let's do it, cronkite

Even floating in the hazy aftermath of repeated climaxes, you had enough sense to ignore it. It was the obvious decision — the only decision — given that the slow, deep rhythm of Clark’s cock slowly moving inside you again had your full attention.

The phone cut off, then started buzzing again. And again. And again.

"Geez, he’s—persistent," you managed through a sharp gasp, your fingernails leaving half-moons into the solid, sweat-slicked planes of your best friend’s shoulders.

You were straddling him during this round, your body bowed over his larger frame. Your damp forehead pressed against the junction between his collarbone and neck, dragging slightly with every lift of your hips and subsequent drop back onto him. Each movement sent a shockwave of pure, liquid heat through your already cum-slick core.

One of Clark’s calloused hands gently slid from your waist to the meat of your ass to hold you steady, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss.

"Let—him—be," he murmured between each kiss, more mirth than malice. "You’ve got more important stuff to do."

Between laughter and smacking his shoulder playfully, he rolled his hips up on the last word. The motion met your downward slide, and you both let out a long synchronized moan.

Holy Fuck.

Your mind wanted to float clean out of your skull. It was ridiculous: this man was your best friend. Those years you’d lived together, countless nights brushing your teeth side by side. The man you’d slept across the hall from, shared dumb jokes, laughed, made dinner with, and fought over blanket space with. Years of your life spent making a home without crossing this line. Until tonight.

It hadn’t started like this.

It had started with you slamming the apartment door behind you, kicking your heels off, and venting about your date’s endless monologues—his crypto portfolio, his condescending “corrections,” the way he’d checked his reflection in his spoon more than he’d looked at you, and the final, humilating critique of your career over a wilted salad—your anger finally burned down into a smoldering, frustrated ember.

Clark listened to all of it. Opened his arms and carried you to bed. Lit your favorite candle. Made you tea. Sat beside you in bed, his larger frame a solid presence, and he’d reached over and brushed a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen from your cheek.

That single, tender touch had blown everything wide open.

Like two galaxies finally giving in to gravity. Like a collision you’d both been drifting toward for years without admitting you were on the same trajectory.

His thumb traced your jaw. You turned your face into his palm. He leaned in as his other hand cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair. And then you were kissing.

It was nothing like the awkward, calculated peck on the cheek Mark had given you on the sidewalk.

It was a revelation.

A stunned, breathless "why haven’t you done this sooner?"

And when Clark filled you so completely. A thick, relentless, good-burning stretch that teetered on the edge of too much and not nearly enough— A Big Bang.

Your phone finally stopped ringing.

For five glorious, seconds, there was only the sound of skin on skin—a wet, rhythmic slap-squelch impossible to soften—the ragged pull of your shared breathing, and the soft press of open-mouthed kisses that kept breaking apart because you couldn’t keep your lips together long enough.

The air in your apartment bedroom was thick with the scent of your favorite candle, sex, sweat, and the warm, musky scent of your own arousal. The sheets were damp beneath you, the headboard faintly tapping with every rock of your body as Clark kept you perched above him.

Then your phone started all over again.

A different ringtone.

A video call.

A choked laugh, more disbelief than humor, escaped you, sounding near hysterical. You pushed up a few inches, your breasts still pressed against Clark’s solid chest, nipples dragged tight and sensitive by the movement.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" you growled, voice cracking. "I’m going to block that loser. Clark, Superman, save me! What do I do?! Block him, right?"

You met your best friend’s eyes, looking for some sort of agreement, reassurance, the typical version of him that would’ve laughed it off with you.

His summer sky blues, usually so kind and soft, were dark with a rare, possessive heat that made your heart flutter, rendering you silent.

Mine, that look said. Now and forever.

"Answer it."

"What!? What h-happened to leave him be?!" You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down around his cock like a reflex.

He groaned, head tipping slightly into your plush pillow, throat flexing as he failed to swallow the sound—too far gone to hide what you’d just done to him.

"Answer it, hon," he repeated, gaze steadier than his breathing, a gentle command wrapped in velvet. 

The hand lingering on the back of your head brushed a damp strand of hair from the apple of your cheek. His thumb traced your kiss-swollen lower lip, and you opened for him without thinking, sucking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it.

"Since he's so persistent. Maybe he’s calling to say sorry. If not…well, he’ll hear what a good night really sounds like, right?"

The idea was insane. Unacceptable. A violation.

It should've made you recoil.

