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There were supposed to be no secrets between you and Clark. He was your best friend, but you wished he were more than that. Your undying love for him wasn’t the only thing you kept behind your teeth, though. Just like him, you also had a double life. Not nearly as cool as his, but still, some people knew you as an average journalist, and others as an erotica writer, who was experiencing a horrible writer's block. Good thing Clark was always willing to help. [ 19.4k ]
Includes afab female reader; she’s a writer/author; she has a pen name but it’s only mentioned a four times; suicide jokes; self deprecating thoughts; so much pining and yearning; little angst; food as love language; jealousy; dry humping; p in v unprotected sex; insane amount of kisses like srsly; idiots in love; basically wholesome porn with a lot of plot <3; not beta read. happy reading! mwahhh 💋
PLAYLIST AND MOODBOARD
“You’re scaring me.” Clark entered your apartment like it were his home. It wasn’t that far from it, considering how much time he spent here. “Are you sick?”
He had that look, like he was genuinely fearing for your life.
“What? No! No, I’m not sick.” You waved your hands in the air as if trying to erase what he’d just said.
His chest heaved out with a sigh of relief. He plopped down on your couch.
“Then what is it?”
This was so stupid, but calling him truly was a cry for help, and he was the only person who could help you. The only person you trusted to help you with this.
You sat next to him, facing him fully. He looked at you wide-eyed.
“I’m… gonna tell you something about me,” you started. “Something nobody knows.”
“Okay?” He mirrored you, and your knees grazed together for a second. It sent instant heart-shaped tingles all over.
You moved it away.
“And I need you not to judge me because I really need you to help me,” you continued.
“I won’t.” Clark nodded. “And I will, respectively.”
You breathed in and closed your eyes briefly, and at a slow pace, you asked him first:
“Do you remember that book every woman at the office was talking about last summer?”
He tore his gaze away from you and looked up at the ceiling in deep thought.
“Over Those Hills,” he said after a moment and you nodded. You didn’t expect him to remember the title. “What about it?”
You gulped. ‘Over Those Hills’ was the second book you’d published, but the first one to hit the New York Times best seller. The one that started to pay your bills soon after it was picked up by an agent.
“I wrote it,” you finally confessed.
For five seconds, his face remained motionless, then his cute dimples appeared in all of their glory, and an under-his-breath laugh rolled from his chest. You adored those dimples. Sometimes, you wished you had the power to make yourself tiny just so you could tuck yourself in one of them and make it your home forever.
“Is that it?” he said through another small laugh.
“Clark…”
“That’s your secret?”
“Yes!” He laughed heartily then. You nudged his arm, but you couldn't help but laugh, too. That laugh gave you a reason to look at the bright side of things when everything seemed grey. “Don’t mock me!”
“I’m not!” he raised his palms in self-defense. “I’m not, I promise, I just… It was a really good book. Very explicit, but so good.”
He read it?!
“You read it?!”
“Everyone was talking about it! I had to!”
You rose from the couch and paced behind it so he wouldn’t look at you. This was such a bad idea. He knew about the filthy things you wrote about, and if he found it hilarious that you were the one who wrote that book, what you were about to ask him was probably going to make him hysterical.
“So you’re a ghost writer,” he added more calmly now.
“No? I just have a secret identity.”
“You are Sierra Oz?”
“Yes!”
He shifted to the other side to look at you. His long arm rested on the back of the couch, and that perfectly ironed dress shirt stretched over his biceps and chest. Those small buttons were about to burst open.
“I still don’t understand what you need help with.”
Your eyes met his gaze again. That smug look was still etched on his face.
“I don’t want your help anymore.”
“Oh, come on!”
He stood up, attempting to reach your side, but you brushed past him and crossed your living room into your kitchen. His steps were right behind you.
“You’re gonna keep bugging me,” you said over your shoulder.
“Of course I’m gonna bug you,” he said. “It’s what I do best, bug you to no end.” As you didn’t answer or look at him, he softened his voice. “Tell me.”
You turned around, leaned your butt on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, and folded your arms over your chest. You wanted to protect yourself as much as you could. Not because you feared he’d hurt you with his reaction—he’d never do anything to purposely harm you—but you were about to reveal an insecurity.
You glanced down at your feet.
“I’ve been on deadline for my third book for the last three weeks,” you began, “I… I’m writing from my male character’s point of view and… I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He didn’t answer, and you dared to look up at him. His brows raised with curiosity.
“I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific about what you need help with.”
This was so mortifying.
“I need your… opinion, I guess, or your experience, or something, anything, really, so I can write the sex scenes accurately from his point of view.”
His smile dropped, and an adorable shade of pink rushed to his cheeks.
“Oh, I see now.” His brows knitted together, and his eyes got lost somewhere with a faraway look.
“Yeah… and I understand if you don’t want to since we’ve never talked about sex before and all.”
Mostly because your lack of experience with men was very well known by people at the office. You weren’t a virgin, but you might as well be one, considering the last time you were touched by a man was over three years ago. By choice, though.
“The topic hasn’t come up,” he replied with a shrug and tone that spread warmth all over you, and you weren’t that nervous anymore. “What do you wanna know?”
You sighed and uncrossed your limbs. He had the ability to turn everything that caused you anxiety into balm.
“It’s not that I want to know something in particular. I just need help. I don’t even know how to start or where to start.”
After a moment, he suggested, “I could read what you have so far and we can go from there?”
It was around forty-five thousand words, and he was a fast reader, so while you handed him your laptop with your manuscript, a cup of hot cocoa, and made him settle on the couch to read it, you went back to the kitchen to bake something. Just so your mind would be occupied while in the other room, Clark would be reading a first draft, which was way more intimate than anything you two have ever done together.
He’d been your best friend for the past two and a half years, but he didn’t know about your hobby. You mentioned your writing all the time, and the obvious thing to assume was your work articles, and you never bothered to clarify that you were writing novel-length stories. It was something so sacred to you that not even Clark could know. You went there—magic pocket universes in your mind—when you needed it the most.
Like when he started dating Lois.
Before her, you were convinced your love for Clark was entirely platonic, despite him being the most gorgeous man you’d ever laid your eyes on. And it was because you admired him. He was Superman. You wanted to be him. So yeah, it was easy to convince yourself you didn’t love him like that.
But when she came around, and he didn’t have much time to spend with you, you realized, that deep admiration was closer to devotion. He was more than just a cool guy who one day decided to become your friend. He was your sun, but you weren’t his.
Lois was.
You decided to drift away from him out of respect for her, which made you crave him, and found a way to still have him by writing a character that was just like him. You reached a peak of creativity while they were together. Almost a year of endless writing.
Now, ever since he was single again, you’ve been experiencing writer’s block. You refused to relate it to him being single again, but who were you kidding? He was eating your brain. He occupied every thought, and now that he had more time to be your friend, you spent it all with him rather than writing, which was awful.
You loved writing, but you loved him more.
By the time the salted caramel brownies were in the oven, you started tidying up the mess you’d made, and like always, you hated your past self for not tidying up as you went. It was much easier, but no, you always stacked the mess until the very end.
“What’s that smell?” Clark’s warm voice entered the kitchen.
You turned around and found him leaning on the door frame with his arms folded over his chest. His broad shoulders strained against his dress shirt, and his smile wasn’t really on his lips but in his kind eyes.
“Your favorite.” You dusted your hands on your apron. “You read it already?”
He walked up to you while nodding. “You stopped just when the best was coming.”
You rolled your eyes at him and went back to putting everything in the sink. Did he just make a pun?
“I’m scared to even attempt to write that.”
One step closer and he was right next to you. He didn’t understand personal space with you, and you didn’t care. You wanted him this close for as long as he decided.
“Why did you choose to write from Wesley’s point of view to begin with?”
You sighed in deep thought.
“I first came up with the character, then his whole backstory unfolded. Wes is… he has so much to say. It’s his story. It has to be from his point of view.”
“He chose you,” he said, like he perfectly understood the feeling.
Some silence dropped light between you two. He never forced words out of you, and you never felt the need to fill in the quiet moments with him. You believed that words were easily manipulated; silence was genuine by nature.
So while you hand-washed your utensils, he dried them and put them back in their drawers and cabinets. He knew where everything was by heart.
“Are you really not impressed that I also have a secret identity?” You had to ask after a moment.
“You’re exactly the kind of girl who’d have this kind of interest,” he replied without hesitation.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He draped the kitchen cloth over his shoulder.
“You… You show yourself as shy and as someone who doesn’t have much to say in a room full of people, so it makes sense that your mind is full of universes.”
You took off your apron and dried your hands with it while sighing. It wasn’t good or bad, but the way he said it—with a knowing smile—made it sound like a compliment. Anything that came out of his mouth sounded like a compliment, really.
“Just figure out a way so I can help you, and I’ll do my best,” Clark said.
Suddenly, this—talking about sex with Clark—felt like the worst scenario you and he could be in. Your whole body gained temperature at once. You cleared your throat and made yourself busy by preparing the teapot with some tea leaves, facing away from him so he couldn’t see how flustered this whole situation made you.
“I guess you could answer some questions about your experiences.”
“Uh… Sure.” His voice grew slightly high-pitched. Your mind raced with every scenario that had kept you away from writing. All of them involved words that had never come out of your mouth in front of him. After a moment, he pressed, “Like?”
You winced and twisted on the inside, then, after the teapot was filled, said, “I don’t know, tell me what the vagina feels like or something.”
More heat spread all over. You sensed how he stiffened behind you.
“That’s… very specific.”
“Well, yeah. I’m a very explicit writer, remember?” You said with a hint of playful hostility. “It can help if you go back to your most recent experience, I guess.”
You caught his reflection on the window in front of you. He rubbed a palm over his chin.
“I don’t think I can talk about my experience with Lois.”
Because the wound was still too fresh, you thought. You filled a stovetop kettle with water and put it on high heat before facing him again.
“I don’t mind,” you shrugged, as if just the mere thought of it didn’t make you want to throw up. “It’s for research.”
He half-shook his head. “I-”
“Then, about some other experience with another person.”
“That was… ages ago,” he laughed a little. His first girlfriend, you easily assumed, the one he had after high school and the one who broke his heart a year later. “I don’t even remember.”
A lump formed on your throat and it turned into a cold ice cube as you swallowed it. A part of you wished he had more women in his life, that way the fact that Lois was his second girlfriend ever wouldn’t hurt this much.
“How else are you supposed to help me, then?” You played it cool.
Guilt pinched his brows together.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d ask me about specific experiences.”
“You’re making me sound like a creep. I don’t want you to tell me about how you had sex. I just need to know what you felt. Physically.”
“I-” his mouth hung open and let a long heartbeat pass. “You could ask Jimmy?”
The kettle rattled behind you and gradually, it started to whistle.
“Yeah, I might ask him to have sex, too,” you said as a joke, and of course, he didn’t read it that way.
“What?!”
“Yeah, I could use a live narration,” you kept it going. “I could take notes in the moment. That’d be waaaay easier. I could even voice record it so it—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because… he’s my best buddy. I don’t want to see you two and know you… had sex.”
“Dude, if you’re not willing to help me-”
“I am!” He said loudly over the ever-growing high-pitched whistle.
Wheee!
“No, you’re not! You’re not willing to tell me about your experiences, which is totally understandable so-”
“Why couldn’t you ask me to have sex?!”
“I- what?”
“I—” Wheeeee! “Can you turn that thing off?!” He gestured with his hand, exasperated.
Heat rushed to your face and ears. You reached behind you and blindly turned the stove off.
Why would he even suggest that? He was Clark. He wasn’t someone who did things casually or without purpose and passion sprinkled here and there. He just confessed that Lois was one of the two people he’s slept with.
He tore his eyes away but moved his hands in the air as he passionately explained: “Y-you’re willing to have sex with Jimmy for research but not with me?”
“Because we’re friends!” You shot right back.
“Exactly!”
You opened the top cabinet to hide behind the door, and took two mugs, placing them over the counter rather roughly. You breathed out to release the exasperation. You and him always had discussions out of the smallest things. He looked like a mad little bunny when he was angry, so sometimes you pissed him off on purpose.
This time, though, nothing about how quickly this conversation escalated was on purpose.
“I’m making myself some tea,” you said, softening your voice.
“I can see that.”
“This is my way of asking you if you want some too.”
Though he didn’t reply, you poured tea into both cups and added a teaspoon of honey in his. He replied with a gentle thanks as you handed him his mug.
“Us, being friends, is exactly why we shouldn’t have sex,” you said.
He did that face—a suppressed smile, raised brows and a half-nod—like he understood your point but didn’t necessarily agree.
“I think the complete opposite.”
“Clearly.”
“I’d do anything to help you. It’d be research. Homework.”
You bit back a smile and looked at your feet once again. He was being too casual about his idea, and the fact that he thought sex with you was a good idea unlocked a brand new feeling. Something between rainbows and raging fear with a pinch of endearment.
“So, you, asking me to have sex with you, is you being a good superhero?”
“Sure.”
You stifled a sigh.
Sex with Clark was part of your dreams and daydreams, and you wondered. Not what it’d be like precisely (because you didn’t doubt for a second he was good at it), but you what it would do to your friendship. Every hypothetical ending of that daydream lead to the end of your most precious friendship.
And you couldn’t risk that.
“I’d rather jump off the Daily’s rooftop,” you said.
“I’d catch you halfway.”
“Oh, I know that!”
You brushed past him and stomped your way to your balcony, with him following you like your shadow.
You were suffocating in your own thoughts.
“Wow, so you’d rather jump off a building than have sex with me, but you’d do it with Jimmy without a hint of hesitation?”
Your balcony wasn’t as high as the Daily Planet’s rooftop, but still, the fall would save you from answering the truth.
It was very inconvenient having your desk right across from Clark’s.
He was distracting when he pretended to be a normal human being. He was clumsy, said too many sorrys, he slouched, and he was cocky when it came to his work as a journalist (rightfully so, by the way). And even when he wasn’t doing or saying anything, he had your attention.
Like right now.
A crease dipped between his eyebrows as his fingers persistently clacked over the keyboard. He was as immersed in his own work as you were in him.
You sensed a strong glare from somewhere and your eyes found it behind him, past his shoulder. There was Lois, looking at you. She gave you a knowing smile with a nod and settled back on her desk.
You knew she knew how you felt about Clark. Not because you’ve told her, but because you lived by the saying: a girl always knows. You bet a smart and observant woman like her could easily tell, despite your efforts not making it obvious.
You shook the thought away, dropping your gaze back to your computer screen, and changed to the incognito tab where a blank document haunted you. The text cursor flickered like it was mocking you. You knew better than to work on your book during working hours and on your work computer, but every second counted now, even if you weren’t doing any writing, looking at the empty page was at least something.
Right?
“Are you writing?” Clark whispered rather loudly from his seat.
“Yes, I’m writing,” you shout-whispered.
He pulled himself up with his chair next to you and leaned forward to your screen, scrunching up his nose to adjust his glasses.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Go away!” You said through laughter, pushing him by his shoulder.
He was much (much) stronger than you, so he didn’t move an inch, and you only managed to push yourself away on your chair. You bumped into someone.
“Whoa.” Jimmy stopped you from sliding even more. “Easy there.”
A light bulb lit up above your head then.
“Oh, hey!” You stood up and walked with him to the coffee station, giving Clark one glance over your shoulder.
Last night’s conversation didn’t lead to your confession, of course. Instead, you kept the idea of sleeping with Jimmy going and freed Clark from being your helper to your writer’s block. Seeing him evidently annoyed by the idea, prompted you to make it a personal challenge to give Jimmy more attention than ever before. Just to see what else Clark would do. You wanted to think he’d gotten jealous at your hypothetical proposal to Jimmy, but it was most likely his nature to want to keep you away from anything that could hurt you.
There wasn’t anything in particular about Jimmy that could possibly hurt you, though. You two didn’t click as friends, so even if you tried to make a move on him, you believed he would politely ignore you. He was a nice guy and had Clark in common, and that was it.
Still, as you reached his side, you asked him to pour you some coffee, and behaved like every other girl here who had a crush on him, knowing damn well Clark’s eyes were on you. He could melt your skull if he decided to use his heat vision.
You forgot all about personal space and got too close to Jimmy, giving him a toothy smile, and he gave you a quick once-over, as if he’d sensed how forced your nearness was. There was his polite way of rejecting you.
“O-kay, then.” You took half a step back and brought your mug up to your lips.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark’s familiar tall and broad figure approaching you in long strides. He squeezed himself between you and Jimmy with a timid excuse me and reached for the coffee pot.
As he lingered there, wordlessly, you asked him, “Can I help you with something?”
“Just… making myself some coffee.” He shrugged.
Jimmy sipped on his steaming coffee loudly. “Will you guys make it tomorrow night?”
