine, deepening the arch; the other, naked, spreads between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the pane until your tits flatten and the city prints itself across your skin.

“What a view,” he whispers. His foot nudges your legs apart and it’s almost like he’s aiming to steal your act—teasing with a brush of trousers against your calf like an expert, cock sliding between your thighs until you’re both the same slick. A hand comes to your nape, heavy and warm; a sigh comes from the bottom of his stomach. “I have to be honest,” he mutters. “You are worth every penny.”

Head dressed in latex nudges your entrance—a different hole this time. You appreciate a man who won’t let you get bored. The stretch doesn’t burn so much as bloom, heat unfurling from the inside out. He slides in easily; it feels unpractised and inevitable at once. You catch the jut of his hip bones through the wool settling into the soft of your cheeks when he buries deep. He matches you for standards—an expensive whore met by a man who can afford it, in the thickness of his bank account and his cock.

He pulses inside you—an eager, private throb you feel all the way up your spine. By your feet there’s the quiet scuff of him adjusting—shoe digging for purchase in the carpet, stance set. He eases back until only the tip is caught in your greedy lips, a taut little hold, then drives in again and you learn new glass: inches of you pressed wider, fresh cold taken, heat blooming after it.

“Look at you,” he says, voice close to your ear. “Fogging up the skyline.”

“You’re the one doing civic damage,” you manage, breath ticking. “Think they budget for this?”

He laughs—low, pleased—and pulls out slow, a measured theft of warmth, then gives it back harder. The pane hums against your ribs. His hand at your nape tightens, a cruelly tender anchor. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Expensive,” you say. “And very persuasive.”

“Good girl.” He holds you open with the heel of his palm and starts a mean, narrow rhythm—short strokes that keep you full, no slack, the kind that edits thought. “You take me like you were made for it.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you purr, even as your thighs argue the point. “I’m multi-platform.”

He chuckles, then cuts it off to breathe; you feel him throb again, deeper this time, and the next thrust has intent. He withdraws to the edge—barely there, a kiss that might break—and shoves home, smooth as silk of his cravat. The window takes more of you; your nipples smear heat where they meet it, then cool, then heat again.

“Greedy,” he says, hips steady, tone turned private. “You’re swallowing me.”

“You asked for honesty,” you say, rolling back to catch him thicker. “Here it is.”

“More.” He adjusts again—another silent grind of sole in carpet—and you get the dividend: angle changed, depth sweetened, his belly snug to your ass on the downstroke. “Say you like it.”

“I like the part where you shut up and keep going,” you say, just to keep him entertained. Truth be told, were he yours you’d be mumbling little begs for more yourself.

A bark of laughter breaks you out of it; he obliges. The rhythm tightens—three quick, one slow that drags along every nerve you brought to work. You answer without choosing to: a small sound, bitten short, then longer when he finds the shelf inside and uses it. The pane clouds around your mouth; you lick it clear without meaning to.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, strained. “Breathe. Take it.”

“Bossy,” you say, but it lands as praise.

“Occupational hazard.” He draws back to the brink and holds, just there, making you chase. “Ask.”

You hold out half a heartbeat. “Please.”

“Good.” He sinks in, all of it, and keeps you there, rocking small until your knees flutter. His pulse answers yours; your slick talks down his cock; the city burns and winks like you’re setting the meter yourself.

At first you mistake the hitch in his breathing for a man chasing the finish. But when his foot searches the carpet again and the rhythm goes the wrong sort of sloppy, you risk a glance over your shoulder. His brows are knitted—just as you’d wanted—but it’s the kind of concentration that fences pain, not pleasure.

The motion turns mechanical. Drive, stall, correct; a metered grind with no music in it. The sounds shift too—less delight, more effort, a grunt with teeth in it. He tries to ride it out, stubborn, then withdraws cleanly and the absence hollows you. The bare hand lands on your shoulder, claws for a second—he snaps the condom off, throws it to the floor, but doesn’t tuck back in—then slips away so he can brace his own thigh instead.

You push off the glass, leaving a woman’s print—breasts, cheek, both hands—ghosted there. You reach for him. “Viktor.” He flinches at his name. You smooth a palm down his arm. “You have me for a whole night. We can take a break.”

“N-no,” he says, protest thin but present. He glances for the cane—out of reach. “I just need—” He tries a step and wobbles.

“Hey.” You catch his open palm in yours and push up to give him leverage. “I’ve got you.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Resigned, he limps to the armchair, one hand clamped over the flaring muscle, the other holding your fingers. He drops into the seat with a wince. “You won’t be bored with me—that’s certain,” he says, brittle.

“I wasn’t bored.” You fall to your knees between his legs, tucking concern back under its blanket. You’ve seen falters before and you usually know the drill: backs that won’t give you more than ten minutes? Offer to ride. Cocks that wilt right after the condom snaps on? Announce you’re in a cuddling mood.

But him—you’ve never had them this young and already fragile. The young ones normally fuck you mean, make you say thank you so many times you need to brush your teeth after. Him—you want him to remember you fondly, for some reason.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, hands tentative on his knees.

He laughs, shredded. “Eh—remember me by that incredible head rather than this?” He scrubs his brow with his palm.

“Don’t be silly.” You slide sideways onto the armrest and lean in, combing your fingers through his hair. His sigh is lovely, unguarded. “I already have a catalogue of what I’ll remember you by.”

“Is that so?” he hums with his eyes closed. “Humour me.”

“Ah, a lady never tells.” You watch his mouth pull into a smile. Your hand drifts to his belly. “Why don’t I help you relax, hm?”

He shakes his head. “No.” The lazy crawl towards his cock—still half-hard, shy in the fly’s mouth—gets stopped by his grip. “No. I want to fuck you, not finish in your mouth like every other man who comes here, I’d bet.”

Your brows lift, defiant. “Did I say it doesn’t include fucking?” Your palm slides to his cheek. “Do you trust me?”

“I have only just met you,” he murmurs, already tipping towards your side. “But I suppose I do.”

“And—” your face lights with quick, private glee as you run a finger down his nose—“would you be willing to hand some of that control over?”

“Hmm. And what would that entail?”

“A safeword first,” you say.

“I quite like yours.”

“Topaz?” You chuckle. “Very well. Second—you tell me if you’re hurting.”

“Isn’t that what a safeword is for?”

“I’d rather separate the emotionally uncomfortable from in pain.”

“Oh?” The bastard in him resurfaces; he gives you a juvenile pout. “Are you not going to spank me?”

Something in you sparks at that—tempting. Another temptation: bend him over and milk him by hand while he begs and begs and begs. You file both for a next time you dare hope for. “No,” you purr, thick as cream. “I’ll be gentle with you. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be—” your mouth grazes the shell of his ear—“a good boy?”

While he gives you a beautiful full-body shudder, his cock twitches once. “There you are,” you breathe, genuinely pleased. Instead of doing what he clearly expects—grabbing him and pumping him back to full size— you step in front of the armchair and kick your stilettos off.

“Will you do as I say?” you ask, placing one foot on the armrest beside his hand, treating him to a full view of your legs spread.

He nods—not good enough.

“I need you to be more vocal about consent, handsome.”

He huffs through his nose, amused. “I will do as you say.”

“Good. Very good,” you hum. “Tell me—do you like my stockings?” Your foot nudges his elbow—you wait for permission, too. When his eyes light and he breathes a shallow yes, you give him a decadent slide of nylon over wool until your arch reaches his shoulder and settles. “Well then—be so good for me and lick my legs.”

If Viktor hadn’t already struck you as a man who starts where he should and then sees it through, he earns this title now. Fingers gentle but sure, he cradles your Achilles in one hand and the ball of your foot in the other, then lays an open-mouthed kiss in the hollow—right where the stocking stretches over your arch.

You blink once, slow—stunned by how quickly he learns, or how well he’d been hiding it. A giver, through and through. He makes out with the part of you that aches the most after nights spent parading through penthouses pretending your legs go on for miles.

Then, he licks where the nylon clings tight: over the ankle bone, along the tendon, a patient sweep that leaves a slick trail threaded into the tiny weave. Up your shin—careful, polite—his mouth writing heat in narrow strokes while you watch him work. When he reaches your calf, his hand slips under the hinge of your knee and lifts; he gives a gentle little bite, eyes on you the whole time.

You chuckle, thrilled. “Tease, aren’t you?”

He hums—small, proud—and bares those crooked, endearing teeth to nip higher, the soft inside of your thigh. He pulls you closer to reach, up and up, until his tongue finds the border where nylon becomes skin, and even there he keeps licking, obedient, mouth warm on the seam. He arrives at the crease and buries—tasting salt, a trace of himself, a whisper of leather you’ve carried hidden.

When his mouth strays to centre, you fist his hair—so much for combing—and tug his pink, prettily flushed face up. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ve run out of leg,” he says, cheeky.

“Luckily I have two,” you say, and push that gorgeous nose of his into the opposite crease until you feel his tongue.

He maps the new lane first—thumb smoothing the welt, wet trail following the suspender seam, knuckles skimming the outer thigh as the leather creaks once, approving.

This time his hands are bolder: he snaps the garter clasps open and begins to roll the stocking down as he goes. Not strictly permitted initiative, but you let it slide on account of his beginner’s status you’re so determined to believe in. It feels too good to be his first like this.

He retraces the route, tasting skin, giving the second calf the same timid nibble. At your foot he plucks the stocking free but never breaks contact—finishes you off with a slow slide to your toes and there—oh—his mouth seals you in, sucks, and he hums so sweetly your eyes roll and it’s your turn to shudder for him.

Eyelids ajar, you glance down—there he is, proud again, hard where you want him. You smile, all teeth. “How was that?”

“Eye-opening,” he says, lips swollen, face fuck-drunk and dreamy. You like them like that. A lot.

Careful, you settle your knees on either side of his thighs, weight on the armrests. He reaches, palms your ass, and pulls you onto him—cock flush to cunt—solving both problems at once. First: the straddle’s on the table; he’s intact. Second—well—

“Viktor,” you coo, reaching for his cravat. “Do you know who asks for permission before grabbing like that?” Silk slips free of its knot; you use the tails to hold him close.

He swallows. “Good boys?”

“Mhm. Exactly.” Your purr spills into his mouth. You kiss him—firm lips, firmer tongue, sliding under his teeth, across his palate. Not that you’re a rom-com cliché, but you don’t kiss clients often. If anyone has earned a kiss though, it’s Viktor.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t.” You rise on your knees, one hand already on the table. Another condom comes free. You poise at his crown; he watches the roll-down like it’s a porn-mag editorial, balls tightening at the sight. When he’s ready, you notch him where he’s been before and keep him there, at the edge.

“Would you like to be fucked now?”

“Yes,” he breathes, nodding. “Please.”

You smile. “How badly?”

“So badly,” he says—quiet, unembarrassed, with a little tremor on the edge. “As you’ll give me.”

“Ask and you shall receive,” you hum, and sink. Slow enough to watch his pupils eat the gold to the rim, frame by frame. You take him until thigh meets thigh and your chest brushes the wool of his waistcoat. His lids flutter but don’t close. Something under the fall of his trouser presses, a small, fixed nudge against your skin—unyielding, then forgotten as you settle and breathe.

All the time in the world, you start on his buttons—you’ve had enough of the mystery; you want the road his neck becomes. Waistcoat first, then shirt, neat holes undone down to his stomach. You part the layers and lay your hands flat on his chest. Thin cords work under your palms, honest muscle pulling its weight.

His gloved hand hovers at your lower belly—sweet man, angling to tip you again. You catch that hand and bring it to your mouth. Incisors to seam; you bite the leather at his middle finger and strip it back, slow as you dare, a petty little torture of something pretty. When you have him bare enough, deep enough, you pause and take his face in both palms. Your thumbs land where you meant—over the beauty marks. Slightly raised, innocent under your touch.

“One of the loveliest,” you tell him, barely above a breath. The kind you want to make feel so good he finds his way back.

Everything snug and tight, you find new angles of him—the way he feels when bouncing is out of question; how he fits when all you give is a slow, punishing grind that’s kind to his muscle and excruciating to his cock.

You slide your hands from his face to throat—collar him gently, thumbs set on his Adam’s apple to keep that face tipped up. “Unbelievably pretty thing you are, aren’t you?” you murmur, and watch his mouth pull a wet, helpless shape trapped between a moan and a smile.

“Can I touch you? Please?”

Oh, he might be your favourite.

“What is it? Am I not tight enough?” you tease, but you lead his hand to where you’re spread, set his thumb into curls.

“All of you is more than enough,” he says. “More than I had hoped for.”

“And what did you hope for, darling, hm?” Another roll; he hisses, sweetling. Inside you, blood presses the walls of his cock and he pulses, furious against the snug.

“A reprieve,” he says. “One night when things go my way.”

“And do they?”

“N-no,” he mouths. “Better. Ah—” His jaw tips against your thumb; long lashes flutter; inside, he swells and stutters, a hitch he can’t school, and his hips jerk once before he forces them still. His breath breaks warm over your knuckles, teeth grazing the pad of your thumb like a thank-you he can’t say. “Will you kiss me again?”

How could you deny him when he plays his part so well? You bury a hand in the ruin at the base of his skull and tip him until the act continues there too—fucking done with your tongue in his mouth. Things stack at once: between his legs, he throbs; between yours, he circles; on the armrest, his free hand finds the space to lock on and keep him good; his mouth opens and takes your mercy and swallows it.

You work him—milk with trained muscle, add the smallest lift of your hips and a fully governed descent. He fills you better like this: economical angles, cock nudging every pocket worth knowing. And he touches well too—a shy boy turned skilled the second you tell him the stage is his.

You’re overfed on control and drifting toward bliss again—unbecoming, twice in one night. You take the odd luck as an excuse to be romantic; you want this timed so he never forgets you. The grind tightens, the kiss breaks, your voice kept steady. “Tell me, darling, would you like to come?”

“Oh God, yes—” he breaks, forehead resting to yours.

You stroke his scalp, small nails, tender. “Ask me nicely.”

“Please. Please, you feel—” the words shear thin on his breath; consonants catch, vowels spill; he swallows and tries again, “—you feel so good, I can’t—”

You mouth his ear, ready to tip yourself with him. “Well then, my good boy,” you whisper, “come for me.”

You ride him for it—no bounce, just that cruel, careful grind he can stand. You pocket him deep and hold, then draw a tight figure that keeps the head where it does the most harm. His hands obey where you left them: one clenched white, the other fixed at work. The first whimper is small and unhandsome; the next isn’t—he grabs to claw at your thigh, hips jerking out of measure, those rough, helpless thrusts that announce the spill you won’t feel but will know by the way his belly jumps against you.

You steal the moment for yourself. You meet his thumb, set it exactly where you want it, angle your pelvis that fraction you’ve learned in hard jobs and soft ones. Sparks find tinder. You breathe deep instead of moaning, greedy for his sounds—the ragged catch in his throat, the bitten ah, the soft click of teeth when the next pulse hits him, the laugh that almost arrives and splinters into a groan.

“Good,” you murmur, working the angle, keeping him sunk to the root while you draw small, mean movements over the crest. He’s gone: pupils nebular, mouth open, neck tendon standing like wire under your thumb. He spills in waves—pelvis stuttering, thighs shivering—each pulse answered by your body closing down around him, sucking on reflex.

You take your own on the back of his. It comes low and insistent, a lock down your spine, the tight grip of everything you’ve been holding finally allowed to seize. Heat folds in; your legs tremble; your breath goes long and rough through your nose while you listen to him break apart beneath you. You keep him there—kept, contained—riding the small afters until the twitch in his belly fades and the thumb under your curls turns from urgent to tender, from tender to still.

When it passes, you don’t move yet. You press your forehead to his and count two breaths together, then another, his chest working thin and fast under your palms. He swallows, tries to speak, gives up, and smiles instead—crooked, golden-eyed, wrecked in exactly the right way.

“Hi, stranger,” you say, thumb sweeping the sweat at his temple. “How was that?”

The space between you dies in a small, greedy wave—he tugs until his nose is buried in your neck. “Unexpected,” he whispers. “Incredible. Thank you.”

You close your eyes and smile—they don’t thank you often. “My pleasure. Quite literally,” you say. “How do you feel?”

“Reprieved,” he says. “Like the night went my way.”

“And your leg?”

“A little mean.” His knuckles travel the thigh he undressed. “Nothing too insistent. Thank you for whistling past the graveyard.”

“Viktor.” You cup his face and make him meet your eyes. “I enjoyed every second. That isn’t common. Performance is part of the job; being deceitfully nice isn’t in my nature.”

His turn to smile. “I shall remember that.”

You spend a few tender minutes together—combing back his hair like you’ve known him for ages, rubbing his shoulders warm until the tension leaks away. When he’s ready to stand, you undress what matters—condom off—and button him back into presentable. He hesitates at the gloves.

“Would you like to keep them?” he asks. “For, eh, the… next time?”

Heart singing at that, you pause—technically, you could show him how happy it makes you, what’s the harm in that? But your professional self slips into place—so instead, you accept the gift gracefully and nod. “I shall look forward to it.”

He does enough off-script to have you thrown off your game, and enough predictable things to scold yourself for it. He helps you dress—nice, not rare. He has one for the road with you—your whisky clinks his vodka—that’s uncommon; most want the exit as soon as possible, back to their lives. He kisses you by the lift until you laugh—sometimes that happens, but the yearners tend to scare themselves and, despite promises, don’t return. And then, of all things, he makes you lose your bet—never asks your real name once. Calls you darling instead.

and he might've. you applaud superman, he's a man of the people, a story worth writing and you've even asked to interview him once- he never replied, like a ghost, except he haunted you through repetitive interviews with your mortal enemy clark kent and it burned. and from that day? you preferred batman, at least he rejected you with honesty and a bluntness you could appreciate. he didn't get cosy with the enemy, he punished them and relished in the feeling of it, just how you wished you could do yourself to one person in particular.

"you'll get em next time tiger," and its a stiff pat of the lazily dropped on to your shoulder, a smile imprinted in the air that englufs you. you don't even have to look up to recognise the unwanted looming 6'4 shadow towering above you, as if from that height you couldn't feel anymore smaller- be anymore smaller compared to him. the rage bubbles over in your stomach, steaming at your organs and quietly releases through the air that flares from your nostrils. you're seething and he knows it, he tortures you with the same lame comfort every time he makes the front page and you don't- which these days, feels way more often than not.

but you won't burst, not yet, and definitely not infront of the one person who's waiting for it to happen. you wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he's won, he's under your skin and you let him roam free there. so you grit your teeth, open your document and begin to list all the things you hate about clark kent.

. . .

"golly, if it isn't jimmy and neutron," shining blue eyes twinkle with a tease and you feel the bile rising up in your system already. the play on words had gotten old very quickly; matter of fact a day after he met you quickly and decided that because you were pushing in the field of science journalism, using your physics degree to explore current trends in space with an environmental focus often- clark had used his big brains to label you as neutron, fitting for your best friend jimmy. it was also the last time you wore red, clark's evil pretty smile basically bursting when he saw the correlation and on your first day, before lunch time had even hit- clark kent had made two embarrassing (on your part) mistakes. first, he had thought you were the latest intern and asked for his coffee order and then came the likening you to a fictional character- the nickname sticking to you with hot embarrassment. months later and you're still neutron, you're pretty sure you may die as neutron.

"ha, ha," the stale echo leaves your mouth as you shoot him your best disapproving glare. it doesn't deter him one bit, you get a flash of teeth in return, a blinding superstar grin that just fuels your disgust- god, how could anyone be as obnoxious as him, you think.

"hey clark!" jimmy calls out and clark responds with a wave, you hiss at your friend, the outward act of betrayal infront of your own eyes as you duck your head low to avoid any further confrontations with your mortal enemy. that's enough evilness for one day, anymore and you'll be at the gates of pure hell, clark kent's poster face ready and waiting.

"keep walking jim," you whisper through your teeth, giving clark one last glare before continuing on to the lifts and into your lunch time plans- the weather seemed nice enough to eat outdoors, you two had thoroughly checked the weather days in advance, hoping to get some much needed serotonin, sunshine and serenity the city can offer.

"hey jim, say if you see this nerd about yay big," he levels your height with his hand, purposely making you look smaller, "tell her the second page is looking for her," and you flip him off as you walk away, hearing a loud weight of boyish laughter thud in the air of the daily planet. a sliver of his stupid face disappears once the doors shut, though it lingers at the forefront of your mind- the crevices and lines etched of his skin burnt into your memory as the words echo again. you rub at your temples, massaging them softly as you slump your body against the wall- jimmy immediately taking your bag from you and lightening the load on your shoulders.

he doesn't have to say anything; he knows what has you so uptight and part of him thinks its the funniest and silliest game of cat and mouse that you and clark are locked in, both blissfully and painfully unaware.

"i hate when he calls me that," you mumble into your hands, feeling the anger seethe, bubble and then you mute it down into what feels a lot more like practised exhaustion and fatigue. there's no bark in your bite whenever clark isn't around, there's just something in his presence that greatly amplifies your annoyance and the secondary feeling of insecurities pushing on you. he's clark kent. he's loved by the whole team, he's buddies with superman, he makes the front page like it's his birthright with such ease, he's built like a damn machine and he has a dog, he talks to his parents every other day, he watches star wars and he is kind- albeit kind to everyone but you. you can't help but feel like this is all a personal attack- of course clark kent isn't perfect and has enemies, he chose you as his target, you as his nemesis- he must've seen some sort of match to play though often than you'd like to admit you do feel way out of your sparring depth.

"i think it's cute," jimmy shrugs, and by the downward turn of your curled lip, bordering into snarl territory he knows you disagree- and hard.

"he said i had a big forehead!" you didn't mean to shout, but the outrage is astronomical, the disbelief burns in your veins. clark kent cannot find you cute- he's satan in disguise, this will ruin everything, everything you've worked for and against because that will mean you are wrong and clark kent is actually capable of being a decent person.

"he called you a genius!" jimmy tries to reason and the look you level him with incredulity makes him want to hide away and wait this out.

"a young boy genius-"

"the most renowned of minds," he compliments, trying to make it sound way better than what it is, not that you have a giant forehead or the one instance you wore red and became the butt of a joke. you're his best friend, and he loves you more than anything but some part of him wants to just shake you awake, that clark kent must be drawn to you if he only ever acts this way around you. for two incredible journalists, you two are so stupid with the evidence right there infront of you.

"oh yes jimmy, because that's what every girl wants to hear- not that i'm hot or that my work matters and is good enough to make the print but that i'm a young boy genius with a forehead the size of fucking space- what? why are you looking at me like that?" you take a step away from him as the lift finally opens and leads you outside and on a pathway to the nearest park where you can settle down, let the breeze run through your skin and hair and squash any thought of a certain black curly haired nuisance in your already occupied brain.

"oh nothing," he teases, "why would you care about clark kent, your quote unquote "nemesis", calling you hot?"

"i don't," you immediately spit out, aware of how suspiciously quick the response came and the smug look jimmy olsen tries to hide. it's like your brain had this rehearsed, formulated in a strict "clark kent protocol" and shot it out along with any inclination that you could feel anything other than a strong dislike for your co-worker.

"okay," jimmy shrugs, his hands drop lazily in surrender but the smile he sports is as clear as day; soft as the clouds you sit under as you unwrap your sandwich and kick your legs free.

"i said i don't," you repeat, even minutes after the conversation dies down and jimmy is busying himself trying to find a movie on his laptop, but it bugs you the indifference- no, jimmy not siding with you immediately, like there's some secrecy he's holding to himself instead of defending your honour boldly.

"i heard you the first time babe," he mumbles, scrolling and clicking, "how do you feel about star wars?" he asks, and your heart knocks against your ribcage, a slump at having to work overtime at the constant reminder of clark fucking kent. but you know jimmy, saying no and bringing up clark's strange addiction with the series would only prove his point- that as much as you dislike him, some part of you searches for his opinion in a sick and twisted way.

so you take a bite of your sandwich, swallowing pesto and your pride and let it grow stale in your mouth as you nod, "sounds good to me," you try for a careless, offhanded comment of indifference but it burns, it bothers you in ways you can't even explain.

"okay," fuck you, okay.

. . .

"oh, she loves when i call her that," he doesn't even try to dull out the laughter when he spots your middle finger sent his way, his tongue presses in his cheek, mischief laced in his mind as he watches your form disappear through the doors and out into the wind. he swivels back in his chair, the wheels rolling as the gears in his brain turn- he really needs to think of a new article for next week's brief, check in with perry, come up with something that can top your new advancement on the science column. that task enough was difficult, you were smart and everybody included clark kent knew it and had to deal with it, you really gave him a tough run for his money in the fight to make the front page.

"do you know if she's seeing anyone? she's hardly with anyone other than jimmy- maybe she's seeing jimmy," he mutters as he closes the millions of tabs open on his screen, his stomach rumbles and he's due for a break soon. he was tempted to join your and jimmy's picnic, overhearing you guys from across the corridor and he salivated at the mention of you bringing some banana bread and tea in flasks. he lingered at the printers, waited to be given an invite, even focused on jimmy- the weaker of you two to crumble first but the pure steel you gave him as you moved to the opposite side of the room with your best friend following like a lost puppy as soon as you caught sight of clark staring intently, it was clearly not going to happen.

"clark, what do you care? you give her absolute hell-" lois' warning is cut off by clark's brows shooting to the ceiling at her admission.

"i do not! it's our thing-"

"i think this might be a you thing-" she tries to reason to her colleague, bring him out of the depths of delusion he's ran himself through and back to the surface of reality.

"she likes it!" clark scoffs, you engage in this mini war just the same as he does- the effort does not go unnoticed by him. out of everyone he's ever met, only you've come close to his wit, his intellect, his humour- you're his equal and if he has to mess with you to keep the competition on your toes and your focus on him, clark kent will spend the rest of his life playing this dangerous game. and if anything, he loves a challenge. you didn't swoon when you first met clark, you didn't bat an eyelid or even go out of your way to impress him but you've stolen his attention from the first look and the rest is history.

"and what makes you think she likes it?" you. lois wants to say, but she doesn't think her friend is ready for that type of conversation yet. but the real meaning is unspoken but heard, lingers in the air as his eyes are struck on the spot where you've left.

"she smiles," and he sports one of his own, if lois focused a little longer than maybe she would've heard the subtle pick of his heartrate, the dreamy sigh that leaves his lips followed by a little gasp when he pictures you, how he has to press his lips together to stop himself from bursting out the seams.

"at everyone but you," lois, the true voice of reason and honesty, tries to hit him with.

"exactly," he's smug when he faces his friend, kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back in his chair, "mine are reserved," he brags. he thinks about the small smiles kept with clark kent's name attached to them. how they're half teeth but all heart, with your lips pressed together but clark can see the small curve of your lip. the smirks that radiate confidence, how clark marvels at your talent and intellect, the small snarls where you mean to throw disdain but clark catches it with pride that he can rile you up this good. then there's the smiles where you don't think he's watching but he always is, where your eyes crinkle and your whole existence seems to soften with something gentler, something kinder, something so overtly hidden from him that he doesn't want to ruin the moment and let you know he's there.

he must've trailed too far off into the distance, overstayed in the shrine he's built of you in memories that lois' knowing look pulls him back to the surface and he tries to return back to their earlier conversation- the start of it all, questioning the existence if there's someone out there other than clark who is deserving of your attention, "i don't think her and jimmy are a thing, i mean i saw her wrestle him for a coffee mug in the break room earlier," and he tries to hide the fondness with a poorly executed scoff.