Instead, it sent a jolt of pure, electric arousal straight to your already soaked cunt, hot enough to make your thighs tense, your belly flutter, all things you had to unpack later.

"Are you—you're sure?" you whimpered, needy and a little nervous, brows pinched together, teeth gnawing on the pad of this thumb.

"Yeah," Clark assured with a bashful shrug, reading you with an ease that was utterly terrifying and comforting. "C’mon, I can feel how much you want to. Your whole body’s itching for it."

He was so right, and that was the worst and best part—because the dark, thrilling pulse between your legs synced with the heavy throb of him buried inside you, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, quick and jerky.

Clark reached over, his arm stretching past your head without parting from you, without letting you escape the weight of his gaze or the fullness of him. He brought the phone to your sweaty hand, while his other palm left your mouth and initiated a slow, circular massage at your lower back.

"Put it on speaker," he whispered. "Keep it low. I’ll be right here with you."

Your fingers fumbled, leaving tiny sweat-lined prints on your screen. You swiped to answer, hit the speaker icon, then quickly plopped the device down by your calf with the screen pressed against the mattress, the faint glow illuminating the rumpled sheets.

"H-hello?" you greeted. You were proud of how almost-normal you sound. Almost.

"Hey! Finally, you picked up. Thought you’d gone to bed already," Mark’s voice burst into the room, cheerful and oblivious.

Reclaiming your place over Clark’s body, you nosed at his neck before sucking lightly at the skin beneath his galloping pulse—a little bit of distraction, partial affection, more a warning to yourself to stay quiet.

"S-sorry," you mumbled, focusing on keeping your breathing even as Clark’s hand ventured lower to squeeze your ass. "I was… busy."

"Busy decompressing from my dazzling company, right? I do have that effect," Mark chuckled. God, he was so egotistical. "I was just thinking about our dinner. I had a really great time with you."

Clark exhaled loudly and chose that moment to move.

His hips lifted in a slow, deliberate upward thrust. You unlatched yourself from his well-loved flesh, biting down hard on your inner cheek to stifle your moan. It still slipped anyway: a sharp, raw gasp, and the tremor in your fingers where they dug into his shoulders.

"Uh, you good?" you heard hesitation already creeping in. Damn.

"Y-yeah, juuuust peachy!" you chirped, pitched high and strained.

You pressed your face harder into Clark’s neck, as if you could bury the heat there, and reached up to tug lightly on his thick hair in retaliation—petty, desperate, utterly useless. "Just… stubbed my pinky toe. On—on the side—of my bed. Bed—frame!"

"Damn, hate when that happens," he sympathized with a low whistle, chuckling at your imagined pain. Asshole.

"Listen, I know our conversation got a little heavy at the end, with the whole ‘career goals’ thing. I didn’t mean to imply your job was… you know, trivial. I just think a woman like you could apply herself better, ya know?"

You wondered if Clark rolled his eyes just as hard as you did.

“Anyways, I was thinking of giving us another shot," the man continued, drowning in his own confidence. "Maybe drinks next Friday? Somewhere quieter. That might be more your speed, right?"

While he rambled, Clark began to move you this time. 

His hands slid back up to your hips, gently lifting you just high enough that only the fat, leaking crown of his cock caught at your swollen entrance, keeping you stretched, wide, aware of him.

The emptiness and relief lasted half a second before he tugged you down again, an inch at a time. It was a slow, enticing, torturous re-sheathing that made your eyes roll back. The wet dragging of his cock between your folds was drowned out by the sheets against the phone receiver, but to you, it was deafening. 

It was so obvious!

"I—I—fuck— don’t know, Mmm–man," you ended, pathetic and breathless.

You couldn’t even manage to say another man’s name while Clark bottomed out, his pelvis grinding maddeningly slow against your clit. A full-body shudder wracked you, and it wasn’t from secondhand embarrassment.

“Hear me out! You’ll have fun," Mark pressed. "I promise I’ll be on my best behavior." 

Your failed date's voice was a grating buzz in your ear, a stark contrast to the visceral reality of Clark’s broad, strong body beneath you, inside you, fucking you, making love to you for the past two hours.

His mouth found your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. He blew a light, cool puff of air against your searing skin.

"Tell him you’re busy," he murmured, words barely breaking through your haze. His tongue flicked out, a quick, wet stripe, then he nipped lightly. "Tell him you have a… prior engagement. With me."

You were panting and squirming, trying to keep your breathing quiet, trying to pretend you weren’t being fucked to oblivion while desperately carrying a polite phone conversation.