You brushed past Clark and stood on Jimmy’s other side. “What’s tomorrow night?”
“It’s his birthday,” Clark said, sipping on his coffee. His glasses fogged up.
“I know it’s his birthday. I just didn’t know there was a party,” you told Jimmy.
“There wasn’t one until—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty minutes ago. So this is me—” he gestured at himself “—inviting you two.”
“Aw, thanks!” You leaned your hip on the counter and faced him fully, scanning his face like you wanted to count every freckle. “Why celebrate it on a weekday, though?”
Clark cleared his throat just because. You picked a non-existent lint from Jimmy’s collar.
“I’m hoping not everyone can make it.” Jimmy glanced down at your hand with apparent disgust.
“Then why invite people you don’t want there?”
He subtly backed away from you.
“I don’t want to offend anybody.”
“You can’t be everyone’s friend, Jimmy,” you said.
“Leave him be,” Clark countered. “I get what you mean, man.”
“I know you do.” Jimmy clapped a hand over Clark’s shoulder and said, already on his way back to his desk, “Let me know if you guys will make it. I need to know how much booze to buy.”
We will! You and Clark replied at the same time, even when neither of you was much of an alcohol lover.
You rolled your eyes at him and asked between clenched teeth:
“Dude, what is your problem?”
“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t about to ask him to have sex with you, is all,” he replied under his breath.
“I wasn’t,” you shot back, and crossed the bullpen to your desk. “If I did, I wouldn’t do it in front of everybody. I may ask him tomorrow night, at his birthday party. Maybe I could get there empty-handed, with just a red shiny bow on my butt and offer myself as a gift. It’d be a win-win.”
A rare frown pinched his brows ever so slightly and his lips set into a straight line.
“Stop it.”
Poking the bear was working.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
Clark paused and tore his gaze away for a moment. “It doesn’t bother me. You both are two of my favorite people, but you’re-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m too pure for someone like him.”
”Well, now I’m not so sure about that, considering what you write about-”
“At— shhh!” You looked around to make sure no one heard that first part. Everyone was doing their own thing. “Keep it down, superm—”
He clasped a hand over your mouth and his eyes widened. He was gentle while doing so, and something between determination and surprise balanced between those eyes. As if he’d been taken aback by his reaction, yet he didn’t withdraw his hand. Somehow, he’d cornered you against the wall, attempting to hide you from the world, and suddenly the everyday office noise faded. Like he’d put you in a bubble where only you and him existed.
It melted you—his unexpected touch, his eyes from this up close, his sudden force—and he slowly uncovered your mouth, but his eyes behind his glasses were still telling you to stop talking. You’d called him Superman with distracted people around many times before, and he never acted this way.
As soon as your mouth was fully freed, you breathed in through your nose to cool yourself. You needed an ice bath to get rid of that heat, but you still managed to reply, so sure:
“What if I told you he’s exactly my type?”
His jaw clenched. “I’d say you are lying.”
“You don’t even know what my type is.”
“Yeah, I do,” he scoffed. “Dev from the mail room. Great guy.”
You scoffed even harder. ”What makes you think he’s my type?”
Dev wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was definitely intriguing, and if Jimmy didn’t exist, girls here would surely stop by the mail room more often.
“He’s tall and generous and… has kind eyes.”
“If you believe that’s all it takes from someone to be my type, you’d also be my type, don’t you think?”
His face lit up. “You think I have kind eyes?”
You stifled an incoming sigh and burst the bubble by making your way to the vending machine. He was predictable at this point, so you replied over your shoulder:
“Clark, you are the epitome of kindness. Everything about you is kind.”
There was something romantic about the Daily’s rooftop at night.
The skyline lit up by the city lights was tempting to admire, just like a sunset, and you often found yourself here to take them in. To think. To escape the chaos of the office. To get inspired.
You walked closer to the edge and breathed in the evening breeze.
Until last year, this was yours and Clark’s spot. Before Lois. After her, it became the place you visited to escape them.
“You’re not jumping, are you?” Clark’s voice echoed around.
Your eyes fluttered closed and your heart almost leaped from you. He’d followed you there, like the old times.
“It’s no use now that you’re here, is it?” you shot right back teasingly.
His footsteps stopped somewhere behind you. His presence was so strong, even when you couldn’t see him, he felt as impotent as a skyscraper.
“I thought you’d left.” Clark reached your side and you looked up at him briefly. He’d taken off his glasses and tucked them in his shirt front pocket.
“I was about to.”
“You don’t wanna go home?”
Your tongue clicked. “If I do… I would beat myself up for not working on my book and I don’t want to do that to myself. Not tonight, at least.”
He hummed in agreement. After a moment, he said:
“I did some research on Sierra Oz. You could easily make a career out of your writing.”
You chuckled. Heat rushed to your face. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. You can free yourself from Perry for good.”
You’ve thought about it, many times but—
“I fear if I do, I’ll stop enjoying it.”
“Why?”
You sighed.
“Because it’ll become my full-time job, and I don’t want to ruin the magic of writing to escape. I need it to stay as a hobby. As something I come home to. To distract myself from my responsibilities as an adult. My responsible and mature job is being a journalist. With my other writing I allow myself to… dream beyond every wall of insecurity I’ve built while being a journalist.”
A loud and persistent honk filled the brief silence. Clark peeked down the street, surely to make sure everyone was alright.
It was just some impatient guy wanting to turn left.
Clark came back next to you and said, “I wish there was something I could do.”
You pressed your lips together. He truly had offered everything.
“I appreciate you suffering with me through this,” you laughed a little. “And for offering help, as ridiculous as it was.”
“The offer’s still up,” he said, and your stomach fluttered.
“And I still think it’s best if I do it with Jimmy.”
“Don’t do that to me.”
Your head snapped at him.
“I- It’ll make things messy between all of us,” he added.
“Should I download a dating app, then?”
“That’s worse. Meeting strangers can be dangerous, especially men, and… it’s best if you do it with someone you know.”
He was so distressed about it, it was borderline cute. You had to tell him, “Clark, I wasn’t being serious. I wouldn’t… have sex with anyone for research. I just have to be a big girl and push through this rough patch because it happens. I’ll just give myself some time. Step away from the story for a while.”
“Do you have the time to do so?”
“I have time, just not a lot. And if I fail at it,” you sighed, “then it was fun while it lasted.”
Locked out of heaven by Bruno Mars was playing at Jimmy’s house when you arrived.
It looked like a full-on party, which meant his plan of celebrating his birthday on a weekday didn’t work at all. Cat reached for your hand and led the way inside while you squeezed yourselves through the sea of people—grabbed a drink each—and made it to the backyard.
There were even more people here, but at least it was out in the open. Jimmy was sprawled on a lounge chair with four women surrounding him by the pool, touching him and laughing at everything he said. He looked like a king, and it wouldn’t surprise you if at some point in the night a crown popped over his head while one of his girls started feeding him grapes.
You still didn’t understand how he managed to get this many women when Clark was right there… with Lois. Sitting on a bench under fairy lights like they came out right out of a rom-com, where the couple who broke up not long ago were about to give each other a second chance.
Just the mere thought gnawed at your mind and twisted your insides.
You weren’t supposed to be here, watching them rekindle their romance. You were meant to be buried in your couch with your laptop trying to do some writing, even if that also would ruin your peace, it was better than this. You hated how whenever she was near, you had immediate access to all of your insecurities.
Before Lois could catch you staring, you brought your attention back to Cat and forced a smile.
With her, you had the chance to stay a listener. She carried the conversations most times, if not always, which was why she was your better half at parties. You hated talking. Hated small talk. And she didn’t, and always made you feel included even if you didn’t say a word.
So you just laughed and said yeah! and oh my gosh! and nodded while smiling with your eyes at whatever anyone who joined said. The conversations drifted in and out of your brain; your whole focus was on them.
Sometimes you wished you had Clark’s superpowers, just so you could eavesdrop on what they were talking about. Sometimes, you thought he could read your thoughts, too, even when he confessed to you all about being Superman, he told you all about his powers.
It felt like he could. At least with you, because every time, he caught you staring. It wasn’t weird that he did. It was Clark, and he only made some cute faces or smiled at you to acknowledge your presence and went back to his oh-so-interesting conversation with Lois.
At some point in the night, you moved close to the pool and ended up facing Clark and Lois again, and you and he kept locking eyes every once in a while. It became your own language when you decided to drift away from the friendship when he started dating her. You did it to protect yourself from getting more heartbroken, but you could never stop looking at him, and apparently, he couldn’t either.
Cat said your name, and the buzz of the party came back to you.
“Huh?” You looked at her.
“I said, do you think they’re getting back together?” she subtly asked you while looking in Clark and Lois’ direction. She was your better half, but she didn’t know how you felt for him.
You answered a dry I hope so, as if the mere thought didn’t make you want to throw up.
You sipped on your drink to force the words you didn’t truly mean down your throat.
“Like, look at him! He’s so smitten.” She sighed like she was the one in love.
Right as she said that, Clark’s gaze found yours again and held it for what felt like minutes. It singed your skin, and you would’ve caught on fire if a stranger’s arm hadn’t draped over your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Some random guy had approached you. His alcohol breath was radioactive.
“Ew, ew.” You sneaked away from him. “Get him off of me!”
“Don’t even try it.” Cat placed a strong palm over this guy’s chest, but he didn’t back off. “She’s with me.”
“I don’t mind sharin’.” His face split with a creepy smile and almost ate her with his eyes.
“We said Back off.” You pushed him by his shoulder.
Clark’s head snapped in your direction then, and you made eye contact for the hundredth time during the night. His nostrils flared and his lips tensed when he noticed you were uncomfortable.
You were, yet you murmured, “I’m fine.”
There was no need to say it any louder. You knew that as soon as he heard your voice, he selected his focus and could even hear your rapid heartbeat.
Clark nodded once, and brought his attention back to Lois as soon as the guy left.
Your stomach tightened again.
What you felt about them together was beyond jealousy. It was a physical illness. A disease that attacked your chest and stomach and breathing all at once and even if you turned your back to them to avoid seeing them, you could still sense him, like he was part of your DNA.
And when you didn’t feel him close, you became a turmoil of feelings. They were both gone. Did they leave already? Together? Gosh, you needed to sit down. You excused yourself and went inside to grab another drink.
“You okay?”
Lois.
You turned around and forced a smile.
“Hi! Yeah, yeah, I came to get another drink but… they’re all gone.”
“Yeah, Clark noticed the ones you liked were gone, so he’s out there with Jimmy buying some more.”
You weren’t strangers with Lois, but just like with Jimmy, you weren’t friends either. Though you wished you were. She was one of those girls who you found incredibly cool and pretty and you died to be friends with.
Her feet faltered closer. She looked like she was about to say something, and even opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“You want a drink, too?” You asked just to fill in the silence.
“No, I- I just wanted to tell you I’m glad you and Clark are talking again.”
You stared at her with a puzzled face.
“Again? We’ve never stopped talking.”
“I know I meant… like before.” She swallowed thickly. “Before me.”
Oh.
You walked to the fridge to grab something and hide behind the door.
“When we were together,” she continued, “Clark said you’d been drifting away and that made him so sad.”
So she wanted to talk about Clark.
“Yeah,” you replied, lurking mindlessly through the beers. Not your favorite. “I just… people at the office talk, make up things, have made up things about me and Clark, and I didn’t want them to get between you two.”
You picked a random drink and closed the door. You dared to look at her.
“Yeah, I’ve heard some things, and I appreciate you… thinking of us. But it’s not necessary anymore.” What was her point? She traded her weight from one foot to the other and laughed a little when saying, “You guys are soulmates. You’re like his missing rib or something, and I… could never get between that.”
You swallowed thickly. Your drink could burst because of how strongly you were holding it. Lois Lane, the most gorgeous woman at the Daily Planet, the girl you thought (and still think) was the love of Clark’s life, calling you his missing rib was so not expected.
“I don’t understand.”
Lois laughed softly again and tore her eyes away.
“I didn’t think I’ll have to spell it out for you, so I will.” She sighed. “Clark, he… has feelings for you.”
A laugh lurched out of you. Right there on her face like she’d said the funniest joke, but she didn’t, though she kept smiling. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A smile that wiped yours away a second later.
“When his dad had the heart attack,” she continued, “he didn’t call me.”
He’d called you, at two am and with a shaky voice, asked you to come with him to his hometown because Pa was in the hospital, and he didn’t think he could be strong enough in front of Ma if something horrible happened.
“You were already broken up then,” you merely replied.
“I know, but if the same thing had happened to me, I would’ve called him, even when we were broken up. I would’ve called him, and… he didn’t call me.”
You pressed your lips together as guilt washed over you.
“I’m his best friend, and he’s mine. And… that was it. He just needed someone, and he couldn’t reach out to you because he was still hurt.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t just need someone. He needed you.”
You breathed in deep through your nose.
“I don’t see the point of this, Lois.”
“It’s… girl code. I’m doing this for the same reason you stepped away when we were together. We didn’t have to agree to it, but you knew it was the right thing.” She sighed. “This is me doing the right thing.”
You opened the beer can and slurped on it. It tasted like crap.
“Does he know about this?”
“Not exactly. But I had this same conversation with him. Just… from his perspective.”
“So you told him, if he ever wanted to have something with me, you were okay with it.”
“He asked me, if I would be okay if, at some point, you and he started to be more than friends.”
This was too much nonsense out of nowhere, but you couldn’t help but instantly daydream of that. Of a world where you and he were something more than just friends.
Had he started the conversation? When did he start to feel this way? Was this even true? And if it was, why would she tell you first and not him?
“Are you still in love with him?” You had to ask.
Another smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but she squared her shoulders like nothing could break her.
“I loved him,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I was in love with him. And I’m sure he felt the same way. He loved me, but he wasn’t in love with me.”
Laughter burst from the entrance and gradually got closer to the kitchen—Jimmy and Clark and some other guys yelling about who knew what. Lois went to the fridge and got her own drink and just like that, the conversation was over, and she fled before Clark showed up with a six pack of your favorite crispy drink.
You were still there, frozen by every word Lois said.
When you locked eyes with Clark, his dimples creased softly, and without a word, he approached you. He took the beer out of your hand to hand you your new drink with the other.
Your fingertips brushed together. Your eyes still lingered.
“Are you okay?” Clark asked.
No. What Lois said messed with your head and, worse, gave you hope. You were probably imagining that glimmer in his eyes.
“I’m…” you frowned confused. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
You sneaked out of there before he could ask more questions and squeezed yourself between the people up the stairs, crossing the hall into the bathroom. Clark called your name behind you, which normally made you turn on your heels without a doubt. Now, you only walked faster.
Never as fast as him.
He got inside with you and shut the door behind him
“You sure you’re okay?” He asked.
His scent enveloped you whole.
“This is a very tiny bathroom.” You backed up, frowning at him like a child. Your back hit the cold tiles. “I need to pee.”
He frowned back at you. Not mad, but asking you something.
“This one’s new.” He tugged at the sleeve of your blouse and grazed your palm with his knuckles.
“No?” You yanked your hand away. “I just don’t wear it that often.”
His face softened, and he flashed you an incredulous smile. “You’re acting so strange right now.”
You sighed. “I just… I want to leave, is all.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to leave just because I leave. We didn’t even arrive together.”
“And I wanna leave with you. We haven’t talked all night.”
“You’ve been… busy.” You looked away.
Busy talking with Lois and looking at her and laughing with her. Were they talking about you? About his feelings for you?
“I’m never busy when it comes to you,” he replied without hesitation.
“I don’t believe you,” you shot back.
You didn’t believe her.
“Whoa, hey, why are you being like this? What do you mean?”
“Nothing! I just… need to pee.”
“You’re drifting away from me again.” His tone turned as firm as a stone then.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is how you behave when you want to pull away from me.”
You folded your arms over your chest. “I never want to pull away from you.”
“But you have!”
“Because you were dating someone! I didn’t want to… intrude, and now you’re talking to her again so I-”
Clark almost pounced on you, both of his hands cradling each side of your face, so determined you thought he was about to kiss you, but all he did was press his forehead to yours. Your noses bumped together, and your heart started to bang against your chest, begging to leap out and kiss his own.
“I’m not talking to her again,” he murmured. “Not like that.”
Your breathing shook. Why couldn’t you believe him? He wouldn’t lie to you.
“Don’t pull away from me again. Please,” he whispered.
You would never pull away from him the way you once did. Even if it brought your writing spark back.
All you managed to reply to his heartfelt plea was a breathless ‘Okay’.
What else were you supposed to say?
He nuzzled his nose to your temple for a moment, then placed a barely-there kiss before leaving you there with your heart going wild.
You’d never been this confused because of something Clark did.