"clark again, what do you care?" except this time lois doesn't bother to hide the giggle of stupidity at one of her closest's friends and clark panics, he doesn't care. he can't care- it'll ruin his easygoing relationship with you and if you have to hate him for him to get access to a side you don't give out to anyone else, clark kent will do it.

"i don't, i told you, maybe if neutron got laid or was seeing someone, she'd like i don't know lighten up," he excuses but the words feel as misplaced as they leave him, when they linger in the air and cut through the thickness with a swift elbow jab from lois. it feels wrong, like a branding he's put out there- a label on your character but he needs to throw his friend off his trail. he's clark kent, he's number one and you're the competition. and then a heavy silence takes over and clark trails lois' apologetic gaze to where you stand just a few feet away from him, sporting the same glare you always mean for him but a new faint red blush creeping up your neck.

oh lord, he thinks.

because somewhere along from torturing yourself with star wars and your work nemesis thinking of your smile, you've made it back to the office- forgetting a cup for your flask. and at that moment in time, fate is a cruel twisted and funny thing because your ears burn hot with the intensity of the words he's hit you with and they paint a tomato hue of embarrassment you can't bring yourself to die down.

"dick," you scoff in his direction, disgust laced on your features but its a little more of a weaker whisper than you'd like.

"hey, you can borrow it whenever," he tries to recover, regain the comedic banter and shoots you a wink to recover from his stumble. but you just stare, stare and stare till he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. when you're satisfied with his squirming you turn to head back to your desk to grab a small blanket and some cups.

"i'd rather eat glass," you return smoothly, "glad to know a dry spell is also hitting you too or do you just you offer your services up to anyone?" it's snarky, but if you weren't so thrown off guard, you know you could've done better.

"ah, not anyone, just you babe," another smirk. but when you've disappeared he faces a stern lois who stands with her brows raised clearly unimpressed, theres just something about you that brings out the competitive childish side in him and he doesnt know what to do. his mouth moves far too quick for his brain to keep up with, anything for you keep your eyes on him. until you don't.

"oh gosh," he breathes when you're out of earshot, though he'd never let you hear or give you the satisfaction of throwing him off his usual calm, collected and smooth game.

"a little too far, kent," she pats him on the back, its a little harder but carries the consequences of him mouthing off "keep that up and you'll drive her too far out you'll need a damn map to bring her home."

"oh i'm not trying to bring her home," he rolls his eyes and a beat of silence passes the two of them.

"clark, i think you like her," lois softens.

"i think you're being crazy and should just help me with damn article," he huffs, directing his attention to literally anything but the confession his friend hits him with. he can't like you- he can't, but lois saying it doesn't make it feel any less real. so she lets it go, settles into their easy routine and helps nitpick where he's gone wrong and what he can do better, clark listens obediently and tries to focus but he can still feel you in his orbit. he needs to do something to salvage the mood and so he does what he knows he can do- pure journalism.

"full disclaimer not that i care or anything but for purely based on my outstanding deductive skills as a journalist- that means she's not seeing anyone," he breaks the shifted mood to recall your earlier comment from memory, like his muscles remember the contraction, the wave of oxygen it takes to formulate your name and your entire existence like its a secret oath he's sworn to protect.

"not that you care though right," lois teases and he feels his friendship slowly restores its balance, his earlier slip up not forgotten, just lightly grazed over into something familiar.

"of course not," he confirms and ducks his head lower into his desk, not without sneaking a look in the direction of your desk that still sits empty- you must've returned to your picnic with jimmy and afternoon without the tyranny of clark kent.

"it was on the record- observational, i'm a journalist," he excuses with a shrug. lois catches the ramble fondly but clark is too far in his head to notice. and maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it enough.

. . .

the thing is, clark kent has tried to be nice to you. a truce of some sorts.

it started with coffee cups that he would leave on your desk, watch you sniff cautiously and the first few you spilt down the sink along with his eager-eyed hope for peace. you weren't sure of who was leaving them until you arrived to work a lot earlier than usual- your plans to leave a lot earlier that day and make up the time.

you watched him pick up your mug from the cupboard through blinking tired eyes- it had to have been a blur, a lapse in judgement you were half asleep. but the guilty look, his widened eyes like a deer in headlights, its a look you'll score into your memory.

from there, he still made the coffee and he'd watch you drink it in agonising slow slips, never once did you acknowledge it, thank him other than a slight nod, but he held onto it.

he tried through giving you pointers on your work, just little comments to push you in the direction and you were pushed alright. you didn't speak or look his way for days, the cold shoulder freezing clark out as you poured yourself into long days glued to your desk to come out better, to do better, to be better.

he even offered to walk you home and you looked at him like he was insane; and maybe he was. maybe he shouldve known it came across as weird, out of the blue, i mean you two were hardly even friends and your commute was in the entirely different direction of his but he thought it was gentlemanly, honourable even but you gave him one weird look and left. and he never asked again.

and from then, clark decided there was higher reward that came from annoying you than what came from being nice to you. nice didn't earn him your attention, didn't push him to be his best for you and him, in fact he owes a large part of his career growth to you- it's nice to be challenged but being nice wasn't going to get you to look in his direction and linger. nice was for strangers, for friends and you and clark? he knew your connection was meant for more.

. . .

it's wednesday and you have the mornings off, entering the daily planet just after the callback from lunch is announced and you step into the meeting room ready for a debrief.

you've had your hair cut, clark notices immediately as he catches sight of your frame slipping through the door behind perry. he likes it, a lot, he decides. it looks so soft and bouncy, styled in a blowout that clark for a second, thinks what it would be like to feel the strands through his fingers, like silk. do you use silk pillows?

you catch sight of lois, send her a sweet smile and it drops to a slower polite one at clark, who lets his fingers dance in a teasing wave as you walk past the pair to get to your usual seat- right across from him. he gets a faint smell of vanilla and deeper notes of cherry that intoxicate his bloodstream and lure him deeper in your vicinity- is that a new fragrance? he doesn't have time to notice because a laughter like sunshine streaks through the sky, throwing planet earth off orbit.

"that good?" jimmy murmurs, and you shake your head, eyes widening and flashing in delight,

"incredible," you gush in a whisper and clark feels left out. there's clearly something unspoken in the air, you just feel lighter. you've abandoned your usual slacks for a fairy-like skirt, paired with a simple knit sweater and bow ballet flats, you look ... nice, he wants to say. like, you always look nice but today, you look really nice. you look softer, less guarded and it is drawing clark in like a magnet he can't turn from.

before he can even tease you, the room drifts off into a deep discussion as they pass around their ideas for the week and when it gets to you, clark uses the opportunity to ask you the most useless questions, hold your gaze intently as he quizzes on random hypothetical scenarios and when he hears the frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you pack up your things, clark faces a tired lois, ignoring how he hears you mumble a faint "i'm going to kill him jimmy, i'm going to go down for first degree murder and i give lois permission to have that story."

"what?" he questions. she levels him with a look and he shrugs it off, "she looks different today," he adds a little quieter today.

and then lois swats his shoulder in annoyance, "dude," she breathes, "you know, maybe she finally got laid and eased up a bit" lois repeats a stale regurgitation of his previous words and scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. and as if by instinct, clark's fists clench and rumble under the table as he pins a dark look to your seat. he can't imagine it- you? sharing an electric chemistry with someone other than him? must be a nightmare he's stuck in because suddenly clark doesn't feel as special anymore. he feels lonely, and a little bit childish for getting such a reaction out of you. he tunes out on lois' teasing and taps his fingers against the table in thought and then without saying goodbye, he leaves lois lane confused behind.

for this type of journalism, clark has to go out on the field.

he tries to find you on many occasions to conduct his investigation on your love life but it seems you're playing hide and seek, though he does spot jimmy olsen refilling his coffee in the break room and very subtly leans his back to the counter, facing jimmy cooly.

"can i help you, clark?" jimmy furrows his brows, looking around to see if there's anyone else clark is here for.

"hey jimmy," he smiles and it's strange, unnerving even. clark has always been nice to jimmy but his little stunt flustering you in the break room after you've clearly had a good morning, jimmy feels the need to protect his honour and show his loyalty today to you today.

"listen, i gotta go," he swats off clark, holding up two mugs and clark catches it instantly- the mug he used to refuel so often for you. he matches jimmy's stride within seconds, his longer legs having to slower down a few steps to keep up in tandem with him. jimmy catches on slowly to what clark's doing and speeds up, narrowing a corner and hoping to lose him.

"what do you want?" jimmy breathes out, trying to catch his lungs up to this metaphorical turned physical chase.

"neutron," clark stops him, extending his arm as a physical barricade to the wall and cutting him off and jimmy nods slowly, careful not to pour any more spillage from the steaming mugs he's transporting. "she uh, she doing okay?" he asks.

"is she doing okay?" jimmy dumbly repeats, "yes?"

"yes?"

"yes?" he repeats,

"why are you saying it like a question, she is or she isn't," clark rumbles in exasperation.

"yes she's fine! what do you care?"

"why does everyone keep saying that!" clark bursts our and quietens down once he sees the few stares that have accumulated his way. jimmy rolls his eyes and sends him a glare, eerily similar to lois' but all clark can focus on is how its nothing like yours.

"clark, you're like, a menace-" jimmy gets out, "in the nicest way possible, i think you're out of your depth," and clark doesn't make a move, just sets his lips between his teeth and sits on it.

"she's not seeing anyone is she?" he speaks low, a depth he's sure can touch the centre of the earth and meant for jimmy's ears only. a smirk settles on your friend's features as he tries to hide the smile.

"you'll have to ask her yourself," he shrugs trying not to act too smug, "her business is her business." and he ducks his head under clark's arm of a barricade and carries on his way, he walks around the corner slightly again out of clark's way but sends a final look back in resignation and slight pity for your work nemesis who's clearly trying to branch out into friends and more territory with no clue how to, "clark?"

"yeah?" he answers hopeful, the beat of his heart skipping as he jumps to each conclusion.

"save her a dance tomorrow, i think she'd like that," and he nods to himself, that's if you don't kill him before the daily planet gala starts.

. . .

"girl, tomorrow you wear the dress. trust me on this, no questions, just do it."

. . .

there's faint buzz of something questionable, something familiar and something that makes the butterflies soar in your stomach as you take a walk around the room. it's been decorated so beautifully and you take the time to just soak up the ambience- the warmth it offers as you're here so often this place is basically your second home, you've made friends, enemies but so many memories that tonight is a celebration.

you let yourself looser, you dance as much as you can and let the liquid courage swim through your veins as you float carefree, until you hit the deep end. 6'4, 240lbs of a deep end.

"clark," you nod and sip into your drink, you had wanted to avoid him tonight but coming to think of it, there's nowhere in existence you could go without clark kent following you at your side.

"neutron or would you prefer my sweet nemesis?" he grins, taking in your attire and he lets his eyes roam on your frame, it warms a different kind of fire in you, a little bit of a burn that wraps around your frame- the kind that comes from a campfire, settling into the sweet night.

"you look well," you get out, ignoring his trap and his smile grows. well. he straightens to his full length, relishing in your compliment and fights back the drawl, he knows he looks good. and he knows that you know he does. he looks fucking incredible in his navy suit, his slicked hair with a small curl that hangs to the forefront. it drops, dangling dangerously infront of you and you feel the urge to reach out and wrap your finger around it, tug it enough for him to fall into you and-

"you look incredible, you know," he leans in with a tease, "for a nerd," and your heart races at the intensity of being so close. you take a step forwards, ignoring the beat of a drum in your ears and the warnings blarring in your mind and you whisper, letting it simmer in the air and lands on his lips.

"you look well," you repeat, "for someone who's about to be second place to me," and he rolls his lips together, melting your words into his soul, imprinting what he knows and loves. clark kent doesn't come second place- it's not in his nature, but the confidence you shoot at him, it sends something straight to his head and his heart. god, he loves a challenge- he likes you. and he just doesn't know what to do with all of this.

he replaces your empty glass of drink with his own, and when your lips touch the mark where his own had been moments before something tingles down his spine. you chug it down in one go and face him with a smile. your best friend's words come to you earlier and remind you that tonight is a party and you're allowed to enjoy yourself. you're a professional, you work hard, you deserve to let loose and you'll be damned if you let clark kent steal all your energy to keep up with his immature banter. there doesn't have to be a fight or arguement tonight, you could be civil coexist in the same place as clark kent and not have everything go to shit.

"jimmy said you were gonna save me a dance or have you gotten all chicken-shit?" you lay the bait and he takes it, burning at the red of your dress that flashes in his brain. he wants to photograph this moment, burn it into his soul for permanent memory because the twinkle in your eyes is dangerous, he's falling in deep. he tries to play it safe, knowing that you'd hardly let him close to you if you were sober and aware- the alcohol numbing your nerves and feeding in his delusions. so his hands find your waist at a respectable distance as he sways you to the beat, your own wrap around his shoulders and before you know it, he's skipping you around the room, twirling you in his arms and all you can feel is him.

"i need another drink," you laugh when you detach yourself from his hold, patting his chest (and pretending like you didn't feel a whole bunch of muscle under that white shirt) in a forced friendly manner and making a bee line for the table set up.

someone needs to stop you before its too late, so he warns your best friend who cheekily nods at him before he takes off in the same direction, needing the same liquid courage that has you seeing stars though clark kent is far from sober himself; his tolerance just a lot higher than yours.

the shots line up and clark takes them with each loosening his muscles and drowsing him with replays of how you smiled at him, how your laughter sounded when he finally let go of you. how tonight you weren't pretend enemies, he was a man standing infront of the most gorgeous woman alive and pretending like he wouldn't sacrifice anything to be close to you.

it's sloppy to get drunk at a work function, but clark decides its sloppier to let the only person who's ever made him feel so alive walk away so he searches for you in the sea of souls, eyes straining as he dodges body to body till he sees a sliver of red make a beeline to the bathroom and he follows.

come on clark, you're superman, you can do this, the alcohol cheers him on.

you can tell her that you love her and it all won't go to shit.

. . .

the knocks at the door interrupt your application of a fresh coat of lipstick, the red as crisp as your dress and you feel yourself blush slightly; you look good and you feel great too, which makes a really nice change for once.

"occupied," you raise your voice and steady yourself at the sink, taking a deep breath in to pace yourself. it might be a good idea to think about turning in for the night, making sure you have enough rest- you have the day off tomorrow but, still. you've had your night of breathless fun and it's time to clock back into being responsible you.

the knocks clutter again and you huff, ripping the door hinges with more force than you intended that you stumble your balance, reach out for the frame to lean on for support and face the almost intruder.

"clark?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question but it just does.

"you are infuriating," he breathes. his speech is slightly slurred and you scrunch your brows in annoyance, then your nose at the smell heavy in the air. god, he's ruining your mood already.

"all you had to do was wait," you hiss, it doesn't come as quick as you'd like but it lands all the same. he's blocking the corridor to get back out on the dance floor with that looming intensity and you wait, tapping your foot- the click of the heel signalling where you want to be.

clark refines the sound and aligns it to his heartbeat, matching each click with a footstep closer to you until he has you up against the wall, milimetres and months of tension separating the two of you. "i've waited so long," he murmurs, suddenly softer and his hand reaches out hesitantly, his fingers stroke your jaw before he cups your cheek in his hand. the other snakes around your waist and you close your eyes, subtly leaning into his touch and he hums.

"this colour on you," its a whisper as his fingers trace your lips and his eyes darken with something heavier and unfamiliar you can't name but it excites you. you wait so patiently any moment now to feel his lips on yours, if you angle your head just slightly, bend your waist into him, you'll be there yourself

"you talk too much," and sparks fly when you decide to close the gap yourself and bridge something new. theres a soft "oomf" as you throw yourself at him and he bends immediately into you, moulding your soul to his as he lets his lips lock into yours, catching your lip between his teeth as he makes further work down your neck.

"clark?" you whisper and he hums against your skin, the breath as warm as the blood pooling through your veins that you have to press your hand against his abdomen to steady yourself.

"look who's talking too much now," he rumbles and a small gasp escapes you when you feel the graze of his teeth.

"clark?" you call out again, tugging the curls of his upwards to lift his gaze to yours and you find a hint of concern hiding in them.

"yeah, baby?" and the gruff sends a new sensation to your heart, bleeding through the edges as you scramble to find a new home where you can slot the words "yeah baby" into existence for the rest of your life. it goes straight to your head, weakening your knees to jelly as you fold. for a moment it reminds you of why you don't like being called neutron when clearly, baby is the best option out there by lightyears.

"not here," you shake your head softly,

"mine?" he asks in the inches that separate you.

"yeah," you breathe before you're tangled in him again.

you're the picture of grace and elegance as you wobble away back out into the main hall. you wave to your friend goodbye and jimmy yells for you to get home safe. minutes later, clark does the exact same except he doesn't stop for anyone. he tears the front doors down like they're a mission and meets you in biting secrets of midnight. a taxi is called, the two of you two drunk to drive and keep your hands to yourself as you land at his door.

with his mouth on yours and his hands clearly busy, it takes four tries to get the key through the door before you almost trip over yourself getting in. he catches you effortlessly and where the door had taken four attempts, it only takes clark one and possibly four seconds to have you undressed and feel his skin on yours, and not just linger under it like he usually does.

it's a night filled with praises, a messy tangle of the months of yearning and miscommunicated feelings that rush to the surface. and as your back hits the soft clouds of his mattress and he sends you to a new type of heaven, you forget all the reasons you've ever hated clark kent. how could you not? when he's hell bent on making sure you're loved enough in one night for a lifetime.

. . .

the first thing that unsettles you is that when you wake there's no sunlight that peeks through your blinds which alarms you dangerously.

it then amplifies when you sit upright and the sheets slip, pooling at your naked waist that you gasp horrified, clutching them back to cover you as you dart your eyes in your surroundings.

the hangover rushes to your head, a drum that pounds with panic as you bite your lip down, blood rising with a bruised ego as you realise just where in the hell you were.

in hell.

in satan's homeland you've lost your dignity.

you stand, the urge to cry in embarrassment as you flush, desperately grabbing your trail of clothes all over the room and dressing at the speed of light. the mirror catches your reflection, the print of pillows that aren't yours etched onto your cheeks, the ruffled of your hair a sloppy mess- a direct echo of how you feel and you shudder at your appearance. this feels like a far cry from how you looked last night- you just look so undone and it nags at you as you plan your escape.

heels may be too loud with their clicking, you ponder so you clutch as the straps and pad barefoot out of the bedroom door. the eery quiet and silence of the house just makes it easier to hear your heart thud in your chest, begging to break free and relieve itself from the anxiety building up in your system.

just a few steps to go and freedom will feel so incredible.

"not even going to join me for breakfast?" and its a deep runble, etched with fatigue and gentleness that pulls you from your escape plan as you freeze. you're mid-tiptoe and pause, turning swiftly to face the bane of your existence, the cause of all your problems and most recent mistake with a cheesy smile.

its a new one, clark thinks and he makes a mental note to jot it down for later safekeeping. it's childish even, curled with nerves at the edges as he watches you try and come up with an excuse. he sets the frying pan down on his oven and makes his way towards you. unlike you, a hot mess, he's dressed in a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms- like a normal person would be and you couldn't help but feel more stupid. he plants his hands on your shoulders and steers you into the direction of his kitchen, ignoring your pleads and excuses with a hand firmly pressed to your mouth, stifling you to silence.

"come on neutron," he mumbles, "eat." and the plate placed infront of you unlocks something ravenous, caveman-like, setting back your mannerisms years to the beginning of existence. you swallow your pride and some of the omlette he's made slowly and clark smiles, it feels like the very first time he saw you actually drink one of the coffees he made for you at the office and its funny how the deja vu just hits him.

if he could take it back, he would have tried harder, he thinks. would've made the coffee regularly into a habit, wouldve showed you in the smaller moments that he can be more than the competition, he could be a steady force in your life. or maybe, he could've just pavlov'ed you into expecting a coffee that when it didn't come, it would've caused you to seek him out either way.

"fuck," you mumble, of course clark kent had to have been a good cook too- this feels highly unfair on you, you think.

"yeah we did," he mutters into his steaming mug of coffee and when he feels you freeze under the table opposite him he apologises. its the softest of "sorry"'s you've ever heard in your life, the first from him for sure that you test how it feels on your ears, savour the sensation and decide you like it almost as much as you loved hearing the word "baby" slip from his lips last night. clark sends you a softened look, hoping his slip up hasn't scared you off- gentle steps, he curses at himself. he knows you, knows the structure you value that any sort of off balance will drive you away and he intends to keep you as close as he can.

he waits for you to finish breakfast and you sit there awkwardly, "i can do the dishes?" you offer and he shuts you down instantly, letting you linger in your shame a lot longer than you'd like as you try to come up with new escape routes.

"i can feel you thinking from here neutron," he offhandedly calls as he dries the dishes he lays on the rack, his broad back is still turned to you and you mouth a plethora of curses at the muscle you could recite like its the word of god. "lay that big brain on me, baby."

baby.

and your heart skips too many beats you fear you may go into cardiac arrest, so you settle for deflection instead, "i think last night was a mistake," you rush out. and its painfully slow how long it takes him to put down the rag, turn around and lean against the sink counter, the slight tense of his forearms as they brace at his sides the main inclination he already doesn't like what you're about to say.

"i don't think it was," he tries to catch your gaze and as soon as he does, its an intense lock of eye contact as he searches deep into your soul.

"clark we were drunk!" you try to reason, squirming under the intensity of it all. and that's the last time you'll ever drink, you swear to yourself.

"and i would do it sober," he shrugs, he bounces off the sink with a little leap as he stalks towards you, each step an echo of how he approached you last night and how you know how easy it could be to just slip and fall into his embrace all over again; clark kent is pure poison, evil and intoxicating that you feel a strong dependancy on him. you don't just love somebody like clark kent and when he leaves you make it out alive- you just about tried hating him and it feels like you're hanging on for dear life. the consequences should be earth shattering, heart-breaking disastrous.

"you don't think we have a chance here?" he asks, his fingers tipping your chin upwards to him, crushing some centimetres of distance.

"i don't think we'd work," you softly speak, "up until last night, i'm sure you hated me," and he recoils, letting out a strained sigh before nodding.

"i couldn't hate you, no matter how hard i try. i don't think we hate each other at all," he confesses, "i think we feel a lot for each other, maybe too much we can handle and know what to do with it so it possibly gets misplaced. warped and wrapped up but it's shaped in the love i feel for you," he reaches out for your hand, lays it on his chest where his beating heart rests and spreads your fingers so you can feel the extent of the contraction. "i don't know what to do with all these feelings but i do know, with my life and more than anything, that i want to be with you and i want to try- we worked so well last night, that was just a tester baby, i'd be so good to you, we," he pleads, "we could be so good to each other." and he presses his forehead so tenderly into yours, a greater look into your vulnerable gaze.

"i don't know how to do this clark," you whisper, "i'm scared," and the voice that escapes you is so small and foreign, clark's own heart breaks at the sound of it.

"we'll do this together, slow. i'll take the lead if you want but i won't pursue this if this is something you don't want," if i'm someone you don't want, he doesn't push to say.

"okay," you swallow, blinking back a few stray tears and he narrows his eyes, assessing if there's any underlying feelings you're hiding from him. part of you doesn't know if this is okay, but the word leaves you before you can stop it.

"okay?" he asks, to be sure.

"okay," you breathe and he holds your head against his chest, rocking you into his embrace and you stiffly pat his back. you've never been anything other than clark kent's work nemesis before and part of you feels way out of your league, this is unfamiliar territory and you're wildly unprepared for being someone he could love. but the way he looks at you, like you've lifted the sky to its height and hold the weight of his entire universe, you have to give it a try or it will crush you whole.

. . .

the first time clark kent holds your hand in his you almost scream.

his own is dropped at its side and when he walks with you up to the office, he tries to be subtle with how it knocks into yours. a soft slide of skin as he slows his steps to match yours. it happens four times before you grow suspicious but he doesn't bother to look down at you, the guilt is already lingering in the soft smile he tries to downplay. and then he just interlocks his hands in yours, sends you a sweet smile and carries on walking like it's the most natural thing to do.

it's unbelievably warm, protective and holds what the future could be like for you one day. it swings in tandem as you walk and he only lets go once you've made it to your desk. he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead and whispers "have a good day honey, meet you for lunch?" and all you can do is stand there, dumbly nod as he stretches out his arm to the full length before he actually has to let go of your hand and walks in the direction of his own desk.

you stand and then you sit, trying to regain composure of how different it felt to not have to have the snark ready on your lips, to not have to brace yourself for a day of matching wit- your heart beats softly, telling you to relax, get a grip of yourself- it's still clark. the clark who's showed you the worst of yourself and has still chosen to take an interest in you. he's clark, for god's sake, that hasn't changed.

"what the heck was that?" jimmy's head pops up into your view and you stutter, trying to find the words, but nothing comes up right.

"i don't know," your wide eyed gaze startles your friend. he's seen you seconds before a deadline, after a five coffee caffeine crash, when your past partner broke up with you months ago because of how much of a workaholic you were but the stillness in your gaze as you wander in the direction of where clark sits. as if he can sense your attention like its a damn superpower he meets your stare with a grin, a poke of his tongue out as he waves and you slowly return the wave back. his grin grows larger and he swivels back around but the nerves in your stomach still stay.

"honey, are you okay?" jimmy crouches to your height, "when did all of this happen?" and you look around before whispering carefully, hoping it reaches his ears only.

"i slept with him the night before last and when i woke up i thought we could go back to normal- he hates me, i hate him, whatever but," and you shake your head, "he's being really nice to me and i don't know what to do, this feels so strange, jim, this is," and you groan, dropping your head into your hands.

"oh honey," he sighs, "do you like him?" he asks quietly and you nod slowly, hoping the tears don't start spilling from your waterline and ruining your mascara.

"i think i might," you murmur, "i don't know yet, i haven't given it the time for this all to really settle yet- am i making sense?" and jimmy hugs you gently. he thinks you do already, it'll just take time for you see past the previous persona clark has shown you- that he can be more than a rival, he can be dependable, trusted, loving.

"i'm giving it a try," you add, "i mean you never know unless you try, right?" and he pats your head affectionately.

"i'm here if you need me, my friend," and you pat his shoulder in return, thankful for one thing that hasn't changed in the last few days that have blurred past and thrown you off course.

"thanks, jim."

. . .

your days moves slower when there's no arguing that takes place; it's kind of peaceful, slower paced in a way that lets you regain control of your feet. it feels a lot more intentional; the uneasy weight from the last few days slowly slipping away as you enter this new normal and you've been enjoying it.

the sex is incredible- it's hard to think when clark keeps you busy when you're alone and when he's so soft and tender in the moments after, you feel incredibly grateful to see this new side of him. there's something special between the two of you and you look forward to seeing clark, to spending time with him as you learn more about him.

like how he also loves the theatre.

you find this out when you're catching your breath, your back to his mattress and bare tummy to the air as he lies next to you.

"question," he murmurs, planting a kiss to your shoulder.

"that's not a question," you tease and roll over to your side, he flicks your nose in return and continues.

"last week when you came into work-"

"i come into work every day, clark-"

"well baby, if you let me finish my sentence," he rolls his eyes and it feels like the clark you've always ever known and you really like it. and then there's that damn baby again that has you weak in the knees all over. you smile and gesture for him to continue, "you had your hair cut, you were smiling- but not like you always do- but like," he pauses, "it was radiant, magnetic like you looked happier," and you stop and try to think of what you had been up to recently.

"oh," you mumble into his chest, noticing the slight tense he holds in his frame that you pull back with a wrinkle in your forehead.

"was there someone else?" and its the quietest you've ever heard his voice before, it wobbles a little at the edges and knifes a jagged edge into your heart.