"I… I'll be busy Friday night. Prior… engagement. With my best friend—Clark—I, uh, told you about him."

"Oh. Clark. Yeah, you did." A scoff, a clear sign of irritation, but he recovered like nothing happened. "Well, what about Saturday? I’m free all day."

Wrapping one powerful arm around your waist to support you, Clark planted both his feet on the mattress, changing the angle with such casual strength it made your stomach flip.

The new position had him pounding you deeper, fuller, the thick ridge of his thick cock rubbing directly over that special spot inside that made white sparks flicker behind your eyelids. Your hands gripped his biceps, clinging for dear life, praying for mercy.

"Oh f-fuck, C-clark," you whimpered into his skin, the curse hardly silent.

Instantly alert, you heard a muffled: "What was that?"

"N-nothing!" you squeaked. You forced a laugh as Clark pressed a kiss along your temple soothingly. It was shrill, unhinged, cringe-worthy in any other context.

"You sure? You sound a little… out of breath."

"S-sorry! Yeah, no, it's uh my—cat—she jumped. A little tense."

"A cat?" There was suspicion now. "Didn't know you had one."

"She’s—new! Adjusting, kinda overstimulated. That's why I left," you rasped, voice trembling and shredded, your vocal enthusiasm from the initial rounds finally catching up. "She's—getting used to him —Me! Getting used to me. N-new owner, and all!"

You glared at Clark, pinning the blame on this ridiculous predicament on him. He grinned back, all dimples and without shame.

The irritation was fleeting as a deep rhythm soon settled down to a shallow rocking between you.

A pure, unadulterated, delicious torture. Clark wasn’t only chasing his own pleasure; he was orchestrating yours, drawing it out, winding the overspent coil in your belly tighter and tighter with every tiny friction. You felt your combined wetness coating his length, dripping down onto his balls, making a hot, sticky mess between you.

"O-kay," Mark droned, already sounding bored, distracted. "I like cats. I’m more of a dog person, obviously, but cats are fine. I guess. Independent."

Unprompted, Clark’s large hand slid between your swollen folds, gathering cum from previous climaxes as lubricant. Deft fingers found your clit easily, thick and clever, pressing the pad of his middle finger to your swollen, throbbing nub, and held it there, a constant, maddening pressure.

You jerked up slightly, peered at Clark through wet lashes, your lips pulling into a quivering pout. You planted both hands on his chest and dug your knees into the mattress, and grinded harder against his cock and his hand. The dual sensation tipped so close. A wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles fluttering wildly around his length.

You were so close again. So dangerously close to riding that high.

"So, Saturday?" Mark pressed, bulldozing straight through the moment. "Restaurant. My treat. A real do-over."

"N-no, Saturday’s… complicated…won’t work," you sighed deeply.

The excuse barely made it out as Clark ducked his head, trailing a wet, lazy path down your neck to the space between your collarbones.

"Why?"

The trail of kisses ventured lower to greet the swell of your breasts.

"Just… not interested anymore," you forced out behind clenched teeth, white knuckling through the overwhelming attention you were receiving.

"Anymore? This is ridiculous. What the hell happened since you saw me?"

A flare of anger momentarily cut through your pleasure. It should’ve steadied you. It should’ve put steel in your spine.

But your rage was quickly extinguished when Clark delivered a single, deep, deliberate stroke that stole the air from your already spent lungs. A loud, sharp, involuntary cry tore from your throat.

You couldn't speak. You were shaking, your entire body drenched in pure pleasure. You were focused on that one point of contact—the insistent press of fingers, the full, aching stretch inside you, the coil of pleasure winding so tight you felt you might snap in two. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation pricked at your eyes.

The line was dead silent for a long beat. 

Then, confused and impatient: "Hello? Still there? Are you even listening to me?"

Clark finally gave you mercy, answering for you. Secrecy and subtlety blew to smithereens. The shift in his tone was immediate—lower, steadier, authoritative. The phone caught every word. 

"Hey, buddy. She said she’s no longer intersted."

There was another long pause on the line. 

"Who… who the hell was that?"

"Clark." His tone was polite. Even. Earnest.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, blazing with a smug, satisfied fire. He watched your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, time your mouth fell open on a sound you couldn’t swallow. His middle finger started to move against your clit, a quick, zig-zag pattern that sent a fresh wave of slick to gather between your thighs.

“She's preoccupied at the moment,” he added.