You were no stranger to his touch. Casual touch. A hand on your upper back when walking you out of a place; his arm brushing yours when standing close. His nearness was normal, but your noses have never touched. His hands have only cradled your face once before. When you had a panic attack, and he figured the only way to ground you was by holding your face so you’d look at nothing but him as he guided your breathing and steadied your heart.
It worked that time.
Tonight, that same touch was the reason your hands were shaking.
Don’t pull away from me again, please.
You splashed your face with cold water and let all your feelings go down the drain, clearing yourself of any emotion, and practiced your smile in the mirror a few times before returning to the party.
Cat was nowhere in sight, and the only person you knew—besides Jimmy, who was still surrounded by women—was Clark, who unfortunately was all alone now, in that same bench under fairy lights. So available, like he was waiting for you.
He lifted his head and his gaze found yours.
A strong pull dragged your feet towards him.
“I’m ready,” you shrugged.
Only because he wasn’t hanging out with Lois anymore. If that were the case, you would’ve left without a trace.
Clark seemed at your will, and didn’t bother to say goodbye to anybody. Just walked out the backyard with you—placed one hand between your shoulder blades—and opened his car door for you. You both were acting as though nothing had happened. It was something you had in common, which most times saved you from unnecessary conversations.
Right now, you were choking on what you wanted to say, but with a single glance, you agreed not to mention a thing. It was for the best, because if any of you decided to clear up the situation… no, there was nothing to clear up.
Everything was fine.
Except that you were both oddly quiet on the drive home. You weren’t always chatty, but at least your off-key singing of whatever song was playing on the radio and your hands as microphones filled those moments.
I get so breathless when you call my name
I’ve often wondered, do you feel the same?
There’s a chemistry, energy, a synchronicity when we’re all alone
So don’t tell me you can’t see what I’m thinking of
Well, you couldn’t sing that.
You looked out the window.
Clark’s phone rang.
Thank god.
A girl’s voice came through the speakers before he could even say hello.
“Where are you?”
Your eyes snapped to his phone.
Kara.
“Why?” He asked.
“I need you to look after Krypto for a few hours.”
You and Clark exchanged looks. He was panicking already.
“At one in the morning?”
“It’s okay if you’re not here. I’m already here.”
“You broke into my apartment?”
“I brought him his toys and his food and his treats and his bed…”
Krypto barked in the distance. It sounded like he was already tearing something.
“Do not leave him alone, you hear me, he’s gonna destroy everything!”
“He’s more mature now, you whiny bitch, we’re in therapy. He won’t do anything.”
“Kara, do not leave him alone.”
“I’ll pick him up first thing in the morning.”
Then she hung up.
Clark gripped the steering wheel and gave himself three seconds as he breathed in through his nose. Then, he quickly glanced at you before focusing his eyes back on the road.
“Do you mind if I pick up Krypto first? He’s… he’s gonna destroy everything if he’s unsupervised.”
This was the complete opposite of what you needed. He was supposed to drop you off and leave, see each other the next morning at work, and act like nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t pleaded you not to pull away ever again while being a kiss away.
But you’ve met Krypto, so you replied, “Sure,” because yeah, he would destroy everything, and he oddly liked you. Clark called you the Krypto-whisperer.
With a quiet thanks, he did a U-turn, and in no time, you were at his place.
It wasn’t that destroyed. Only a couch pillow was ripped open, and a few feathers were flying around. You caught Krypto just when he was about to chew on Clark’s bedroom door.
“Hey, little guy,” you greeted the dog with your silly voice, and as soon as he recognized you, he started whining and wagging his tail while sprinting toward you. “Hi, honey, long time no see,” you said through a laugh, crouching to give him those chin scratches he loved so much. “You missed me, huh?”
Krypto whined some more and barely acknowledged Clark.
You looked up at him.
He was smiling proudly. “What is it about you that turns him into an angel?”
You made an indifferent cocky face and continued petting Krypto’s chin. You had no idea. Some people had that effect with babies; you had it with dogs.
“Do you think she took him out for a walk?”
“Yeah, she might be a basket case, but she’s responsible when it comes to her dog.”
You stood upright and let out a sigh. “I guess… I’ll bring him home with me.”
“Please don’t.” Clark gave you those puppy-dog eyes. “Kara will freak out if she comes back and doesn’t find him.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Stay? You can take my bed. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
This was so tragic, you could never say no to him. You shut your eyes briefly just to escape him for a little while. You needed it to be a brand new day already and leave what had happened in that bathroom behind for your own sanity.
“You can use any shirt you want as pajamas and… No, you know what? What else do you need? I’ll make a quick run to your place.” Clark touched his pocket to make sure his car keys were there. “Make a list, and I’ll pick up everything just… please don’t leave with him or without him,” he begged.
You exhaled in defeat.
“It’s late, Clark, don’t worry.”
You paced to his couch and plopped down. The couch you’d chosen for him. It felt like a cloud.
“Are you sure?” He asked. Krypto followed you first, curling up against the side of your thigh, and Clark came after, sitting next to him. “It won’t take me long.”
“I’ll sleep here just fine.” You waved a dismissive hand. “I’m exhausted.”
“From work?”
“From everything.” You sighed and went to scratch Krypto’s back. Clark’s hand was already there, and your knuckles brushed together fleetingly. It was nothing. “This life I’m currently in isn’t helping with my creativity.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m working too much,” you merely said. “I think I’m gonna ask Perry for a few days of my annual leave. You know changing environments helps with writer’s block.”
“That sounds like a plan. Where’d you be going?”
“I don’t know? Somewhere far away from here.”
“You can go to Smallville, to my parents’. They’d love to see you again. You won’t have to worry about anything there. Ma will start cooking for you the moment you step inside. I’m sure Pa will put up a hammock for you outside for whenever you want to enjoy the fresh air.”
You smiled at him and stifled the incoming sigh. He got his kindness from his parents, so there was no doubt they’d do what Clark said and more for you.
“And I can use your bedroom?”
“Yeah.” He smiled sideways. “There’s also a small café a few blocks away with a nice view. Great wi-fi. You can sit there and write for hours.”
You licked your lips and looked away. He was always so generous, and now that you were all alone, after that moment you had with him in the bathroom, all you could think about was what Lois had said.
If it were true, you would kiss him right now just to thank him for existing.
You cleared your throat.
“I wish you’d given me the chance to pick up my laptop. Your view of the city inspires me.”
“You can use mine,” he said, already standing up, but you reached for his wrist. His hand fisted.
“It’s okay,” you said softly, and he sat back down. “I’d rather talk about it.”
His Adam’s apple jumped. “Talk about what?”
“Um, my book?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he tore his gaze away.
You admired his face then, pale skin with a brushstroke of the cold city lights that his large windows swallowed. It accentuated his side profile, as if it wasn’t already addicting to stare at. You had him sketched in a notebook somewhere in your room just like this: the soft angle of his upturned nose and defined tip, the subtle curl of his lashes, his gentle cupid’s bow. You swore his dimples were still there despite his lips—ever so tempting—set into a line.
His eyes darted down to his clasped hands. Dainty veins branched out from what was exposed of his wrists down to his knuckles. He wrung them together. You wanted to reach for them, lace your fingers together just because.
He looked at you. “Have you written anything new?”
You shook your head. “I've written everything I need, except for the sex scenes.”
“Are they really necessary?” There was genuine intrigue in his tone and in the way he wrinkled his brows at you, but he still felt the need to justify his question, “Not that having them is bad. I’m sure the scenes you have planned move the story forward as well as give your readers what they want.”
“Sex is very important for my characters, so yeah. I just… I hate that I chose his point of view.”
“Is it too late to start over?”
“I’m 45 thousand words in, so kind of. Besides, you know it has to be from his point of view. It would become a whole different story if told from Fatima’s perspective. She’s so bright and optimistic. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses. Wes doesn’t, except when he’s with her. Sex with her makes him hopeful.”
His sigh and half-nod hinted that he understood where you came from.
“Have you really not tried writing them?”
You breathed out a small laugh through your nose and admitted guiltily:
“Like a million times.”
“Why didn’t you show me?”
Because you’d tried writing the feeling of an erection provoked by a kiss, and it sounded like an injury. Were they painful? The thought of Clark reading it and probably laughing at the inaccuracy was a nightmare.
“I deleted them.” You scratched your brow.
“All of them?”
Of course not. They could be useful at some point, so you buried them in a document called ‘TRASH’.
“Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to delete things? You know they can be useful later. That’s like a main rule for a writer.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed a little and made himself comfortable, throwing himself back. He rested his head on the back of the couch, and that curl that perfectly fell over his forehead almost lured you to brush it. If it wasn’t because Krypto was between you two, you would’ve, so you limited yourself to a half-turn to face him.
“Try writing one again.” He looked up at you.
“Right now? On your laptop?” You asked, and he shrugged. “I’m not… gonna write sex scenes in front of you, or anyone. I need to be in the right headspace. Alone.”
He tore his eyes away briefly, and his faint smile remained on his lips.
“What is it about them that stops you from writing them?”
“I have a very vivid imagination, and I like to think I can describe things well despite not experiencing them before. But this is different. I don’t have a penis, so I have no idea how to describe sex from a guy's point of view. Like…” You closed your eyes and failed at picturing the feeling. “I can’t imagine it. It’s one of those things you have to experience to describe well, so I need someone else’s insight. You already refused to help me, so I-”
“I didn’t refuse to help you,” he cut you off in full honesty, “I just gave you another solution.”
Your mouth hung open, and he gave you no chance to reply as he stood up and walked to his kitchen, like he wanted to give you a moment to think about it. But there were no coherent thoughts. He just dropped the bomb and left to put the kettle on.
You bit back a smile and pinched the bridge of your nose to ground yourself. If he was offering his carnal help again, what Lois said couldn’t be so far from the truth, right?
Oh, this was bad. So, so bad.
Three minutes later, Clark reached your side again and handed you your orange Eevee mug. You’d told him once that the color of the mugs changed how you tasted some drinks, and how you preferred warm colors when having warm drinks.
Most people who knew this about you thought it was nonsense. Clark, he kept different colored mugs just for you.
“I guess… You can bring me your laptop,” you gave in. “But you have to walk me through it.”
Clark smiled, satisfied, set his mug on the coffee table, and came back with his laptop, gesturing at it as if to say it was all yours. You logged your email with a knot in your stomach and opened one of the many documents—the one with your manuscript. It was last edited a week ago, but at least there was a half-written scene that you could cling to and start from there.
You read the paragraph and tapped your fingers over the keyboard, mimicking the typing while you thought. Your head was empty.
“What does even an erection even feel like?”
Clark cleared his throat and sipped on his mug loudly. You could hear the gears in his mind working. He was carefully crafting his words.
“Um, depends a lot on the context, I guess,” he answered.
You looked at him. He had that tone when he was about to start talking and oversharing.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s… the one a man wakes up with sometimes, then there’s the one that happens because… of arousal.”
You brought your attention back to your laptop and typed the word arousal, ready to write any other thing he was willing to give you.
“Go on.”
He paused for a moment, then clicked his tongue, setting his mug back. “I can’t, I can’t!”
“Oh, don’t be a wuss.” You rolled your eyes at him.
“Wow.”
“See, a part of me thinks this is more about you being a prude than you refusing to talk about your experience with—”
“I am not a prude.”
“Eh…”
“I offered you… Myself, that’s not something a prude would do?”
“A part of me also thinks you offered that kind of help because you wanted to use me to forget about Lois,” you then blurted out.
He was not supposed to hear that, but attempting to write sex scenes in front of him was like getting undressed. You were exposing a piece of yourself that no one has had the chance to see, and under it was a bit of insecurity.
“That is… shockingly offensive.”
“I know. I’m–”
“You really think I’d—”
“No! It was… the voices.” You wiped the sweat above your lips. Was it hot in here? “The evil voices. You know how they get sometimes.”
“I do wanna help you, but it feels wrong telling you about my experience with another person.”
Right then, Lois’ voice echoed in your head. Not like it often did; her saying his name in a loving tone or her laughter around him that stabbed you right through your heart.
Now—
Clark, he has feelings for you.
You guys are soulmates.
You’re like his missing rib or something.
You swallowed thickly.
Maybe it was true. You agreed that he was your soulmate, but you also believed that a person could have multiple soulmates. And about the rest… the voices now were telling you to just shoot for the moon to find out.
“Fine.” You shut down his laptop loudly. Clark jumped a little. “Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
“Do… research. With each other’s body.”
God, you couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word.
He licked his lips. His mouth hung open. “Um, are you sure?”
“Oh, for god’s sake—”
That was it. There was no moon to shoot for, and now you wanted to die from the embarrassment of even thinking about it.
You rose from the couch with the intention to leave and take Krypto with you. The little guy did the same, ready to follow you wherever you decided to go.
“Okay! Okay!” Clark’s voice grew slightly high-pitched as he mirrored you. He laid a gentle hand on your upper arm to stop you and get you to look at him.
That mere touch turned you into a million tiny hearts.
“Is just…” His hand lingered. Squeezed lightly. “I’m not prepared.”
Your face wrinkled in question. Was he not prepared emotionally? Did he need to give himself a pep talk to have sex with you or something?
“I don’t have any condoms,” he said, and your cheeks grew hot.
If hearing him say a simple word flustered you this much, you had no idea how else your body could react by having actual sex with him.
“Oh, right.” You looked away and held the thought for a moment. Apparently, you had to give yourself a pep talk. To remind yourself that if it happened, it was research, nothing else. “Does it feel too different with and without?”
“I don’t know. I’ve… never done it without.” His voice turned small. Gosh, he was so responsible. “Do your characters do it with or without?”
“Very irresponsibly without.”
“Yeah, it’s… irresponsible.” He gulped, “But I mean if it can help you to be more accurate, we could—”
He was willing to have unprotected sex with you for your accurate research? How sweet and unfortunate of him to make you want to eat his face like that.
“There could be… catastrophic consequences.”
He raised a finger. “Babies aren’t catastrophic in any shape or form–”
“Clark—”
“I mean, yeah, of course.” He frowned. ”Maybe, another time?”
“Yeah! Let’s… plan it.”
While Krypto settled on his little bed by the window with a long sigh, you and Clark sat back down on the couch like you were about to agree on a meeting. He pulled out his phone, which was tiny in his hand, and with his thumb gestured at some dates in his calendar. You were staring at it one moment, he said something, but you weren’t registering anything at all.
You got lost in his lips moving, and the only thing you could think of was—
“Whoa.” Clark’s phone hit the rug with a fwump, all because the voices told you to drag yourself to his lap.
He was so close now. The closest he’s ever been. Not only his face but his body. You adjusted on top of him better and supported yourself with both hands on his hips while doing so. He was wide, and your skirt wasn’t too stretchy. It hiked up to your upper thighs.
You would’ve thought he was scared of you if it wasn’t for how his dimples slowly bloomed at each side of his cheeks. They always betrayed him.
“What are you doing?” he asked. His eyes darted from your eyes down to your lips and up again.
Exactly. What the hell were you doing?
“It’s… gonna be too awkward if we plan it.”
He swallowed thickly, and you felt his muscles relax under you. His thighs spread open, which gave you more confidence to drop more of your weight on him. Who would’ve thought his lap was such a comfortable seat?
“Okay.” His hands remained on his sides and nowhere near you. “So you want to do it now.”
You withdrew some of your weight. His apparent inhibition was turning you into a ball of nerves.
You braced yourself. “You’re making me sound like I’m begging you to have sex.”
“You’re not!” he reassured you, and settled his hands on your hips, feather-light, yet they started a fire in the pit of your stomach.
“No, I’m not, this is research,” you agreed in a firm tone, even when on the inside you felt like you were about to burst out of your skin. “It’s… homework. Love for art.”
His hands skated higher up and heavier, and when you tore your face away out of unbearable embarrassment at his lack of words, he made it disappear by cradling the side of your face so you’d look at him again. You did, and his eyes were glued to your mouth.
Oh, he was so amused by this.
He dragged his thumb over your chin and outlined the edge of your lower lip, and the fire began to spread. He leaned closer, and your breathing hitched, and your mouth went dry.
“We should kiss, right?” His breathing fanned your lips. “For research?”
You pulled back. What if he kissed you and you vanished into thin air? Or worse, what if you didn’t vanish and were left there with his lips on yours with no idea what to do?
“I know what a kiss feels like.”
“Yeah, but—” he shrugged “—we might as well kiss, too. Sex without kisses is something only soulless people would do. Like… eating without chewing.”
You didn’t reply, though you smiled. He pulled you in, and your head started spinning.
It was a gentle peck, which spiked your heart rate. You didn’t think that muscle behind your rib cage could beat any quicker, but it did, and for a moment, you thought you might have a heart attack. But as his lips lingered, and you weren’t losing consciousness, you attempted to respond to his kiss.
Attempted to, and failed. Instead, you laughed. It was more of a harsh exhale at first, but then it vibrated against his lips, and he ended up kissing your teeth as your real laugh bubbled out.