"oh no," and you try to hide yourself in his embrace, an embarrassed chuckle leaving you as you squirm, "you're going to think this is so lame," you groan and he twists so you're underneath him, trapped by his huge arms as he hovers on top of you.

"what?" he chuckles at your sudden nervousness, an astronomical size of relief taken off his soul knowing that there's only him- even when it hadn't even been him.

"jimmy got me tickets to "hamlet" as an early birthday gift and it was incredible," you beam, "the haircut was just an addition but god clark," and when you're excited, rambling underneath him he can't help but linger into your space, cut you off with a swift kiss to the corner of your lips as you chase him for more.

one ends up into two then three and soon enough, forever.

"that's insane," his breath tickles into your skin and you scrunch your nose in delight, "because i also happen to be a former theatre kid-"

"oh my god, clark," you laugh, "who's the nerd now?" and he pinches at your side, "clark kent, a fellow drama lover- who would've thought?"

he talks with you about his favourite plays, how he wishes he had more free time to see them live, how wonderful acting is as a profession and when he lists off all the things that excite you the very same way you realise that maybe after all, you and clark aren't so different after all.

he makes a promise that this friday, the two of you will see "romeo and juliet" live as an official first date and you can't hide the soar of butterflies swirling in your stomach that you check it down into your calender immediately, pepper him with an insane amount of kisses and mentally start preparing your outfit.

he stares at you with such fondness as he listens to you talk about your family out of the city; how it was your mother who first showed you the importance of maintaing a creative outlet when pursuing such an academic and intensive career and he listens and listens and wants to soak up every single word like a sponge and wash away the doubts that have circled in his head the past week.

he worried he was moving too quick, then too slow but all he really had to do was show you he's here, that he wants to get to know you beyond your work ethic and integrity, beyond the conversations he has to search for details about you and slowly, he thinks its all falling to place.

its in the quiet of the night where he asks you again,"you sure you're okay with this?" he wouldn't be upset if you weren't, he'd bear the weight of patience and wait forever for you, he really would with how bad he wants this to work.

"yeah," you breathe and when you say it this time, the earth settles into a slower spin, and when it tilts you're ready to hold your balance. it feels right when you look into his eyes and say just one word, and you really start to believe it that this is okay, more than okay and you're only scratching the surface of how incredible it could be.

. . .

a week into spending more time with each other and dating, it feels like this is what your soul was meant do that you feel silly for even worrying about this all at the beginning.

it's monday, which means there's four days until your next theatre date with clark, you had so much fun last time that you've decide to make this a weekly occurence when you can. it's a secret you're going to surprise him with after work on the way home, you'll lean into his side, whip out the tickets like theyre gold and you know he'll be insanely pleased; its the first time you're making a move in this relationship and it's a big deal for you.

you don't see clark whilst you're at work and you think it's strange- clark's been known to disappear randomly and you've not noticed it too much in the time you've officially spent together to be bothered by it in the slightest. your main concern is finding your boyfriend and seeing if he has plans after work.

its 3pm and you start to worry, you don't want to draw any attention to you by asking others for his whereabouts but you catch lois lane in the far corner of the room who tenses when you come near and its the first warning that throws you off.

"lois?" you call out and she awkwardly turns around, feigning surprise like she hadnt stalked you for a few minutes before making your way over there.

"hey!" and you watch her cross her arms over her chest, a defensive posture, you note. why?

"have you seen clark anywhere?" you ask, and she shoots you a careful look before sighing.

"i think its best if you give him some distance for a few days," and you crumble immediately, panic flaring in your chest as your gaze narrows. god, you knew this was too much- that you were too much, you should've-

"i didn't realise how deep your feelings were for each other," she mumbles and it cuts your spiral off eerily short.

"what?" you pause, "what do you mean?"

"i think the word document says enough," she winces, "i thought the rivalry thing was a joke but.." her words trail off because you don't give her the time to finish. your heart is racing as quick as your footsteps out the door and you break out into a full sprint.

the purring of cars and clattering of metropoliton city drown out the whispers of gossip from the daily planet and your muscles burn but you keep going, you push and push and push till they give way and your heart collapses.

a sob escapes your throat in a raw guttural sound and this time, you can't stop the tears. you have no idea where you are but you know that this all just fucking hurts. your tears well up and are caught in your hands that also carries the weight of your head and the world as you just cry. knees tucked in close to your chest against the side of a building, you just cry. hours have passed and when you look around, hardly anyone around to have noticed your breakdown you just about stand. the energy completely taken out of as you sigh, you wish the ground could just wake up and swallow you whole for how stupid and careless you had been.

of course it was a word document that was going to be your downfall, you had made a lame list of things you disliked about clark and on the torturously long walk to his house they burn in your mind.

i hate the way he laughs so loudly, it rings in my ears i'm pretty sure i could go deaf in the near future.

i hate the way he looks at me like he's got something to say but never does or maybe he's too much of a coward.

i hate the way he's buddies with superman- lame.

i hate the way he sneaks up on me, throws me off guard- he's so big it consumes my space and i can't think.

i hate the way second best to him still feels like its worth something- it shouldn't.

i hate the way he makes me feel.

i hate him.

you've got to find him, you've got to apologise to him, salvage what you can and make it out of this alive, hopefully still with him but each word you remember, each muscle moved to type the childish betrayal raises a fresh new wave of tears and you're a blubbering mess by the time you reach his door.

"clark!" you shout, your voice raspy from crying, exhausted from thinking if you could run quick enough, you'd be able to outrun all your problems. you tap against the door, then full on bang with urgency as you shout his name, "clark, please!" you try, panicking when you can hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the door but no words in reply.

"clark please baby," it slips from your lips- the first time you've ever called him that in a sheer moment of desperation and you recoil, you don't deserve to call him that right now- you had the privilege and dishonoured yourself with it, "clark please open the door!" and you bang your head against it, the hot touch of your forehead cooling against the steel. "i didn't mean it," you cry, "i didn't mean any of it, i swear- i don't hate you, i promise please just let me in, please let me explain," the choked sobs rise and you're mumbling, half coherent but the words land the same. "i wrote it ages ago long before we started to get to know each other, i don't feel that way god no, you just gotta let me explain, i don't hate you, i lo-" and you're cut short by the rapid movements and the sudden open of his door.

he looks devastated and still so beautiful that it knocks the already very little air out of you. like he too had spent the afternoon working mentally in overtime, he shakes his head, restraint evident as he grips the door. his ocean eyes pierce your soul and when you move to take a step forward he grits out a sharp, "don't" and closes the door just an inch.

you can see forever through that sliver, it's so close but it's so far away, just out of your depth and reach.

"clark please," you cry and he shakes his head, torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting to protect you.

"don't," he repeats, its heavier, a little firmer but still somehow hurts all the same, bleeding through your heart as it crackles and lays bloodied and bruised open for him. and he steps on it with his next words, "god some part of me knew this wasn't going to work and gosh," he breathes, "you really do just hate me,"

"no," you shout in desperation, shaking your head and all your senses, "i don't! i swear- clark, i'm in lo-" and he cuts you off.

"i don't think you should say things you're not ready to mean," he whispers and he looks as though he might reach out, grasp your hand a final time but decides better of it.

"you win neutron," he speaks softly, lethally tender and it destroys your entire existence in one soft breath, "i thought for a second we were working, that everything was fine. but, if everything's ever just been a competition and that's all you've ever seen me as, then you win. i give up, this game? it's not for me, not if i'm never going to come first place for you," and he closes the door with a soft thud.

you don't move from your position, crying and knocking on the door once more, "clark, please!" and you fight the urge to just slump and slide against it, to camp out here forever until he opens the door and gives you an inch to redeem yourself, to clear the air and just listen. "clark, i don't hate you- i could never hate you," and fate is a cruel and twisted thing to have you repeating the same words he promised to you the morning you woke and everything changed. "i can explain, please let me explain," and you know it's heard, it just doesn't matter enough to be actioned.

you hang your head low, the image of the door closed bruising your optic nerves that it's time to go home. the damage is done and its time to mourn the casualties of getting crossed in the fire. you knew you'd never come out of loving clark kent alive, you just didn't realise hating him had burned you first long ago.

. . .

you try to catch him at work but he's missing for the first two days and you're subjected to the growing whispers and judgemental looks that are shot your way as he proceeds to just plain avoid you. he's never at his desk when you pass by, he's never at the break room, when he gets an inkling you're in his vicinity he takes off completely in the opposite direction and you can't even feel him, but you can hear the thoughts about him.

"i knew she never liked him,"

"she's actually gotta be deranged to make a whole document- imagine who else she's got written in that death note."

"i don't know babe, clark wasn't exactly the nicest to her."

"didn't they try dating?"

jimmy takes a seat beside you after the great shift where he's noticed you avoiding every single person in sight, including him and it hurts. you try your best to smile at him in greeting, force the ends in an upwards curve that it falls embarrassingly flat.

he sighs, leaving your newly filled coffee cup at your side and rests his head on yours affectionately, a little bump of support to let you know that he's always been on your side and always will.

"people are talking," you mumble, "i get it if you want to take some space," you nod tightly and he scoffs.

"we're not going anywhere," his voice is firm, "i don't care about what they say, you're my best friend and i am here for you." and you breathe out a thanks of appreciation, begging yourself not to cry again as he wraps you in a hug.

"you okay?" he murmurs into your hair and can feel you shake it against him and he sighs once more.

"he'll come around," when he pulls back.

"how can you be so sure?" you whisper, broken.

"because he's clark, he's never been one to stay away from you," he grins but your heart drops. not this time, you think. maybe not ever again.

but still you try, you pull tricks out of his own book in a pathetic grovel of sorts- but you just have to show clark that you're here, you're waiting and you'll do whatever it takes to show him.

so for the next few days you start to get to the office earlier, you make him a fresh cup of coffee and lay it at his desk, you write little pointers of encouragement on post it notes (given the fact that you have no idea of what he's writing to return him the advice he used to give you), but when the end of the day comes and you've tried not to make it obvious the way you stalk his big build that exits through the lifts and takes your heart with him, you make your way to his desk. the coffee sits untouched and cold, filled to the brim but the notes? they've disappeared. the blinding yellow fluroscent isn't pumped at the bottom of his bin with other scraps of paper he's scrunched up. you're embarrassed to admit that you half emptied it to check, they- like clark, himself- have just disappeared and you're left to deal with the radio silence in the aftermath. which somehow hurts more when it leaves everything unsaid and then some.

and like the days that have come before and all of your life before you gave clark kent a try at this thing called love, you walk home alone and lonely, all the same.

. . .

you finally meet superman on your commute home.

its the end of the week, you're final day before you're due to take some time off and you've left the office later than usual, giving clark ample time to avoid you and leave without having to actively dodge you, and then you had to speed up your writing because you've fallen behind on schedule and with everything in your life going to shit, you just needed one thing to be constant and be completely yours.

it's actually good enough to beat clark this time, you think after perry had complimented the first draft earlier. but he's made it clear that this rivalry the two of you were enamored in is no longer something he's interested and the win feels bittersweet, pointless even you could argue, it's just not the same and you hate it.

there's a hum of billy joel "piano man" that dramatically belts through your earphones as you turn the corner of the next block and if it weren't for the extra pair of feet tappering behind your shadow you probably wouldn't have noticed the strange man following you from behind. you take a random turn, panicking and afraid of leading this stalker to your doorstep that you don't recognise the alley you've turned into.

the evening air darkens with the absence of street lamps and you shake your head softly, "please," you quietly plead and at the flash of yellow teeth you throw the first punch. it's lazily and poorly directed that you miss and he grabs at your waist. you elbow him, hit him and then plain knee his nuts as soon as he drops you to the ground. the panic turns to rage and you feel the weight of the week just climb into each punch you land that you don't even feel the body turning eerily limp below you or the flash of blue and red that lowers into the alleyway.

"miss?" a deeper, ruff voice calls out, it catches sight of your side profile and softens, "hey, hey, hey," and arms that feel oddly familiar wrap around your waist and peel you off the weird man who heaves at the floor, "you're safe now,"

"no thanks to you," you almost scream the words, "for fucking superman you sure are slow!" and the agitation turns to straight tears as you just sob, "oh my god, what the fuck even is this week?" you breathe out shakily, "it's just shit after shit and i can't catch a break? i can't even get saved by superman?" and superman (clark) part of him wants to laugh at how strange both this situation and you are right now.

he wished he could've gotten to you quicker, it took him a flash of a second to recognise your scream but of course your rage was faster and you did all the heavy work, the least he could do was lend you a listening ear, even if hearing you open up so vulnerable to him broke his heart even further.

"how are you feeling?" he tries; part of him is easier to be superman like this, he stands at a distance, giving him space between the two of you because he knows he'd just crumble. he wanted to at the first sob he heard that night? the first cup of coffee he noticed, the first yellow post it note that now makes itself home in the top drawer of his desk- he couldn't bring himself to throw your little attempts at love notes away. he pats the ground next to him, offering his cape as a little blanket which you sit gingerly on, sniffles sitting in the centimetres that separate you respectably.

"i don't know if i can tell you," you mumble and his body freezes, surely you wouldn't have caught on to his identity- "you're like clark's buddy aren't you," you scoff and he blinks slowly.

"clark?" he asks, ignoring the huge weight lumbered off his chest and lets himself breathe again.

"6'4, 240lbs of pure muscle mass and glossy onyx curls, god he's just so," you groan, "he's so perfect and i as always," you start to fear the wave of sadness take over and you lower your head between your knees, focusing on how the ground feels underneath you, how the gravel looks a lot more sharper up close, "i ruined everything," and its a heartbreaking admission.

superman doesn't say anything, he stares at you, brows raised waiting for you to continue your story, "clark and i- it was strange. we weren't exactly friends, i mean we work together but it was always different. we used to compete for the spot for the first page privilege and thanks to you," you scoff and he sends you a wince of guilt, "he would come out on top most times- but he always used to push me to just be a better writer. it was petty i know, and for the longest time i just thought thats what we were. we were enemies, we hated each other- he brought out the worst in me," you chuckle,

"and yet he always stayed, he never expected anything from me in return, he was just there, you know and one night, we got together and i didn't think i was ready but i was going to try you know, he asked me for a chance and i gave it to him. i owed it to us, to the special relationship we had, to the way he made me feel like nobody on earth ever has. and you know, i've been in relationships and they've ended terrible- i'm not the best person i know but clark made it feel like it was easy to love me like he saw the worst and loved me despite it- most people would run away but clark he," and you cry, "he was my person."

you feel a hand land on your shoulder, his thumb soothing you in a backwards and forewards motion and through the tears you can't even see superman anymore. "so what happened?" he asks, though he already knows this first hand.

"when i first started the job, clark kent liked everyone but me and it felt personal, it hurt," you gasp, shrugging your shoulders as you relive the memory, "he made fun of me, and before i learned to understand and match the digs, before i found the routine and loved it with him, it honestly felt targeted so i made a word document- this was months ago, you have to believe me," you plead, "i was childish, i started listing these nasty things about him that i hated like god his smile, his laugh, just him- i had to get out all this negative energy somehow and i'm a writer, i fucking took it out on a word document, sue me," you bitterly laugh, "i don't know how it got out but it did, because the world hates me and i'm undeserving of the good things and now, i'm undeserving of clark,"

"he's incredible and i've never felt this way about someone before, but he doesn't believe so with that stupid document and me not showing up in the ways he has when we got together, he thinks that i hate him," you get out, shaking with the thick of emotion.

"and do you?"

you press your lips together in thought, maybe to repress them, if you don't speak it it won't be real, it won't be true, it won't hurt so much. but you're a journalist and your whole career has taught you that the truth is powerful, especially when it can hurt, so you be brave for once and face superman through the tears, "i'm in love with him."

the words don't come, clark feels his heart break through his chest and he wishes, oh he damn wishes that he wasn't superman- that superman doesn't even exist, he wishes he could be clark. your clark in this moment and hold you and tell you that he wants to fix this, that we can fix this and it will be alright again, he's in love with you too, he has to let you know this.

but he can't. because being superman is bigger than being clark kent. so he murmurs some useless advice at how things take time, you'll heal and clark will come back to you if he's the person you've fallen in love with- clark kent is honest and truthful and determined, if he's right for you then he will return.

superman does nothing but let his heart plummet further as you slide a faded white, slightly crumpled ticket his way and his blood freezes at the sight of shakespeare printed in small, "if you see clark, could you give him this? i wanted to take him, make it a regular thing- show him i'm committed to this and having time for it and i know we're not talking and he hates me more than anything but, i think he'll like it."

"then i will make sure he receives it, you have my word," and the world burns when you sniffle, send him a soft smile and get up to stand. to leave your problems in the hands of superman and in the darks of the alley, there's nothing more you can do and honestly you're tired of this all. you've tried and all you can do now is play the waiting game.

"i see why clark likes you, and you owe me an interview soon big guy," you nod and he sends a tight smile back, saluting you with a wave and ignoring the way his bones want to snap at how weak he feels right now. "have a good night, superman," and he waves again.

when he sees your form disappear and his tears fall onto the worn out ticket, still warm from your sweating hands, he whispers an oath, "see you soon, neutron."

. . .

"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them," the voice of malvolio echoes throughout the hall and you watch intently.

there's an ache as you try not to look beside you, at the empty seat- the clark sized hole that mirrors the vacant area in your heart as you train your eyes forward. the theatre has always been your favourite place to just let go and relax, have someone else feel the emotions for once and bring them to life but it feels lacking tonight, you can't distract yourself enough and suddenly the air weighs down on you and crushes you at a great intensity.

you silently grab your purse, sneak out the back row and head out of the doors. it's time to call it a night, go home and probably call your mom- maybe it's time to go home home, ground yourself with people who do love you and have never treated you any different, to be in an area that just doesn't remind you so heavily of clark, maybe it'd make the healing process a lot easier and you can actually start it.

you wave into oncoming traffic, drawing the attention of a taxi and rocking yourself as you wait for it to pull up near to you. the bag on your shoulder lightly dips as you step off the curb and into the taxi door before an arm pulls you back and youre thrust back into his orbit.

"clark," you breathe as his ocean blue orbs sink and drown you in. you've seen him in the week but this is different; this is upclose and vulnerable, this is intimate and before the world exploded on you.

"where you going?" his drawl lands breathless in lieu of an actual greeting.

"home?" you question and a small curl of his lip extends to the sky, the faint smile lines resting at peace.

"i said where you going, baby?" he repeats, earnest laced in his voice as his hold on you tightens against him, you're breaths are uneven as you intake his breath as your own air and you blink.

"come on man!" the exasperation of a third stranger breaks your trance and clark pops his head into the cab window at your side, lands a fifty note in his hand and grins.

"i'll take this one, thanks, have a good one," he wraps his fist in a gentle tap to the back of the car to signal its departure and the cab driver wolf whistles in return, counting the money and shooting clark a thumbs up for good luck, steering off into the distance.

"clark i-" and he presses his finger to your lips, silencing your tired fight immediately.

"so where you going, hon?" and the frustration builds up inside of you. you don't think you can do this tonight, you need energy, defense, bite and a plan to escape out of this untouched but its the sudden intensity he stares down at you, boyish and determined as he clears his throat, not offering anything else but patiently waiting for you to reply and then it hits you.

oh. home.

he is home.

"clark, i'm sorry," you whisper, "i'm sorry how this started and how it ended but it just goes to show we don't work," you get out, the words betray your voice in a tight strain and you shake your head softly, trying to detach yourself from his hold but he reaches for your hand and interlocks it, kissing your knuckles like its the very first time and then holds it to his chest.

"i don't believe that," he breathes, like its some secret joke only his soul can memorise. "you said you hated the way i laugh- it's too loud," and the words are a sharp stab, even as they spill from his lips.

"it is too loud," you confess, "i can hear it after you've stopped, it rings in my ears like an echo and i start wishing i knew how to make you laugh like that, how to keep hearing that sound again and again," the words start spilling before you can stop them and he softens completely.

"you hate the way i look at you, i'm a coward," he breathes.

"because you look at me like i'm the only one who ever matters and i didn't know what to do with all of that. its heavy, its all on me and i get nervous, clark," you scoff, hitting him lightly, tiny fists against his chest, "its worse when you look at me like you want to say something more but you don't because then i spend all day torturing myself with the what if's and its brutal," you stretch, resting your head on his chest in defeat and his heart sings beneath the touch.

"you hate the way i sneak up on you," he narrows his brows, "i take up too much space," he echoes and you glare at him.

"i know what i said clark," you seethe, annoyance bubbling up inside of you all over, "and you are big, you're fucking massive and you surround me, you consume me and steal all the air like its your birthright and i feel so damn helpless i hate it," you spit, taking a step away from him in hopes the chill of the evening hair will cool the fire that steams from your skin. "i can't even think when you're near and you're the only person who can throw me so hard off my game that i can't even remember my name some days and you do it so easily," you heave.

"do you hate that almost as much as you hate the way i make you feel?"

"oh thats worse, you make me feel like i'm not in control," and you take a step closer to him, "and i've never not been in control, you make second best to you feel like first place- like i'm still a winner because i get that cool look swung my way and i giggle like i'm back in school and i hate it- it's like you take all the years of hard work and practise just like nothing- you took my heart like it was nothing," and the tears are free to fall now, you don't even lift your arm to wipe them away you let him look at you, really look at you and let him feel the extent of the damage he's done- how he's caused you to come so undone.

"you hate me," he laughs, and its the same damn laugh you hate, you hate that you love it so damn much that you want to bottle it and get drunk on it every single night you spend in his absence.

"i do," you giggle and it feels like the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, you blink through the tears and he cups your jaw with his large hands that again, he's here consuming you all over. he presses a soft kiss to your lips and its not as hungry, as devouring and deep as the first drunken kiss you shared on that night two weeks ago. its slow, earnest, filled with the pinings and regrets of never knowing the right way to show your love. its wrapped in apologies and forgiveness and a promise to be brave and loud in how you feel.

"but here's a new one for you," you pause, "i really do hate the way that i broke your heart," you mutter ashamed, lowering your gaze but he catches it instantly with a shake to his head.

"do with it what you will; it was only ever yours to have because i'm in love with you," he smiles when he pulls away and its so loud and large your heart soars, "and you're in love with me," he presses his forehead into yours, uniting your broken hearts.

"i am," you swear, "i don't know when i fell but i know that i'm here in the deep end with you and i'm scared but i'm here clark, i promise," and he wipes away your stray tears.

the bustle of the crowds exiting the theatre breaks you free from his hold and he laughs once more, and then quieter for your ears to burn into memory only, "it's okay," he murmurs into your hair, ogling at the stars swimming in your eyes, "we have next week to make up for it," and you stare at the theatre doors and then at your lover. you lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips once again.

"we have forever to make up for this, so take me home, baby," you whisper.

and he does.

he does it for a lifetime and more.

riya saying hi: there's a lot to say but first hello! first clark fic after a few days off 🥺🥺 i poured my whole heart and soul into this one hence how long it is, how angsty it is - this is clark hurt comfort final boss. this by far has to be the best ive written and my most favourite love confession to date. ugh ! i really do hope you like it, i fear it did take a large portion of my energy so i will be focusing on requests for the next few days something easier and slower paced compared this monster.

i do want to reiterate that thank you so much for 1k followers! it means the world, beyond that how much this all feels and god im the luckiest person on earth. its such a gift to be able to create something, put myself in some words on a page and have it liked, and enjoyed my god i am gonna cry- but to celebrate this and you (!) because this in no way shape or form wouldve been possible without you, i am taking in clark requests and will try my hardest to get them out asap so send in whatever ! literally whatever ! (just not smut soz) but again thank you !!!!

and finally, this fic would not have been possible without the incredible, the STUNNING @hangmanwrites - anna i owe you a serious portion of my heart (not that you didn't already have it) for letting me work through this with you, helping steer it in the right direction and bring it to life. youre an incredible writing partner and your support has forever altered my brain chemistry- thank you my love, i appreciate and love you so damn much !!! 🥺💘

A knock sounds at your already open door, causing you to pause your typing and look up.

“My office in five.” Your boss and an editor-in-chief— Perry White— commands.

You send him a nod and he’s on his way back.

It was a chill day until the cloud of quiet chatter evaporated and was replaced by a thick blanket of excitement.

“What is going on out there.” You curiously mutter.

You think about entering the crowd but you decide against it as you remember your initial task.

Perry may be a fair boss but his agitation takes on several forms, you do not wanna be caught on the receiving end of it.

You knock on his door and open it.

“Alright, Kent— oh. Here she is.”

You can’t see how this ‘Kent’ guy looks but he’s definitely a little over 6 feet. His gray coat outlines the broadness and muscly look of his back.

Damn, he’s kinda big.

He turns around and the only thing you can think of is Squidward whining in frustration, Oh no, he’s hot!

His eyes are a remarkable shade of blue, a lovely bunch of black curls sit atop his head, and his skin reminds you of the nice sand accompanied by the local beach.

Kent’s sporting a pair of black framed glasses and he’s the handsomest “nerd” you’ve ever seen.

You hope your ogling isn’t obvious.

“L/n, meet Clark Kent. Kent, this is Y/n L/n.”

This Greek god of a man shakes your hand and it’s warm. So. Warm.

He smiles and goddamn it is beautiful. It’s so perfect with all his perfectly straight, perfect shade of white teeth.

AND HE HAS DIMPLES?! HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT!

“It’s nice to meet you.”

And of course, an attractive voice that matches his equally attractive face. It’s deep and confident and you’re crushing so hard on him right now.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You calmly say.

“Get acquainted well because you’ll be showing our new guy here the ropes. Starting now.”

Your heart drops down to your ass and you retract your hand.

Of course this had to happen to you.

“Oh, okay.”

It was in fact not okay but it’s not like you had much of a choice in the matter.

You exit first and are met with so many faces outside the office. Comically, they all look away and pretend to do something important.

Now you realize why there was a crowd earlier, because of the handsome new guy.

You ask him to wait for you while you go grab some things from your desk.

“Okay, Clark—”

You’re gone for literally 1 minute and the poor guy’s already being swamped.

There’s a blonde girl, bit of a ditz. Twirling a strand of hair while giggling over something seriously unfunny.

She’s accompanied by a guy who’s much shorter in comparison to Clark.

He’s yammering away about how he’s always wondered what it’s like to be on a farm…

“I mean, I was at one for the DP but they didn’t have much internet so we couldn’t cover much. And the smell?” He shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disdain. “I can’t imagine how it was for you, man.”

You watch in horror as he takes a sniff, yes; a sniff at Clark and hums, “You smell great, though! What is that, uh, aftershave. Or sum’?”.

Clark responds with a nervous laugh at his sudden proximity. “It’s Polo by Ralph Lauren. Uh, the blue one.”

“Whaaat?” The guy laughs in surprise.

Clark folds his lips inwards and raises his brows in an awkward manner.

What do you say to that? Truly.

What an idiot, you cringe internally before coming to his aid and kicking off his first day.

It’s the end of Clark Kent’s second week. He’s a great addition to the Daily Planet team and you have to say, he’s really nice.

His first few days were spent showing him around. Perry’s office, your office, the newsroom, break room, copy room, mail room, bullpen, so on and so forth.

You were sure Clark could use a better mentor but he thought otherwise. ‘You’re a good teacher, I like learning from you.’ He said.

He was very quiet at first, kept to himself and didn’t approach anyone unless he absolutely needed to.

You were the only person by his side almost every hour he worked so it made sense to just go to you.

The more you talked to him, the more he got out of his shell.

A friendly relationship blossomed and soon, he was a willing participant.