Another pause, longer this time. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together grew louder in the silence. The schlick of your soaked folds, the soft thump of his hips meeting yours, the breathless ‘yeah, right there, baby,” and “just like that.”

"Preoccupied," Mark repeated flatly.

"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed as he mouthed along your jaw. "She has this—thing she needs to finish. It’s taking longer than usual. She needs to… focus. Priority One. You can respect that, right?"

You bit your fist to muffle the desperate, keening sounds threatening to escape. Your orgasm was right there, right fucking there, a towering wave about to crash. Unfortunate for you, Clark’s control was absolute. 

He eased off,  just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you go hollow with need, the wave receding a fraction and leaving you shaking and whimpering in its aftermath.

"Is this… are you… Right now? The entire call?!" Mark's disbelief cracked into curses. "You’re fucking kidding me."

“No kidding around here,” Clark retorted quickly, “but there had been plenty of that other stuff.”

Before you could cut in with your own sharp retort, Clark leaned up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that was so tender amidst the ridiculous drama unfolding. When he pulled back, he spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, bedroom rumble, and it did something to you that you weren’t ready for. 

"She’s been so good for me. Since she came home. Applying herself, reaching her full potential, or whatever crap you said to her."

That did it. The filthy, possessive praise, the sheer audacity, paired with the feel of him—it was too much. A broken sob escaped your clenched teeth.

"God–please…"

"It’s j-just Clark, sweetheart, you know that," he joked lightly, his middle finger resuming its relentless circles in time with his frantic thrusts, making sure you didn’t spiral alone. "U-use your words. O-on me. Tell me what you need."

“I need—” You couldn’t even keep your voice steady. “I need to come. Please—let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it, I’m so close, so close, pleasepleasebaby—” You babbled, ragged and desperate, half-formed pleas choked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.

On the phone, Mark made a strangled, irritated growl. "I’m…Forget everything I said! Fuck this, fuck your cat, and fuck you,—" he spat your name, useless as his outburst barely phased you. 

"Yeah," Clark grunted, not even glancing toward the phone. "Already on that last one, man. Have a good—"

The call disconnected.

"—night."

The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your ragged panting and the slick, rhythmic sounds of sex.

"He finally hung up," Clark breathed, finally shedding its polite veneer, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. "Now you can come, sweetheart. Come for me. Just me. Lemme feel it one more time."

You thread your sore fingers into his dark hair gently, nuzzling into the crook of his neck again.

"You’re…Fuck, we’re terrible, baby," you whispered through laughter, your walls gripping his shaft like a vice, on the brink of that delicious high again.

"Ah-ah, like I said: I’m done being polite," he corrected. “Hearing you cry over jerks like that for months. Watching you try to force a spark that wasn’t there… it was killing me, sweetheart.”

He punctuated each confession with a deep, rolling thrust.

"I love the way you smell, right here." He buried his face against your temple, inhaling deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.

Thrust.

"I love you when you fell asleep on the couch and pretended you weren’t waiting for me to come home after patrol."

Thrust.

"Gosh, I love the way you always reach for me.” His forehead brushed yours, adoration breaking through the heat. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. All I ever wanted—was to be the only one who made you lose yourself like this. "

Thrust.

You’d shared sweet nothings. Tender confessions. But this—this was devotion spoken in the air between searing kisses, in the control of his hands, in the way he refused to let you fall without catching you.

The last pretense shattered.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—come!" you sobbed, your eyes screwing shut and head lolling to the side. "I’m so close, so close, I'm gonna come, don't stop, Clark–Clark—!"

Your final climax hit you like a tsunami. 

It was a full-body break, pleasure ripping through you in convulsive waves. Your cunt clenched around Clark’s cock in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking him, and you heard yourself crying ‘Clark, I love you,’ over and over, a raw, continuous sound of pure release. You felt a gush of arousal around his thrusting length, the hot spill adding to the already sticky mess from previous rounds between your shaking thighs.

The sensations went on and on, one peak crashing into the next until you were a sobbing, boneless mess in your man’s arms, lazy kisses pressed onto the side of your lips, your cheeks, each eyelid.

Through the haze, you felt Clark's control splinter. 

His rhythm faltered apart, then turned erratic. His arms locked tighter around you, crushing you to his chest as he buried his face back into your neck.  You felt the hot puff of his breath, then the sharp, sweet sting of his teeth at the tender junction of your shoulder, the sensation blooming and melting into pleasure, another bright thread woven into everything that had happened tonight.