“I’m sorry I-” You laughed some more right there against his mouth.
His lips curled into a mile-wide smile.
“Don’t laugh.”
“This is so awkward.” You pulled back.
He sounded mad, but seemed graciously content. “It’s only awkward because you’re making it awkward by saying it’s awkward.”
“I can’t help it.”
Then he went for a proper kiss, and your whole body melted. Now you laughed again as a coping mechanism. You felt like you might actually pass out if you didn’t.
“What is your problem?” he asked through a small laugh. “You’re all giggly and jumpy.”
“Can you blame me? This is so awk-”
A determined yet tender kiss shut you up. His lips, full and soft, pressed against yours, and the hand cradling your face dragged to the base of your skull.
You didn’t need anything else to surrender.
These kisses only existed in your daydreams, and they were overwhelming then. Experiencing them in real life was the other side of the coin, though. It brought you an odd sense of comfort, because the feeling you’ve been chasing for what seemed like a lifetime was right here flush against your skin. The feeling of belonging to someone, from your deepest insecurity to the brightest side of you. Your lips and his own made sense together, and it didn’t feel nearly as awkward as you said it was.
Clark parted his mouth a little, inviting you in, but you stayed where you were, safe with soft, long-lasting pecks. The rest of your body was a level above, and you dared to lay one hand over his broad shoulder while the other found the nape of his neck.
“Will you stop talking now?” He asked between kisses.
All you could do was nod while gulping, and so he continued. Calm kisses that had you grazing the sky already, so high. He angled his face to one side, and the tip of his tongue teased the seam of your lips. You almost made a sound. You wanted his tongue everywhere on you, but you had to admit this was overwhelming.
“You’re tense,” he murmured, rubbing a palm up and down your lower back soothingly.
“It’ll pass soon.”
A kiss.
“Yeah?”
Another kiss.
“Yeah,” you exhaled, and now you’re the one to kiss him.
Open-mouthed, that forced said tension right out of you, and your tongue found his own for the first time. It was barely anything, but it was enough to pull a sound from his throat right away. An exquisite dark grunt that activated a throb between your legs.
That was embarrassingly quick.
“I think—” you pulled away from him to ground yourself. Were you really about to have sex with him just like that? “—um, when we start, I think I should voice record it since it will be like an interview and-”
He cut you off by kissing you again, just like before—tongue sweeping yours, but four times more confident—and your cunt pulsed some more. It wasn’t just the feel of his tongue now. It was how breathy the kiss gradually turned, and how handsy he was getting. His hands traveled down to your thighs, right below your skirt, and dragged them down to the back of your knees, tugging you closer.
Clark let go of your lips with a wet sound and moved his mouth to your neck, giving you a quick nip.
“Okay.”
It tickled you. You pulled back a bit.
“Sorry,” he said, and kissed your cheek. “Okay, yeah, you can voice record it.”
Then continued his path of kisses down to your collarbones. He undid the first button of your blouse.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there, now, buddy.”
“Jesus.” He threw his head back. Now you stole a kiss on his neck. God, he smelled like heaven. It was sweet and masculine, but it wasn’t perfume. Aftershave, perhaps. “I’m gonna be… inside you at some point. You need to get used to me.”
“I am used to you,” you talked back, kissing right below his ear.
“No, mmm—” his hips jerked once “—Not to my kisses.”
He had a point, but you weren’t about to agree with him. You sat upright and wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Why don’t we, uh, ask each other questions first, to break the ice?” You suggested.
He went back to dotting more feather-light kisses on your neck, and said in a low voice that sent tingles all over you:
“The ice has been melting since we talked in that bathroom, don’t you think?”
He’d never used that tone. Dark in its meaning yet full of sun behind it. You wanted to squeal.
“What position do you like the most?” You asked him anyway.
Clark placed more kisses down your neck, throat, and up to your jaw and chin like he was following an already predetermined path. Your hips rocked by instinct once, and he gripped your sides, encouraging you to keep going and hiking your skirt higher in the process, which allowed you to spread your legs more open.
You didn’t move again, because you felt him. Not fully hard, but not soft at all either. So not shockingly big. Your mind hit you with images of how he might look just by feeling him like this—thick, heavy, and your cunt ached as it grew hot and soaked. You rocked your hips again, and you swore your clothed folds wrapped over the head of his cock.
“Missionary.” He nipped your skin, and you snort-laughed again.
“It’s so weird hearing you sa—“
He kissed that laugh right off your mouth. “Stop saying it’s weird!”
You sighed, licking your lips and bumping your noses together before yet another kiss. It was a casual kiss. Was this casual for him? You were dying to know what this meant because on your end, you already knew this was going to ruin you forever.
“So, missionary.” You dodged him when he leaned for another kiss. He smiled. “What do you like about it?”
“The intimacy.”
He leaned again, and you pulled back again, turning your face to the side. His kiss landed on the corner of your mouth.
“As if sex itself isn’t intimate.”
“Yeah, but there’s something about looking into each other’s eyes. Breathing each other’s air and kissing the whole time.”
You gulped, and burning jealousy flashed before your eyes. He liked that position because he’d experienced it like that with someone else. Not you.
Not yet, anyway.
“What is yours?” He then asked, wiping those images away.
You hummed in deep thought, teasingly pressing your hips down. You felt him again, and now you handled the waves of emotions it gave you way better. You liked sex as much as anyone who has experienced good sex, and it’s not that you’ve explored a lot of positions. You were… simple.
You had no choice but to answer honestly:
“Missionary.”
The corner of his mouth flickered. “What about it?”
Slowly, he reached for each zip of your boots, dragged them down in sync, and let them fall off your feet. You wished you hadn’t put on tights.
“I like being smothered.”
He laughed into another quick kiss and murmured, “You taste like cocoa,” then went back to kiss you again.
“You gave it to me.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
The kiss deepened then, like it was already second nature, and your mind turned hazy. You enjoyed the same sex position and you were already getting lost in the idea of having him smothering you, kissing you, breathing each other’s air…
You were so done talking.
While your lips molded together through a slow-paced kiss, you began to rock your hips instinctively again. This time, you didn’t restrain yourself. You moved, and he liked it. He groaned into your mouth when you pressed down hard and guided your hips with his large hands so you’d rub even more against him. He was growing this hard for you, and his desire for you was coming out of his pores.
You reached for the first button of his shirt and began to undo it. You felt him smile against your lips in approval, so you continued your way down. You expected to feel the warmth of his skin right away, even though you knew he was loyal to the white tank under it. You broke away from his lips for a moment to glance down at him. His tank was tight and didn’t leave much to your imagination. The swell of his pecks stretched the fabric, and the low neck cut allowed you to peek at a few chest hairs.
Your whole body stuttered.
He finished taking his dress shirt off and tossed it aside. His arms were thick, firm. Your hands caressed them with a mind of their own from his broad shoulders down to his biceps, all while he kissed your neck again. You needed to see him fully.
You tugged the hem of his tank and lifted it a bit, then he did you the favor, pulling it up his head and—
Holy—
Your cunt fluttered, and that first warm hint of arousal leaked to your panties.
“Oh—” you gulped.
Your eyes skimmed over his body. He wasn’t gym ripped, but it absolutely looked like he was capable of lifting buildings. Just like his arms, his pecks were thick with muscle, and even though there were no visible abs, he was toned. Absolutely perfect. You wanted to lick every bit of him, but instead, you traced shy lines over his chest and tummy with your fingertips and down that subtle trail of hair that went from his navel and disappeared right below his belt.
Clark lifted your face by your chin and leaned for a kiss. His lips felt warmer and more pillowy, and as the kiss grew hotter, his hands reached for your blouse buttons.
“Can I?” He whispered. You replied by continuing the kiss.
One by one, he undid them, and by the end, he let it fall loose at each side of you. He took a moment to admire you. You swore his breathing hitched at the sight. You didn’t think it would be this easy to be this exposed in front of him. You didn’t feel the need to brace yourself or slouch. You wanted to be fully naked for him already. You reached behind you and unclasped your bra.
His mouth parted, like he was about to say something, and his cheeks turned scarlet.
If he looked at you like this with just your bra off, he might make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world while wearing nothing but your skin. You wanted to tell him he could do whatever he wanted with your tits; he looked starved.
But he, ever the gentleman, only placed a single loving kiss between them and brought you close into a tight, tight hug. The soft flesh of your tits squished against his chest, and you resumed the kiss. With your whole body. Every exposed part of you was touching him, and now your hips moved on their own, rocking over him in slow back and forth motions.
Each stroke hardened him even more as if it were possible, and the feeling was addicting. You wanted to see how far it could take him. How much of this he could handle until he carried you to his room because this wasn’t enough for him anymore.
Or not?
“Wait.” Clark put your hips to a harsh stop.
“What?” You pulled back.
Clark breathed out through his nose and perched you more on his upper thigh, then you noticed. His erection was straining against his pants like it was begging to be freed.
You’d made him like this.
You pressed your lips together to hide a sheepish smile.
“It’s okay, I just, em—” his voice turned tight. “Krypto— he’s… over there.” He gestured with his brows behind you. “If he’s here, I can’t do… everything I want to do.”
Right, Krypto. You’d forgotten he was here. You glanced at him over your shoulder. He was peacefully sleeping, but yeah, now that you were reminded that he was here, too, it blocked every sinful thought you’ve been having for the past twenty minutes.
“We have two options,” you murmured with a soft voice. “We can stay here while I tell Krypto to go to your room, or we can go to your room, very quietly, so he doesn’t wake up, and continue there.”
With a smiley kiss, he made the decision and effortlessly picked you up. You clung to him like a koala while he crossed the room into his bedroom.
“Wait!” You shout-whispered. “My voice recorder!”
“I didn’t know you were being serious about it.” Clark stopped halfway.
“Of course I was being serious. I’ll be a little busy to be taking notes. This is much easier. I can go back to your answers whenever I want and—”
He cut you off with a kiss and walked back to the couch to pick up your purse while still carrying you.
“O-kay,” he whispered, nibbling your bottom lip.
You had no idea he could be like this. Taking charge while still being so damn gentle.
So Clark.
He gave Krypto one last glance to make sure he was still asleep, then continued the kiss and the path to his room, kicking the door shut behind him.
From there, the plot was lost, as if knowing you were completely alone between the walls of his bedroom turned this situation into something secret and sacred. A hungry groan traveled from his throat into your mouth the moment he plopped you both onto his bed and his hands didn’t hesitate to grope you everywhere within his reach. You wanted to think that the way he was acting was no longer about his inborn duty to help but his true desire to make you his own. Because the way he was kissing you, like he might die if he didn’t, didn’t feel like a kiss out of compromise.
It was… raw, and real, and so damn hot your panties were more than ruined and heavy with your arousal. You needed them off, but you were so lost in this hazy universe you and he were creating with each kiss that the sensory discomfort your panties gave you soon disappeared.
Yanking you closer by your hips, Clark rubbed his clothed erection against your cunt with persistent rocking motions—over and over. You hoped he could feel how wet you were, and you wanted to tell him how good a job he was doing at relieving the ache he himself had provoked.
At this point, though, there was no connection between your brain and mouth, and all you managed to give him was a moan, and he groaned back in response and continued rubbing himself against you. You were in heaven here, with him between your legs, and even then, a part of you also wished you could see this as it happened. You wanted to see how his back muscles flexed with every new movement he made over you. Watch him from every perspective, and get to see how his hips moved back and forth while still being somewhat dressed. You wished you could see your legs wrapped around his wide hips and how you met his thrusts just as desperately.
Clark brought you back to this moment by murmuring something you couldn’t quite register against your lips, but you nodded anyway and let him do whatever he had asked you permission to do. He stopped the kiss for a moment, and you finally had the time to breathe.
Now you heard it all, and saw it all.
In the heat of desperation, Clark must’ve taken off his pants. He might as well have taken off his underwear, too, because they clung to him like they were vacuum-sealed. Your cunt fluttered at the sight of his cock, straining slightly curved to one side, and the thick outline of it was so clear you started salivating.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmured into the everlasting kiss.
Your tongues swirled together, and you nodded again.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable doing it without a condom?” He asked agitatedly, dragging your tights down your thighs.
You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “It’s a little late to be asking that, Clark, I’m already so wet.”
Jesus, he murmured, reaching between your bodies. He rubbed you over your panties, and a moist sound came from them. His brows pinched together, then he replaced his hand with his still clothed cock, rubbing himself there again. He was burning, and if your cunt ached on the inside, you could imagine the pain he was in when carrying something like that.
You bucked your hips, searching for some friction, all while you urged down the hem of his boxers. He didn’t hesitate to grant your wish and finished dragging it down all the way.
A musk scent reached your senses when he freed himself. A scent that made your mouth water and your cunt throb; a scent that, despite being new to you, was so distinctively him. Then you finally looked down, and your breathing got caught in your throat. It was just how you’d pictured. Thick and proportional to his body. It hung heavy over your stomach, and the dark hairs of his groin halted the flow of his smooth and pale skin.
Your breathing shook with anticipation, and you reached for it and stroked him by instinct, pulling the skin back and forth with each movement. He was firm, and your fingers barely met when you wrapped your hand around it. Clark almost crumbled on top of you when you touched him like that and gave you no chance to keep going. Did he not like it?
“Can I see you too?” he murmured. “All of you?”
The only barrier between you and he were your panties. You nodded, and instead of dragging them down, he tore them by the waistband on each side. You gasped at the first unexpected snap and bit your lip at the second one.
“I’ll get you some new ones,” he said into a kiss, and towered over you, allowing his cock to slip between your slippery folds.
Smooth, and so achingly slow, at the rhythm of his tongue swirling yours. Pleasure started to bloom instantly; you almost came just like that.
“Please.” You bucked your hips once, searching for more friction.
“I—” His breathing shook. “I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to help you while I’m… inside you.”
“It’s okay.” You stroked his cheek and he leaned on it while blinking like it really soothed him. “Just try your best. If it doesn’t work–” You kissed him reassuringly. “–I’m sure you can help me once we’re done. You’ll remember what it felt like, right?”
Yeah, he exhaled, and didn’t hesitate to part your wet folds with the cockhead. He dragged it up and down between them, and the blissful feeling built and spread through your nerves. He kissed you back and stroked himself hurriedly at your entrance, smearing your arousal with the tip.
It sounded wet, and his breathing shook.
“Of course I’ll remember.” Another kiss, then he lined himself and grunted when you sucked the head right in. “I can be your ghost writer if you need me to.”
Meeting that subtle thrust, you reached for your voice recorder, and the beep blared around as you pressed play.
You got filled with butterflies as you gasped in sync and locked eyes. He was in, and everything around you turned blurry. You wanted to kiss him much as you wanted to look into his eyes and he gave you both. Kissed you once, worked you open with a subtle thrust then looked into your eyes again.
You would’ve moaned if you weren’t so aware that this was being recorded. It initially was a good idea, but now that you were overworking your breathing by containing your sounds, you were reconsidering it. He felt too exquisite, stretching you and calming the ever-growing ache with his girth. You knew you could take him fully so you urged another bit of his cock inside you by wiggling your hips toward him, despite feeling so stuffed already.
As you took more of him, his whole body froze. Only his breathing shook, and his hips froze when your own shifted to allow another inch inside. His head landed on your shoulder, and he hissed between clenched teeth against your neck, rubbing his face there.
He turned awfully quiet.
“Clark?” You rubbed his back. He replied with a quick nip to your collarbone but didn’t lift his head. He didn’t move his hips either.
You lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked at him. His lips were parted, his eyes only had a thin ring of blue around his big pupils and drops of sweat gathered above his brows. You brushed your thumbs over them.
He seemed weak, like you were made out of kryptonite all of a sudden.
“Are you okay?”
He exhaled a shaky breath, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile before he rewarded you with a tender kiss.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
You needed to know what was going through his mind.
“Tell me,” you said. “Tell me exactly how it feels.”
His eyes darted to the voice recording by your head.
“I— give me a second.” He winced with his lips closed tight and shifted on top of you. You brushed his hair back. “It feels.” He rocked his hips once and stretched you some more. You bit your lip. “Um, I- it feels— you feel warm, almost… burning.” A crease formed between his brows. “So firm a-nd wet. You’re wrapped around my cock perfectly. There’s nothing… untouched.”
Hearing him talk like that… You needed him to keep going. His voice stimulated your brain and each word traveled directly to every nerve in your cunt.
He kissed you like he was already done talking, and you whined into his mouth in protest.
“Clark-” you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “Focus.”
“I can’t.” He pressed his forehead against yours.
“Yes, you can. You wanna help me, right?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah.”
“You can do it.”
He thrusted steadily again—deliberate rocking motions—and you tightened around him.
“Oh, please, honey, don’t do that.”
Honey.
“Tell me.” You smiled.