You like to drink something in the morning while you work and you didn’t realize Clark took a mental note of that.

Since your first week together, he’s brought you something everyday.

“As much as I appreciate this, you’re not the drink guy.”

You were worried he thought you’d expect him to do this all the time now but he denies the notion.

“Oh it’s no big deal, I pass by a cafe on my way here so it works out. Plus, I know the owner so I get a discount every time I go.”

You smile at that. This little tradition has become an essential part of your day, it’s how you start it. It’s also special to you because it’s just for you.

Your crush on him grows by the day but you can’t help it! It’s so hard not to like this guy.

He’s still a bit shy at times but you think that’s part of his charm, and he’s got you good. He’s just Clark, a sweet guy from a small town with big arms dreams.

“So, what are the plans for today?”

He asks this everyday in hopes of going on a side quest with just the two of you.

Alas, that doesn't happen nearly as much as he'd like but at least he still gets to see you whenever he likes.

“Today, we’re going to a meeting.” You answer as you quickly send out one last email.

You grab your purse and Clark brings his notebook to the conference room.

He pulls out a chair for you and you smile gratefully, whispering a ‘thank you’.

Perry and the other senior position holders make their way in and take their seats.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Perry announces that at the end of the meeting, there will be a spot open for another editor-in-chief.

Instantly, there’s hushed chatter of who can be nominated to fill the slot.

You’re positive you hear your name among the many different routes of conversation. You don’t notice Clark glancing at you when he hears it, too.

“L/n.”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you and want to fuse with the chair you’re sitting on.

“She’s our most talked-about reporter and has been here for almost three and a half years. How she’s doing better than most of you at this table, I have no idea. Great work, Y/n.”

You purse your lips in an awkward smile at the jab towards everyone else layered between your praises. “Thank you, sir.”

Clark allows his lips to be pulled back in a small grin, unable to hide his happiness for you.

You know some people in the room are envious of you and are incapable of witnessing your success, but you’d be damned if you let them ruin this moment for you.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly and it’s time for Perry to announce the new editor-in-chief.

“Of course, it came as no surprise for us to come to unanimously nominate Y/n L/n as one of our new editors-in-chief.”

You know you should be happy and a small part of you is relieved that your hard work paid off, but you’re not entirely sure.

You’ve only been here for 3 and a half years and this is a huge promotion.

Are you ready for this? How do you know you’re ready? When do you know you’re ready?

You force yourself to get out of your head and express your gratitude.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.” You smile as you shake their hands, accepting their approval.

You still had some time before accepting the offer but it felt like you had to take it.

The reality is: you don’t know what you want.

Most of the people leave but some stay behind.

“Congratulations, Y/n. You definitely earned it.”

Remember the envious people that were mentioned earlier? This guy— Mark Callahan— is one of them.

He sticks his hand out for you to shake but you clock his underlying tone.

“Thanks.” You smoothly move past him to the door with Clark following.

“Bitch.” He mutters to himself.

Clark stops dead in his shoes. “What did you just say?”

Mark smirks lazily and the few of his dastardly henchmen eye you with jealousy.

Your eyes are a bit wide, lips agape at his sudden change in attitude. “Clark..?”

This is Clark Kent. The shy, dorky, kind of an aloof guy with long legs, a killer smile, and a nice heart.

You never thought he could get mad. You haven’t even see him annoyed up until this very moment.

Mark takes a step towards you but Clark is quick to get in between you and him.

He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek and chuckles. “Relax, man. I’m not gonna hurt your little girlfriend.”

Clark steps forward, his height giving him the upper hand as Mark’s ego forces him to maintain eye contact, even if he has to tilt his chin up a bit.

“You couldn’t even try.” He softly yet subtly mocks.

Mark tightens his jaw and you can feel the tension growing.

You tentatively reach out and put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “We need to go.”

He maintains eye contact with Mark for a moment longer before budging and walking out.

Clark’s jaw is set and you see the faintest twitch of the muscle, his face stern and hand sweeping his curls.

He holds the elevator for you and you gulp nervously.

“What… was that?” You dare ask.

He assures you it's nothing but you can feel the intensity of his annoyance radiating off of him. It fills the elevator when you step in.

You don't know how badly his blood boils at the thought of someone being so casually disrespectful towards you.

His hands were clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He forcefully wipes his hands on his trousers and tries to cool down.

You let that go but can’t let go of how badly he gave you the butterflies.

You couldn’t even try.

That part replays in your mind.

It was the way he said it, like he was so sure of himself.

He was obviously putting Mark in his place but for you? He did that for you?

Your lips fold inwards to conceal the squeal (read: scream) that's begging to be released.

As the elevator arrives at your floor, Clark extends his arm for you to get out first then follows you out.

Chivalry isn’t dead?!

You don’t know much longer you can contain yourself.

“Hey, Y/n?” Clark calls out.

You swiftly turn around on your heels. “Yeah?”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts carefully.

He has so much he wants to say. Every time you thank him for bringing you your morning drink, he wants to say, you deserve nothing but the best. He wishes to say how beautiful you look everyday, how smart you are when you're feeling doubtful.

Instead, he holds it all in and says something a friend would say. It doesn't mean anything less to you, he knows that. So he says something so kind, it leaves you with heart eyes.

“You deserve that promotion.”

In all the time you’ve spent here, not many people have said anything like to you.

There’s the fake compliments said out of spite. You’ve already gathered a mental list of who fits that category.

Then come the words of encouragement, said by a select few genuine people. Perry and your best friend, Lois are— were the only members of this group.

Clark being an addition to this list is obvious, it was only a matter of time, but it means so much coming from him.

You blink and feel lightweight.

“Thank you.”

He gives you that award-winning smile you love seeing so much and is on his way to work.

You feel distracted as you work, cheesing like a kid every now and then when his words ring in your mind.

You deserve that promotion.

Resting your head in your palm with your elbow extended in a comfortable position, you sigh dreamily; staring blankly at your loading computer screen.

“L/n.”

You immediately straighten your back and set both hands on the keyboard, suddenly irritated with how slow the network on your computer is.

“Sir?” You acknowledge him by poking your head out from behind the screen.

“Good work on the Stenson article,” He shows the newspaper bundled in his hand. “It’s gotten Star’s attention.”

You’re impressed with yourself. “Oh.”

He angles his head down to where he can see you through the space above his glasses. “You okay?”

You nod in a way that is more convincing yourself of what you’re saying than him. “Mhm. Just, uh… surprised because they’re our rivals.”

Knowing The Daily Star has its eye on you is a bit unnerving but what kind of opps would they be if they didn’t?

He hums in thought. “Well, I thought I’d stop by and let you know.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You track his movements until you’re sure he’s gone and smack some sense into yourself.

“Focus, Y/n. Focus.”

You are invited to attend a conference in Washington, D.C. along with a few handpicked journalists.

As you await for the plane's landing, your mind wanders back to the new guy. You wish Clark could’ve came.

You just think he would’ve had so much to learn and experience, nothing else…

A rattle echoing through the jet brings you out of your thoughts.

The captain makes an announcement but you feel like something’s off.

It’s the reporter in you, a 6th sense.

Another shake and now everyone’s a bit nervous, worried looks painted across their faces and yours.

You open the flap to your window and see nothing but soot. Dark gray matter surrounds the jet and it’s so thick, you can’t see past it.

You start to smell it soon and so does everyone else.

“What’s that smell?”

“It smells like… like smoke?

“Is something burning?”

The captain makes an announcement telling everyone not to panic but of course, that ironically sets off an opposite reaction.

Oxygen masks drop down and you don’t waste any time grabbing yours, but the dread spreads all over you when you take a deep breath in.

Suddenly, the jet jolts forward and it feels like you’re diving into something. It’s going headfirst into the direction of the ground so quickly and you can’t make sense of anything.

The passengers frantically scream and descend into chaotic paranoia as they hold on to dear life.

Your heart pounds in your chest, threatening to jump out.

This is it, you think. This is how it ends for you: in a freak accident.

You close your eyes in fear and hope the impact crushes you so quickly, you don’t feel anything.

A quick and easy death is a death that is most favorable.

Suddenly, you feel the aircraft being lifted up. The speed of which is swift yet steady, unlike the previous moments when it felt like you were falling to your deaths.

You don’t dare look out your window in fear of it all being a figment of your imagination but someone else does.

“We’re… we’re saved.” Someone calmly informs.

The plane is set down on the ground and the doors open up automatically.

Your eyes widen when you see a man in a blue suit and red cape step onboard.

He’s kind-looking. The steely blue eyes somewhat familiar, maybe it’s his aura.

“It’s alright, everything’s okay.” He smiles and you’re taken aback with how eerily familiar the action is.

“Is everyone alright? Nobody hurt?”

Everyone shakes their head simultaneously as if in a trance, left and right.

He nods in consideration. “That’s good. You all can step out now, it’s safe.”

Nobody moves. No one can! They’re still trying to wrap their heads around this miracle.

There’s this man— in a cape, no less— and he’s asking if everyone’s okay from what could’ve happened.

There’s no doubt in your mind that somehow, he is singlehandedly responsible for saving you all.

Someone in front dares to speak everyone’s mind. “You saved us.” They say as they make their way to him.

The mystery man looks at the passenger with a humble look.

He puts a comforting hand on their shoulder and escorts them out, everyone else following suit.

Everyone else but you. You’re frozen in a whirlwind of emotions, mostly shock.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice him coming up to you, his striking blue eyes steady on your form.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

You whip your head up at him and realize you’re the only one onboard the plane.

“Umm, yeah. I-I think.” You furrow your eyebrows as you feel your foot stuck in a comatose position.

“Can you stand?” He gently asks.

You go to stand up from seat when a sharp pain shoots through your ankle.

A quick breath is drawn from your teeth and he notices immediately.

“Your ankle.”

“Yup.” You hastily grit out.

He looks at you in contemplation for a moment before doing what he has to do.

“Do you mind if I carry you out?”

You pause your unsteady breathing and look up at him through your lashes.

I didn’t hear that.

“Uhh…”

There is a right answer but you don’t know if it’s the answer.

He’s strikingly handsome, so unfairly dashing.

He’s looking at you with those kind eyes and waiting patiently for your word.

“No. No, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat gingerly.

The soft curve of his lips make you feel a bit at ease for a moment.

He holds his hand out for you to take and gently pulls you into him when you do, wrapping that arm around your back. He bends down to hook his other arm under your knees and lifts you so effortlessly, you feel yourself swoon at his display of strength.

Your brain goes quiet and you can’t think about anything else but him. You’re starstruck by him.

Is this a bad time?

He looks straight ahead as he walks towards the open doors but the slight curve of his lips gives the impression of a soft smile.

Soft gasps and wide eyes paint the picture of surprise and you’re immediately flushed so deeply into embarrassment.

The man holding you doesn’t say anything but he silently shares your opinion.

As he walks down the ramp, you look anywhere but at him and the very obvious audience in front.

The symbol on his chest catches your eye and you’re analyzing it. It appears to be a red diamond encasing a capital letter of the same color, an ‘S’.

You wonder what it stands for, what it means to him.

People make room for him as he walks to a spot where you can comfortably rest.

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you and it bothers the hell out of you, but you bear with it for the moment.

He finds a bench within the stagnant ocean of people and sets you down on it, an apologetic expression framing his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him in surprise. “For what?”

He sets his hands on his hips, subtly tilting his head to the left and you see behind him the wandering eyes and gossipy mouths.

You snort softly, shaking your head lightly at their antics. “It’s not your fault. They’re just… trying to figure out what just happened.”

He nods, turning back to the plane with a determined look.

“The ambulance is on its way.” He says as he turns back to you.

You nod, not wanting to look away from his eyes.

The air is thick with so many unanswered questions left unasked, but your throbbing ankle takes a frontseat to it all.

This man is a miracle in the flesh and he’s filled your mind with so much curiosity, you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re gonna be alright.” He says it with such confidence that you believe him.

And he’s gone, flying upwards into the air and in a direction one can only point to.

People crowd the spot he just stood in and stare up in awe at the phenomenon: a man just flew right to the sky!

What a headache and headline this is going to be.

Your ankle was as swollen as an orange, thankfully like the ones that are really small and are known as ‘Cuties’ or whatever the hell.

There's a brace on it to keep from hurting as much but the swelling's still got a long way to go.

You're currently icing it as much as you can before it falls off when you hear a knock on your window.

You hold your breath and lean out a little, trying to hone in on the knock.

Was it real or a part of your imagination?

It's when you hear it again that you decide, nope, totally real.

You move slowly, setting the ice pack on your dresser before carefully moving your leg and setting your foot down on the floor.

Eventually, you make it to your window and look through the blinds to see what could be causing that noise.

You softly gasp. “Holy shit.”

It's the guy from earlier, the same man who (may or may not have) saved your life. And he's floating, literally standing on air.

You pull your blinds all the way up and open your window, not hiding the shock on your face as you stare at him dumbfounded.

He titters softly, finding your reaction amusing. “Can I come in?”

You wordlessly step aside with your mouth slightly agape, not really grasping the gravity of the situation.

He flies right into your bedroom while you budge the window back down and close the blinds.

With his back turned against you, you take this chance to make yourself look more put together. Your hands find their way into your hair and subconsciously pat down your body to press the fabric of your clothes as flatly as possible.

He’s studying your room and now you’re even more self-conscious even though it’s relatively tidy.

“I’m sorry for showing up here unannounced.” He says as he turns around to face you. “I hope I don't come off as a stalker.” He snorts softly.

You laugh along, nervous. “I was just icing it before...” You trail off, making a gesture towards the window.

He nods, clicking his teeth. “Ah, right. Sorry, once again.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t be. It’s okay.”

You move to sit back down on your bed and continue icing your ankle.

“You left your purse.”

He reveals the black purse to you and you gasp at the revelation, so relieved as you thought you were going crazy looking for it.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” You say as he chuckles softly and hands you your purse.

“No, don’t thank me. Just doing what’s right.”

Something about his words makes you pause. The familiar syntax reminds you of someone who’d do what he just did.

You don’t even look inside to see everything in order because oddly enough, you trust it is.

Your grin makes the man in front of you feel strangely victorious.

“Not many would do what’s right.”

He squints his eyes and tilts his head to the side, as if to disagree. “I think we all deserve a little grace every now and then.”

“You have faith in humanity?”

You don’t mean to start a conversation about the moral dilemma of being human but his response intrigues you.

“I do.” He answers with such confidence that you believe him.

“At least that makes one of us.” You look back down at your hands applying pressure to the pain.

“Why don’t you?” He asks with genuine wonder.

You tilt your head at him, intrigued. “Are you really asking me that?” You squint your eyes playfully. “I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve seen and heard things that have made me come close to quitting.”

“Why haven’t you then?” He cheekily asks with a smirk of his own.

You're taken aback with his playful wit exuding a flirty vibe.

You'll bite.

“Because even though my job can be draining, I still love what I accomplish.”

He's delighted with your reasoning, appreciating your love for the game.

“Well said.” He nods.

You tilt your head up, the reporter in you wanting to talk to him more.

“Your turn.”

He raises an eyebrow at your proposed question.

“What do you do?” You ask.

He clicks his teeth lightly. “Well, you’ve seen me fly. I can hear well over the distance and lift very heavy things, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He knows that’s not what you’re asking, you know he knows that.

You smile, shaking your head at his quips. “As in your occupation, Mr..?”

He stands with a knowing smile. “I’ll tell you next time.”

You blink, startled by his suggestion. “Next time?”

He walks towards your window and you follow, opening it for him.

“Until next time, miss L/n.” He says with a wink,

And he's gone.

You're left staring at his fantastic display of power, soaring into the night sky before he disappears into the clouds.

You've never been this fascinated with anything before, but he isn't “anything” or “anyone”. He's a phenomenon, man with great power.

You don't see that often.

You wonder who he really is, where has he been all this time? What's his story?

So many questions, so little time but you'll hold him to that promise of a next time.

“Next time.” You murmur in confidence that he'll find you again.

Lois enters your office with a particular pep in her step, a knowing smile on her lips as she sees you.

You don’t look up from your work as you know there’s nobody else that can enter your office that way. (even perry knocks, lois)

“Sooo?” She asks, strangely enthusiastic.

“So.” You reply uninterested, flipping through pages.

She stares at you like you know what she’s talking about before bombarding you with questions.

“Who is he? What’s he like? Where's he from—? Wait, he’s human, right?”

Your eyes widen just a fraction before you dial it down.

You can't tell anybody about your encounter with him. At least not until you've had some questions answered.

A hurried breath is pushed past your lips, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance at your friend’s prying form.

“No comment.” You say plainly, not indulging her.

Clark walks by with a new drink of the day and sets it down on your desk, a sweet smile on his face.

“For you.”

You know those certain people who just have you on automatic smile as soon as you see them? He's quickly becoming that person for you.

“You are such a nice guy, Clark.” Lois shakes her head in amazement.

She can't believe men like him do, in fact, exist.

That causes a noticeable blush to coat the tips of his ears and spread thinly across his cheeks.

He's humble. “I appreciate that Lois.”

This tradition is a declaration of friendship, a bond he claims to regard just as much as you do.

A sip of it simultaneously warms your heart and reawakens the butterflies lying dormant in your stomach.

“I agree.” You softly smile. “You’re committed to keeping up with this.”

He looks down and pushes his glasses up with an index finger, clicking his teeth together shyly. “Well, I’m no guy in a cape.”

There he goes downplaying his efforts and staying humble, as usual.

“How’s your ankle?” He asks as he eyes it.

You look down like you just remembered. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine. The swelling’s gone down a lot so I’m good to come back.”

Lois watches the news on one of the tv’s in the room play a clip someone managed to record of said guy fly up into the air, departing with a sonic boom.

She leans into Clark a bit, looking straight at the tv with that same damned topic on her mind. “Clark, do you think he’s handsome?”

He clears his throat lightly, sniffing as he tries to figure out how to answer that wild question. “Well, I— uhh… um— he’s, he’s… conventionally attractive.” His tone gets pitchy at the end, like he's asking, not telling.

“Lois.” You sigh.

“What? He’s so cute guys, I don’t know why no one else is talking about it.”

You take a peek at Clark and find quite a bit of blood rushing to his face.

“Clark, are you alright?”

“Huh— yeah. Yeah, no, I-I’m good! I’m fine, it’s just uhh… hot.” He nods, trying to look convincing.

Lois doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s hot.”

“Oh my god.” You groan.

“No, like, seriously.”

And it’s your fault for knowing how serious she is.

“Do you guys think he’d go for me?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” You nod with a fake smile. “He’d be all over you.”

She bursts out laughing, her focus on the poor guy in your midst. “He’s as red as his cape.”

You turn your head to see and it’s true, he’s super red in the face and just refuses to make eye contact.

“I’m just gonna go… do that thing Perry wanted.” He sends you girls a quick nod and smile before basically running out of y’all’s presence.

You watch him go and find his vulnerability endearing. He’s not afraid to show his feelings but like in typical Clark fashion, gets a little embarrassed when he does.

She purses her lips apologetically.

You shake your head at her. “Lois, if you were a man...” You raise your eyebrows and push air out in yet another sigh.

She takes your lack of words as a sign to contemplate the idea, then says, “You’d be my first target.” with a nod and serious look.

“Get out.”

You hadn’t anticipated your savior to be the subject of fascination so soon. Later on in the afternoon, in fact.

“L/n, you’re a firsthand witness. What do you think?”

Everyone’s eyes are on you as they wait for you to tell your story. You haven’t felt this nervous since your interview with this place.

You clear your throat a bit, feeling your nerves on fire.

“I believe he stopped the plane from crashing.”

You don’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re all thinking: you’re fucking crazy.

Of course, that’s an impossible thing to do but not everyone in this room was there.

“You think… he was responsible for saving everyone that day?” Perry asks, intrigued by your line of reasoning.

“Yes. He came onto the jet and immediately asked if everyone was alright, if anyone was injured.”

A few people murmur in doubt but you continue.

“I sprained my ankle somehow and he offered to help me off and took me to an area where I could wait for an ambulance.”

They eye your gloved ankle, unimpressed. (it’s not like you’re here to knock their socks off anyway)

“He helped you off the jet? How?” Someone asks.

“He, um… carried me out.” You quietly say.

The atmosphere shifts and you can really feel and see just how shell-shocked everyone is.

“He carried you out?!”

“As in, in his arms? You were carried out in his arms..?”

You immediately jump to your defense. “I’m not sure why and, or how that matters.”

They’re incredulously adamant about it. “How come? You’ve not only had a conversation, but also came into close contact with him—”

“And that’s where your focus lies?” Perry cuts in.

You look at him in thanks and he nods in acknowledgment.

“I dunno.” A board member sighs. “Some mysterious, muscular man coming to save the helpless woman story won’t run headlines.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Perry feels a headache coming on.

“You asked about my encounter and I told you. I’m not here to be a headline.”

The man who thought of that “brilliant” idea is coated in embarrassment, feeling annoyed at receiving the heat.

“Anyone have any useful ideas?” Your boss asks with his thumbs pressing down on his temple.

There’s some chatter about this man and how he managed to save the plane, if he did. Some even discuss if he’s capable of being a potential threat to the country.

“You’re dismissed.” Perry says with a pointed look.

You leave with your head down and jaw tight, coming to sight with Mark.

“Excuse me.” You drop the hint of ignoring him but he doesn’t care.

“Going somewhere?” He asks with a smug expression.

You still push past him, only for him to turn around and tail you.

“Yeah. Some of us have jobs to do.”

You don’t care how you look and/or sound.

You just got reduced a damsel-in-distress by a board member while your boss ignored him. Granted, he stuck up for you when it came time but he also dismissed you like you weren’t needed anymore.

Mark pokes a tongue into his cheek, his frustration with you at its boiling point. “And what’s yours? Playing hooky with Superman?”

You don’t know whether to be offended or question the ridiculous choice of name for the man, first.

You choose the first option as it’s the most relevant.

“What did you just say to me?”

He smirks like he just found a pressure point on you. He takes a step closer. “You heard me.”

He actually thinks he's got you this time.

“What, got nothin' to say now that Kent isn't here to save you?”

All that annoyance you were feeling just know? Yeah, that's amplified by a thousand now that he brought that up.

“I can stick up for myself, and I definitely won’t take any shit from you.” You spite. “If I took that promotion back then, you would’ve been fired and on your ass in less than a minute.”

You're pulling rank but it isn't rage-bait if it's true.

He's seething now. A vein protrudes from his forehead and he inhales deeply to try to keep himself together as much as possible.

“Oh, I know how you got that promotion.” He spits that venom so carelessly with the most malicious intent.

You squint your eyes in suspected belief.

Mark continues his verbal assault.

“Yeah,” He nods. “It wasn't that hard to figure out why the old man favors you so much.”

You were right, it had been what you were thinking.

The envy in him has always given off a strong stench, he literally gives the evil eye to those better than him in every way possible.

At your loss of words and hurt expression, he smirks before delivering what he thinks is the final blow. “I’m willing to bet you slept your way to the top.”

In this very moment, you realize you don’t have to listen to his shit any longer.

Your strike his face, open-handed; hard. A powerful smack resulting in a red handprint on his blanched face.

The ear on that side of his face rings piercingly loud and in his disoriented state, nearly collapses onto the floor.

A chorus of sharp gasps and sound grimaces snap you out of the adrenaline-fueled rage consuming you.

It seems that you’ve gathered quite a crowd of spectators. The horrified look on your face isn't nearly enough to convince your innocence to anyone just joining now joining in.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Perry's voice booms.

You shakily inhale, meeting his accusing gaze and you watch as he tracks a path between you and Mark writhing on the floor.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his pathetic acting.

“Get in here. Right. Now.”

With your chin up, you walk right past the whimpering mess on the floor; your heel almost crunching his fingers if it weren't for his reaction time.

You know you shouldn't be the one to feel embarrassed but there's still a part of you that does.

After all that you've put into this place, some overzealous, whiny little piece of shit wants to humiliate you by attempting to slutshame? In this day and age?

You huff in exasperation of being on your way to overstimulation by the very quick turn of events.

You're already sat when Mark comes in and Perry shuts the door, but not before yelling at everyone to get back to work.

You feel your victim to your far right, not wanting to sit down.

“Sit down, Mark.” Perry says before looking at him quizzically. “And why are your hands covering only one side of your face?”

You bite back an explanation and a smirk.

Mark doesn't say anything but instead opts to show, he drops both hands hesitantly to his sides.

Perry's reaction is nothing short of priceless. He thinks about exclaiming but when side-eyeing you and carefully assessing your careless reaction, he clocks it.

“I was counting on you being bitch-slapped one of these days but I was not expecting you to be dumb enough to try her.” He dryly chuckles in half admiration and half disappointment.

“Sir? You're actually siding with her right now?”

You close your eyes and mentally prepare to be fired.

Perry’s expression is that of a Don’t try me and Mark actually takes it seriously this time.

Wonder what’s the difference in you giving him that look and Perry…

“What happened, L/n?”

You open your eyes nervously and take a breath, preparing yourself to speak your truth.

“I slapped him… because he accused me of sleeping my way to the top for the promotion.”

There’s about a few seconds of silence before Perry speaks up.

“What.” He just says but it’s his tonal shift that makes Mark sweat.

“W-well, I just said that in the heat of the moment.” He chuckles nervously. “I didn’t mean that—”

Perry pinches the bridge of his nose to try to calm himself down. “I have no tolerance for this kind of behavior, Callahan. You know that.”

Said boy clears his throat and sniffs. “Y-yes sir, I do—”

“Then why did you do it?” Perry’s eyes bore into his with such intensity, it makes you a bit uneasy as well.

Mark opens and closes his mouth trying to come up with an answer to that obviously rhetorical question like a fish.

At his lack of words, your boss scratches his forehead. “Here’s an easier one: what did you think you were accomplishing by demeaning her character like that?”

Still no answer.

He puts a finger on Mark's chest, pressing into it as he says, “I’ll tell you. She is your superior because she, unlike you, gets it. She gets this job, what it means to be a reporter.”

His condescending tone towards the other male isn't unheard of but it sure as hell surprises you a lot.

Mark tightens his jaw and turns his head to look at you in malice. “With all due respect, sir, you should understand why I said that.”

“I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing.” His gruff voice reverberates through the walls, causing you to straighten your back.

Perry then carefully and slowly says, “Get the fuck outta here, you’re fired.”.

Mark dares to speak up even now. “But, sir—”

“Right now!” The older man barks his orders and like the sad little puppy Mark is, follows one last time.

When he leaves, Perry sighs and turns to sit down in his chair. He pours himself a drink, offering one to you.

You stare at him wearily before declining but he pours you a drink, anyway.

He silently takes a sip, prompting you to do the same and you feel the smooth, mellow taste of Brandy.

He groans, satisfied with the drink.

You set your glass down, feeling your nerves becoming slightly undone by the aftertaste.

It’s momentarily quiet, the awkward silence now comfortable.

You’re the first to break it. “Am I being fired?”

This is apparently funny to him because he laughs. Yes, he wheezes before giving in to the chest-laugh every man his age has.

You awkwardly chuckle along, not knowing if that's the right move.

He sighs in satisfaction once more.

“Y/n,” He begins warmly. “I can't fire you after that shitshow.”

Anyone else would think that statement was made in fear of being seen as an asshole who doesn't stand in solidarity with women but not you.

Perry White can put on a show of being a bitter old man but now's not one of those times.

“You did what you had to do and since I'm being honest,” He leans in a little like he's about to share a secret. “I'm glad you gave me a reason to kick his ass out.”

That brings a soft smile on your face, one that expresses your gratitude.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Most bosses wouldn't give a fuck.” The word rolls off your tongue with such smoothness, you forgot to code switch.