"You’re so beautiful," he grunted, muttering a curse soft and heartfelt against your skin. “So incredible—God—”

"N-not God," you panted, smiling against his hair, still shaking. "Just me, baby."

Clark managed a strangled chuckle, hips pistoning up once, twice more, then he stilled, burying his cock to the hilt. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you again, pulse after thick pulse filling you up. A guttural, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest into yours.

For a long moment, you both stay like that—fused together, trembling in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the wet, sticky sounds of your joined bodies. He was still inside you, still hard, still gently pulsing.

“Hey, still okay?” Clark murmured, hands smoothed over you—your sides, your hips, your back—checking in, every touch saying I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

Gingerly, he maneuvered you back to the mattress, careful not to jostle you, careful not to pull out. He shifted onto his side and guided you with him until your back was to his front, the two of you fitting together like this was how you’d always slept, how you’d always belonged. His arm draped heavy over your waist, palm settling low on your stomach.

The faint, residual movement of his cock inside you was a warm reminder of his continued presence, but he went still again the moment you tensed—patient, listening.

“Clark,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“Hm?” His mouth brushed the back of your neck, a barely there kiss.

“Thank you for waiting for me."

You felt his grin against your skin, the one you knew by heart—the deep dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d seen a thousand times across a kitchen counter, over a shared couch cushion, in the doorway when he came home late.

“Always,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made your heart skip. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss you again—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.

“But no more bad dates. No more… anyone else… if that's okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us. If you still want that in the morning.”

You swallowed, blinking hard, because it was so Clark to worry about the morning even now—to make room for your choice even when his body had been sure.

“Just us, Clark,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. “In the morning. Tomorrow night. Every day after.”

His grin was helpless—boyish, bashful—and the sound he made was half-laugh, half-exhale, like relief finally found him. He kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then curled behind you again and held you like he’d been practicing for years.

When morning came, it still felt like a revelation.

A Big Bang.

It felt like Clark’s arm still around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles against your bare skin as though he’d woken up and immediately remembered: mine to love, mine to keep safe.

The phone on the nightstand sat dark and forgotten, and you didn’t reach for it.

Clark's first words in the morning were: “Still okay?”

You turned your head just enough to look at him—blue eyes, rumpled hair, that soft worry he couldn’t hide.

“Still,” you murmured. “Especially now, Clark.”

The way he smiled then was almost too much for your heart. You held his face in your hands, fingers catching on stubble, and kissed him first today.

And when you both finally got up to brush your teeth side by side, bumping hips at the sink like you’d done a million times before, your body and heart knew better.

Because everything with this Clark was new.

.

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

.

"Good lord, Kansas," came Lois's drawl from across the center aisle that separated their desks. "The sewage treatment plant story that exciting?"

"Actually, yeah, Lois, it is," said Clark, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose from where they'd slid down from his excitement. "Turns out the contractor has some sort of personal connection with the city councilor over public works—"

"A corruption case? Seriously? Let me take a look—" Lois started, but Clark just pushed ahead.

"—but that's not what I'm excited about."

Leaning over the top of her cubicle, Lois's eyes narrowed, and like a bloodhound tracing a scent across gentry land, she took the bait. "Okay. So what's got you so thrilled?"

Clark took a deep breath. "The Mighty Crabjoys are going back on tour."

Lois's eyes rolled back so quickly it looked like she might faint.

"Damnit, Kansas, I thought something important had happened."

"This is important!" said Clark. "They've been on a break for nearly a decade. This is a big deal! They're a foundational part of contemporary punk rock."

"The Mightycrab Joys are not punk rock," said Lois. "They're pop-punk at best. You want something real you gotta listen to—"

"They're absolutely punk rock," said Clark. "It's on their Wikipedia page."

"And that makes it credible?"

"Well, they can't just put it there if it's not true—"

"What's not true?" You'd sidled up to Clark's desk, hair and shoulders damp, mascara smudged underneath your lower lashes.

"Wikipedia," said Lois.

"I dunno, don't people edit Wikipedia for free?" you asked, shaking water from your hair and peppering the ground with droplets. "If you're doing something that tedious for the love the game, I'm inclined to trust it."

"Where were you?" asked Clark. "Outside? Didn't you have an umbrella?"

"Nah, forgot it at home this morning and was too close to here before it really started pouring," you said.

"You could've borrowed mine," said Clark, looking around for wherever he'd put his umbrella.