“That’s… that’s all I got. It’s… um, comforting.”
You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Comforting?”
“So good,” he said through a shaky exhale. “I don’t have many words in my brain right now.”
“S’okay.”
You nibbled his lip, and he was sweet about it. Didn’t fight back. Just let you take his lip between your teeth and drag it into your mouth. You rocked your hips under him, withdrawing half of his cock from you and thrusting forward to squeeze it all right back and then some more until his balls squeezed against your ass.
He slammed into you hard once in response, and you gasped.
“Do you think you’ll remember the way it feels?” you asked
“This isn’t something I’ll ever forget.”
He shoved your hips together again, harsher, and a delightful clash of skin against skin echoed around for the first time.
“So you can tell me later, yeah?”
“I promise you.”
You reached for the recorder to turn it off and finally let yourself go, but he pinned your hand down.
“No, keep it going. I wanna go back to this.” He kissed you, and threaded your fingers together. “To these pretty moans.”
Your whole body relaxed and melted then. Completely gave in to him and this, and as soon as he picked up a rhythm, you couldn’t care less about this being recorded. You turned into a shameless, shuddering, moaning mess under him, meeting his thrusts desperately, and raking your nails across his shoulders and back. You wished you could tell him how much you loved this, but your mouth stayed busy responding to every kiss he initiated.
It made so much sense that Clark was a kisser, and during sex, his passion for them multiplied ten times like there was a second meaning behind them. Each kiss was paired with a grunt or a moan and you clenched around him as a way of responding to them even when you were full of sounds, too.
He let go of your mouth with a wet sound for a moment, brushing his lips across your cheek and gritting his teeth together, in pain, almost.
“Sorry,” you had to say.
“Don’t–” he kissed the corner of your mouth. “Don’t be. You’ll know soon exactly what I’m feeling. But just know, it’s good. So good, it just… I won’t last if you do it often. I’m fighting myself here.”
Oh.
“You can come.” You fluttered around him, and his brows knitted together.
“No, it’s not fair.” His arms flexed when he pushed himself up, keeping his perfect rocking motions, like waves that were about to push you to the brim already.
“This is homework,” you shot back.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”
You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth and the way he smirked at your reaction embarrassed you. He knew you were enjoying this. You tilted your head to the side to avoid looking at him.
“Hey.” He kissed your chin. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“It’s awkward.”
Clark laughed softly.
“This stopped being awkward a while ago.” He kissed your shoulder. “Not awkward.”
Propping himself on one elbow by your head, he reached between your legs and massaged soft circles over your clit. At the perfect pace and pressure. It took him eight seconds to build your orgasm, just how you did whenever you were all alone in your room, but he didn’t fully take you there. Just when you were close, he withdrew his hand.
Why would he–
“Oh,” you moaned.
He slammed into you hard.
You just needed a little boost; his cock did the rest.
Slipping in and out, over and over, Clark dragged out your orgasm and somehow kept it there, a ticklish sensation that pulsed and expanded and shrank but never disappeared. Harsh slams of his hips that tapped and tapped and tapped your sensitive nub with his wiry hairs and continued building the orgasm until it trespassed the teasing.
Until there was no going back from it.
“Oh, Clark.” Your vision turned blurry.
Throwing your head back, you let yourself go and lifted your ass off the mattress to meet his slams.
“There we go.” He leaned to your ear and nibbled your earlobe. “Is that good?”
“I—”
This felt beyond surreal. You wiped a warm stream running down the corner of your eye—sweat or blissful tears, you didn’t know—and looked down to admire your bodies clashing together. And only after a few seconds of chasing your orgasm, it struck you completely.
“Oh, g-gosh—”
You came, so hard, you couldn’t hold back any sound. You turned into a whiny mess as your cunt spasmed repeatedly until it turned overly sensitive.
There it is, Clark caressed your cheek with the tip of his nose and a curl flopped down, tickling your forehead. He was everywhere on you, as much as you loved having him inside you, you urged his hips back so he’d pull out for at least a moment.
His cock slipped out with a squelch, and it hung over your lower stomach, wet, flushed, and glistening with your creamy arousal. He tapped your clit with the head of his cock a few times then entered you again. And kissed you again.
“Is it okay if it takes me a while?”
Thrust.
“Weren’t you just complaining about you coming too soon?”
Thrust.
“It’s under control now,” he smirked, and slammed so much harder. Your tits bounced under him.
“You can control it?”
“I’ll tell you every detail about it.”
Then he shut you up. Not with a kiss like he had already made you used to, but with persistent, ruthless pounding. He turned rough, but never merciless. His thrusts were deliberate, crafted for you at the pace you needed and the force you craved. He never stopped making sure you were okay with this—by scanning your face at all times, kissing your lips and chin and forehead and whispering in your ear how good you felt.
Even during sex, he was dangerously caring.
You almost tell him how much you loved this. How much you loved him.
“Can we change positions?” You panted.
“I thought this was your favorite,” he teased.
“It is, mmm, but no guy ever lasted this long. My legs are tired from being open.”
“Can I still see your face?” You nodded. “Where do you want me?”
You licked your lips.
“There’s a scene in my book, where she rides him and he thinks she’s the most perfect creature. I need to know what that position feels like.”
“You wanna ride me?”
You gulped. “For research.”
“Sure, okay.”
Without pulling out, Clark flipped yourselves so you’d be on top of him. You were supposed to ride him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to peel yourself from his solid torso.
“You okay?” Clark touched your face with both hands and brushed the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks.
“Maybe if… You rest your back on the headboard, it’ll be more accurate.”
He didn’t protest and dragged himself higher with you still on top. He even built a wall of pillows for more comfort.
“There?” He shifted back, smiling.
Now he was more sitting than lying, which made it more comfortable for you to move.
“Perfect.” You ran your hands over his chest. You rocked your hips once, and his smile dropped.
“Oh-” his lips parted.
His hands rested on the globes of your ass, tender, and his eyes skimmed down to your breasts. Clark gulped like he was thirsty.
“You can touch them.” You brought one of his hands up to your tit. His cock twitched inside you. You had to admit, this position swelled your chest with confidence. More so when Clark was like this, so starved for you. “Or lick them.”
“Yeah?”
“As long as you tell me how it feels.”
You moved your hips again, this time in a wide circular motion that dragged your clit across his lower stomach and bent his cock a little. Your walls clammed around his cock.
“I will, I will, but… later.”
“No live reaction here either?” You rocked your hips again.
He grunted. “I can’t, but I swear, I’ll tell you every little thing I’m feeling.”
You held onto the headboard, propped yourself on your knees and bounced your ass up and down. “Okay.”
You picked up a tempo, one that made him groan each time, and now he didn’t hesitate to take one of your tits into his mouth. He hummed around it, swirling his tongue over your stiffened nipple.
“You’re right.” Clark let go of your tit and looked up at you. “He absolutely thinks she’s the most perfect creature.”
Your heart and cunt fluttered equally in love.
You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you shouldn’t and grabbed his jaw, capturing his mouth into a wet kiss.
And it was like this for a while. His hands explored your body the whole time, and he could’ve tattooed your name on your lips by how many times he’d said it.
You rocked your hips back and forth while kissing him. And if you weren’t kissing him on the mouth, you were kissing his forehead, brows, cheeks, all while he kept himself busy sucking on your breasts. He liked them. So much, you felt him smile around him more than once. He even bit them, the two times you came just like this.
When you were closer to a third one, Clark held your hips still.
“I can’t finish inside you,” he panted and planted a kiss on your shoulder.
“Yeah, just… pull out.”
He maneuvered you so you’d be tucked against the pillows and propped himself on one hand. He slipped out with a grunt, almost in pain—you missed him already—and you looked down just at the right time. He stroked his cock hurriedly—thicker and heavier than how you’d first seen it—until warm ropes of cum shot and covered your skin. You could almost cry out of pure joy.
Clark Kent, coming all over you.
What a sight.
“Oh my god,” he grunted through clenched teeth, staring down at the mess he’d made. “I’m sorry, this is—”
You brought him down into a kiss by the nape of his neck, and the soft press of his stomach smudged his cum all over. His hips shifted slightly, and his cock nestled between your folds.
“This is perfect,” you finished his sentence.
This lasted too damn long, but you needed him inside you all over again.
You didn’t think of this. Of the aftermath.
Clark was quiet next to you, awake, with his nose nuzzled in your hairline. Your heart was much steadier now, but it was still aware of how near Clark still was. You were scared to move, to breathe, to say the wrong thing.
“Was I helpful?” He asked right there on your skin after a moment.
You lay a hand on his hip and tapped once. “You might’ve cured my writer's block.”
He laughed softly. Pecked your temple. “Why do you keep it a secret?”
“Reputation, guess. I like my job. I like being a journalist and if people knew I write about people having sex, they wouldn’t take me seriously. People at the Daily talk.”
“It's not just sex.” He pulled back to look at you. Your heart leaped from you. “Y-your writing, your stories are more than just sex. They’re complex characters and the sex is something that makes them more human.”
Right.
“I know but… I don't know. I guess I also like having a secret identity, don’t you?” You glanced up at him.
“I guess so.”
He cinched your waist and pulled you into a tight hug. You bit back a sigh. You were dying to know what this meant to him.
Would he have done it if he knew how much it would ruin you?
By the time you woke up, the first rays of sunshine were already eating away some stars.
You weren’t supposed to stay the night, but he said he could answer all the questions you had and even ended up writing scenes together.
Which wasn’t a good idea.
Seeing him write sex scenes and help you craft them to make them sound accurate from a male’s point of view sparked that heat inside you. And inside him.
He was the one to start the kiss, tentative at first, and as you responded to it with a moan, there was no need to say anything else. It was a silent agreement, because you both knew that kissing again was out of script.
You ended up having sex two more times. Both times without a single word shared because, god, there was no need for words. His eyes and body said it all. The second time was much less giggly. It was breathy, full of sighs and wet kisses and gentle love bites across your skin.
The third time was lazy and sleepy, and the only thing Clark said was ‘stay like this’ in a murmur, instructing you to stay lying on your side so he’d fuck you from behind. Spooning you, and kissing you all over your neck, jaw, shoulders, and side of your breasts. His rocking motions were slow, and his large hands mapped across your body just as slow as if he wanted to make love to you twice at the same time.
He finished just like that, over your hip, with a low and exquisite grunt deep in your ear, and reaching between your legs to massage your clit so you’d come, too. You did, and soon, you fell asleep in that exact same position, with your orgasm still rushing through you, his lips somewhere on your neck, and his hands cinching you close to him by your waist.
Now, as your eyes fluttered open, his arm was still draped over your waist. If you moved, there was the chance he might wake up. If you didn’t, he’d wake up anyway at the sound of his alarm and you’d still be here in his arms.
Either option led you to the same outcome: address what happened, and you weren’t ready to talk about it yet.
What would you even say?
Thank you for your help, Clark.
I am so in love with you, by the way.
I’m glad we did it!
We’re the bestest of friends now.
Super good friends.
You went for the first option. You held your breath and shifted forward, away from him, and froze to make sure he didn’t wake up. Then did the same thing a few times until you managed to slip away from his arms. Your limbs felt heavy, as though you’d just gotten out of a pool. Even your skin was still sticky from the dried sweat, and as much as you loved being covered in his body fluids, you needed a shower.
Not here, though.
On your tippy-toes, you stood by the end of the bed, and once you made sure his chest kept heaving in and out at the same peaceful rhythm, you picked up one of his shirts and threw it on because most of your clothes were supposed to be on his living room, but before you walked out of his room to get them, you found your skirt, blouse and tights lying on top of his dresser, folded. He must’ve brought them here when he went to get his laptop to do some writing with you.
How thoughtful.
As you finished getting dressed, some puppy-whining came from the other side of the door. Krypto must’ve heard you. You opened the door and sneaked out of the bedroom to meet him.
“Hi, honey,” you whispered. “You hungry?”
Krypto did a spin as a yes, so you poured him some of his food, and as he ate, you wrote a note on a napkin for Clark, because even though you didn’t want to talk yet, you couldn’t just leave like that.
I DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU. YOU LOOKED SO PEACEFUL. THANK YOU AGAIN. I SENT WHAT WE WROTE LAST NIGHT TO MY EMAIL AND DELETED IT FROM YOUR LAPTOP SO THERE’S NO TRACE OF IT. SEE YOU AT WORK.
You ran through the busy streets, greeted Nino at the entrance, and reached the elevator just as the doors were closing.
“Hold it, please!” You yelled.
A hand stopped the doors from closing. The same hand had been between your legs last night.
Oh, crap. Clark was also late.
The doors opened up and as soon as you made eye contact, your arms acted like they were made out of rubber. Your stack of files fell to the floor, and Clark rushed to pick them up at the same time as you. Your fingers brushed together. His soft scent reached you and flashbacks from last night struck you.
His lips, his body covering you, his mouth on your tits—
“Hey,” he said, giving you your files back.
“Hi,” you replied.
Your legs wobbled. Just like last night.
You cleared your throat and held onto your files tight, the same way he was holding the strap of his briefcase, so tightly his knuckles turned white.
You stood at the back of the elevator, glued to the wall, as far from him as you could. You had an insane urge to kiss him.
“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” you said. “I left a note on your fridge. I hope you—”
He craned his head to one side but didn’t quite look at you.
“Yep. I read it. Thanks.”
God, he was mad. Was he mad?
“Good, good, that’s… good.” You gulped. “Did um, Krypto do anything after I left?”
“Yeah.” Clark exhaled. “He found my running shoes and chewed one of them. But he’s with Kara now so—”
You were praying for someone to stop the elevator midway just so this never-ending ride wouldn’t be so mortifying. He’d seen you naked last night. He’d kissed every inch of you. He’d made you come three times, and now both of you were acting like nothing had happened.
Were you supposed to acknowledge what you did? To congratulate him for the amazing job he did? You opened your mouth to say something, anything, then the elevator doors dinged open.
A horde of suited-up chatty men entered, and Clark backed up next to you. Your arms brushed together, and you reached so your knuckles would accidentally touch, too.
You looked up at him, and he was already looking at you.
“Can we talk?” He asked quietly. His brows were knitted together.
“Yeah,” you replied. “At lunch?”
“Sure.”
He half-nodded and tore his eyes away.
The elevator reached the twenty-eighth floor, and you both walked out in the same direction. It was oddly empty here.
Just as Clark asked, “Where’s everybody?” Perry stormed out of his office.
Morning, he said with his cigar between his lips.
“These—” he tossed two stacks of files on your desk and Clark’s “—need to be rewritten. Everyone stupidly decided to call in sick today, so you two are the chosen ones.”
Stupid, he said again under his breath and locked himself in his office.
You and Clark exchanged looks.
If you wanted to leave on time today, you’d have to skip lunch break.
You sighed and got to work.
A few injured soldiers from Jimmy’s party showed up with shades in one hand and electrolyte water in the other during the first two hours, so the office wasn’t just the two of you.
With him right across from you, all you did was have flashbacks of last night. You didn’t regret it one bit, but not being able to talk about it was eating you alive.
You would’ve thought he was mad at you because he didn’t even spare you a single glance. But he was Clark, and even if he wasn’t looking at you, he still checked on you. Sending you messages through the computer chat each time Perry came to check your and Clark’s progress, but nothing else. He filled your cup of coffee in silence every time you ran out.
Then he disappeared for two hours to do who knows what (Superman duty, of course).
By lunch time, he hadn’t made it back, and you weren’t feeling hungry, but went to get a pretzel at the cafeteria anyway and went up to the rooftop to feed the pigeons and wait for him. He had one hour until you had to get back to work.
You paced from one side to the other under the shadow the big golden globe cast, rehearsing how this conversation with Clark would go. Every single outcome made you wish the globe would just roll off and crush you.
Your lunchtime hour went by, the globe didn’t roll over you, and Clark didn’t show up.
His stack of editing he should’ve worked on was still untouched, and when you were done with yours, you couldn’t help but grab some of his, too.
At 5 p.m. o’clock, Perry came out of his office, ready to leave.
“Where’s Kent?” He stopped by your desk.
“Bathroom,” you replied without looking up. “I think.”
“Tell him he has until tomorrow. You, are done for today. Go home.”
You were dreaming of him when a hand brushing the crown of your head woke you up.
“Hi,” Clark said in a whisper.
You blinked your eyes open. He was crouched next to you with a soft look on his face. He paused, smiled with his eyes, and caressed your cheek with the back of his curled fingers.
“You didn’t have to finish my work.”