He takes no mind and instead lets you talk informally, he gathers you deserve that much.

“I'm not most bosses.” He wittily replies with a wink and tight-lipped smile.

“No, you are not.” You say with an appreciative nod.

You ignore everyone that didn't need your help for the remainder of the day.

As Mark took the walk of shame, it made you feel a little better when you saw people who you've never spoken to give him dirty looks and shake their head at him in disapproval.

Even though he got at least half of what he deserved, you still felt the aftermath of his words. They stung and it just made you think, how many other people feel that way?

You drowned yourself in work, you felt as if you're now obligated to work twice as hard.

Then you hear him.

“Y/n?”

You move your head from your hand and look up above your computer, spotting no other than your trusty colleague and friend.

“Clark, hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Hey, I was just about to ask you that.” He says with a boyish smile and points at you.

You smile back instinctually. “I'm just finishing up some stuff, meeting deadlines.”

“Ah.” He nods.

You eye the time and decide to save what you have left, planning to resume tomorrow.

“I was doing the same.”

You put on your jacket and grab your purse, walking out with him.

“This late?”

Poor guy, you hope he doesn't have a workload as big as yours if he's staying until almost 2 am.

“Yeah.” Clark sighs tiredly. “Perry gave me Mark's last assignment.”

You pause locking your office door, not expecting that answer.

Clark pretends not to notice.

As you enter the elevator (before clark, of course), you make light conversation.

“So ready to go home to my bed.” You tip your head back close your eyes, letting yourself rest for a moment.

“For real, I was about to fall asleep at my desk if it wasn’t for you.”

Both of your eyes open. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was the only person here but then I saw your lamplight on so, I figured why not fight it for as long as I can.”

Had he stayed this long for you?

“Clark…”

You feel guilty and why wouldn’t you? He was basically waiting on you to call it in and stood by the entire time.

“It’s okay! No harm done.” He insists.

He was actually meaning to go home the same time you were, so he could talk to you.

He knows how pathetic that sounds but he'd rather be a pathetic man with a crush, even if that sounds elementary.

Instead, he opts on telling a half truth. “I needed the extra hours anyway.”

You turn to face him. “You did?”

Uh oh. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

Stupid sleep-deprived brain making him say things he’s not supposed to.

“Yeah, cause my research and work ethic is different from Mark’s.” He purses his lips and nods lightly.

Though he may look confident on the outside, he’s freaking out on the inside.

What was he supposed to say, the truth? Yeah, I was out late saving the planet one country at a time. That kind of stuff tends to get tiring if I have to wake up on time, ha ha ha.

He hopes you believe him and don’t inquire any further so he won't have to come up with another lie.

You hum before yawning lightly. “Makes sense.”

Clark watches you cover your mouth with the back of your hand and notices how you close your eyes when you yawn.

He also notes that you're really comfortable around him. You don't think twice about saying certain things in front of him.

He likes being the reason you let your guard down, he does the same around you.

You can see him staring into the side of your face so you turn your head, meeting his warm yet intimidating stare.

Your lips automatically purse into the friendliest awkward smile you have and he returns the sentiment.

You both then look away simultaneously. You look up at the countdown whereas he looks down on the shining metallic floor.

There’s still 25 more floors to go before you meet the garage parking lot.

The atmosphere grows a little awkward but is forgiven as there’s a shared understanding: you’re both fucking exhausted.

Though, there is something Clark wants to talk to you about.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

He hesitates for a moment, his mouth opening then closing as he thinks about how to bring this topic up.

“I heard about what happened.”

You slowly turn your head to him wordlessly, waiting for him to continue.

He stares back at you and you notice how blue his eyes look under fluorescent light.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, affected by the outburst as anyone else who gave a damn.

You’re touched.

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark.” You say as you look down at your shoes, suddenly growing shy of his eyes.

“I know,” He says. “But I care.”

The sentiment doesn't go unnoticed. Your lips turn up appreciatively.

“I know that as a woman, I'll be undermined at times but that was seriously a low blow.” You vent. “Even for him.”

Your disappointment isn't hard to assess. Even though you knew he'd be the one to say something like that, you still would've liked to be proven wrong.

Clark feels for you, you shouldn't have to feel alienated by your colleagues.

“I'm sorry nobody spoke up. I would have.”

“I know.” You say. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

You think about how nice it is of Clark to say this but you’re reminded of his absence prior.

“Where were you today, by the way. I barely saw you.”

He lies straight through his teeth. “I was out running some errands.”

He was actually stopping a country from getting actively bombed but that’s a story for another time.

“Perry still giving you the Miranda treatment?”

He chortles at your reference. “What can I say, I make a great Andrea.”

“You do. Who’s your Emily?”

You both take a moment to think about this.

“I got nothin’.” You say.

Clark agrees, although he’s come up with an alternative approach.

“There’s Mark, but he’s more Emily to your Andrea.”

You make a motion to wrap your hands around your neck and pretend to choke yourself.

It gets a good laugh out of him.

You blow a soft raspberry. “I just want my Nate. Without the “I'm insecure and feeling jealous because my partner is having it better” part.”

You look up at him and say without thinking, “You’d make a great Nate.”

You’re so tired, very exhausted from the day taking a toll on you, which explains why you’re just saying random shit.

Clark feels hot, like his whole face is on fire. He chuckles bashfully, very obviously failing at trying to not let that affect him so much.

The elevator dings and you both look up, finding the doors to open and reveal the garage parking lot.

“So, what do you mean by that? Exactly.” He furrows his brows and pushes his glasses up.

You step out, feeling all of your nerves turn to ice as you realize the weight of your words. “Oh, you know. You'd be a supporting and secure boyfriend.”

He's stumped, left watching as you walk to your car.

You wave goodbye before getting into your car and he returns the gesture.

You turn to face him, walking backwards. “Good night, Clark.”

He feels the blood wash over his heart like the ocean returning to shore.

“Good night.” He murmurs fondly.

“Dude, this is a terrible idea.” Jimmy scolds. “Your worst one yet, and you barely have those!”

But Clark isn’t listening, he’s already made his mind up.

“If I like her as a man then I have to respect her as Superman.”

Okay, that was a bar, Jimmy concedes.

“Besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone.” Clark adds.

Of course you wouldn't tell anyone about Clark’s identity, he knows that.

“I know that,” Jimmy sighs. “But think of your relationship with her as Superman from a journalistic standpoint.”

Jimmy just wants the best for his best man, he wants Clark to really think about this.

“She won’t let her bias for you stop her from doing her job, even if that means asking questions you can’t answer directly.”

Diving headfirst into something like a romantic relationship without going over the logistics is bound to crash and burn.

But it’s you, the same woman who understands him. You see him, know him. You’re not one to hide how comforted you feel when he’s around, he literally hears your heart rate when he dotes on you.

You must feel the same way. Right?

But how would you react to this? Would you still feel the same? Would you still view him as the same Clark who goes out of his way for you?

After some careful consideration, Clark comes to a conclusion.

“Okay.” He says.

Jimmy closes his eyes in relief, sighing at the fact that his friend chose his mind over his heart.

“I’m going to tell her everything.”

Jimmy slaps a palm across his forehead all wide-eyed, not believing he got bamboozled this way.

He now has to watch his best friend throw everything away for the ruzz (reporter huzz).

Clark feels a weight lifted from his chest at this decision.

He's always wanted to tell you but his moral obligation was to this planet, regardless of what his heart wanted.

He walks to your office, stopping just before the door to check on his appearance. He moves his head to the side, inspecting his hair. He then fixes his tie and glasses.

Satisfied with himself, he knocks and waits for your approval.

“Come in.”

Clark pokes his head in comically.

Your eyes flit up and when you see him, giggling at his silliness. “Hey, you.”

His chest warms at the sight and sound of your delight.

You seem so easygoing, truly content when you smile or laugh. Do you know that?

His takes in your face.

Your hair shines from the light, cascading down your shoulders and framing your head nicely.

Your eyes are on him and every time you look at him, he feels as though he can tell you anything. And though they're beautiful, his favorite part about your face have to be your lips.

You're a very expressive person so your words and reactions make up everything about you.

He loves seeing them pull you into a smile and laugh, especially when he's the reason. It’s like a reward seeing you joyful because of him.

He's momentarily distracted by the sight, always on the verge of forgetting his objective as soon as your pretty lips move around.

You say his name like you're in the middle of something.

He blinks, shaking himself out of his daydream. “I'm sorry, what? I was not paying attention, I'm sorry.”

It's refreshing to see a man apologize so much but it feels weird coming from him.

“It's too early for this, I know.” You jest kindly. “I was asking what can I do for you?”

“Oh! Right, why I'm here.” He chuckles, embarrassed.

Get it together, Clark he warns himself mentally.

“I, um... I wanted to ask you something.”

You lean your elbows on your desk, giving him your undivided attention. “Sure, what's up?”

He walks to your desk, taking out a sticky note folded in half. He hands it to you.

I have something I want to talk about, meet me in the mailroom? Lunch on me ;)

You can't with this guy sometimes. Asking you to lunch via sticky note?

“That is seriously the cutest thing ever.” Lois coos.

You've been smiling since he gave the note to you, grinning at him as he walked out of your office.

You even did a celebratory squeal before containing yourself.

“Isn't it?” You giddily ask. “Ugh, he's so cute.”

Lois nods in agreement, wondering when she's gonna find her own Clark Kent.

“What do you think he wants to talk about?” You ask.

Lois looks at you bewildered. “What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?”

You stare at her expectantly, blinking.

“Oh my god.” She groans. “He's gonna tell you how bad he wants you, Y/n!”

“He is?” You say, hopeful.

She nods ecstatically and spins you around in your chair to face her. “Think about it. You two have been dancing around this unspoken attraction between you for how long?”

You instantly give her a time period. “Almost a month.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“Oh.” Your lips pull to the side, sheepishly. “Sorry. Continue.”

“The point is, he obviously feels for you. It was just a matter of when he’d get the balls to make the first move.”

You nod along, finding her logic unarguable.

“Okay. Okay, so I just walk in and tell him—”

“No, no, no. What? Don't do that! He's the one asking you to come over so let him go first.”

“Right, right.” You blink. “Let him go first, you're right.”

Lois puts a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “You're nervous, and that's okay. Just breathe, be calm, cool, and collected. You're Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.”

“I’m Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.” You repeat like a mantra.

Lois smiles encouragingly, being your best hype-woman.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

You close your eyes and blindly trust her. “I’m fucking amazing.”

“You’re the baddest bitch here and you know it.”

You blow air deeply, feeling yourself relax a bit. “I’m the baddest… bitch here and I know it.”

“Fuck yeah, you do!” She exclaims and you find yourself smiling, shaking your head at her theatrics.

You fucking love this girl.

“You got this, okay? Don't think too much, it'll feel natural once you let him talk.”

You feel like you’re about to get in the boxing ring witheverything that could go wrong.

“Go get him, tiger!”

It's lunchtime and for the first time in history, you're not hungry.

You can't even think about eating out of anxiety.

You walk towards the mailroom and suspire when you go to twist the door handle.

You're immediately met with the dreamy pair of eyes you were hesitant to see.

You shut the door behind you, none of you want to be the one to move first.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hi.” You say, equally as soft.

He clears his throat lightly and gestures you over, some sandwiches and sodas decorating the table.

“Panera?” You say with glee.

His lips pull back at your reaction. “Yup.”

You reign in your excitement, remembering why you came here in the first place.

“So.” You hint subtly.

“Sooo.”

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “Sooo, what'd you have to tell me?”

He clicks his teeth. “That's the question.”

You tip your head back and half-whine, half-laugh. “Oh my god, stop baiting me!”

Clark finds humor in edging you on like this, how often does he get to see you so highstrung?

“Okay, okay, alright.” He airily chuckles. “I'll stop.”

You blink patiently, the remnants of a grin on your face.

He soughs, building up the confidence to tell you how just much he feels for you.

“Okay.” He licks his lips, meeting your gaze.

He's caught, mesmerized by the way your attention is on him. He doesn't realize just how heavy his stare is until he watches you squirm.

“Clark..?” You call out to him thinking he's spacing out.

“Sorry.” He says on default, though he's not really apologetic for anything at all.

You're just so—

“Beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your chest and he's mortified.

“I, I just said that... outloud.” He stammers.

You watch him scramble for a way out.

“I'm sorry— not that you aren't beautiful, which you are. You so are.”

He cringes at himself and you hold back a simper, finding him so endearing.

“I just, um... Alright, here's the thing.” He claps both hands together softly.

“Mhm.” You nod, furrowing your eyebrows and to show you're just as serious about what he has to say.

“I... I have, uh— wait, no. That's not right.” He mutters to himself.

You come closer, standing right in front of him. “Clark.”

He looks down, stunned at your proximity and stops babbling.

“Just say it.” You coax gently. “Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work through it, together.”

Together. He thinks about the good ending, the one where you do end up getting together.

As you look up at him with those kind eyes, he feels everything he has to say come right out.

“I can't stop thinking about you.” He confesses.

You blink, startled by this even though you were expecting it.

“I like you, a-a lot, and I have so much to tell you.”

Clark's eyes flit between yours, desperately searching somewhere for you to feel the same.

He hears your heartbeat skyrocket, he feels your hands shake slightly from the adrenaline. The smell of your perfume thickens the air and he can't get enough. He can almost taste the color of your lips with how close they are.

He gulps, growing jumpy from your silence.

“Say something, please.” He whispers.

Another moment of quiet, not voluntarily. You're just trying to find the right words.

“I... I feel the same.”

That familiar megawatt smile graces his lips and you feel the tables turn, you in his previous postition and he in yours.

“I have for a long time.”

His eyes crease at that and he can't help the laughter bubbling out of him.

You laugh with him, not believing this is happening right now.

“You have no idea how long I've been holding that in.” He tells you, leaning on the table behind him.

“Not longer than me.” You suppose.

His eyebrows quirk up, silently asking you to go first.

So you do. “Since you started bringing me my daily dose of energy.”

He hums.

“Now, you.”

He looks at you with the fondest expression ever, you hold yourself back from kissing him stupid.

“Since my first day.” His voice thick with honey.

Your eyes soften and though he's won, you don't take this as a loss.

“Seriously?”

You don't mean to be so anticlimactic but how else does one react to feelings of romance being reciprocated?

As if Clark Kent couldn't get any more attractive, he takes your hand with the utmost care and rests it right on top of his heart.

“Can you feel that?” He asks while gauging your every little microreaction.

It speeds up gradually as your hand connects with the fabric of his shirt, pure electricity binding you together.

You nod, involuntarily fighting the tears you sense.

“Aw, don't cry.” He cradles your face in his hands and you close your eyes, overwhelmed by his affection for you.

“Come on, let me see you.” He ducks his head down, trying to catch your shy eyes.

When you finally do, he smiles so brightly that you swear it's like looking directly into the sun.

“There she is.”

You chuckle weakly, sniffling once.

He lets go of your face and can't resist the temptation of not touching your arms. He rubs them up and down a couple times, feeling goosebumps arise in their wake.

“Can I have a hug?” You ask, looking back at him through your lashes.

He feels his heart stop right there, that look sends him over the edge and you don't even know it.

Clark wordlessly leans down and pulls you in, his strong arms wrap around your waist comfortingly while you reach up on your toes.

You rest your head on his shoulder and feel your hearts beating under each other so passively, a sigh escapes the confines of both your mouths simultaneously.

Something about this feels like déjà vu, like you've been in a similar position.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Remember that conference I was supposed to go to in DC but got cancelled because the jet almost crashed?”

He pulls away with a straight face, hiding the absolute chaos unfurling behind those eyes. “Yeah..? Why?”

You look at the door then back at him. “I haven't told anyone about this but afterwards, Superman came by my place.”

“What? No way!” Clark gasps.

You nod cooly.

“So, what happened? What'd you guys talk about?”

You tell him how he stopped by to return your purse but something has been bugging you since. “I just don't know how he got my address.”

“Oh, that's easy.” He doesn't feel like playing this game anymore, too many sweats. “I know where you live.”

You’re perplexed and then some because what does that mean?

“What are you saying?”

He puts both hands on your shoulders and gives you a riddled look that says, Come on, think about it. You know what I’m saying.

A lightbulb turns on in your head but it can’t be. There’s just no way you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

You’re too flabbergasted to say a word. You just stare at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as you say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re— you,” You chuckle dryly, your head spinning a bit. “You’re Superman?”

He doesn’t give any indication of agreeing with you but his silence does.

Clark’s trying to get a read on you.

You then cover your mouth with both hands, muffling an excited ‘Oh my god!’.

He feels reassured.

“You’re Superman!” You whisper-scream.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He nods while checking the door to see anyone coming in.

You just stare at him in wonder, taking this all in.

It all makes perfect sense.

Who else would be selfless enough to protect those who can’t protect themselves? To have integrity is the most Clark Kent trait you can think of.

You know Clark has a big heart but this? This is next level.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He looks at you like the answer to that is simple, which to him, is. It’s always going to be simple if it involves you.

“I don’t want to start this on a lie.” He reveals as those damned blue eyes fixate on you.

You can fly right now.

He leans in ever so slowly, tracking any detail on your face that may give away the impression of not wanting him in your space.

When he finds none and is absolutely sure, he puts a hand on your cheek and asks, “Can I kiss you?”.

“Yes.” You sound softly and it’s as if a prayer has been answered.

Your eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips for you, you anticipate them to be just as soft and lush as they seem.

He believes he’ll finally be able to understand the languid nature of your mouth and decipher its meaning.

Sparks fly when you make contact, it strengthens the electricity that makes your chemistry.

The kiss is a breath of fresh air, the kind that blows in quietly; peacefully.

He’s sweet, undoubtedly so. His palms hesitantly splay across the curves on your waist. You smile at the soft touch and he does as well.

Your hands are on his chest and you can feel every pulse, flutter, and pang of his heart.

You think it’s poetic; the influence you have on his heart, both figuratively and literally.

He rests his forehead on yours and you look up at him from under your lashes.

He’s about to speak up when he hears something, something you don’t. His ears perk in the direction of the distressed sound and he turns his head apologetically.

“I have to go.” He regretfully informs.

You reach up to kiss his cheek and rid him of guilt. “When you come back, I’ll be right here.”

Clark hugs you once more and asks, “You’re my hero, you know that?”.

You chortle and respond with, “Is that Superman talking or you?”.

“Both.” He pulls back with a kiss on your hairline, winking at you with a cheeky grin.

He runs out the door and leaves you with the ghost of his touch and words that form a sappy smile on your face.

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

The neon buzzed overhead like a bad omen. Joel Miller shifted on the barstool, fingers wrapped tight around the sweating glass of his bourbon. He hadn’t been in a place like this before, never had the need to, but now he was old and lonely, and desperate enough to walk through the doors of La Sirena.

The music was low and sultry, more for mood than show. The main stage was lit with a soft red glow, a dancer, barely wearing any clothes, lazily curling around the pole to a song Joel didn’t recognize. Everything smelled like alcohol, cheap perfume, and something sour underneath. It made his skin crawl. Still, he stayed.

He told himself it was curiosity, but truthfully, it was the silence at home, the way his bed felt too cold and too big. The way his phone never rang. Tommy had his own life now, and Sarah—well, she was grown, studying halfway across the country. Joel had nobody left.

He’d tried other things, nights at bars with awkward attempts to meet women, even downloading Tinder a few months back, hoping for some spark of connection, but every person he matched with felt like nothing of what he was looking for. Something was always missing, the chemistry, the spark he was desperately craving.

So here he was, a man out of place, gray in his beard, lines in his face, shoulders hunched like he’d rather vanish into the dark corner of the room than be seen.

He didn’t notice you at first.

You noticed him.

You’d clocked him the second he walked in. Tall, broad, clearly uncomfortable, not the type you were used to, most of the guys here were mouth-breathers, sweating through their shirts before you even got on top of them. Some were regulars, creepy ones who thought buying two dances a week made them your boyfriend. Some were cruel. Some were broken.

But he looked like he was just sad, you could smell it on him, the loneliness, the nostalgia hidden behind his eyes. He hadn’t touched anyone yet, hadn’t even looked at the stage, he just nursed his drink and stared into it like he was trying to drown in it.

You didn’t approach him right away, guys like him either bolted or got stuck in their heads until they were talked into a lap dance by a pushier girl, but after a while, when the floor thinned and the song changed, you slid into the bar stool next to him without asking.

“First time?”

Joel looked up, startled. His eyes were a soft greyish color, tired but kind, they flicked to your barely-there outfit—fishnets, leather, glitter—and then snapped away with a guilt that made your chest ache.

“That obvious?”

You smiled. “To someone with a trained eye like mine? yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Didn’t really plan on this.”

“You lost a bet or something?”

“No.” He took a sip of bourbon. “Just… tired of drinkin’ alone, I guess.”

That surprised you. “So you came to drink here? Alone?”

He half-laughed, rough and low. “Somethin’ like that.”

You studied him in the dark. He had the kind of body that came from hard labor—big hands, rough knuckles, shoulders like he could lift an engine block if he felt like it, but he looked tired. So tired.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” you said, softly. It wasn’t an insult, it was the truth.

He looked up at you, something sharp in his eyes. “No offense, darlin’, but neither do you.”

You tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That ’cause I don’t look like I’ve been doing meth since I was thirteen?”

Joel let out a low chuckle, the sound rough and warm in his chest. His eyes flicked over your face, lingering just a second too long. “Yeah,” he said, voice dipped in that familiar southern drawl. “You just look too damn good for a place like this.”

That almost made you laugh, if he only knew. “You’re sweet. But I’ve been here five years. I think I belong just fine.”

Joel went quiet for a while, the music faded into another slow beat and you saw the way he looked at you now, careful, not with hunger, byt in a respectful way, like he didn’t know what to do with you.

“You workin’ the floor?” he asked, finally.

You shrugged, voice light but eyes steady on his. “You could always book a booth. Find out more about me.”

Joel hesitated, his gaze flicking away for a beat. “I, uh… I’m not so sure.”

Booking a booth seemed too personal, too private. He wasn’t there for that, hell, he wasn’t even sure why he was there at all, but it certainly wasn’t to take advantage of some poor young girl who had no choice but to work there. That wasn’t the moral values he was raised with.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to lower your voice. “We could just talk. Nothing else.”

He studied you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw softening. Was it really so bad? It was just talking after all, he promised himself he’d make sure nothing else happened. Then he gave a small nod, quiet and a little unsure.

You stood up and gently guided him toward one of the many booths tucked away in the dim corners of the club. It was small and had a curtain to offer some privacy, lit low in red led lights, with a plush velvet-red couch stretched across the center. You sat first, leaning back with practiced ease, the same way you did every night for all the clients. Joel followed a beat later, his movements stiff, uncertain. He settled beside you, not quite close, not quite far, his hands restless in his lap, eyes flicking around the room like he was waiting for someone to catch him doing something wrong.

“So… uh… you said you’ve been here for five years?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

“Mhm,” you hummed, watching him. “Five and counting.”

“And you like it?”

You shrugged. “It’s not so bad. The pay’s good.”

“So you do it for the money, then?”

You huffed a soft laugh. “We all gotta pay rent and groceries, right?”

His eyes lingered on you a second too long, and you caught the shift in his expression, a flicker of pity softening his features. Fuck. He was doing exactly what he said he wouldn’t, taking advantage of a girl who needed money just to put a warm plate of food on the table. What kind of man had he become?

“It’s not like that,” you said, firmer now. “Not out of necessity. I could tend tables or some other shit if I wanted. I chose this. The pay’s better than any nine-to-five. I’ve got a nice car, nice clothes. I live comfortably.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, quiet. “Wouldn’t imagine someone voluntarily choosin’ this,” he said, almost to himself. Who would want to dance for pervy old guys every single day? Deal with touchy, nasty hands, with pushy men who thought paying for a booth meant buying a piece of you?

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a contractor,” he replied after a pause. “I like it. I’m good at it.” He looked down, voice lower now, more to himself than to you. “Sometimes feels like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“You definitely look like the type who knows how to build a house,” you said, lips curling into a sly smile.

That earned a quiet laugh from him—short, rough, but real. Okay, he was hot. Hot and capable. Looked relatively smart and polite, for what you’d seen so far. Yep, he was definitely the best client you’d gotten in a really long time.

He glanced over at you. “What is it that you uhh… exactly do here?”

You leaned back a little, voice casual. “Sometimes I dance on stage, but most of the time It’s lap dances.”

He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “And, uh… you do more than lap dances?”

You smiled at him, biting your lip just enough to make his eyes drop to your mouth. “Are you interested?”

Joel stiffened, his whole body tensing like you’d caught him in something. “No—no, not for me. I was just curious.”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “Depends on the tip. A few blowjobs here and there. Pretty much.”

He blinked, astonished by your bluntness. He looked like he didn’t quite know where to rest his eyes now. “I, uh… I thought it was illegal. For, y’know… that kind of thing to happen here.”

You laughed, low and warm. “Does this place strike you as the kind of establishment that follows the law? You wouldn’t believe the things that happen in the back rooms.”

“Fair,” he said softly, gaze dipping for a moment. “You… uh… must see a lot of men, then. I mean… you’re really pretty.”

“Mhm. I know all the types.”

“All the types?” he asked, eyebrow quirking slightly.

“Yep.” You stretched your legs out a little, relaxing into the couch. “You’ve got the young ones—virgins. They’re kinda adorable, all shy and nervous, hands in their laps, like they don’t even know where to look. Then there’s the drunks—not so adorable. They get handsy, pushy, sometimes try to walk out without paying. That’s always a fun scene.”

Joel gave a faint grunt, somewhere between amusement and concern.

“You’ve got the saviors too,” you said, voice tinged with amusement. “The ones who think they’re some kind of knight in shining armor. They want to rescue you from this life, take you away like they’re doing you a favor.”

You paused, letting the bitterness slip in.

“Of course, they get bored after a month. Stop showing up. Turns out saving someone isn’t as exciting as they thought.”

“You’ve got the bachelor party guys—loud, cocky, think they’re God’s gift. Bit of pricks, but mostly harmless. And then…”

You paused, a softer note slipping into your voice.

“Then you’ve got the widowers. Those are my favorite.”

Joel looked at you, quiet now.

“They book you because you remind them of their dead wife when she was young. They just want to talk. Maybe hold your hand. Give you a hug.”

“I thought I was the only loser who paid just to talk,” Joel said, his voice low, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, a gentle smile playing on your lips. “You’re not. It’s more common than you’d think.” Your eyes met his, softer now. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Everyone needs a little companionship.”

Joel looked down at his hands. His voice was low. Honest. Too honest.

“Don’t feel right. Payin’ someone just to pretend.”

You felt that in your chest. “Who says we’re pretending?”

You stayed in that booth for an hour. Maybe two. You didn’t dance for him, you didn’t grind on his lap, you just talked about nothing, about music, about Texas summers and his love for coffee. He told you more about his job, about his daughter Sarah. You told him about growing up in nowhere, Arkansas, and how you ended up here, in a city that never slept but never loved you back.

He came back a week later.

Didn’t say anything when he walked in, he just looked for you, and when he found you, he came up to you, still looking out of place, like he didn’t quite know where to put his hands or his eyes, like he’d wandered into the wrong world and wasn’t sure how to walk through it. There was something in his posture, in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, that made him look less like a man and more like a lost puppy trying to act like he wasn’t.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said.

Joel scratched his jaw. “Didn’t plan to.”

“Mhm, and yet here you are.”

“Can we, uh… can we go to a booth? Like last time? Just to talk.” Joel asked almost sheepishly.