"I hadn't planned on staying out in the rain that long," you said, taking off your jacket and shaking it out. "I needed decent cell service and that stupid rotating planet on the roof interferes with my signal. But SeatFreak ticket lines are actually a circle of Dante's Inferno and made me miss my chance to eat, so now I'm hungry, wet, and ticketless." You turned to Jimmy. "You got any more of those weird protein bars?"

Jimmy opened a drawer and chucked a foil-wrapped square at you, which caught you square in the chest. Fumbling to keep a hold of it with your fingers damp with rain, you peered at the label. "Who the hell is Sergeant Snackers?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said with a shrug.

"Is he a compatriot to Captain Crunch? Hang on, what brand is this?"

"Wait, you were trying to get concert tickets too?" asked Lois. "Who else is gonna be in town?"

"What do you mean, 'who else?'" you asked as you took a wary bite of the protein bar.

"Well, Kansas over here spent his lunch break getting Mighty Crabjoy tickets—"

Your eyes widened and your mouth fell open, and a half-chewed piece of protein bar nearly escaped. You managed to catch the crumb, swallowed hastily, and then, in total disbelief, turned to Clark.

"You. Got. Tickets?"

"Uh, yeah?"

What came out was practically a scream, with just enough restraint to keep Cat from calling security. "You didn't!"

"Um, yeah? I did?" Clark admitted it like a quesiton.

You hucked the rest of the protein bar into a nearby trashcan—the Sergeant tasted terrible—and stalked over to Clark's desk to look at the confirmation page. "I have truly never been more jealous of anyone in my entire life," you breathed as you pulled his mouse towards you, scrolling down to look at his seats.

"Don't tell me you're a Crabjoy fan, too," said Lois, and you could hear the charmed exasperation in her voice without turning to look at her.

"Fan, lover, would-be roadie," you said, squinting at the screen. "China Hutch Promise was the first album I ever bought with my own money. I'm in it for life." You spotted where Clark's seats were and immediately groaned.

"You're practically front row at The Armory!" You turned to look at him, and Clark's face was so close you could see the beginnings of stubble growing out along his jawline. "That venue is incredible. I'm gonna kill you."

You turned back to the screen, scrolling up and down the page as an act of fantasy until Clark said simply, "Do you want to come with me?"

You turned back to him, eyes wide. "You bought two tickets," you said. "Don't you have someone in mind you wanted to go with?"

"No one in particular," he said. "You have to buy them in sets of two, and I figured I'd find someone or just resell the other one—"

"Are you serious?" you asked, almost breathless.

"Well, yeah," he said, a little confused. "I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't."

"Clark!" you screamed, and this time Cat did look around with a started glance from her desk as you clutched Clark's forearms in excitement. "Light of my life, purveyor of perfect music taste! Ugh, I'm so thrilled I could kiss you!" You missed the blush that bloomed across his cheeks and across the tops of his ears as you pulled out your phone. "I gotta text my brother and see if he still has the sweatshirt with their album cover on it."

"Hope you guys have fun," said Lois, dropping back into her chair. "Those guys suck, but happy you're happy."

Neither Clark nor you paid her any mind.

"How much do I owe you?" you asked, looking back up at Clark with an expression so utterly joyful he couldn't help but grin.

"My treat," he said, and something about his dimpled smile conjured a picture in your head you could see almost outlined in Sharpie—a younger version of him, awkward and not quite as filled out in a band tee shirt and too-short jeans listening to "Record Store Redux" on repeat. The kind of boy you would have liked to share headphones with while walking to fourth period, forced to stand too close to avoid the cord getting ripped out from under you. The kind of image that made your chest feel warm, and the realization that such a thought was probably best examined later.

"Then I'm buying you dinner," you said quickly. "And merch! Whatever you want—a tee shirt, a vinyl, a tee shirt and vinyl. Gentlewoman's agreement."

You stuck out your arm for a handshake and Clark took it, his fingers far more gentle than you'd thought they'd be given his massive size. You gave his hand a firm tug, nodding in your best impersonation of the Monopoly Man sans-top hat and Clark did the same.

"Alright—I'm gonna go get something somewhat edible out of the vending machine and get back to work," you said, turning towards the kitchen. "But as soon as I'm done with my next draft, we're talking details, Kent!"

When you were out of earshot, Jimmy shot a knowing glance at Clark before turning back to his computer.

"What?" asked Clark, catching his friend's particuarly smug expression.

"You're a terrible actor."