“I know.” You sat upright and glanced at the digital clock on your nightstand. It was about to be midnight. “I thought since—”
“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out, and your breathing caught in your chest. He sat by your side and reached for your hand. Brushed his thumb over your knuckles. This must still be a dream. “I’ve been in love with you for a while and I- should’ve told you the moment I started to feel this way, but I couldn’t then. And I don’t want you to think I offered you my help, just an excuse to make love to you. That’s not who I am, I hope you know that, but I- I was scared if I said something, you might’ve pulled away from me forever. But then last night… gosh, it changed me. I realized how much love I have for you stored in my chest, it almost feels like a brand new feeling I wasn’t ready to expose yet but I am so sure now. It’s still unknown, but it’s beautiful and so bright. I can give it all to you if you let me. If not, I will live with it.”
Every single word he said wrapped around you like a warm blanket.
You threw yourself onto his chest and swung your arms around his neck as tears welled up in your eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He picked you up off the bed and you climbed onto him until your legs were wrapped around him, too. “If it’s not too late I—”
“Not too late,” you whispered.
Then, you laughed softly, just enough for him to notice.
“Ah, yep, there she is.” He rubbed your upper back and enveloped you even tighter.
You wanted to look at him, drown in his dimples, and kiss him, but you didn’t want him to see your tears. It’d break him, even if they were happy tears, so you held onto him and he swayed with you from side to side for a long while. Like a slow dance, though there was no song. The only sound between you and him was your heart thumping hard in your chest begging you to let it all out.
“I… finished my first draft,” you said. “Would you read it?”
Clark squeezed you playfully.
“Of course I’ll read it.”
You pulled back and finally dared to look at him and kiss him. Every feeling you’d been bottling up were finally being set free.
You pressed your foreheads together. “Would you stay the night?”
“Yeah.” He kissed you back and sighed. “I’ll stay the night.”
“… it’s so hot…”
“… I never thought something could be to sad and filthy at the same time…”
“… I just hope they can get their happy ending in the next book…”
You bit back a smile and tried to focus on the article you’d been working on since this morning.
The girls behind you were talking about your book, that was released two weeks ago and had recently hit the New York Times best sellers.
You were proud of it, and right after you handed the finished draft to your agent, you started working on a sequel, because your characters weren’t done loving each other, and deserved a happily ever after.
A copy of your book was placed next to your keyboard, and over it, Clark’s so familiar hand. A hand you’ve been holding at walks in the park for a few months now.
A Post-it note was glued to the cover:
SIGN ME?
You slapped your palm over it before anyone could see it and looked up at him.
“You already have a signed copy,” you whispered.
“It’s not for me. It’s for Ma.”
Your eyes widened. “Your mother?!”
You stood up and with your eyes, signaled him to follow you. You reached the small storage room by the emergency exit. The room you and he have claimed for yourselves whenever you wanted to kiss.
Some people at the Daily suspected you two, but you didn’t want to make it official just yet. No one had to know.
“You are not giving your mother this book,” you said as soon as he shut the door behind him. “She can’t read this, Clark, it’s porn!”
“Imagine how I felt when she told me she’d read a book about some Sierra Oz and how she heard she had released another not long ago.”
“Oh my god.” You covered your face with your palms and you peeked at him between your fingers. “She did not.”
“She’s a huge fan,” he laughed.
“I’m so sorry.” You looked up at him.
“I’d be mortified knowing my mother and her friends read these kinds of books, but knowing it’s yours… I think it makes me proud. She had good taste.”
“Stop it.”
Clark leaned and kissed you, and it soon turned heated. He cornered you against the wall and parted your legs with his knee.
“Come with me,” he said against your lips.
“Where?” You pulled back and scanned his face. He was planning something.
“To Smallville.” He kissed your cheek. “I want my parents to meet my girlfriend.”
“They already know me.”
“As my friend.”
You smiled. “They don’t know I’m your girlfriend now?”
“They know I have a girlfriend, but who she is is not something I want to tell them through a phone call.” He kissed you again. “I want to surprise them. They’re gonna be thrilled seeing you walk through their door.”
To think he wanted to bring you as a present to his parents made your heart soar. You adored the Kents, and you couldn’t wait to be part of the family someday.
“You think so?”
“Know so.” He kissed you once more. “They adore you. So? What do you say?”
“Okay, yeah. But Ma can’t know I’m… Sierra.”
“Of course not.” He bumped your noses together. “I’ll… have to pretend I have no idea who the book dedication is about.”
HELLO! If you reached the end, look at the book dedication! TEEHEEEE isn’t it so cute? I truly hope you enjoyed it! I loved writing it, and I loved writing Clark. This is my first story for him and very out of my comfort zone exploring new characters but here I am following the muse. I had so many alternative scenes for how I wanted them to fuck <33 but ultimately the one that made it here was my favorite. I didn’t want to extend the wait or else it would’ve turned tooooo angsty and I didn’t want them to suffer lols so I hope how it all unfolded is good!
Anywayyyy
This is a stand alone sorry BUT let me know if you’d like to see some blurbs about some things mentioned throughout the story like the time Clark called reader when Pa had a heart attack or the time they discovered she was a Krypto-whisperer or anything else you’d like to see from them!
I’d love to read your thoughts on it. Through comments or reblogs or asks. They’re are much appreciated.
thank you so much for reading 🫰💋
HERE’S THE PLAYLIST AND MOODBOARD IN CASE YOU MISSED IT IN THE BEGINNING OKAY BYE
Summary: Dick and Naomi are roommates and best friends since forever, what happens when sex pollen gets involved and secret feelings come to light.
Warnings: smut, angst, fluff, love confessions, roommates, best friends to lovers, sex pollen, vigilantes, past history, power dynamics, switch!oc, switch!Dick, multiple orgasms, dick is a boob guy, oral!m, oral!f, squirting, anal play, body worship, pussy whipped, pussy worship. cock worship, kitchen sex, banter, they are in love your honor, I'm in love with my character, morning after fluff.
Word count: 8k
A/N: I fucking suck at summaries. This is in the same universe as my story “Don’t call me baby” but now after a timeskip of ten years. This can be read as one shot also. Enjoy.
The basement was cold and damp. I could taste the mold every time I breathed in. Dust and dirt lined the concrete floor, the termite infested tables were cluttered with dirty vials and scattered paper, the lighting coming from the only window in the room was scarce, not enough to actually see what was written on them.
My fingers traced a trail of dust atop one of the glass beakers. “What was the experiment Batman wanted, again?”
“It’s a purple liquid,” Dick responded while doing his own perusing through the numerous vials displayed on one of the numerous shelves.
“That's it? a purple liquid? there’s like– ten different purple vials, Dick” I finally turn to question him.
“I don’t know, okay? that’s what he said,” He exclaimed, turning to look at me as well.
“And you didn’t think to ask him to be more descriptive?”
“I didn’t think there’d be this much purple shit here” He huffed in annoyance.
I scoff and return to my search for the mysterious purple liquid.”Dumbass”
He turned away from me, his expansive muscular back now graced my view, the spandex suit doing nothing to hide his incredible physique. In fact, maybe it was on purpose, the way he showed off his body, toned, big, muscular and towering over me now.
Dick changed so much over the years. He was always a handsome boy, that’s a fact, but now? No, Dick became a man. And not just any man, he was easily the most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes upon.
With his silky raven hair that turned wavy when it hit a certain length just long enough to brush his shoulders. And I would be the one to cut it for him every so often. Hey Kitten, can you cut my hair?, He always asked in that sheepish tone with that charming smile, his dimples would melt my heart and I never could refuse, not that I ever wanted to.
I rolled my eyes affectionately and gestured over to the chair, signaling for him to sit down while I went over to the bathroom to grab the haircutting scissors I had bought especially for him.
His piercing blue eyes that watched me so carefully, always assessing and dissecting my emotions. I always thought this was his superpower, he always seemed to know exactly what I needed just based on my body language. If I was cranky, he would bring me my favorite ice cream, if I was tired, he would carry me to our couch and lay me down comfortably then cover me with my favorite throw blanket, turning on a random documentary because he knew I liked to watch those to sleep.
His big veiny hands, which could deliver the most hurtful punches and hits, could also tenderly rub my feet after a long day or a rather exhausting night of patrolling. Those same hands that cooked my favorite dinner everyday without fail, even though everything he cooked somehow always became my favorite. The same hands that would caress my hair when my head was in the toilet after a rough night out drinking when we were younger.
His strong bulging arms that always enveloped me when I cried over his shoulder. That picked me up and tossed me on the couch to win in a tickle fight or whenever we would play fight. That served as my pillow on our movie nights. That kept me safe and wrapped around me during the nights when bad dreams kept me awake.
His gorgeous dimpled smile that greeted me every morning, already handing me my favorite tea prepared just the way I liked it. Those luscious lips that kissed my temple before we both headed out for work, wishing me a great day. His thunderous laugh has become my favorite melody over the years.
And the fact that all of those things were wrapped up in one perfect, charming, thoughtful, delicious package was something I loved so dearly. I loved everything about Dick Grayson, probably more than I should and that was my biggest problem. Because like it or not, we had lived as siblings back when Bruce took me in, two years before Dick left for San Francisco. I knew he liked me when I was still Catgirl, but that was before, he probably hasn't felt anything similar towards me for ten years, and the fact that i shut him down back then probably didn't help either. But he was a baby! How would I have known he would become such a hunk?
I must be paying for all of my past karma in this life.
“Did you find anything?” His voice came from over my shoulder, his face right next to mine, seemingly looking in the same direction I was. I jumped, startled, and accidentally dropped the vial I was mindlessly examining before he came up behind me.
“Fucking hell, Nightwing!” I quickly turned around and hit his chest which was eye level with me, “Don’t scare me like that!”
He chuckled, giving me that sweet baritone symphony, “Sorry Sphynx”
A strong unpleasant smell made its way up my nostrils, it settled uncomfortably in my lungs so that i had to cough it out, but it made no difference, the fumes were tickling my bronchioles. My coughing fit turned violent.
“Woah are you okay, Omi?” Dick’s voice was laced with desperation and concern, his hand gently placed on my back.
“Yeah” I croaked in between coughs. “This shit is strong,” after a few more attempts to clear my air ways of that foul stench, my breathing got less uncomfortable. “I’m fine, i’m fine”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, lets just find what we came for and get out of here” I try to stay nonchalant through the pain in the back of my lungs.
Eventually, we found the vial we were looking for. When we did, Dick was adamant we left that dingy basement as quickly as possible, just wanting to get us home so that I could shower and get any trace of that nasty fumes off my body. He was so thoughtful.
My body was overly aware of every single sensation around me, my hands felt clammy and trembling, I could hear my heart beat pumping in my ears, my breathing was shallow and a sheen of sweat was starting to form over my skin. But most importantly, my pussy was throbbing, and Dick’s presence was making me crazy.
As we crossed the threshold of our apartment, he started making his way over towards me. I knew he wanted to take care of me, hold me, make me my favorite tea with honey and kiss my head. So I pretend not to notice him coming closer and head straight to the bathroom adjacent to my room. I almost miss his confused expression before I close the door and lock it from the inside.
Now I take this opportunity to look in the mirror, I was as wrecked as I felt, my hair was mussed from all the times I ran my hands through it, my skin was red from heat, my pupils were dilated and I was extremely sweaty. My thoughts were the worst, if i closed my eyes now i could visualize his hands running down my sides, caressing my waist in that deliberately careful way, pawing my hips, kneading the flesh, pulling me flush against his front, his lips making his way from my jaw to the skin below my ear, mouthing at my neck and panting against me, his arms wind around my waist to keep me pressed against him.
My eyes snap open, I need a shower, a shower will help for sure, maybe distract my mind, rinse the sweat off.
A knock on the door brings me back to reality. “Is everything okay in there?” His voice sends a jolt through my core running up my spine, I have to bite my lips now to let out a moan threatening to come out. “Yeah, i’ll just take a shower” My eyebrows scrunch together at the wrecked sound of my voice.
It took him a few seconds to respond, his tone still unsure, “Okay, let me know if you're not feeling so well”
“Yep” I say through gritted teeth. I make sure to hear his footsteps walking away from the bathroom before I rip my clothes off my body, the sensation of anything touching my skin was too overwhelming.
I whimper as the cold water hits my scalding skin, soothing the heat when under the stream. My hair clung to my back and face, I closed my eyes and let out a satisfied sigh, it somehow helped, until a sharp pain twisted in my lower belly. I doubled over and braced myself against the shower wall with my forearms, a rather loud groan leaving my lips.
An impatient banging against the door rang through my ears. “Naomi!” I don’t reply, “ Let me in!”
“NO! Stay there” He quiets after my response, my shaky hands turns off the water and opens the shower’s glass door, then wraps the soft towel around my tender flesh, earning a whimper from my lips.
When I open the door, it’s like I get whiplash. He’s standing under the frame, his hand clutching the wood frame above his head, which gave me a delicious view of his biceps, chest and back muscles. His head was bowed, making his hair fall prettily over his perfect eyes, which looked troubled. I had to look up to meet them, my hand clutching the towel tighter.
His gaze softened upon looking down at me, his hands coming towards me to hold me by my biceps, “How are you feeling?” Upon his touch, my face scrunches up in what he mistakes for pain. “I’m sorry” He retreats his hands.
“It’s fine just– don’t touch me” I let out in a pained tone, still avoiding eye contact.
“Baby, what’s going on?” That nickname, one that held so much history, so much love he didn’t even realize. It clawed at my heart from the inside out.
“Don’t call me that,”
The look on his face was akin to one a child would wear when told they could not have dessert. “Why not? you always call me that,” He tried to argue with a soft teasing smile.
I closed my eyes, this was not making me feel any better whatsoever.
“Naomi,” His hand twitched at my side, but still did not touch me, “Let me help you”
The prospect of having him help me made a gush of arousal leak down my pussy onto my thighs, i had to bite my tongue to not let out a whimper, begging him to touch me, squeeze me, lick me, kiss me, fuck me, love me. My breathing shallowed, my heart skipped a beat and a shiver ran up my spine. I needed to relieve my need quick, before i lost all of the willpower i currently held onto as to not jump on him and ride his cock until i couldn’t feel my legs anymore, then beg him to fuck me until my brain stopped working and the only thing i could think about was Dick Dick Dick Dick.
“You can’t help me” I willed the words out of my mouth. Yes he could, if i just asked nicely, i’m sure he would do me this favour.
“You know i would do anything for you” That broke me out of the trance, my head suddenly clear on what i wanted.
My head raised to look into his eyes, the hand currently clutching the towel close to my chest dropped to my side, allowing the towel to fall to the floor. As if challenging him to really help me, exposing my needs and making my intentions clear.
His eyes widened slightly and dropped to my collarbone, but quickly made its way up to my face again, not allowing himself to look. “Naomi,” He said warningly.
“What? You would do anything for me wouldn’t you?” I take a step closer, my hands coming up to smooth over his broad chest, his hands clutching at his sides. “This is what I need help with,” I stood on my tippy toes to slowly lick up the expense of his neck to the underside of his jaw.
His eyes rolled back and closed upon feeling my body press up slightly against his, his hands now hovering over my hips, urging to grab and squeeze, I could hear the tiniest groan from the back of his throat.
“So,” My voice lost all traces of pain as I mouthed over his adam's apple, murmuring sultrily against his skin, “Are you going to help me, baby?”
The nickname seemed to snap him out of his daze, his hands finally grabbed my waist, but not to pull closer, to hold me back. His eyes opened and started down at me.
He groaned and dropped his forehead to rest against mine. I thought maybe he would kiss me or grab me, but he just stayed there until eventually I heard a sniffle.
I looked up to see Dick crying, his face was scrunched up in agony, his lips trembled, and tears streamed down his closed eyelids. This softened my demeanor, I brought my hands up to cup his cheek and rub his jaw affectionately. “Dick,”
He sniffled again, opening his eyes and looking deeply into mine, “Please don’t do this, Omi” His voice was wrecked, his throat willing the sobs at bay. “Don’t give me everything I've been yearning for, for the last ten years, if it’s not going to be real”
My world came crashing down, He loved me too. The man who cared for me every time I got sick, injured, heartbroken, tired. The man who made me feel like the most special and precious person in the universe. The man who laughed at all of my jokes and looked for me in every room. The man who was there for me during my darkest and hardest days. The man who brightened my whole world when it seemed as if there was no way out of the deep end. The love of my life loved me back.
My hands held his face to secure his eyes on mine, “It’s real” My lips crashed against his in a heap of passion and unspoken yearning. He finally pulled me flush against his body, his big hands kneading my hips while mine circled around his shoulders to pull him down towards my mouth. “It’s so fucking real, you have no idea” I gasp into his mouth and his lips follow mine as I speak.
He groans into my mouth as his hands come up my back to press my breasts against his chest, his palms slide over my skin to cup my torso, feeling up my ribs to the underside of my tits. The heat makes its presence known under my skin again, he lets out a pained moan upon touching me.