You nodded. “Sure.”

Without a word, you turned and led him through the low-lit lounge, weaving past half-full tables and pulsing bass, until you reached the same booth you two had shared last week

“Felt like shit about last time,” he muttered as he sat down on the couch, his weight sinking into the velvet like it carried more than just his body, like guilt had settled on his shoulders and hadn’t left since.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

Joel sighed. “’Cause I liked talkin’ to ya. Too much.”

You smiled gently. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He looked at you like that word broke something in him.

“It was just talking, Joel,” you said gently, trying to reassure him. “It wasn’t anything bad. Nothing you should feel guilty about.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. “But I paid for it. That’s the difference. You didn’t talk to me because you wanted to.”

You tilted your head. “People pay therapists too.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s different. Therapists don’t show up in mini skirts and have their tits almost out.”

Your gaze dropped instinctively to your outfit, the little skirt riding high on your thighs, the thin straps of your top clinging tight to your chest. You tried not to smile or blush. Okay, so he wasn’t blind, he had noticed your tits. Good to know.

Joel dragged his hands over his face, then let them cover it completely, like he could hide the confession coming out of him.

“I just feel so goddamn lonely,” he said, voice rough and muffled. “I can barely stand bein’ home. The quiet… it’s too much. It’s insufferable.”

“Then let me help you feel good for a moment.”

Joel stiffened, instantly guarded.

“I ain’t gonna—” he started, but you cut him off softly.

“Just a dance, Joel. Clothes can stay on. You can keep your hands to yourself. That’s it.”

He hesitated, you could see it on his face, the war, the want, the shame. He was insanely attracted to you, fuck, he was convinced you were the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. And God, was he touch-starved, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept with a woman. And then there you were, all dolled up in your little sexy outfit, asking him to let you dance on his lap. But there was something holding him back, you weren’t asking him out of want, you weren’t doing it because you were attracted to him, because you desired him too, you were just doing your job. He was just another old dude for you.

“You wouldn’t be using me,” you said gently. “You’d just be letting yourself feel good.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Dunno if I can handle that.”

You leaned in close, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “We’ll stop if you want to.”

He exhaled shakily, letting his guard down long enough to make a stupid decision, to allow himself to feel your warmth for a even just a moment.

“…Okay.”

Joel was sitting there like he was about to be executed. Stiff, hands clasped in his lap, jeans already pulling tight over his thighs.

“You can touch on the sides,” you said smoothly, voice low and even. “Other parts come with a higher fee. But I won’t snitch on you if you want to touch.”

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded—a stiff, uncertain motion, like his body was reacting before his brain could catch up.

“Relax,” you murmured. “Just enjoy me.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded again, jerky.

You moved slow, like syrup, like you had all the time in the world. You let him watch the way your hips rolled, the slow arch of your spine, the way your breasts lifted when you leaned back.

Joel grunted barely audible, but loud enough for you to hear it. He was trying so hard not to move, not to want more than this, but you made it worse, or maybe better. Climbed into his lap with agonizing grace, your thighs spread over his, the soft skin of them brushing against his denim pants. Your chest was inches from his face, and he wouldn’t even dare to look at it.

You tilted his chin up with two fingers.

“Hey,” you whispered. “Don’t you hide from me.”

His eyes met yours, and there it was. The hunger. The ache. The raw loneliness. “I… uh… this is a lot,” he mumbled.

You leaned in closer, lips barely brushing his ear as you purred, “Nuh-uh. We’re only getting started, baby.”

You let your hands glide down your body, your fingertips trailing over the swell of your breasts, pausing just long enough to press into the soft flesh, a subtle squeeze that made your lips part. Your gaze never left his, it stayed locked on Joel’s, steady and hot, like a silent dare.

His eyes were half-lidded, as if every second that you stayed on his lap was agony, like you were hurting him, causing him actual psychical pain. The pain of wanting you so bad it was unbearable. And holy shit, you’d never seen such desperation in a man’s eyes before.

Your thighs parted just a little more as you sank lower with fluid movements, like a dance meant for one man only. You arched your back ever so slightly, ass jutting just enough to make his throat bob with a swallow. You were slowly unraveling him, taking him apart thread by thread, and you savored every single second of it.

You started to move more, every motion dripping with intent, enjoying way his body responded to yours. Your hips rolled in steady, grinding circles to the beat of the music, like you had all the time in the world, all the power in the room. It was just enough pressure to tease the bulge already straining beneath his jeans. You weren’t bouncing, you weren’t giving him those fake moans other guys ate up, there was no performance this time. Just that slow, obscene rhythm of your hips that said you knew exactly what he was feeling.

The heat of him pressed up against your core, hard and twitching, and you shifted your weight just slightly, dragging yourself over him in a way that made his breath stutter. You were moving in tighter little circles, grinding down like you were sculpted for this, like his cock was meant to sit right there under your cunt, throbbing and useless.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his hands still remained at his sides, digging into the couch’s fabric, like he was scared to touch you, scared to break the spell. But you saw it, the way his thighs tensed, the way his hips twitched beneath you, chasing more friction even if his brain was screaming “no”.

Grind. Pull back. Grind. Slow roll.

You worked your hips like a slow metronome, each motion dragging delicious pressure right over the thick line of his cock, trapped and straining in his jeans. It was hard —painfully, impossibly hard— and you could feel every twitch of him beneath you. The friction was brutal and perfect, layers of denim and lace catching just enough to make both of you ache. You shifted just slightly, angling your hips so the grind hit him right there, over and over.

“Feel good?” you whispered, breath hot against his ear.

He groaned, just a ragged, helpless sound that you interpreted as a yes.

“Let it happen,” you coaxed. “Nobody’s watching. Just me, baby. Just you and me.”

Your words worked like gasoline. You moved faster, grinding harder now, faster movements against the already soaked in precum bulge in his jeans. His hips bucked up once, just once, helpless. His head fell forward to your shoulder, letting a muffled grunt slip past his lips like he was ashamed to make a sound at all.

“Ah—fuck,” he gasped. A hot flush crept up his neck. “Fuck—”

You felt it. The way his cock pulsed through his jeans, the heat... the damp that bloomed between you. He came in his pants from just your grinding.

Joel collapsed backward, hiding his face in his hands, breathing shakily and rough. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “M’sorry.”

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t be.”

You could obviously see the embarrassment he was feeling, he’d cum in his pants from a three-minute lap dance. He couldn’t believe it happened, like he was bracing for you to laugh or tease him, but you wanted to tell him there was nothing to be embarrassed about, that he shouldn’t feel ashamed of that huge wet cum stain spreading at the crotch of his jeans. That you thought it was sweet. That the way he’d come apart so fast, so helplessly, just from the way you moved over him... that was fucking hot.

He looked up at you, wide-eyed and ruined.

“I—I didn’t mean—That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You smiled. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my dancing in weeks.”

Joel barked a quiet laugh. Still red-faced, still stunned. You stayed there straddling him, with your arms loosely around his neck.

He shook his head against you. “I feel like a goddamn teenager.”

You smiled gently. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“Christ.” He groaned again. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think,” you said softly, “you needed that. And I’m glad you let me give it to you.”

“Next time,” you added, lips brushing his ear, “I’ll let you cum in my mouth instead.”

Joel groaned—actually whimpered.

He showed up on a Tuesday this time. Rain on his jacket, hat low over his brow. He looked like hell, like he hadn’t slept much, or if he had, it hadn’t helped. You spotted him before the door even closed behind him, he looked around the club like he didn’t know why he was here once again.

But you did. You didn’t rush over, you just gave him that small smile, the one you only gave him, and motioned to his usual booth.

He sat like he was embarrassed to breathe as you slid in beside him.

“Third time here, that makes you a regular now,” you said softly.

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t plan on comin’. Just… ended up here. Again. Had a shitty day at work, couldn’t stand being alone in the house.”

You nodded, not pushing, just letting him be. He looked down at his hands, thumb running over a callus on his palm to comfort himself.

“I ain’t here for a dance.”

“I figured.”

He exhaled. “Didn’t feel right. Last time. Even if it felt—good. Hell, maybe that’s why it don’t feel right.”

You rested your elbow on the back of the booth and turned to face him. “You’re allowed to feel good, Joel.”

“Then why do I feel like shit about last time? I—” he hesitated, jaw clenched. “That wasn’t meant to happen.” He felt like the worst kind of human crap. He had crossed a line he’d sworn he wouldn’t, he’d used you, no matter how good it felt or how much you’d seemed to enjoy it. It had been a mistake.

“Joel, please, we just had some fun,” you cut in gently. “Don’t feel sorry for it. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“But I do,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I feel like I took advantage of you. Like I… like I used you.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his, firm but soft.

“Joel,” you said gently, “if you had walked in here with your dick out, trying to shove it in something—you’d be one of those guys. But you didn’t.”

“I still came here.”

“To feel something,” you said. “Not to get off. That just happened. And it’s okay. Do you think I can’t tell the difference?”

Joel went quiet again. Then: “I ain’t been with anyone in years.”

You nodded. “I figured that too.”

“Can we just… sit and talk?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid you’d say no. “Nothin’ else?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Sure.”

And you did, for hours. No touching or teasing, just talking. Joel told you about his week at work, how the site was behind schedule, how his back was starting to remind him he wasn’t twenty anymore. You told him about your coworkers, the drama, the regulars. He listened like it mattered.

When he shifted beside you, his thigh brushed yours. He apologized but you told him not to.

“You always like this?” he asked, voice low.

“Like what?”

“So easy to talk to.”

You smiled. “Only with people who don’t try to grab my ass.”

That earned a real laugh from him, the kind that rumbled in his chest. You liked the sound of it, you wanted to press your hand over his heart just to feel it.

“I dunno what this is,” he said after a while, voice quieter. “I don’t wanna use you. I don’t wanna treat you like… like a product.”

“I don’t feel like one when I’m with you.”

Joel looked at you then, really looked. His gaze warm and aching. “I come here ‘cause it’s the only place that don’t feel empty lately,” he admitted. “But I think it’s just ‘cause you’re in it.”

That settled between you like a secret. You reached out, just enough to let your fingers brush his hand.

“I miss feelin’ like someone wants me,” he murmured holding your hand tight.

“I want you here,” you said.

“But you get paid to say that.”

You tugged his hair just a little, enough to tilt his head back so he’d look at you.

“I didn’t have to say it at all,” you said. “But I meant it.”

Joel searched your face. For doubt, for bullshit, for some sign you were playing him. But you let him look, let him take his time, and when he didn’t find what he feared, he let out a long, trembling breath and buried his face in your shoulder.

And so you sat, in a velvet booth in a club that smelled like liquor and sex and loneliness, but with Joel beside you—quiet, steady, hurting—it didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Not for either of you.

He came back on a Friday. You saw him the second he stepped inside—his hat low, shoulders tight, like he was walking into a confessional. He always looked like that when he came in, like he was sinning just by breathing the air.

You didn’t wait this time, he barely had time to sit before you slid into the booth beside him, the lights flickered red across his face, casting shadows under his eyes.

“Joel,” you said softly.

He nodded once. “Hey.”

“You look tired.”

He gave a breathless half-laugh. “I am.”

“Want the usual?” you teased.

He hesitated. “I dunno what the hell that means anymore.”

“Lots of deep, meaningful conversation about how much life sucks,” you joked, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

You watched him for a moment. The way his hands flexed, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth like he hated himself for it.

You leaned in, voice low and close. “Or even better, you can let me give you another dance.”

Joel shook his head. “Ain’t—can’t.”

You didn’t pull away. You were patient, steady.

“Why not?”

He exhaled hard. “Cause I don’t wanna want it.”

You tilted your head, fingertips tracing the inside of his wrist, featherlight. “Joel, wanting something isn’t a crime.”

“It is when you’re payin’ for it.” His voice was rough and bitter. “I don’t want you pretendin’. Feels wrong.”

After the other lap dance a couple weeks ago, he’d promised himself it had been a one-time thing. A moment of weakness, nothing more. Just a fluke, a low point after a long stretch of loneliness and stress and too many drinks. He swore he wouldn’t let it happen again, wouldn’t let the weight of his own needs drag him back into something that left him feeling like shit afterward.

“I’m not pretending,” you said softly. “Not with you.”

And you meant it, you actually liked Joel. You were smart enough to know better than to catch feelings for a client, you’d seen too many girls fall down that hole and not come back up—but Joel wasn’t like the others. He was hot, in that quiet, gruff, masculine way. Broad shoulders, tired eyes, a mouth that always looked like it had more to say than he let on. And he was a true gentleman, never pushy, never gross. Conversations with him were real and easy, you liked that. You liked him. It wasn’t the same as giving some beer-bellied drunk a lap dance and pretending to enjoy it. No, with Joel you didn’t have to pretend. You’d liked feeling him under you last time, liked the way his breath hitched when you’d moved just right, liked the way his cock had pressed hard beneath you.

And those low, broken grunts he’d let slip? Yeah, those turned you on.

He looked at you then, like he was trying to figure out if you meant it. If this—you—were real. You reached up, touched his jaw, thumb brushing just under his cheekbone.

“Let me take care of you. For you.”

Joel closed his eyes and nodded. “Fuckin’ hell, Joel. You weak man.” he thought.

You straddled his lap, slow and easy, your palms pressed flat against his chest.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded. Barely.

You started slow, your hips rolling with a deep and steady rhythm. You didn’t rush, just let the pressure build where he was already hard under you. Joel grunted low in his throat, hands gripping the couch tight.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

His head fell back as you ground down harder. You leaned into him, your lips ghosting along his jaw.

“You feel so good, baby,” you whispered. “You’re not doing anything wrong by letting me take care of you.”

He shuddered, he was trying hard to believe you, to convince himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong. His thighs were tensing under yours, his jeans were tight with how hard he was, his cock straining, twitching beneath you.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingertips brushing under his collar.

“Let me give you more than this.”

Joel’s eyes snapped open. “No—I don’t—”

“You want to.” You rocked your hips again and he moaned.

He shook his head, trying to convince you, but also trying to convince himself. "Don’t want it."

You kissed his throat. “Liar.”

He groaned, soft and strangled. “Please. I can’t—”

“I want to make you feel good,” you said. “Let me. Let me suck your cock, Joel. Just sit there and let me take care of you.”

He looked at you, wrecked and shaking. “Christ.”

“I’ll do it right here,” you murmured. “You don’t even have to move. Just a blowjob.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“You’re allowed to feel good, Joel.” You leaned forward, your breath ghosted over his ear. “Pretty please, Joel. I’m the one who’s asking”

He nodded this time, just a tiny and desperate nod. You slid off his lap and knelt between his thighs. He was breathing hard, watching you like it was the first time anyone had ever wanted him. You unzipped his jeans slowly, fingers brushing deliberately over the hard line of him, feeling the way his breath stuttered with each movement. The button popped open with a soft sound, then the zipper, each inch tugged down like unwrapping something forbidden.

You pulled his jeans and boxers just low enough to free him, and he sprang free—already dripping, flushed with a deep and aching red color, veins pulsing along his shaft. God, it was just like you had imagined, because yes, of course you had imagined it. More than once. Big and thick, the kind of cock that made your mouth water. And he looked like it hurt.

You leaned in, still not rushing, your eyes never leaving his, and when you’d built enough anticipation… you dragged your tongue slow and soft over the tip, lapping up the thick bead of precum that clung there like you were savoring something sweet.

Joel groaned, guttural and low, hips bucking forward before he caught himself, fingers fisting the edge of the couch to keep still.

“Sorry,” he rasped.

“Don’t be,” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

You pressed a kiss to his tip and smiled a little, mouth still so close to him that he could feel your breath on him.

“Didn’t even touch you properly yet,” you teased.

“Sorry.”

You chuckled, “stop apologizing.”

You wrapped your warm and wet lips around him, and took him deep, not too fast, but with enough purpose, letting him feel how snug your mouth was, how your tongue felt when it curled just right beneath the head as you sank down, inch by inch. His cock filled your mouth beautifully, the stretch was obscene, making you moaned low around him, just from feeling the way he twitched on your tongue.

“You’re so big, Joel.” Your voice came out in a breathy moan.

“Ngggh… You’re just sayin’ that,” he groaned.

“I don’t say it to anyone,” you looked him right in the eyes when you said it. “You’re huge, and you taste so good too.”

Joel’s thighs trembled under your hands, the muscles of his legs jumped as you braced yourself there, nails lightly dragging against his skin. You moved with slow, devastating rhythm, hollowing your cheeks on every pull back, then sinking down again, letting the head kiss the back of your throat with a wet little sound that made him curse under his breath.

You kept your eyes on his, on that ruined, overwhelmed expression of his, on his jaw clenched so tight, trying so hard not to fall apart. One of his hands found your hair, trembling but gentle, fingers sliding through. Joel wasn’t pushing your head down like most guys did, he was helping you, gently sweeping strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear like it mattered. Like you mattered.

“God,” he gasped. “Feels so fuckin’ good—Your mouth—”

You hummed around him, soft and deep, and the vibration rippled through his cock like a live wire, he shuddered, breath catching hard in his chest. His head fell back against the booth, mouth slack, eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t even look at you without coming undone.

You kept sucking gently, slow and wet, letting his tip rest heavy on your tongue before pulling back with a tight seal, spit slicking his length. Your tongue circled, teasing the sensitive ridge beneath the crown, flicking in slow, deliberate strokes that made his whole body jerk. Your hand worked the base in time with your mouth, twisting slightly on every downstroke, just enough pressure to make him grunt low in his throat.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “You can cum in my mouth. I want it.”

That broke him. Joel’s whole body locked up, muscles drawn tight like a bowstring. His cock throbbed hard against your tongue, a deep, urgent pulse, and then he came with a strangled moan, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You swallowed around him, taking him in like you’d been made for this, like his release belonged to you. It was so much, you tried to take it all, greedy for it, but a little of that warm and thick fluid spilled past your lips—,dripping down your chin, you felt it slide over your skin, obscene and perfect.

And when you looked up at him, with your mouth wet and your eyes shining, he looked like a man on the verge of ruin. His finger moved to wipe your chin, his touch careful and hesitant. “Shit, sorry,” he murmured.

You smiled as you licked your bottom lip, eager to taste every last drop of him. Your hands slowly tucked his cock away with gentleness, and then you climbed back into his lap, curling against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“M’sorry,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t’ve let you—”

You cut him off with a look, not cold a cold one, but steady.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Ruin it.”

Joel came back the next Thursday. He didn’t sit at the bar, didn’t find a table, didn’t even look around. He came straight to you.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping down from the side hallway, still in costume — heels, tight black dress, the hint of glitter across your cheekbones. “Booth?”

“No,” he said. “Can we… talk somewhere?”

You blinked. “I mean, we can talk in the booth.”

He shook his head, jaw tense. “Not there. Not in the damn dark with your ass in my lap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s one way to phrase it.”

Joel sighed, frustrated with himself. “I just—” He looked around, then leaned in. “I wanna see you. Outside of this place.”

His words hit like a jolt.

“You want to see me outside the club?”

He nodded. “No dance. No money. Just talk. Coffee, or dinner, or—I dunno.”

That blowjob from last week had changed something in him. Something he couldn’t turn off, no matter how hard he tried. Now he couldn’t stand to see you in that place again, dressed up for other men, forced to smile, to touch, to pretend. He needed more. Needed to feel like it was real.

You were quiet for a beat, you didn’t want to hurt him, but you had to be clear.

“Joel…” You stepped a little closer, voice lower. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Club rules. We’re not allowed to meet clients outside of work. Not for sex. Not for a date. Not even for a casual drink.”

He stared at you. “Even if it’s not for sex?”

You gave him a tight, apologetic smile. “Doesn’t matter. I could lose my job.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not—why the hell would they care if we’re just talkin’?”

You shrugged. “Because a lot of guys say they just wanna talk, Joel. And then suddenly it’s—‘just come to my place,’ or ‘I’ll pay you triple,’ or worse. They don’t want us catching feelings, and they don’t wanna lose customers.”

“I’m not like those other guys,” he said, too fast.

You softened. “I know. I know you’re not. But the rule isn’t about you, Joel. It’s about protecting me and the club.”

He swallowed hard. “So what, that’s it? This is the only way I ever get to see you?”

You didn’t answer right away. He looked crushed.

“I ain’t askin’ for sex,” he muttered. “I just—hell, I like talkin’ to you more than anythin’ else. That lap dance, or the… that other night—I didn’t even want that. I just… wanted someone who looked at me like you do.”

Your throat went tight. “I know,” you said. “And I like talking to you too. But I can’t pretend this job doesn’t have limits.”

He looked at you, his voice low and worn. “S’ just—I sit at home all week thinkin’ about talkin’ to you again. And when I’m finally here, it’s not enough.”

“Joel, you can come here every week. You can talk to me as long as you want. You don’t have to get a dance. You don’t have to touch me. You can just be here.”

“I don’t want it to be like this,” he said. “In a fuckin’ booth, like I gotta rent your time.”

You let out a breath, it came out quieter than you meant it to. You were tired too. Of pretending this was normal, of seeing someone want you but not be allowed to have you, not without guilt, shame, and cash in between.

So this time, you pushed.

“What if,” you said carefully, “we go back to one of the back rooms. Just me. Just you. For an hour. I could…” You looked him in the eye. “I could take care of you. Make you feel real good. No games.”

He looked almost offended. You didn’t get it, he wasn’t just some guy throwing cash at you for ten minutes of skin. He was asking for your time, for something real, for the chance to take you somewhere nice and treat you like you deserved. And you thought a quick fuck in a back room would satisfy him? When he wanted so much more than that?

His jaw tensed. “Don’t do that.”

You leaned forward. “Do what?”

“Offer that like it don’t mean anythin’. I’m here askin’ you on a real date and you offer me that shit?”

“I’m not pretending it doesn’t mean anything,” you said. “I’m saying I want to do it. With you.”

He pulled his hand away, running it through his hair.

“You’d still be clocked in. Still be workin’. And I’d still be payin’ you to fuck me.”

You sat back a little. Hurt, but you didn’t let it show. Much.

“I’m not offering sex to get your money, Joel. I’m offering sex because I know it’s something I can give you. And I know you want it.”

He was quiet. You reached for his hand again, this time, he didn’t take it.

“I want to be close to you,” you said. “But this is the only way I can. I don’t get to go for coffee. Or dinner. Or dates.”

He looked down at the floor.

And then, barely audible:

“I don’t wanna fuck you.”

That one stung.

You nodded, letting your hand fall away. “Right.”

“No—I mean—” He sighed, leaning forward. “It’s not that I don’t wanna. Jesus, I do. Every goddamn second I look at you. But not like that. Not in some booth with a timer. Not leavin’ a tip on a nightstand like a piece of shit.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “You think you’re better than the other guys?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“You think just because you hate that you’re here, it makes you different?”

His mouth opened — then closed. Now you had really offended him.

You leaned in. “You’re not any different than all the others. You’re lonely. And you want to feel something. Just like they do. But you want to feel clean. Like if you feel enough or care enough, it’ll make this… better. But it doesn’t work like that, Joel.”

He looked stricken, like he couldn’t tell if you were being cruel or honest.

“So that’s what you think of me?” he said, voice low and rough, like it scraped its way up from his chest. “You think I’m the same as every other piece of shit who walks in here and buys your body like you’re some pair of shoes on display?”

“I think you’re allowed to want me. You’re even allowed to hate that you want me. But don’t act like you’re too noble for this, Joel. Not when you keep coming back.”

He looked away, you both stayed in silence.

You weren’t mad at him, not really. You were just tired. Tired of watching him beg for something that didn’t exist, a version of you without strings, without compromise. A version of you who could walk away from the club, slip into a nice dress, and meet him at some quiet diner for a real date.

And Joel?

He was tired of wanting something that didn’t fit inside the walls of this place. Tired of the guilt that came with paying for your time, the constant weight that whispered he was using you, even when all he wanted was to be close. Mostly, he was just tired of not having something real.

Maybe what you said had cut too deep. Maybe you were too hard on him. Too blunt. Too right.

Because Joel didn’t come back the next week.

Or the one after that.

Or the one after that.

A/N: I hope you liked this first part🫶🏻 Thank you sm to everyone who encouraged me to post it!!! (Sorry if I got your expectations up and this ended up being a bit of a letdown).

It’s a two part story, so next week i’ll be posting the second one. Thank you so much for your support, as always likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated🩷

@pillow-princess-69

Then—he meets her.

A stranger on the Met steps. Unbothered. Unimpressed. Not fawning over his wealth, not offering him sympathy, not treating him like he’s anyone special.

And for the first time in months, Harry stops thinking about Lucy.

For the first time in years, he wants to stay.

And that? That might just piss him off more than anything else.

But if there’s one thing Harry Castillo never does, it’s walk away from a challenge.

Even if that challenge comes in the form of a woman who seems determined not to give a damn about him.

─────

chapter one - sweet sweet baby (since you've been gone)

chapter two - bette davis eyes

chapter three - fallin'

chapter four - i want you, i need you, i love you

chapter five - calm before the storm

chapter six - sweet dark haired man

chapter seven - unchained melody

chapter eight - don't worry baby

chapter nine - blue velvet

"I can't believe it, you said you liked it!"

"I never said that. I said it looked interesting" he yawns. You narrow your eyes. "Sleep deprivation" he clarifies, as if reading your mind. "But, you chose it"

"Yes, because you let me" you're quick to counter.

"Yes, because we always do what you want"

Even in the distance, he finds ways to tease you.

"Not true. If it was, I would be there, with you. You know I love Marvel"

He laughs. "It's rare to hear that nowadays, less sounding so sure. You're an endangered species, baby"

You gasp. "I'm not that much of a fan"

"Not a lot of people watch a six hour livestream of chairs"

"Five" you correct, "and I did just to see if you'd show up!"

As if, gut feeling aside, he hadn't told you before.

"Alright, my bad. Five. Still, my point stands"

"So does mine. If Coco is there, why can't I be?"

"Do you happen to know hairstyling? I thought your thing was marketing"

"Oh, shut up"

Stanley Tucci briefly shows up on screen. Not that you already know, given the amount of times you've watched it.

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you?" he asks. Could refer to a lot of things.

It's the crack of dawn.

"It's the only time you can give me" you answer instead.

He makes a little pout, making you giggle. The movie keeps playing in your laptop.

"I'm sorry you have to meet me like this"

"Please, stop" at his bad joke. "The lack of sleep is showing"

He just laughs. "I can't wait for you to come"

(Texted you places of London you wouldn't be able to visit. It's just a stopover, you said, yet he insisted on sending links of London's best attractions for tourists)

"I know" you admit, softer. "Me either"

You yawn. So much for a movie you aren't watching.

"Won't it be too tiring?"

Your amazing boyfriend, ever so caring.

"Pedrito" he sighs at his name on your lips, little and a warning. "I'll be fine. Besides, I already dowloaded the movie's soundtrack to keep me company"

Pedro rolls his eyes. "You really enjoy this movie, don't you?"

You take a brief glimpse at the forgotten movie, playing on your shared screen, then back at his face.

A bit tired, eye bags more pronounced. The sleep thing was true. Still, he was the same in many other ways. His broad frame, sharp jawline, grey hair now dyed yet stubborn enough to show in some edges and over his face, in a beard that would scratch against your face when he kissed you, because he liked being close. Too close. You can still smell him, even if he hasn't been in your apartment for over a month now. As if his smell, him being intoxicantingly close, had impregnated on your skin. Another part of his to be yours.

"It's Madonna" like that's enough of a reason.