"What do you—"

"She's got a sticker with the lyrics to 'Street Light Serenade' at her desk," said Jimmy, flicking a glance over his shoulder to Clark. "Wasn't that one of their early singles?"

Clark's fading blush returned with a vengeance.

"Okay, I admit, I knew she liked them," said Clark. "But it wasn't a trick! I just figured she'd get tickets too, and then I could be like, 'Wow, I also got tickets, wouldn't it be neat if we went together—'"

"Clark!" said Jimmy, throwing up his hands. "It's all good! It was actually a really solid plan. Now you'll be standing next to her when they play that one song—what was it called? The one they used for all the slow dances in middle school—"

"'Lullabies for a Lonely Autumn,'" Clark said automatically.

"Yeah, that one," said Jimmy, his smirk growing wider. "And she said she could kiss you. Feel like you could really capitalize on that."

A shout from Perry's office crashed through the bullpen.

"Kent! You get a response from Councilwoman Haber's office?"

"No, not yet, sir!" called Clark.

"Then sit your ass down and get me a comment," he said before shutting his door once more.

Clark breathed out a sigh of relief and sank into his chair just as you came back from the kitchen. He caught the sound of you humming the bridge to one of China Hutch Promise's bonus tracks as you walked past him, crinkling your eyes in a smile as you headed back to your own desk, a rather sad looking turkey sandwich in your hand. He smiled back.

"Good lord, Kansas," came Lois's drawl from across the center aisle that separated their desks. "The sewage treatment plant story that exciting?"

"Actually, yeah, Lois, it is," said Clark, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose from where they'd slid down from his excitement. "Turns out the contractor has some sort of personal connection with the city councilor over public works—"

"A corruption case? Seriously? Let me take a look—" Lois started, but Clark just pushed ahead.

"—but that's not what I'm excited about."

Leaning over the top of her cubicle, Lois's eyes narrowed, and like a bloodhound tracing a scent across gentry land, she took the bait. "Okay. So what's got you so thrilled?"

Clark took a deep breath. "The Mighty Crabjoys are going back on tour."

Lois's eyes rolled back so quickly it looked like she might faint.

"Damnit, Kansas, I thought something important had happened."

"This is important!" said Clark. "They've been on a break for nearly a decade. This is a big deal! They're a foundational part of contemporary punk rock."

"The Mightycrab Joys are not punk rock," said Lois. "They're pop-punk at best. You want something real you gotta listen to—"

"They're absolutely punk rock," said Clark. "It's on their Wikipedia page."

"And that makes it credible?"

"Well, they can't just put it there if it's not true—"

"What's not true?" You'd sidled up to Clark's desk, hair and shoulders damp, mascara smudged underneath your lower lashes.

"Wikipedia," said Lois.

"I dunno, don't people edit Wikipedia for free?" you asked, shaking water from your hair and peppering the ground with droplets. "If you're doing something that tedious for the love the game, I'm inclined to trust it."

"Where were you?" asked Clark. "Outside? Didn't you have an umbrella?"

"Nah, forgot it at home this morning and was too close to here before it really started pouring," you said.

"You could've borrowed mine," said Clark, looking around for wherever he'd put his umbrella.

"I hadn't planned on staying out in the rain that long," you said, taking off your jacket and shaking it out. "I needed decent cell service and that stupid rotating planet on the roof interferes with my signal. But SeatFreak ticket lines are actually a circle of Dante's Inferno and made me miss my chance to eat, so now I'm hungry, wet, and ticketless." You turned to Jimmy. "You got any more of those weird protein bars?"

Jimmy opened a drawer and chucked a foil-wrapped square at you, which caught you square in the chest. Fumbling to keep a hold of it with your fingers damp with rain, you peered at the label. "Who the hell is Sergeant Snackers?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said with a shrug.

"Is he a compatriot to Captain Crunch? Hang on, what brand is this?"

"Wait, you were trying to get concert tickets too?" asked Lois. "Who else is gonna be in town?"

"What do you mean, 'who else?'" you asked as you took a wary bite of the protein bar.

"Well, Kansas over here spent his lunch break getting Mighty Crabjoy tickets—"

Your eyes widened and your mouth fell open, and a half-chewed piece of protein bar nearly escaped. You managed to catch the crumb, swallowed hastily, and then, in total disbelief, turned to Clark.

"You. Got. Tickets?"

"Uh, yeah?"

What came out was practically a scream, with just enough restraint to keep Cat from calling security. "You didn't!"

"Um, yeah? I did?" Clark admitted it like a quesiton.