His lips reluctantly leave mine to kiss down my jaw to mouth and lick at my neck, my eyes roll back and my body becomes pliant under his hands, he has to position his knees between my legs in case my own knees give out. My hands clutching at his shoulders and sliding up to thread through his hair, tugging it slightly.
I gasped and whimpered into his ear, one of his hands came up to knead my tit, my whimpers turned louder, earning a moan of his own, “You have no idea,” He mumbled through kisses and lovebites, “For how long and how much I've fantasized about this,” His teeth bit my lower lip and pulled, while his hands squeezed my flesh, “Wanted you”, his hands grabbed my waist and hoisted me up, my legs wrapped around his waist and my lips came crashing down on his, licking up into his mouth, “How much i’ve craved you” one of his hands made its way up the expanse of my back to cup the back of my neck, “Ached to have you” my hand tugged his hair, tilting his head back a little bit to leave my own marks down his neck, his mouth fell open with a gasp, “To touch you” his other hand grabbed my thigh hard enough to leave bruises. “To make you mine, at last”
“Then do it” I whispered in his ear, “Make me yours”
That seemed to snap something within him, his eyes found mine, his pupils were engulfing his iris’, a wicked smile graced his face, “Oh, i will”
He shouldered the door to his room open, crossing over to his bed in three strides, then he threw me on the mattress with enough force to make me bounce a couple times. His hand reached behind him to tug his shirt off over his head, tossing it across the room, all while keeping his eyes on me.
My chest heaved in anticipation, his upper body exposed to me, and now I was allowed to admire, to touch, to have. The high I was on was indescribable. My hands went from my tits to reach for him as he made his way down towards me. Both of us sighing in relief as our skin made contact, this sensation was better than any orgasm from most of my past lovers.
Our arms wind around the others’ body, my whimpering turned desperate as his mouth found mine, this kiss wasn’t any less passionate, but slower. “I need you, Dick”
His mouth made its way down my jaw and neck, “I know, beautiful” He mouthed over my collarbone, “Just lay back and let me love you”
He was everywhere, his hands, his body, his skin, his mouth. He kissed down my chest, sucking and licking on the flesh of my tits, his hand gently squeezing the other and alternating to give them equal love. His eyebrows were scrunched up and his eyes were glued on my face, between every suck he moaned deliciously against my skin.
My hands came up to pet his hair and caress his cheekbone, “Please baby” He moaned against my skin.
“Say that again” He closed his mouth over my nipple and flicked his tongue over the perky bud. I moaned and gripped his hair, my hips bucked mindlessly against nothing as his abs hovered above my naked wet pussy.
“Please baby, I need you so bad” I whimpered pathetically.
His head rose to look me in my eyes, a nasty grin on his face, his eyes dripping with lust, “Yeah? Is my baby needy today, hmm?”
“So much” I pout and try to push his head lower, he grabs my wrist to pin them over my head.
“No baby” He groans over my lips, “You denied me this body for so long, now it's my time to savour it,” His tongue licks my nose and blows after.
His head diving to suck on my tits again, the moan that left my mouth seemed to please him if the humming against my skin was any indicator. His big hands circled my waist completely, his lips descended my navel, leaving a wet trail of kisses and licks. He worshiped my body like it was a sacred altar he was ready to devote his life on.
Upon reaching my pussy, he refrained from diving mouth first, taking a deep breath through his nose, his eyes rolled back and the groan that left his throat was nothing short of pornographic. His hands – that were holding my legs apart – were shaking. He kept going down my body to my feet, he placed them over his chest and kissed my ankles reverently.
His hands kneaded my calves and his lips left kisses in their wake. When he was finally face level with my pussy, he let out a shaky breath as he laid down on the bed, not once taking his eyes off my dripping cunt. Like it was the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.
His shaking hands came up to pinch my lips together, and I squirmed at the contact, my hands coming up to pinch and squeeze at my nipples, but he was hypnotized by my pussy. “This pussy–” He breathed me in, his words making a hot gust of air tickle my clit, “The nights I've spent awake dreaming of her–” His finger traced lightly over my dripping slit. “Of tasting” His finger now entered his mouth, he moaned at the taste of my juices. “Fuck”
His blue eyes were completely black while staring fixedly at me. “You like it baby?” I wiggled my hips in front of him.
He growled and gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, “So fucking much,” His tongue poking out daringly to sneak just a little taste, but after he made contact he became animalistic.
Dick’s strong arms pulled me closer so fast I squeaked in surprise and then moaned in pleasure, for his mouth had dived impossibly deep into my cunt. The moan he let out was as if he himself was getting off. “My god” he mumbled, mouth full of pussy.
He chuckled, shaking his head against my core, “Baby, you don’t know what you’ve done” his mumbled voice came from between my thighs while his tongue tried to lap up every single drop of my juices. “Imma need to eat this pussy for breakfast, lunch and dinner from now on”
I giggled between moans and grinded my hips against his face, “Eat this pussy, baby. She's all yours”
His palm came down hard against the side of my thigh, “Damn right she is, she’s always been mine.” Blue eyes lifting to look into mine. “Say it, Naomi. Say you’ve always been mine”
My eyes soften and my hands thread through his raven locks, “I have always been yours, Dick”
A big hand enveloped mine, his fingers lacing with mine before he dove right back onto me. Dick was a man who valued precision, perfecting techniques and even had a touch of perfectionism in everything he did. But when he ate my pussy– he was hungry, desperate, his control had long been lost and given to me the moment I opened the bathroom door. I loved that I managed to make him like this, to make him abandon every thread of his personality in favour of his desire for me.
The noises he made were filthy, between licking, slurping, moaning and breathing heavily. Music to my ears. He worshiped me like no one else dared to do, his hands squeezing and soothing the flesh of my hips and ass, like a cat kneading dough, while he breathed through his nose and busied his tongue with the task of licking my clit and entering my pulsing hole, going back and forth, like his main focus was on playing with me and not to make me cum as fast as possible. He was taking his time and eating me like a full course meal.
The pleasure hit me like a train and it kept building, and building, and building until the only thought in my mind was “more”. He doubled his efforts, shaking his head from side to side, the neighbours would definitely file a noise complaint today. “Fuck fuck fuck, i’m cumming Dick, fuuuuck-” My hips tilted up and my whole body convulsed, my eyes rolled to the back of my skull and my jaw dropped open. If a priest saw me, he would for sure order an exorcism.
“Fuck yeah, give it to me” He introduced to fingers into my pulsing, swollen pussy. Plunging into me with an extreme speed and hooking up to stimulate my urethra. “Give it to me baby”
The scream that left my throat was unmatched in all of my sexual experiences. A familiar sensation building in my lower belly as I let go. “DICK!” Was the only thing I could say as my juices squirted all over his upper body and the sheets below.
“Yeeeeess” He groaned and dove back down to lick me up again, my hand came down to push him away from overstimulation. Dick just batted my hands away and pulled me closer, hooking his biceps around my thighs and over my tummy.
It must’ve been a total of five seconds until i was orgasming again, my brain had already turned to mush, completely fucked dumb and i hadn’t even been fucked yet. He only let up when my whimpers turned to tiny sobs and my hands weekly pushed him away.
Dick climbed up my body, his arm wrapping around my middle and pulling me closer into his chest, his hand petting my hair and the other stroking up and down my spine, “Shhh baby, you did so well” He kissed my hairline and continued peppering kisses all over my head, “Best pussy I’ve ever had”
“You haven’t even fucked me yet” I croaked out.
He laughed, “Didn’t need to, you’re already the best fuck of my life” Dick softly kissed my lips, his face tasted like me, and somehow my neediness came back twofold. I returned the kiss hungrily, my nails scratching down his pecs.
He hissed and twitched in my arms. “Let me prove you right then”, I pushed him to lay down on the bed, straddling his hips, my hands bracing on his chest for support.
“You sure baby?” I don’t answer the question, instead i lick up his lips and blow after. Regaining my strength a bit, I slowly lower myself down his body.
Never once letting my eyes leave his, my mouth makes its way down his perfectly sculpted body. His eyebrows scrunch together in an expression that could only be described as a whimpering puppy, his hips did little involuntary jolts the more i went down.
My tongue traced the dips on his abs, one by one, tracing the muscles, the v line above his hips, kissing his dewy skin, his happy trail, his hipbones. Who would’ve thought the man that gave me the orgasms of my life would be a whimpering mess below me not even ten minutes later?
“Please baby”
My face was finally in front of his twitching erection, watching him leak and twitch beneath his pants. I lower my head to lie on his thigh, my face right next to his cock. “Aw baby, need something?” My manicured finger tracing up and down his clothed length, he simply closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and whimpered.
“Yes, please”
“Hmmm, tell me what you need, honey” I kissed him through the cloth oh so softly.
“Need you– need you to touch me, please kitty” Dick tilted his chin down to look at me, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of my face, a wicked expression, cuddling up to his throbbing cock. “Fuck Naomi, i’m begging”
I laughed meanly, “Oh, begging now, are we?”
He dropped his head back on the pillow and let out a whiny sob; his dick twitched next to my cheek.
“Poor baby, let me help you out, yeah?” My hands bring his pants and boxers down his legs, then throw the clothes unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Mmhmm, please” He whined, but that wasn’t what caught my attention, rather the delicious secret he’s been keeping from me all these years between his legs.
Dick’s cock wasn’t just big, he was thick, the tip an angry red, leaking and twitching, he was rock hard and you could see the vein on the underside that trailed up to his head pulsing thick hot blood into this delicious package, it made my mouth water. I needed to choke on it, to suck and slobber on it like a messy slut, gag and gasp for air, drench it in spit and precum.
I laid back down between his legs, making myself comfortable before getting a good grip around the base and going in for a wide lick over his achy sensitive tip, he hissed at the stimulation and i hummed in appreciation, “Hmmm, so delicious baby”
I decided to leave the teasing for another time, right now I needed this just as much as he did, to feel how he stretched my mouth out and lose myself in the feeling of being gagged by his impossibly large cock.
I brace my free hand over his hip and sink down in one go, relaxing my throat to fully engulf him at once, until my nose touches the rough patch of trimmed hairs at his base. Pulling back up to gasp a breath of air, his dick now coated in a sheen of saliva.
“Fuck, Omi! A warning!” His hands shot down to cradle the sides of my face, his wild eyes searching for any reluctance on mine. “Do it again, please?”
My smile turns wicked as I duck back down, now with his hands guiding the pace of my bobs. Dick's moans served as a metric on the little things that made him feel better than others. Like for example, his breath did a whiny catch whenever I would pull back and suck around his tip, only to dive back down and rub it against the roof of my mouth while my tongue applied pressure to his underside.
My hand traveled from his hip to his balls, cupping and massaging them in tandem with the pace he set while guiding my head. My index finger sneaked down to stimulate his perineum, he screamed.
“Goddamn Naomi, I'm gonna cum. Stop! Stop.”
Only I don't stop. His pleas only fueling me to go faster and deeper, deep throating him once more, sputtering spit all over his thighs and my face, down my neck and tits. My eyes watered and my throat constricted around him, gags and choking sounds were bouncing off the walls along with his desperate moans and curses of my name.
“Naomi– fuck, please baby– such a delicious little mouth, so greedy for me, huh princess? You wanna choke on your baby's cock? Take it, fucking take it baby” He held my head steady as he came down my throat.
When he finally let up, I surged off his dick gasping for air and choking on cum, he bolted forward and wrapped his arms around me, cradling my body to his chest, smoothing a hand through my hair while his hand grabbed the sheet next to him to wipe my face and chest clean. He shushed me and whispered sweet nothings in my ear, kissing my temple while rocking me slightly.
“Thank you, thank you. You have no idea what you mean to me, you did so well, so perfect, everything you do is perfect” he continued to pepper kisses all over my face.
I giggled and turned to hide my face on his sweaty chest, his hands grabbed my face by my cheeks and smushed them together, he then kissed my puckered lips over and over. “You want anything baby? Tea? Honey? Ice cream?”
“I want water” my voice croaks out raspy and broken.
He gives me a final kiss on my cheek and picks me up, I wrap my legs around his torso and my arms over his shoulder, my face buried in his neck. His big hands placed on my ass to hold me up, although I wasn't really necessary, since I latched onto him like a koala.
He brought us to the kitchen and opened the fridge to take out a bottle of water for me, opened the cap and handed me the bottle, I greedily chugged it down, then tossed the plastic on the trash bin.
Now, with my forearms over his shoulders, my nails trailed gently over his back, going up and down in a soothing way. He leaned on the kitchen island, closed his eyes in delight and his thumbs stroked my skin where they laid on my ass.
My lips found their way to his face, peppering small kisses all over his handsome features. Over his eyelids, his nose, his forehead, temples, his cheekbones, his chin, his jawline, his lips.
Below me I could feel how his hard cock settled against my soaking pussy, I contained my need to grind down against him, all in good time.
Then I trailed down the side of his neck, my hands coming forward to cup his cheeks while I took my time worshipping his skin, he hugged me closer and sighed.
“I love you” Dick whispers into my ear, his big arms circling around my back and pulling me impossibly closer, as if our bodies could melt together.
I chuckled against him, my hand coming down to scratch the skin of the scalp on the back of his neck. “And now you can have all for yourself”
I suck another love bite right below his left collarbone, near his heart. “How do you feel about that?”
“Like it's my birthday,” He laughs.
“Hmm, well let me give you your present then.”
“Another one?”
“Mhmm” My lips found his in a slow sensual kiss.
“And what would that be?” His voice was seductive against my mouth.
“Put it in, I want to ride you.” My nails scratched down his pecs.
He chuckled against my lips, “You're insatiable.”
“Don't complain.”
“Baby, I would never complain about you.”
“Oh, I remember one time when you complained to Donna about how I, and I quote, ‘Always got drunk and behaved like a messy slut’.” I lifted my head to look him in the eyes.
“Okay, I was a dumb 21 year old, and do I really need to spell out that I was jealous you were being a slut with other people instead of me?” He looked at me in a teasing manner.
“All these years wanting me, how embarrassing.” I tease back.
“I’m this close to shutting your mouth with my dick again.” His right hand came up to show me his pinched fingers, signaling his remaining patience.
“Or you could simply do what the woman you've loved your whole teenage and adult life for has been begging you to do, which is: put your fucking dick inside me so I can ride your soul out in our kitchen.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm gonna put a ring on your finger.” He smirked.
“Richard!” I urge him to just do what I said already.
“Alright! Damn, so impatient.” He tutted at me in mock disapproval with a shit eating grin.
He reached his hand down from my ass to his cock, rubbing his tip back and forth over my slit, his top teeth burying themselves on his bottom lip, he spent a couple seconds just rubbing back and forth until eventually his tip caught in my entrance, I put some distance between our bodies and placed my hands on his shoulders for leverage, then sank down, swallowing his cock inch by inch.
Our mouths parted at the same time in silent moans, and came crashing on each other. He kissed into me sweetly, his hand at the back of my head while the other held me by my thigh.
I began bouncing at a slow pace, up and down, our foreheads rested together, our eyes locked on each other, our breaths mingling and becoming one. My fingers, which were gripping his trapeze muscles, left dents on his skin and I hoped I would mark up his body as he started doing to mine, I could feel bruises forming on my thighs and ass, and I loved it.
He captured my lips in a passionate kiss, licking into my mouth, our tongues danced together while our lips met periodically in a loving sensual collision. His strong arms started lifting me up and down onto his cock, using me like a fucktoy, speeding up and hammering into me.
I broke the kiss, I couldn't concentrate anymore with the way he was pistoning in and out of my already puffy fucked out pussy. My head fell onto his shoulder, and my moans flowed freely right below his ear. That made him become animalistic, the groan he let out was more like a growl when he hoisted me up just a bit and his hips started rutting into me like a wild animal.
“FUCKING SHIT” I groan through gritted teeth. My head fell back, my hands holding onto him by the back of his neck.
Now that my tits were in the perfect position right in his face, Dick wasted no time in mouthing at my soft flesh like a desperate starved out man.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Dick, keep going, keep fucking me good baby” My fingers weaved through his hair and tugged harshly, his hips faltered and he let out a rather loud moan.
I felt my fourth orgasm hit like a truck. My eyes rolled back and my ears were ringing, I couldn't discern the volume of my moans anymore, though I imagine they would piss off the neighbours.
The next thing I know Dick is throwing me on the bed again, when did we move to my bedroom?
Although he doesn't plunge back into me, kneels on the floor and yanks me forward to hang off the edge. His mouth instantly attacks my pussy again, making me cry out from oversensitivity. My hands shoot down to scoot his head away from my overused pussy, but he simply groans and grabs my weak wrists with one hand, the other arm pinned my hips down so he could enjoy his meal.
“Your cum is my new favorite dessert baby. This pussy could feed me for the whole day and I'd be satisfied.”
My brain couldn't form words anymore, just incoherent mumbles, whines and moans.