It shouldn't be this distracting. Singing Who's That Girl after arriving in France isn't a special thing, but to you, lyrics blasting through your airbuds that Pedro hates except when you offer a song and he listens, because he always listens, holds something sacred the moment your feet stretch and you're back on land again, yet people speak French instead of English and time has warped your sense of reality again.

Pedro had checked on you all the time. That was distracting. Some texts during the flight, insisting on buying Wi-Fi on the plane as if he was a millennial who couldn't survive without internet, saying what he couldn't live without was writing to you. That's a lie. You caught him on TikTok sometimes. Over his shoulder, because you couldn't sit together. Liar, you sent. You know he saw it by the way his shoulders wiggled and he covered his mouth to stiffle a giggle over the silence in the cabin. Nevertheless, he continued his little check-ups on you, as if you were a kid.

(Him: in a way, you are. You: Pedro, I'm almost thirty. Him: That's as ambiguous as me coming to Cannes. You: Your fans already suspect. Him: They're smart. You: They are. Him: Listening to the soundtrack? You: Tenth round. Him: You're insane. Insufferable too. You: It's only about forty minutes. This is a seven hour flight. Besides, you love me. Him: I do. Now stop peeking over my shoulder. You: Stop watching TikToks then, you addict!)

Somehow, lost in the music and happy feet struting towards movies, bright sun and the close yet faraway sea, you take too many of those. That wasn't the plan. Don't sit together, don't look in his direction. Over and over again. Precautions. To you, rules. Memorized them. It's not every day you board a plane, but the others are similar, in a way. It was a small price to pay for dating him.

Sometimes you mind.

(You: I miss my personal pillow. Him: I ain't got a belly anymore. You: I'm aware. I was talking about other huge things. Your biceps. HUGE. The one's Julie will show to the world in a day. Those HUGE biceps. I want to bite them. Him: You're a freak. You: Blame Kevin Feige. Him: Not the guy who lost 25 pounds?)

Sometimes you don't.

(You: Come to think of it, you do snore a bit. Him: But I thought you missed me? You break my heart, y/n)

Bump.

The defeaning sound. Coco and his bodyguard glance. But Pedro? he looks. At you.

The internet has rules too. They're both, funnily, f-rules: never forgive, never forget.

His expression is of surprise. They don't forget. His wide eyes. No, that's beyond a surprised face. That's a knowing face. They don't forgive. The subtle difference. He knows you.

Seconds, probably. He goes back to stoic mode. You hear his voice as he chats with Coco. His voice is tight, barely noticeable to anyone but you; know him better than you know yourself. But not today, when he's a supposed stranger and you're another passenger of this plane. An insignificant dot in a crowd. You walk further and avoid his gaze, pretending to search for imaginary stains in your passport, as if you hadn't make the worst mistake of your life.

Days ago, sitting in your bed, you were just another light in the vast Californian sea of houses and salt air. Now, everyone knows he's your something.

Makes sense.

The slip-ups on interviews, his comments about Materialists, his behavior on that interview with Dakota, the mysterious silhoutte that ressembled a woman but was always too blurry and far yet close to identify.

Unrecognizable.

Because you were a nobody. Made a line to get coffee, nothing about you guaranteeing any special treatment. Worked in a publicity agency from Mondays to Fridays, Saturdays if someone called in sick. Took your dog, who complained when the LA sun hit his tiny paws too much, out on walks: Toto, the little cairn terrier who was now under the care of your brother and his girlfriend because of your trip. Was photographed because you wanted and not because they had to, the hidden cameras capturing every move of yours.

That was the privilege of anonymity.

But that luck, like everything else in the world, seemed to have run out.

Now you sit on the hotel room, phone blowing up with messages, mentions, and emails. Funny thing is, despite already having your Instagram account leaked, you were still a ghost. A who?. Just a face Pedro had looked too much for it to be a simple passerby.

You sniffle as Coco brushes your hair, more to calm you than to fix it for the event.

You look through the mirror, not at you, but at the bag dangling from it, and sniffle again. The dress hangs on the closet as Coco gives you a sympathetic look and Lux squeezes your shoulder gently.

"Maybe we can still work it out" you manage to choke up, hoarse from useless crying. So hopeful, as Pedro would say.

The original plan, before the little "bump" on the road, was to attend Cannes while disguised, which meant sneaking as a guest, skipping the whole red carpet.

But now people knew who you were. Or how you looked, at least.

"Not to be a killjoy, but even if the French press is oblivious, I'm sure the internet will catch up as soon as the live stream for Eddington's red carpet starts broadcasting" Lux comments.

"They don't know your name, yet I'm sure they've already memorized your face. You're all over my Instagram" Coco adds, smiling sadly. "Your face is not to be forgotten"

You smile weakly, still feeling bad.

"I don't know what to do" you sniffle, looking back at the dress, one your budget could've bought but leave you on a tightrope for the rest of the month. To your boyfriend, it was barely a tickle on his finances. He insisted on buying it after your bright, unable to hide, smile. Wear it, and that occasion's today. Was.

"I'm sure we can come up with something" Lux offers.

"Come with me"

The three of your turn around. You'd recognize that voice even if you were deaf.

"¿Te volviste loco?" Lux asks, perplexed. (have you gone crazy?)

"Un poco" he replies in a Spanish that needs to be practiced a tad bit more, "por ella, sí" (a bit, yes. for her)

"What's going on?" you ask, wiping your tears.

Pedro kneels down in front of you, already dressed in an all black suit. If you weren't on the verge of sobbing for the umpteenth time, you'd tear that suit in two.

"You look good" you sniffle.

He smiles, softly. "I know"

"I love those glasses. They're my favorites"

He smiles again, adjusting them. "I know"

"Se acabó el tiempo, tortolitos" Lux jokes. (time's up, lovebirds)

"Yeah. Are we going to ignore the elephant in the room?" Coco asks, eyes widened in exasperation.

"I'm taking her with me"

"To the red carpet?" his sister asks, surprised.

"No, to fucking Wendy's. Of course, Lux. I'm taking her to the red carpet" he then gives his sister a glance. "You look gorgeous, by the way"

"I know" she flips her hair.

"Yeah, she's beautiful and so are you" Coco interrupts, then points to you. "Is that how you plan on solving this?"

Pedro nods, solemly.

"Listen, it's just a matter of hours before people connect the dots. They already have your Instagram and name. What's next? Your job, your dog?"

You gasp. "I have a whole dump of Toto on my feed!"

"Your account is private though" Lux drops.

"Still!" you panic. "What do I do?"

"Come with me" Pedro insists. "Harm's already done. What would change if we walked down a piece of red clothing?"

"Not even Rooney Mara will walk along Joaquin"

"So? We're not them" he kneels in front of your face again. Wipes a stray tear and grabs your hand. Squeezes it, like fresh oranges for a juice, because he knows you like the gesture. Need it. "And Emma is taking her husband, so"

You only sigh, unconvinced.

"Come with me" he repeats again, like a mantra. Or a prayer. Maybe hoping you'd accept.

"And let the whole world know?"

"Precisely" he smiles, cheeky. "They know some things already. We're just advancing the process for them"

Coco sighs. "At the speed of a bullet train"

"Whatever" Pedro drops. Then, looks at you. "We like it fast, don't we, baby?"

You can only blush in response.

"She'll come with me, then. We'll ride in the car behind" Ullrich sentences.

"No" his grip on your arm is strong but not brusing. Firm, as his position. He gives you a little tug, as to pull you in. Needless to say, you felt like a ragdoll. "She'll come with me"

Fighting Pedro was like trying to tame a tide.

In the end, somehow, he'd managed to rope you into the chaos of the red carpet, black limusines and flashing cameras and inside his car.

You weren't sure. Back in school, you weren't disliked or bullied, but it's not like you were popular either. You had friends, but would rather be alone at times, be it at the library or just sketching at a lonely bench in the park. There was something precious in the silence most people didn't appreciate; you did.

So, to say you where overwhelmed at the bright lights and constant yelling for Pedro was an understatement.

But, if your boyfriend dressed in an all black suit didn't scream Look at me! energy enough, there was you.

It was quick. Everything seemed to be so as of late. The cameras and press, waiting fans, yelled for Pedro, only to then find out he wasn't only here with his sister, but another woman. The airport woman. A loud point of a finger and the whole world knows you're back.

That he isn't your something. No, Pedro is more.

He's your fucking partner.

And it's so obvious, by the way he looks at you fondly. It different from his sister. This isn't that type of unconditional supporting love, but a stronger one. Consuming. One that speaks of devotion. He looks at you. Admires you. Like a painting. As if you had all the answers in the world.

You say hi to his co-stars, maybe a bit too excited to greet Austin Butler. Pedro isn't happy but he's not putting a jealous fit for the cameras. Not when he's busy throwing charming smiles and flexing that body he's worked so hard for under the summer sun.

The world talks. It's all over the news. Your smile, growing only wider when Pedro is near you, hand on the small of your back, right where the dress leaves inviting skin for the rest to see. He introduces you to anyone who wants to listen, always talking, because he's such a yapper. A loud laugher too, and even if it's not with you, you laugh with him, too contagious for you to question it. Posing with the rest of the cast as you wait by the sidelines, taking some pictures for yourself. You see the bee, trying to meddle, imposing and nosy, and feel a little sorry for it, despite Emma's face and the guys' laugh. In a way, you see yourself in the poor insect: taking space where it shouldn't, captured under the lights.

Comments are deceiving, yet there's a movie playing and then an awkward, way too long, standing ovation for you to care. You do. But you try not to, rather focusing on the event and feeling proud of Pedro. You clap and do a little too loud sound that vagely resembles a cheer. Flustered, you find out later on that the video made it out to Twitter. Strangely, even if your sudden appearance in Pedro's life, or rather public life, is well received under that post. Maybe life wasn't so cruel.

"You're not wearing that"

Life is cruel.

"Why not? You knew it beforehand. Said it was your favorite"

"I changed my mind. It's too revealing"

"What are you? Seventy?"

"The age gap is the other way around, grandpa"

And then the fucker flexes his arms. Worst, not even on purpose. Putting on glasses and a pink soft sweater shouldn't be this hot.

"Don't worry, baby. Don't break a sweat. I'll take the grandma sweater off when we get there"

Your cheeks heat up. "That was on purpose"

He offers a cheeky grin.

"Maybe"

Today is the photocall, and if yesterday's outfit put you in your knees, this one sends you straight to the ground. Full force. In a tank top and black pants paired with spiky shoes, his purpose was to serve and to kill you.

He goes again for the round of photos and such, you trailing behind like a lost puppy. Everyone assumes, yet no one asks.

She, the airport woman, now y/n.

(Can't say it out loud either. Not even you, yet, as if the knowing smiles and stolen not so subtle glances hadn't given you away)

You enjoyed this limbo. Of belonging not more inside closed doors and ambiguous coincidences, but on tabloids and loud shutters of camera. You liked the attention but not the label. It was good to see them scrambling, begging for details. Your social media had filled with requests, and even at times, your phone crashed.

You sat in a corner, watching the press. A few clicks here and there, Pedro drinking water and making it sexy (the size difference of his hand and the tiny bottle? You need to be locked up), questions, some about the movie, others about working with Ari Aster and then, awkward ones Pedro handled with grace. He spoke with such reverence, care and thoughtfulness, you can't help but feel your legs weak. You knew he was smart, well read and opinionated, but hearing him was another thing. So lost in this, you don't hear the next question.

"I know no one else is brave enough to ask" the reporter laughs nervously, "but I need to know"

Pedro senses immediately. When he glances briefly at you, hidden on a corner, you know this is about you.

"I don't think you do" he laughs, but there's a certain edge on his tone.

"It's fine if you don't want to answer, but me and everyone else on this room, hell, world!, wants to know who the woman at the airport is"

Before he adds about your quiet but strong presence on both days, Pedro cuts in:

"Is that how you call my girlfriend?"

A loud roar that even Joaquin, who seemed to be on a separate train of thought, jumps on his seat. More questions follow, ones he doesn't answer. Out of boredom or to keep. Some things are meant to be like this.

Tabloids go crazy with the news. You haven't even left the place and phone blows up even more. It will explode at this point. Worse, it's only been minutes. An hour later, it's still as bad. Well, bad is a way of saying it: what you mean is nosy press and the promise of a quiet vacation ruined.

"I don't think it'll ever be quiet again"

You sigh softly, leaning on the door of the car taking you to the hotel.

"It's an opportunity" you reply just to feel the silence.

"Ever the marketer, you bussiness woman"

Even then, he manages to rob from you a faint smile.

At least they don't know where you're staying. That would be awful. You can't imagine having troubles to get out of a car.

"Something's in your mind" as your heels click against cold marble floors.

A shit ton.

You. The fast changes. Impending. Privacy gone. Scrapes of your life out in the open for the world to see. Your relationship and this new stage you're in.

Him. His warm eyes. Firm hand to secure you. Those circles on your back that calmed you down. It's a quiet I love you. Reassurance you don't say but need. I'm here. Pedro won't let you take the fall alone.

But, also, him.

With his body that had been driving you wild. Intoxicating cologne. A small cut abov his beard, still fresh. Thick glasses. Long legs. Strong arms. His charisma. Confidence. A killer smile. Warm eyes. Kind. He laughed too much and filled the gap of your stolen breaths, waiting.

"Want me to tell you?"

Smug grin you could wipe off his face.

"I'm all ears"

He too has noticed you. Short glances. Parted lips. So plump he can still taste them. The lipstick inside his cheek, over his white pristine smile if he hadn't licked it off. A part of you in him. Another. Your body, always so perfect, but in that dress he bought? He steals a look now. He definitely pictured you in it, yet this is better. How you own it. The cameras aren't flashing your way, but their eyes trail your every move. You had that in you: a beauty that wasn't loud, but made sure to be noticed. Like the air: not seen, just felt. Sometimes light, others heavy. He feels light-headed. Today you chose another set he bought you. In away, Pedro feels as if he owns you. But a tender belonging, of soul to soul, possessive, yet not as an object; he was raised right. Although, after your giggles with Austin...

"Pedro..." all sweet voice. He likes his name a lot. More if it's from you.

Your silence is both punishing and teasing.

"Tell me what you want" he insists.

"You know me" you play coy.

"I wanna hear it" desperate.

You cave in. Then, lean. His hairs raise in a prickly trepidation.

"They know too much" he feels your pressure, fears. But also, he feels your hot breath and short gasps, as if you can't hold this any longer.

"I'm sorry"

You shake your head with parted lips and hooded eyes, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"Show me something only I'll know"

Pedro's control shatteres at your words, a low, animalistic growl rumbling up from his chest.

"You're gonna make me fuck you in here" he spills the lewd confession.

"You're going to get us kicked out of this hotel"

"Can I at least kiss you on the elevator?" he pleads. Puppy sad brown eyes and all.

"Maybe"

In an instant, he takes your wrist in his grip, pulling you stumbling to the dinging door.

"Be patient" you mumble as his lips ghost over your neck. You glance at the numbers.

"We're on the thirty-two floor"

"Patience is a virtue"

"I don't care"

As soon as the door opens, he strides out with desperate, urgent steps.

"This isn't our floor"

"Fuck!"

The short time from the twenty-four to your actual floor felt interminable, every second stretching into an eternity as the weight of your shared desire hung heavy in the air.

"Jesus" you mutter.

"That good or bad?" he asks, mouth busy and voice sort of muffled against the flush skin of your neck.

"Good" you manage to mumble, hands on his hair.

Alright, you miss the messy curls but you can see them insist on the top of his hair, now starting to get sweaty, Coco's work going to waste.

"Then let's give them more to talk"

As soon as you crossed the hallway, Pedro kicks the door shut behind both of you. He's got your back pressed against it, roughly, as if he couldn't wait a bit longer, mouth taking yours in a hungry kiss.

His hands roam your body, gripping, squeezing, tugging at any little space of honeyed skin he can, taking off the buttons with a feverish desperation. You swear one of them pops, if your ears don't deceive you.

"You bought that dress. I liked it"

He rolls his eyes. "I can buy you a new one. A whole closet"

"But I liked this one" you pout.

He kisses your pouty lips. "Then I shall move the earth to get the same one again for you. Now... where were we?"

He's back to kissing you roughly, and soon, your brain is too fuzzy and lost in the force of his lips on yours, that the cameras and late interview are soon forgotten in the back of your mind.

"I'm going to ruin you" he says against your mouth, voice ragged with lust. You let out a little moan as you squirm under his insistent touch. "So hard, so deep, you won't forget who you belong to. Never"

You should feel threatened. Scared, even. But no, down there? You're a wet mess.

The dress falls to the floor with a soft thud. At least he didn't rip it.

"No bra, baby?" he asks, voice thick. You swallow harshly and nod. "Bad girl. Such'a tease"

His mouth drops then to your chest, lips kissing and teeth grazing the soft swell of your breasts. His tongue runs cold through a shiver, moving to your nipples, taking the hardened bud into his mouth and sucking hard. You feel his hands then over the rosy flesh, grabbing what he can, which, given the size of his hands, it's a lot.

"All this for me?"

You nod, lost in the grunts, sweat, his mouth and touch.

"That's right. Mine. You're mine, baby. Just mine. Say it. Tell me you are"

"Yes!" you gasp. "I'm yours, Pedro. All yours. Only yours"

He groans into your mouth as your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. There's too a low sound coming from his throat, probably an approval sound of some sorts. His hands now slide down to your hips, gripping the free skin until he lifts you up. It's always like this. Now, you wrap your legs around his waist, tiny ankles locking at the small of his broad back.

Finally, he takes you to the bed in the middle of the room, all while never breaking the kiss or stopping his greedy hands from touching you. You whine and squirm, weak under his spell.

"So antsy" he softly says.

"I think you meant your hands"

With a little laugh, he lays you down on the bed, body hovering over you, pinning you to the mattress. Before, he'd take his time to let go of the shirt, undressing slowly and almost reluctantly. Now, he takes no time in stripping off his shirt, revealing the toned body under an already revealing shirt. You love Pedro, in all of his forms and shapes, but weren't you incredibly turned on like a horny teenager for this new body? Maybe it was his new energy, how it oozed off of him in the form of flexing biceps, slim figure, toned chest and stomach and disarming smile. He was a menace and knew it, by the smirk visible even through the soft moonlight filtering through the window.

"We should've turned the lights"

"I like you like this" needy fingers now turn tender as he traces soft hearts on your face, the rough skin brushing your soft flushed own.

"At least the nightstand one. It's yellow"

"No"

He leans down to claim your mouth again, or just shut you up. It's helpful, anyway, as he kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen and tingling.

"Someone's insatiable today" you croak out.

"For you? Always" he replies, fingers finding the damp patch in your panties, rubbing over it, thick fingers pressing against your clothed pussy. "It's never enough, baby"

He lets out a little grunt.

"Fuck, you're so wet" voice rough with lust and surprise. "Julie's outfit turned you on that much?"

"Even the hideous ones did" you whimper. "Imagine this one"

"I chose some of those, you know" he sounds a bit offended.

"Whatever. I'm happy with these Cannes run. I'll send some flowers or take her to lunch"

"So caring" he mocks.

"For dressing my man like a complete eye candy? Hell, yes"

"No one uses that term nowadays" Pedro interjects.

"Here you go again. You're my biggest hater. Shut up and just-"

You turn desperate at the pressure his fingers apply on your clothed slit. He smirks at that, eyes dark.

"You want this, don't you? You want me inside, filling you, stretching you around my cock?"

"Yes" you whimper again.

"Say it" he demands.

Never would you beg for something, but goddamn, didn't this man reduce you to a puddle of moans and pleasure? Your common sense, no, normal functioning, basic even, flew out of the window with just a kiss.

"I need you"

His fingers press even deeper, and the pulsing light pain sensation drives you wild, making you whimper again.

"Pedro-" you whine, hips rocking up against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction.

He clicks his tongue. "Manners, baby"

You squirm, violently and desperate. He really was going to make you beg.

"Please, Pedro"

"That better" fingers slightly more insistent. "One last time?"

Fuck dignity, man.

"Please, Pedro. I need you. I need you so badly" you choke out.

He grins like a schoolboy, eyes dark. "Good girl"

He rewards you by making a quick work of your panties, practically tearing them off and tossing them aside. His fingers then were on your bare skin, drumming on sensitive thighs.

"Don't tease" you plead through gritted teeth.

"So impatient" he tsks. "Want it now, baby?"

You nod, feverish.

"Because you asked"

"Because we always do what we want" you choke.

His eyes shine dark. "Easy, brat"

He strokes through the slick folds of your, pussy, pushing two long, thick fingers deep inside you, curling them just right, hitting that well known spot that made you see stars.

"So tight" his voice comes out strained. "So fucking tight and hot and perfect"

Pedro pumps his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. His mouth drops to your breast again, suckling hard, biting just on the edge and then licking to soothe the sting. You feel heat building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your hands scrabble at his back, nails digging into his skin, as to urge him.

And then he pulls away, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper at the loss, making him chuckle a bit.

"Calm down, baby. I ain't going anywhere"

He starts undressing what's left of his clothes, and if you liked the outfit, him naked takes the win. His cock springs free, long and hard, the thick head already glistening.

"See?"

He settles himself between your thighs, the thick length of his cock nudging against your slick folds. He looks down at you, eyes intense under the moonlight. His large, calloused hands slid under your hips, gripping them hard enough to leave bruises.

If spilling it in the interview wasn't enough, he was going to mark you, claim you, make you his.

"I'm going to fuck you now" Pedro announces, voice low with lust. "I'm going to fuck you hard and deep, just like you need. Like we both do"

With that, he thrust forward, pushing past your entrance. You gasp at the intrusion, feeling your pussy stretch around him, accommodating his size. It always happens; he's just big like that. He pauses, letting you adjust to the stretch, before pushing forward again, sinking deeper inside.

So thoughtful.

"Fuck, you're so tight " he said through gritted teeth. "So fucking tight and hot and perfect. You feel incredible, y/n"

He starts to move then, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. Each push brings him deeper, until he was buried to the hilt inside. He sets a hard, fast pace, the bed creaking beneath with the force of his thrusts. The room filled with the sound of their mingled moans and gasps, sweat pooling like a second skin.

And if things couldn't get any better...

One hand came up to your throat, long fingers wrapping around it. He didn't squeeze, not yet, just rested them there, feeling the flutter of your pulse.

"Nervous?" his thumb brushes over your racing heartbeat, a teasing promise of what was to come. "C'mon. Don't get shy on me, baby. I know you like that"

(You did. He was new to this, mainly going off some spaking and dirty talk. Now, he seemed to be into it, if not more, as you. It was always exciting when he did it, never telling you before. If you didn't want to, he stopped. You know he would, at least, because so far, you've never told him to)

You nod, walls clench around him.

"As much as you like feeling my cock stretching you open? Filling you up? You like knowing I'm the only man to be inside this perfect little cunt?"

"Yes" you gasp. "God, yes. No one else, but you, Pedro. Only you."

A wicked grin spreads across his face and he tightens his grip on your throat, just a little. Enough to make you feel it.

"That's right, baby. This cunt belong to me now. Your body. You. You belong to me"

He starts to thrust harder, faster, headboard slamming against the wall with each snap.

Pedro feels you starting to tighten around him, breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps.

He knew you were close.

He leans down then, his rough stubble rasping against the smooth skin of your neck as he growled in your ear.

"Be a good girl and come for me" he urges. "Let me feel this pretty pussy spasm around my cock. Feel it come undone on my dick"

His hips never slow, pounding into you with deep, powerful thrusts. The grip on your throat tightened just a touch more, fingers pressing into the soft flesh. Not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make you light-headed.

"I'm going to fill this cunt with my cum. I'm going to pump you so full of it, you'll be dripping for days"

You let out a choked moan at his filthy promise, back arching off the bed. He could feel her starting to convulse around him, her slick walls fluttering and clenching. He was so close too, his balls drawing up tight against his body as the pressure built.

"Come now. Let me feel you scream my name as I fill you up. Let the whole damn city know who you belong to"

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. At the same time, his fingers tightened around your throat, squeezing just as your orgasm crashes over. You let out a strangled cry, body shaking and shuddering beneath him as you come apart.

"Fuck, y/n. Fuck"

With a load groan, he comes too, cock pulsing and jerking inside you as he pumps you full of his hot seed. Spurt after spurt, until he sees your stomach bloat lightly and you feel it sloshing inside you like the distant waves on the beach.

He collapses on top of you with a loud sigh, weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat; it's still dripping.

You both lay there for a long moment, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, as you catch your breaths. Finally, he lifted his head to look at you, his eyes soft.

"You're incredible" voice raw. "I can't believe you're mine"

You giggle, feeling his arms wrap around you, pulling you close as you snuggle against his neck. He can feel your soft, warm breath tickling on his skin. A sense of peace and contentment settles over him, and he sighs happily.

"Yours" and a quick tired sloppy kiss. "You drained me, thought"

"If you weren't such a tease..."

You playfully swat him, weakly.

"Shh, just relax" he murmurs, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back. "You did so good, baby. So fucking perfect. As always"

You can't helo but say: "And now the whole world knows it"

He captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It was different from the hungry, desperate kisses before. This one was tender, almost sweet. Full of a quiet, growing affection.

"It's okay" so quiet you would miss it. "I've got you, baby. And I'm not going anywhere"

You make a soft, contented lazy sound as you snuggle even closer, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He feels your body starting to give up.

"Promise?"

He tightens his arms around you, holding you like he means it. You are the most precious thing in the world to him, but he doesn't want to tell you. He wants you to know. So he holds you tightly, like a vow. Something to keep. Something worth.

"Promise"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Pedro…," you slapped your hand over your mouth, supressing a gasp as your husband turned in circles in front of you.

"Did I promise too much?"

You rolled your eyes and nothing hinted at the fact that your rapidly pounding heart would slow down any time soon.

"You know I'm not gonna be able to let you go like that," you whispered through clenched teeth, but your serious facade crumbled when Pedro approached you, sliding his arms around your waist and palming your flesh.

"Mhmm, is that so?" he whispered in your ear and you reflexively grabbed his bicep, his muscles tantalisingly hard, yet soft under your grip.

"You're fucking killing me, you know that right?" you said, but it sounded more like a cry.

"That's why I'm wearing this. Why else, if not for you?"

You dropped your shoulders, pressed a gentle kiss onto his upper arm, and couldn't stop yourself from carefully grazing his skin with your teeth.

"Careful, sweetheart. I can't walk the red carpet with bite marks all over my body."

"Oh just shut up. As if you wouldn't enjoy the attention…"

Pedro laughed and secured his hold on you, his thumb drawing circles over the small of your back.

"I can't believe you're real," you continued, not scared to freely speak your mind in his presence.

"You have to stop or I'm gonna get out there with my face all flushed from your compliments," he lowly whispered, sounding amused, but then got serious as he cradled your head and kissed your cheek.

"I wish you could come with me," he sighed, pulling back and giving you his puppy eyes that never failed to make you weak in your knees.

"Me too… But you're gonna have a good time. Say hello to Emma from me, will you?"

You smiled as you trailed a hand up his jaw, careful not to mess up his perfectly styled hair.

"I will. And you're gonna stay up for me, right?"

You rolled your eyes, head shaking in disbelief as your feverish skin slowly began to cool down again now that you were starting to get used to his gorgeous appearance. Not that you would ever seriously get used to it, of course. In fact, you believed you would never be the same person you had been three minutes ago. Not after you had seen Pedro looking this gorgeous.

"Of course I will. You think I could even possibly sleep knowing that you're out there looking like this?"

Pedro leaned in to kiss you, the smile glued to his lips and you had no choice but to return it although you already regretted the fact that he was about to leave for a couple of hours.