You hucked the rest of the protein bar into a nearby trashcan—the Sergeant tasted terrible—and stalked over to Clark's desk to look at the confirmation page. "I have truly never been more jealous of anyone in my entire life," you breathed as you pulled his mouse towards you, scrolling down to look at his seats.

"Don't tell me you're a Crabjoy fan, too," said Lois, and you could hear the charmed exasperation in her voice without turning to look at her.

"Fan, lover, would-be roadie," you said, squinting at the screen. "China Hutch Promise was the first album I ever bought with my own money. I'm in it for life." You spotted where Clark's seats were and immediately groaned.

"You're practically front row at The Armory!" You turned to look at him, and Clark's face was so close you could see the beginnings of stubble growing out along his jawline. "That venue is incredible. I'm gonna kill you."

You turned back to the screen, scrolling up and down the page as an act of fantasy until Clark said simply, "Do you want to come with me?"

You turned back to him, eyes wide. "You bought two tickets," you said. "Don't you have someone in mind you wanted to go with?"

"No one in particular," he said. "You have to buy them in sets of two, and I figured I'd find someone or just resell the other one—"

"Are you serious?" you asked, almost breathless.

"Well, yeah," he said, a little confused. "I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't."

"Clark!" you screamed, and this time Cat did look around with a started glance from her desk as you clutched Clark's forearms in excitement. "Light of my life, purveyor of perfect music taste! Ugh, I'm so thrilled I could kiss you!" You missed the blush that bloomed across his cheeks and across the tops of his ears as you pulled out your phone. "I gotta text my brother and see if he still has the sweatshirt with their album cover on it."

"Hope you guys have fun," said Lois, dropping back into her chair. "Those guys suck, but happy you're happy."

Neither Clark nor you paid her any mind.

"How much do I owe you?" you asked, looking back up at Clark with an expression so utterly joyful he couldn't help but grin.

"My treat," he said, and something about his dimpled smile conjured a picture in your head you could see almost outlined in Sharpie—a younger version of him, awkward and not quite as filled out in a band tee shirt and too-short jeans listening to "Record Store Redux" on repeat. The kind of boy you would have liked to share headphones with while walking to fourth period, forced to stand too close to avoid the cord getting ripped out from under you. The kind of image that made your chest feel warm, and the realization that such a thought was probably best examined later.

"Then I'm buying you dinner," you said quickly. "And merch! Whatever you want—a tee shirt, a vinyl, a tee shirt and vinyl. Gentlewoman's agreement."

You stuck out your arm for a handshake and Clark took it, his fingers far more gentle than you'd thought they'd be given his massive size. You gave his hand a firm tug, nodding in your best impersonation of the Monopoly Man sans-top hat and Clark did the same.

"Alright—I'm gonna go get something somewhat edible out of the vending machine and get back to work," you said, turning towards the kitchen. "But as soon as I'm done with my next draft, we're talking details, Kent!"

When you were out of earshot, Jimmy shot a knowing glance at Clark before turning back to his computer.

"What?" asked Clark, catching his friend's particuarly smug expression.

"You're a terrible actor."

"What do you—"

"She's got a sticker with the lyrics to 'Street Light Serenade' at her desk," said Jimmy, flicking a glance over his shoulder to Clark. "Wasn't that one of their early singles?"

Clark's fading blush returned with a vengeance.

"Okay, I admit, I knew she liked them," said Clark. "But it wasn't a trick! I just figured she'd get tickets too, and then I could be like, 'Wow, I also got tickets, wouldn't it be neat if we went together—'"

"Clark!" said Jimmy, throwing up his hands. "It's all good! It was actually a really solid plan. Now you'll be standing next to her when they play that one song—what was it called? The one they used for all the slow dances in middle school—"

"'Lullabies for a Lonely Autumn,'" Clark said automatically.

"Yeah, that one," said Jimmy, his smirk growing wider. "And she said she could kiss you. Feel like you could really capitalize on that."

A shout from Perry's office crashed through the bullpen.

"Kent! You get a response from Councilwoman Haber's office?"

"No, not yet, sir!" called Clark.

"Then sit your ass down and get me a comment," he said before shutting his door once more.

Clark breathed out a sigh of relief and sank into his chair just as you came back from the kitchen. He caught the sound of you humming the bridge to one of China Hutch Promise's bonus tracks as you walked past him, crinkling your eyes in a smile as you headed back to your own desk, a rather sad looking turkey sandwich in your hand. He smiled back.