This was just him. When you saw him happy, your stomach always fluttered with nerves, the little butterflies dancing and rejoicing and your insides turning upside down. And now wasn't an exception, you realised as the adrenaline was pumping through your veins, your fingertips and the end of every nerve in your body prickling with steaming heat.

Your mouth was dry as Pedro took a step back and your eyes involuntarily wandered down his body. The black leather loafers with metallic spikes across the upper part, the high waisted trousers and of course the centerpiece of the outfit, the sleeveless black top that showcased not only his toned bicep, but also the side of his body, due to the deep cutout at the armholes. Something about it genuinely made you feel like Pedro had chosen this outfit just for you, who had a not-so-secret obsession with his arms and hands.

"Oh baby," he now laughed and instead of finally leaving the hotel room, headed back to you and pulled you into yet another hug, this time pressing what felt like a million kisses to your hairline.

"You know I'm a sucker for you being all needy and clingy," he mumbled, holding you snug against his broad chest. You were close to starting to pur like a cat.

"Congrats, then," you whined and dropped your head to his chest, peacefully closing your eyes while inhaling his perfume. To be fair, you didn't really feel at peace. Inside of you, there was a thunder, your stomach unable to settle and the blood in your veins throbbing as if you weren't Pedro's wife of five years, but a teenage girl who had a crush for the first time in her life. You felt hot-headed, your palms sticky with sweat and you didn't even want to think about the state of your underwear. You needed him religiously and part of you couldn't understand that he was about to walk out of the hotel room.

That was until there was a loud knock on the door and Pedro hummed deep in his chest, the vibrations rushing through your body.

"I'll be right there," he shouted and gently lifted your head from his chest. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby."

You definitely didn't want him to feel bad so you forced your lips to curl into a smile, but you weren't successful. Well, maybe it was just that Pedro could read you like a book.

"I'll make it up to you later… You just gotta be patient for a few hours and watch a movie or read a little and then I'll be back and..." - He kissed up your jaw until his lips were pressed to your temple, your pulse rumbling behind your skin - "I won't stop."

You chuckled and stroked down his arms while Pedro watched you with a broad grin.

"I promise, I just won't stop. Gonna stay all night right there between your thighs if that's what you want."

You reached up to wrap your arms around his neck one last time, swaying the both of you to the side while your hot breath brushed over his ear.

"The shirt stays on."

It was almost three hours later now and you were lying on your stomach on the bed, your chin resting on the palm of your hand while you scrolled through your phone feeling bored. You had listened to Pedro's advice and rewatched an old Star Wars movie and although you loved the franchise, your thoughts had occasionally wandered elsewhere. After that, you had tried to read, but it turned out to be even more frustrating because you couldn't focus on the pages, the letters blurring before your eyes while you couldn't ban the picture of Pedro's arms in this goddamn top from your head.

After torturing yourself for another 30 minutes you had given up, went to the bathroom and changed into your favorite set of underwear in a flash of inspiration. It was olive green, simple, but the bra had a little bit of lace tracing the cups. You hoped that once Pedro was back your underwear wouldn't stay on your body for very long, but you sometimes liked to dress up a little bit just to feel even more comfortable and sexy in your skin than he was already capabale of making you feel.

So now you were lying with a jeans and one of Pedro's sweaters hiding the fancy underwear while scrolling through instagram. Of course your feed was full of pictures of your husband and you were soon to figure out that it wasn't helping your situation. Each image was more beautiful than the last: his adorable smile when he faced the cameras, the wink of his eye and the way his bicep flexed when he hugged one of his fellow cast members.

Your breathing was heavy and longing as your eyes were fixed on the small screen, your pupils flickering to the time every few minutes. As if the wait wasn't already long enough, you knew he was at a press conference at that very moment, so it would certainly be another 30 minutes before he got back to the hotel.

You sighed and dropped your head so that your forehead rested on your phone while your legs were dangling in the air. Your thoughts unconsciously wandered to Pedro again. If you hadn't known how much your husband enjoyed your swooning and yearning, you certainly would have felt bad. But Pedro was never shy to admit that he loved to feel desired by you and lord have mercy, you were happy to oblige.

The position with your brow touching your phone display turned out to be surprisingly comfortable which was why you remained like that. Your eyes were closed, Pedro appearing before you in short periods of time and your ribcage expanding with steady, but heavy breaths.

Soon you noticed that the air in the hotel room was too warm and stuffy so you propped yourself on your elbows and then crawled off the bed to open a window. It was still warm outside, but it was definitely better than the stifling, thick air in here. You were just about to turn around to get back on the bed when you suddenly heard a noise outside your room and froze, your pulse loud in your ears.

When the door opened, your heart skipped a beat or two and your adrenaline made you run the few feet separating you from Pedro and jump in his arms. He deeply laughed, but caught you in the air, securing you with his arms sliding around your waist as you trapped him with your legs crossed behind his back.

"I missed you so much," you complained against his neck, your hands playing with the baby hair in his nape that you finally got to touch without the fear of ruining his perfectly styled curls and getting in trouble with Coco.

"Mhmmm I missed you too," Pedro replied while turning around so he could close the door behind him without having to put you down. The fact that he was able to carrry you so casually with one arm made a very familiar wetness soak your underwear and you giggled against his collarbone, inhaling the smell of sun and him.

"Pedro," you whined, not exactly sure what you were asking him for.

"I know," he answered nevertheless, the sound of his voice making your pussy throb and you reflexively started to rock your center against his abdomen.

"Gonna take care of you now, baby."

Your eyes rolled back at the promise and you were just about to surrender to the body contact and let yourself go with your eyes shut close, but then your mushy brain remembered what you had yearned for all night and your gaze instantly fell upon his bicep again that was flexed from carrying your weight. Of course Pedro noticed it and of course he reacted with a wry grin, his eyes glistening with the same beautiful spark he had left you with three hours ago.

"I know, I know, baby," he just whispered and lowly chuckled when he felt you stroke up and down his arm, your pupils blown and your expression in awe of the smooth skin covering his thick muscles.

"All of the Marvel training," he then giggled and tensed his bicep on purpose just to watch your eyes widen.

"Pedro," you moaned once more, your inability to speak clearly apparent to both of you, but Pedro knew what you wanted anyway.

"Don't be shy," he hissed, one hand on your back travelling south to dig into where your back met your ass crease.

"You know I want you to take from me what you want. You can touch it and bite and lick it… Whatever you want, sweetheart, you know that."

You whimpered again, perhaps overhelmped with the options, your eyes frantically springing between his hands, underarms and shoulders. Deciding to leave the choice for later, you pressed your mouth against his, your lips greedily sucking at his bottom lip while you buried your hands into his muscles, tracing the outlines of his bicep and kneading the flesh which soon made Pedro groan.

"Jesus… you're killing me, baby."

Your pulse thundered up your throat and you couldn't remember ever wanting someone or something as much as you wanted him. Your body was so hot, you were convinced you would go up in flames if you wouldn't take some of your clothes off soon. On that note, Pedro was clearly aware that the oversized hoodie you were drowning in belonged to him because he fisted the fabric and chuckled deeply while you were still busy exploring every inch of his arms that were covered with a thin layer of sweat, either caused by the warm temperatures in Cannes or by what was happening right now. You preferred to think that it was the latter.

"I think I know this one…," he whispered referring to the hoodie, his jaw clenching when he slipped his hands under the piece of clothing and palmed your waist.

"Just missed you," you whined and now kissed your way down to his shoulder where you were finally allowed to bury your teeth into his skin, careful not to hurt him of course. Pedro gasped, slightly throwing his head back as he traced along your ribs and spine in turns.

"You wanna get on the bed, sweetpea?" he growled, the nickname much too soft and sweet for his husky voice, but you nodded with your head, tightening your arms around his neck while he carried you over to the big hotel bed.

He carefully lay you down on your back his hands unwillingly leaving your waist to rub his palms together as his hungry eyes followed every move and twitch of your body. The hoodie had slid up your body a little and the thin strip of bare skin was enough for Pedro to bite his lip and wipe over his brow with the back of his hand.

"Shit, baby… You look so pretty with my hoodie on."

Then he adjusted his shirt, prompting you to immediately let out a whine of complaint, as you were scared he was about to take it off. But Pedro just shook his head in amusement and then leaned down to take off his shoes that were probably worth more than this whole trip to Cannes.

"Don't worry, sweetpea. I promised you it's gonna stay on."

Once he had carelessly kicked them off, his mind somewhere else already he finally approached the bed. Your legs were pressed together, the heat pooling in between almost making you squeal with frustration although you knew that Pedro was about to make it better just like he always made things better.

"Please," you still whispered when he knelt on the bed and reached out to cradle your head.

"What, baby? Tell me what you want."

Mindless thoughts flickered in your head as you tried to get a hold on yourself, at least to be able to form a coherent sentence and tell him what you wanted.

"I wanna taste you," you eventually moaned, your eyes already on the outline of the tent beneath his trousers.

"Oh Christ, baby…," he swallowed to fight his dry throat, but moved closer to kiss you. "You sure you don't want me to take care of you first?"

"Yes, I'm sure," you whispered against his soft lips, clutching the fabric of his tight black top and feeling his firm torso through your fingertips. Pedro took your bottom lip between his and sucked it softly until he released it with a plop. He then took in the needy glint in your eyes.

"Alright…," he murmured and sank down on the mattress once you made room for him, his back resting against the wall behind the bed and his legs slightly parted.

Meanwhile, you moved to settle between his legs, your hands splayed across his thighs and the cool fabric of his pants a thrilling contrast to your feverish and sweaty palms. And then you ran your gaze up his body and you almost let out an involuntary moan. Of course you knew how fit Pedro was – you would have to be blind to miss the effects of the intense training for the fantastic four movie on his body, but this outfit made them especially visible. You just couldn't get over the veins on his wrists and the way his hugs bicep jiggled every time he made a sudden movement.

You must have been a sight, staring at him with round eyes, your lips dry and a stunned expression on your face while you couldn't get a word out. Pedro smirked again and reached out to touch your elbows, slowly trailing up your arms until he put them on your shoulders.

"You know I love seeing you wearing my clothes, but can I take this off?" he asked, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips.

You gave a nod and helped him by lifting your arms so he could pull the hoodie over your head and throw it on the floor next to the bed. You could see the bob of his adam's apple and the deep gulp as his gaze fell upon your stomach and chest that was beautifully hugged by the olive green bra. Pedro would never hesitate to tell you that he loved the way you looked, no matter what you were wearing, and that he would still be swooing over you even if you wore a garbage bag. But when you felt especially confident in your favourite underwear, he was a fan of that too. Your comfort in your own body made your whole appearance glow — a beautiful light surrounding your frame as you sat on your heels in front of Pedro. He truly felt like the luckiest man alive.

"My god…," he said, his voice quiet, but thick with awe and silent appreciation.

When he brought his hand to your waist you leaned in to his touch, pressing yourself against him while he palmed your flesh. The motion was more than convenient for the both of you because he got to feel the softness of your flush skin while you were able to see his bicep flex, the dim light in the hotel room emphasising every curve and line so stunningly.

The two of you remained in this position for a little longer before you couldn't hold back any more and placed your hand on his dick that pressed hard against his pants. He hissed out through gritted teeth, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes followed the movement of your hand. You slowly began to palm him, your hand massaging the bulge that felt firm and hard against you. Pedro's hand on your side tensed as his tip twitched and you could feel his fingers digging into your flesh, stinging, but showing you the arousing impact of your actions.

"Fuck. Baby, fuck…"

You took your bottom lip between your teeth, giving him a broad smik while feeling him grow harder under your touch. Soon it wasn't enough for either of you, Pedro biting his lip bloody while you were yearning for a taste of him so you stopped palming him through his pants and instead fumbled with the zip of his pants. Once you had opened the button and started to shove them down his hips, he lifted them to help you. When they dangled around his knees, you did the same procedure to his boxers, your eyes tearing at your desire for him at the sight of his stiff, leaking dick that looked like it desperately craved a release.

Pedro's eyes followed yours, but before he could run his dirty mouth again, you had already lowered your head and pressed little kisses on his length. He clearly hadn't expected you to go straight to work because he gasped and jerked forward, his hands reflexively reaching for your head.

"Jesus!" he spitted out, his mouth falling open as you showered his dick with as much adoration and affection as you possibly could. You traced along every vein and line, licking off every drop of precum and pumping with your hands what you couldn't reach with your mouth.

You loved the way he felt around your hand, the skin soft, sleek and warm and almost a little silky when you went up and down his shaft. And the way he tasted… Musky and salty, but there was another note that you weren't able to identify. It was just him and you couldn't get enough of it.

"Sweetpea, I'm not gonna last long," he warned you after a while, his grip around your scalp tight, but not to guide or force you, but rather to cling to something while you made him lose his mind.

"Mhmm, okay," you teased, rubbing with your thumb over his tip while your tongue trailed a line down his dick to kitten-lick his balls.

"Jesus, baby… God, you needa… Fuck…," he stuttered, unable to speak his mind, but you just giggled and suddenly felt very powerful with him falling apart under your touch.

"That's perfect," he growled, eyes rolled back in his head as you finally took him down your throat, not very deep, but enough to bob your head around his length. You reminded yourself to slide your tongue around his glans from time to time, knowing how sensitive he was there and it most certainly had the desired effect.

"Baby, I'm serious. I'm really fucking close," he panted, his pupils struggling to focus on you as they threatened to drift upward at the feeling of your warm, wet mouth around him. Pedro gave your hair a gentle tug that finally made you stop and you darted up to him.

"You don't wanna cum?" you asked, your lips forming a playful pout that made him groan once more.

"Shit, of course I wanna cum, but I need to take care of you first."

Your heart fluttered at his words, and so did your dripping pussy that painfully clenched, your clit throbbing for any kind of friction.

"C'mon. Lay down, okay? Gonna make you feel really good," he breathed, still trying to control his pounding heart and exhaled when you pulled off him with a wet sound and sat back on your heels.

"Jesus fucking Christ, you're gonna kill me," Pedro whispered more to himself while making room so you could lay down where he had rested with his head against the bedrest a second ago.

"Pedro?" you quietly asked once your head touched the cushions.

"Yeah?"

"Choke me."

He lowly chuckled, a dark sparkle lighting up his already deep brown eyes and you knew exactly what it meant. It meant that he was deep in and would do anything you asked him of. Anything for a single twitch of your body or roll of your hips.

He didn't reply with his words, but with his hands. He gently - almost to give you a taste of what was coming – caressed your neck, two fingers trailing up and down the sensitive skin while settling between your spread, welcoming legs. You took a deep breath, shuddering at the way Pedro regarded your body, which was still hidden by far too many layers of fabric and then almost felt disappointed when the hand on your neck, so deliciously close to doing what you needed so badly, traveled south, trailing a line between your clothed breasts to help his other hand undress you. He skillfully opened the button and zip of your jeans and swiftly pulled them down your legs along with your lovely underwear that unfortunately didn't get a lot of attention right now. Neither of you cared though.

"You don't know how much I love you, sweetpea," Pedro whispered, shaking his head like he couldn't believe you were real and palmed your hip in his large hand.

Although there truly was a lot to see between your thighs, you couldn't help yourself and your gaze unconsciously was on his hands and arms again that gleamed so wonderfully in the light. He looked strong, yet soft and you loved the way his muscles moved when he was turning or adjusting you beneath him.

"I love you too, Pedro," you whispered, but he was already one step ahead and watched your pussy like it was the first time he had ever seen one. His eyes and facial expressions radiated so much love and admiration, you felt like you were about to explode with joy. Your heart was pounding rapidly but you couldn't tell whether it was from your arousal and excitement or the love you felt for him.

"So goddamn pretty," he mumbled and then placed his hands on your inner thighs and spread you wide for him so he could have the first taste of tonight. Pedro circled your entrance with the tip of his tongue, savouring your salty, prickling wetness in relief and while he tried to take his time and enjoy each moment and impression, he simply was too eager to toy with you for long.

The rest of his face was pressed against your pussy and while he dipped inside of you with his tongue, his nose scrunched against your clit, finally helping you fight the burning heat that had previously made the bundle of nerves shudder and tremble with anticipation. But he knew too well what he was doing and managed to please your pussy only with his face to an extent where you felt that it wouldn't take you long to orgasm. Who could blame you, really? This whole afternoon had basically been one long, tormenting period of foreplay with Pedro looking this handsome and his arms being so stunningly on display.

He was far from being finished though. Sensing how you buckled and your hips shifted under him, he brought a hand up to continue those torturing strokes across your neck that you had gotten a taste of earlier while moving his tongue upward to focus on your clit. He used his spit and your wetness that he had collected on the flat of his tongue to circle it, pressing loving kisses all over it like he wanted to show you his affection this way. Your body naturally reacted to his tongue, your hips rolling in accordance to create more friction and encourage him to give you more, give it to you harder and – most importantly – not to stop, but your eyes were on his arms.

You just couldn't help yourself; with his hand teasing your neck you had a perfect view on his underarm and you had a feeling Pedro exactly knew what he was doing. You were so focused on his arms, a work of art in themselves, that you didn't see it coming when he suddenly choked you. The restriction of air made you gasp and your eyes sprang open.

"Is that what you want?" he teased and you were not sure if his words were dirty talk or if he actually wanted reassurance that you were giving him your clear consent. You nodded, your eyes pleadingly devouring his bicep while the sensation of his large hand wrapped around your neck sent you into insanity. And then the stimulation on your clit… You could have died right on the spot and you would have thanked every god there was.

"Fuck," you choked, your own hand coming to rest on top of his, but not to gesture him to stop, but to trace his veins and tendons. Soon that wasn't enough though, especially having in mind that his gorgeous arm was so close, right in front of your face so both of your hands traveled down to his underarm just to feel him. His flesh seemed to burn from inside, his skin as hot and feverish as you felt. Whenever he squeezed you tighter, your muscles tensed and you let out a little whine. Pedro noticed this and, keen to reward you, gave you a special treat and did it as often as he could.

By now his expensive black top was soaked with sweat, but he couldn't have cared less. How could he with this sight and especially this taste on his tongue. He was aware of every single reaction of your body, the way your pussy clenched and your hips arched off the bed whenever he took your clit between his teeth to gently nibble, your desperate sighs when he squeezed your throat and the way you licked over your lips, blushing over his arms. He would definitely keep this shirt, no matter what.

'Pedro, I'm gonna cum, fuck...' you told him, your teeth clattering together and your neck flexing beneath his touch. Your fingertips pressed into the flesh of his arms, your nails leaving a slight sting while uncontrollable pleasure took over you and you writhed underneath him.

"Yes, there you go, baby…," Pedro soothed you, keeping his grip on your hip firm while his other hand relaxed around your throat so it wouldn't become too much.

"Cum for me… Let go, sweetpea, wanna taste it all."

A muffled cry left your throat, your lips still pressed shut while your eyebrows drew together and little shock waves went through your body.

"Yes, there you go…," Pedro smiled proudly, his tongue gliding up and down your slit to savour your juices for as long as possible while your spinning head took in his hand that was now loosely resting on top of your chest, his thumb drawing soothing circles over your skin.

"Ohh god…," you whispered and fell on your back, your chest rising heavily and the blood pumping in your veins. You felt messy with drops of sweat pooling on your forehead, but when Pedro looked up to you with his soft puppy eyes you forgot everything about it and melted on the spot.

"Have I ever told you how sweet you taste?" he growled while crawling up to cage you beneath him.

"I think so," you giggled, too weak though to slide your arms around his neck.

"I'm sorry," you then whispered with an apologetic look on your face and Pedro lifted his eyebrows in confusion.

"For what?"

"That you have to wear this top in this heat. You must be melting."

He twisted his lips and propped himself on his elbows next to your head.

"Not because of the top," he mumbled while connecting his lips with your chin, leaving gentle kisses as he made his way up to your neck where he kissed the faint pink marks he had left.

"You okay? Wasn't too much?" he wanted to make sure, the sound of his voice muffled against your skin.

"No," you grinned, finally finding the strength to grab his bicep, which you were sure was covered in scratch marks. It was nothing unusual, though. The two of you loved to show the world who each of you belonged to, even if, in many cases, you did it in places that no one else got to see anyway.

"Pedro?" you asked which made him glance up to you without pulling away from your hot skin.

"I want you to fuck me."

You felt him tense at your words, his hand grabbing your shoulder more firmly as he started to kiss up your collarbone.

"Lemme get a condom…," he whispered while unwillingly drawing away from you to reach to the nightstand, but you were quicker and trapped him with your legs wrapped around his hips.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Pedro asked in confusion, but stopped in the motion to look at your face that gave him a loving smile.

"We talked about it," you said, looking down to where your hands were playing with themselves. "And I thought we both… We agreed, right?"

His expression was unreadable at first, but then he bit on his lip and sighed out.

"Yeah. We have."

You chuckled and he immediately joined, but then he stroked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"It's just… It's kind of scary when we actually do it, don't you think so? You know… the fact that there's a chance you could actually get pregnant. I – I would like that… Of course I would like that" – his lips curled into a sweet smile – "It's just kind of surreal."

You nodded in agreement and took hold of his face, making him look into your eyes.

"I know. But yeah… I think we should do it. Everything's perfect right now, you know?"

He nodded and then gently peeled off your hand to kiss your wrist, his brown eyes big as he didn't broke eye contact for a mere second. And there you were melting away under his gaze as his lips caressed the thin skin on your wrist where your pulse was so loud and rapid, you thought that he had to hear it too.

"Yes," he said, his breath tingling on your skin and then he kissed you one last time before carefully putting your hand down on your stomach.

"I love you, sweetpea. So so much. And I wanna have a child with you."

You heart skipped a beat just like it always did whenever Pedro said the L-word. After five years of marriage you still had this kind of physical reaction to it which amazed you.

"I love you, Pedro. Now fuck me," you hissed, your eyes sparkling and your teeth bared as you already eyed down his broad body.

"Can't have a cute fucking moment with my wife because she can't get a hold on herself…," Pedro playfully rolled his eyes, but adjusted himself between your legs.

You were still giggling when he wrapped a hand around his shaft to align himself with your quivering entrance, your swollen clit eager for his touch again, but he teased you for a bit, avoiding the little nub on purpose. When his tip prodded your hole you prepared yourself for the slight stretch that was always involved when he fucked you and you inhaled deeply while Pedro waited for your approval which you gave him with a nod.

"Relax, baby," he breathed as he slowly eased himself inside you and fortunately, you were so wet that you took him without any problems.

"Jesus!" he cursed once he was inside of you to the hilt and glanced down to you, who had your face drawn with sheer pleasure.

He was big yes, bigger than any dick you had ever seen, but tonight when your pussy had been yearning for him all day, your entrance was more than happy to smoothly welcome him inside you.

"You feel so good, shit… Please, look at me. Need to see you, baby."

You had closed your eyes, focusing on all the ways you felt him so deep inside of you, the veins on his shaft excitingly pressing and rubbing against your walls, but then they fluttered open at his words.

"You're fucking perfect," he murmured through clenched teeth and leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose while he rolled his hips to pull out of you and started fucking you at a steady pace.

"Pedro, fuck… Need…"

You couldn't finish the sentence, the words stuck in your throat, but your affectionate husband kissed up your temple, softly humming against your skin.

"What do you need? Tell me, baby, c'mon…"

"Need to cum again," you whimpered, buckling your hips to meet his deep thrusts.

"I know, I know... Don't you worry, m'gonna get you there. Just relax for me, alright? And breathe…"

You literally felt him everywhere. His hand had reached between your thighs the moment he had started fucking you to rub small and percise circles on top of your clit. You were in awe of how well he was able to coordinate his movements in his state because you were sure were you the one to touch yourself right now, you wouldn't be able to aim correctly. And then there was his mouth everywhere he could reach. Pressing kisses all over your face, your nose, your jaw, next to your ear and down to your neck and chest where your bra was half-off, the straps loosely around your shoulder and your breasts bare on display for him. You seriously wondered how Pedro managed to focus on so many things at the same time because you already had struggles breathing, whereas he fucked, fingered and kissed you at the same time.

You let out a broken moan and could literally feel him smiling against your collarbone when your hands tightly gripped his bicep, obviously not only to hold on to him, but also to knead his firm flesh. Part of you wished there was better lighting in your hotel room, the sky outside dark by now, but of course there was no way you would stop him right now to turn on the brighter ceiling lamp. This would have to do, and feeling his muscles under your palms was already more than one could wish for.

Now that he was propping himself up on his elbow, he had to keep his muscles tense at all times, which was very convenient for you. You were almost in awe, your lips parted and your eyes round as coins while you traced every curve and curvature, every inch of skin as if you wanted to worship it.

"Oh baby, I'm gonna fill you up so well," Pedro interrupted your silent admirations and you averted your gaze from his arms for a moment to look at him. "But first I need you to cum again, alright? Need you to come around my dick."

His finger on your bundle of nerves fastened up at his words and you threw your head to the side, your heels digging into the mattress in search of release.

"I know, sweetpea," Pedro growled at your whine that almost sounded like you were in pain and rolled your clit between two fingers.

"You can cum… It's alright, you can let go whenver you want to…"

And so you did. Seconds after the words had left his mouth, your second orgasm of the night rolled over you, knocked all the air out of your lungs and made your whole body tense up. You arched off the bed, presenting yours breasts to Pedro so prettily that he leaned down to take one nipple between his lips, but then suddenly grunted as the clenching of your pussy drove him over the edge as well.

It really was poetic, the two of you reaching your highs almost at the exact same time and as Pedro spasmed in your hole, slowly riding out his orgasm you collapsed on the bed, utterly exhausted after two highs. It was an unfamiliar feeling to be filled up by him, but not an unpleasant one. The ropes of cum felt warm and sticky inside of you, almost as if your pussy was overflowing with your own juices.

"Holy shit…," Pedro now growled, his face buried in your neck while his rapidly heaving chest crashed against yours. The weight of his body pressed against yours aroused you more than it probably should and once again, you ran your hands up and down his arms and shoulders, savouring the gorgeous picture of him in this goddamn top as long as it lasted.

He also seemed to welcome your soothing hands, softly humming as the two of you calmed down in each other's presence.

"That was so perfect," you whispered and brought one hand to the back of his head to play with his locks.

"Yeah," Pedro agreed, moving on top of you to withdraw his flaccid dick from your dripping entrance.

"Oh baby…," was all he could say and closed his eyes as a gust of wind from the open window sent a shiver down his spine.

You remained in this position for a little while longer, feeling content and peaceful as you listened to the other person's heartbeat. Eventually, however, the cool air from outside made it inevitable for Pedro to roll off you and slip under the blanket, leaving you to regret the replacement of Pedro with the silky fabric of the blanket.

He was quick to pull you toward him though and instantly wrapped his strong arms around your head to keep you snug against his chest. You both smelled of sweat and exhaustion, but neither of you cared. The chirping of distant birds and crickets from outside was beautiful background music to the serene scene and soon you felt yourself drift off to sleep, but before you could Pedro cupped your cheek and ran his thumb over the corner of your mouth.

"There's a chance that I just got you pregnant," he whispered, sounding torn between amusement and excitement.

"Mhmm yes," you answered and giggled when you felt a hand pressing down on your lower tummy.

"It would be nice, right?" Pedro asked and opened his eyes into yours. Despite the darkness, you were still able to make out his pupils and twisted your lips into a smile.

"Yes. It would be… perfect."

You gave each other one last grin before Pedro cradled your head and guided it down to nestle against his chest, his heartbeat evenly thundering in your ear while you closed your eyes, expecting sleep to take over soon.

And it did. You were still thinking about what Pedro had said, and the image of him and you with a baby was so clear in your mind that you could almost see it.