He spits on my clit and goes back for more, his fingers sneak down to test the waters and further provide me more pleasure than his tongue already was.
Only now he didn't settle for my pussy, his ring finger massaged my other hole. My body seized up and my thighs clenched around his head, this only spurred him on. His finger entered my hole until the first knuckle slowly tested going in and out.
My breathing was coming in and out I'm short puffs while I felt another orgasm building up, my eyelids scrunched together and my back arched up, my mouth opened in a silent scream while Dick only continued his actions, now lapping up more of my juices drooling out of my pussy.
After he had his fill, he climbed up my body again, maneuvering my legs to rest on each side of his hips. His hands softly caressing my face and pulling my hair gently into a makeshift ponytail while he softly blew cool air on my neck to bring down some of the heat radiating off my skin.
“Are you okay, beautiful?”
I could only nod in affirmation as my breathing tried to settle back to normal.
“Do you want to stop?”
I shook my head no, he huffed out a laugh and bowed his head to litter gentle nibbles on the skin of my neck.
With more effort than it would usually take, I bring my hands up to cradle his head, caressing his scalp and the back of his neck. He hummed happily at my touch, I placed both my hands on his jaw and pulled him up to face me.
With his searching eyes now boring into my soul, I finally say what I needed to say for years. “I love you” His face softened and scrunched up as if he wanted to cry but was holding back. “I have been in love with you for years, ever since I came to Blüdhaven. It's been torture living under the same roof, but then again, it's the best thing that ever happened to me, you are the greatest thing that ever came into my life and I'm so grateful to have you love me back.”
His tears were now dripping down his face and onto my cheeks, he laughed wetly and brought his lips down to gently kiss me. This kiss was different, it wasn't filled with lust and want, but rather love and relief.
“You have no idea how much I dreamed you would say those words to me.” His eyes glittered with happiness, his smile was as blinding as the sun. I don't think I've ever seen him this happy, and it made me just as giddy.
“I love you” I gave him a sweet kiss on his forehead , “I love you”, now on his nose, “I love you”, his eyelids, “I love you”, his cheeks ”I love you”, finally I reached his lips.
They were salty from the tears and stretched wide from his never ending smile. He sighed into my mouth, the kind of sigh a lovesick teenage girl would let out, and it made me giggle into the kiss, our teeth touched from how much we were smiling.
“Promise me you'll be mine forever”. He looked deep into my eyes, “That we will have this for the rest of our lives”.
I could feel his heartbeat running wild from his ribcage where his chest met mine. I lower my hand to place it atop his left pec, bringing his to my chest. “I will never be anyone else's”
He dropped his head to leave kisses on my cleavage. “What did I do to deserve you?”
I chuckle, “I could tell you another time, but right now I think you should make love to me.”
“Make love?” His eyes held a mischievous glint and he snorted.
“Shut the fuck up and fuck me, or I will throw you off this bed” I glared at him back.
“Now that's more like you” He laughed and lined himself up against my still swollen pussy.
When he entered me again, suddenly the giggleshit lost his humor.
He let out a shaky exhale while I whimpered. Then he started at a slow, precise pace. He grabbed my thighs and held them higher on his waist so that he would go deeper.
Our moans weren't desperate anymore, but satisfied. This wasn't a lustful moment, but a sensual one full of love and affection hidden for years.
His lips found mine and I could feel his devotion spilling from his every pore onto me. His hands were soft in their touch all over my face and body, his movements were reverent in their intentions, his kisses were sensual and his thrusts were worshiping my very soul.
He was giving his all to me in that moment, his body, his heart, his mind and his spirit. Handing it to me on a silver platter to do as I wished, and I wished nothing more than to love and cherish this man everyday we might share in this life.
It was not long before I reached my nth and last orgasm of the night, this one wasn't as intense, but it felt as if my soul had transcended out of my body, my heart filled beyond measure.
His was quick to follow, his moans and groans flowed down his lips where he laid his head on my shoulder, and his hands clutched my waist reverently as he spilled his cum deep inside me. A lazy smile appeared on my face and my eyes closed in exhaustion.
I couldn't see how he pulled himself up and kissed down my body, pulling out in the process, to watch his cum spill out of my hole. He then gave me a kiss on my clit and hopped off to grab a washcloth from the bathroom.
He swiped my slit clean, and although it overstimulated me, I was too tired to protest the touching. He went back and rinsed the cloth off, hanging it up to dry.
He gently pulled some clean panties up my thighs and over my hips, following suit with his boxers and laying down next to me. He maneuvered me onto my side and spooned me, covering us both up with my comforter. He kissed my hairline and settled his face in the crook of my neck.
“Sleep tight, beautiful. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
–
The sun fitted through the blinds and shone uncomfortably on my eyelids. I took a deep breath and stretched my limbs to shake out the sleepiness in my muscles, only to find my movements restrained by a pair of arms holding me close like I was a stuffed plushie.
A huge smile lit up my face as I remembered whose arms those were and why he was on my bed.
“Go back to sleep, it's too early.” He mumbled, his voice muffled by my hair.
I try moving as best I can to face him, now laying directly in front of him in all his morning glory. My arms wrapped around him and we just stayed there hugging each other, my chin propped up on his pec. “Good morning, handsome”
His face split into a grin similar to mine, his hands coming up to sweep the hair off my face and shoulders. “Am I still dreaming?”
I reach up to kiss the tip of his nose, then his jaw. “If you are, then we're having the same dream.”
He suddenly lunges forward taking me with him in his arms. He sits up and lays me on his lap, leans down and starts to litter my face with kisses while he smushes my cheeks together.
I shriek and giggle, my hands only pretending to push him away. If I really wanted to, I would.
He continues to smother me in kisses and make those obnoxious smooching sounds. “Mine, my girl, my baby, my woman, you're mine, only mine”
My belly was hurting from laughing so much, and my cheeks were straining. “Dick, let me go!!”
“Never!” He lifts his face up just enough to look into my eyes. “Today is sunday”
I gasp in joy, “Movie Sunday!!”
“Mhmm” He gives my lips a quick kiss.
“Well, since you decided to give me the best night of my life yesterday. I guess I could let you choose the movie.” I say as if I was reluctantly giving him a precious heirloom.
His eyes glint mischievously, then his expression shifts to mock contemplation, he brings his pointer finger up to tap his chin comically. “Mmm, I think maybe I'll pick…. Ooh! Death Becomes Her.” He looks at me like the cat who caught the canary.
My face softens and another smile splits my lips. “I love you”
He ducks down to kiss me again. “I'll never get tired of you saying that” He whispered above me.
“I know, that's what makes it so satisfying”
Instead of giving me a come back his eyes just raked shamelessly over my naked torso and legs, “Hmm so satisfying” his hands ran up and down my body, as if he was mapping out my curves.
I flip over and straddle his lap, my hands settling on his chest, while his were on my hips. Soft, lazy kisses were shared between us.
My nails raked over this skin and I looked down to see the extent of our escapades from last night on his body. Lo and behold, his skin was all red streaked from my nails and purple bloomed all across his shoulders, biceps, and chest, and that's because I hadn't even seen the state of his back.
My fingers grabbed his face by his jaw, my lips briefly meeting his. “You look so pretty, all marked up baby” I ground my hips down onto his bulge.
“You do too.”
I stop and pull back to look down, my body was worse than his. Finger marks on my hips, waist, the amount of hickeys in my tits were beyond measure, my thighs were littered in purple love bites, I was lucky I couldn't see my neck.
“Richard!!!”
He chuckled and used his big arms to wrap around my waist, pulling me in by my lower back with his forearms. His head ducked down to kiss at my cleavage, I could feel his sharp canines press against my flesh. I sighed and brought my hands up to cradle his head against my chest.
“Oops” His voice was muffled by my skin, I swatted his shoulder and he chuckled.
Summary: When patrolling the streets of Gotham late at night, Dick meets a mysterious girl who turns his world upside down. Now we get a look inside that girl's mind.
I'm shaking, and they break in trynna save the Dogg.
The beat thrums in my ears, the melody spreading through my veins, the lyrics buzzing in my brain, my fingers tapping along the tempo, my feet swinging back and forth as I sit on the ledge.
There was no need to go out tonight; Selina would perform a minor heist downtown. She told me to stay put, but the apartment was too stuffy and my allergies were picking up again. I had to go to the pharmacy to get my meds.
Also, I kind of wanted to see my friend…
No. Not a friend. Selina said never to make friends. Don't trust anyone, kitty. In this life, you'll only have yourself.
This went down the drain the second she took me in, though, because I trusted her. Better than I've ever trusted anyone before. Which was a problem, because if anyone knew Catwoman, they knew she wasn't trustworthy.
I didn't care, she was there for me, she took me in, taught me how to survive, how to put myself first, how to navigate the dark river that was the streets of Gotham without drowning.
I trusted her. Maybe more than I should.
“Bring your lifestyle to me, I'll make it better,” I muttered the lyrics under my breath. “How long will I live? - Eternal life and forever.”
I twisted the wire of the ear buds over and under my fingers while I looked up at the full moon.
My stomach rumbled and twisted in a dull ache. When was my last meal? I don't remember, maybe yesterday, maybe the day before.
It's not that we were short on food; I just learned to live on an empty stomach. It's easy to forget to eat when you grow up without food being a certainty, but rather a luxury.
“I'll make your life better than you can imagine or ever dream of,” I continue singing quietly into the night, my hand clutching my phone.
The one Selina gave me. A last-generation iPhone. I got you a present, kitty! Close your eyes.
I loved the presents, the clothes, the watches, the jewels, the shoes, the makeup, the books.
I wish she would let me go to school. School is for dummies, kitten; no actual life skill is learned in school. Trust me, you would be wasting your time.
And I trusted her. With my life.
“So relax your soul, let me take control. Close your eyes, son. My eyes are closed,” the lyrics flowed on my tongue.
“Murder…” I sing the chorus. “Murder was the case that they gave me.”
Suddenly, a body drops to sit beside me. I don't jump, of course I don't, why would I? I felt his presence since the second verse of the song.
“Whatcha got there?”
“Huh?” I take the bud out of the ear closest to him.
“I said, whatcha got there?” He repeats himself with a grin, the eyes of his domino mask squinting over his smile.
I don't say anything as I nudge my hand that's holding the bud over to him, he acknowledged my gesture and grabbed it to introduce it in his ear.
He listened to my music for a few seconds, bopping his head to the beat, his feet bouncing to the rhythm, one leg up on the ledge while his arm rested atop his knee. He seemed to really be paying attention.
“You listen to Snoop Dogg?” He seemed surprised.
“You don't?” I ask incredulously.
“I can't say I'm too familiar, no.” He chuckled and leaned closer. I could tell he did it subconsciously through the way his hand twitched away from mine a second too late, but ultimately kept it there.
I smile, seeing an opportunity to showcase my amazing music taste to someone other than Selina's cats. “Ooh, imma put you onto some good shit, baby bird.”
–
The walk home was quiet, as quiet as Gotham can be at four in the morning, so your usual background noise– screams, sirens, yelling, glass breaking, cats yowling – nothing out of the ordinary.
The teenage girl working at the pharmacy almost had a stroke when I walked in – full suit on,-- to buy some allergy medicine, her hands in the air. Take everything you want. I left with two boxes of Allegra, some chewing gum, and 30 dollars shorter than I was when I came in.
I never stole from small businesses. They were usually family-owned and would take the loss directly into their pockets if I took something, as small as it may be, sometimes every cent counts to put food on the table.
I remember very well how hard it was to make enough for a full meal. No kid should ever have to go through that, and if I have the option to, I won't ever let that happen to a kid I may cross paths with.
So, of course, I pay for the medicine. The cashier girl’s little sister, Emma, just got started in her ballet lessons; they're expensive, too. The tutu, the tights, the shoes, all of it took a toll on their earnings for this month. But I was happy to see they had lasagna for dinner today.
My keys jingled as I found the right one to unlock the front door with, shouldering through it. Damn it, it always got stuck. Trying not to make so much noise that it alerts the neighbours. They could be pretty angry when someone came in the late hours of the night, opting to yell obscenities. Keep it down, mutherfucker. And that would wake the other neighbours. Shut up, you fucking bitch. They would keep on parroting each other for a good 20 minutes. And nobody wanted that.
Pudding came straight to rub herself around my ankles, purring rather loudly and flopping on the floor in front of me.
“Hey, baby girl, are you hungry?” I smiled and closed the door, making sure to lock the main one and the three deadbolts installed as well.
I drop my keys and plastic bag with my medicine on the counter, then drop to my knees to rub between Pudding’s ears, her head bumping against my hand. “Such a good girl.”
At the sound of my voice, Casper and Billy came to greet me, too. “Oh my goodness, what is this? A council reunion?”
The three cats started circling me like sharks to their prey, meowing and begging for some breakfast. “Guess you're just hungry, huh?”
I stand up and make my way towards their food cabinet, taking out their washed bowls from the drying rack near the sink.
“Where were you?” A voice called from the reclining chair in the corner of the living room.
“I was out getting my medicine.” I didn't stop my mission of feeding the cats. Selina didn't startle me; she moved smoothly like a cat. But then again, so did I.
“You spent six hours getting medicine from the corner pharmacy?” She knew where I liked to shop. Damn it.
“I was out watching the night.” I partially omitted the truth.
“Kitty, don't lie to me. You know I won't be mad, whatever it is.” Her voice was behind me, her manicured fingers kneaded my tense trapeze muscles. Her other hand petted my hair.
“I was out with Robin,” I confessed.
“Oh?” Her face split into a smirk. “Are you involved with Bird Boy, now? Like mother, like daughter, I guess.” She shrugged, her expression was clearly amused.
“First of all. Gross, he's a kid. Second of all, you're not my mother.” I weave through her to set the bowls down for the cats, a chorus of meows following me until I set them on the floor.
“Potato, potahto.” She rolled her eyes. Her hands stilled me by my shoulders to stay facing her. Her right hand came up to caress my cheek and down to scratch under my chin, as if I were a cat. I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch.
“You're so precious, my kitty. Remember to take care of yourself, don't trust anyone.” Her right hand left my jaw to point a scrutinizing finger in my face.
“Yes, I know,” I rolled my eyes and peeled myself away from her touch. “It wasn't as if I asked to meet up; he just showed up on the rooftop I was at. Maybe he's stalking me, I don't know.”
I paused as the words left my mouth. “You don't think he's…”
Before I could finish my sentence, she eased my worries. “Don't worry your pretty little head, kitty. Mama can handle the big bad bat.”
“Are you sure? What if they're using me to get to-”
“Nobody is going to use you for anything, and if they do, it'll be the last thing they'll ever think about doing.” She cut me off again. “I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again, kitty. You hear me?”
I took a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. Just like she taught me. It helps with the panic, kitty. “Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
–
Music blasted through my earbuds as I walked down the sidewalk. The sun was shining, the air had an almost pleasant smell, and if you tried smiling hard enough, eventually one stranger would give you a half-grin back – though no one could tell for sure if it had been with malicious intent or not. One could say it was the best day Gotham had seen in months.
It was exactly why I had been out, that and I had recently finished the library’s old beat-down copy of Brothers Karamazov, so naturally I wanted to go down there and pick out another piece. It was a good day.
Selina had been out for the night, said the club owner had noticed she was slacking off more than clocking in. I tried arguing that I could get a job at the club to cut her some slack, but she immediately shut me down without so much as a second thought. Are you crazy, Naomi? That club is no place for a child.
I remember thinking that I wasn't a child. I don't remember ever being a child; ever since I came into existence, I had responsibilities, people to care for, and ways I needed to figure out how to put food on our table. I remember watching the kids my age play and have fun through the school fence they had in our neighborhood, passing by on my way to beg for change near the restaurants. I don't remember getting toys, or having play dates, or getting to keep my innocence.
I was never a child.
But those days are over. Life is much better now.
I may not have toys, or stuffed animals, or dolls, or bows.
But I have gold and silver jewelry with all kinds of precious stones. Designer bags with crocodile and snake leather. Designer clothes that make my body look amazing. Shoes that elongate my legs and make me look dangerous. Expensive makeup to highlight your pretty features, kitty. And money, a lot of money.
Life is so much better now that I'm rich.
Today I opted for a simple outfit. A short denim skirt with a belt hugging my hips, a black fitted tank, slightly cropped, showing my belly button piercing, – That Selina paid for me to get when I turned sixteen – my black leather boots, my diesel purse - That was currently holding my lip gloss, phone, house keys, library card, some cash, and of course my throwing knife. – My cool new Balenciaga sunglasses, and of course, my gold jewellery.
Like I said, simple.
The library was empty by the time I got there, it was still nine in the morning, but something tells me Gothamites aren't too keen on reading, and the ones that do have the time and want for it, usually don't attend the rundown, almost falling apart, public library.
“Hey Beth!” I greet the 40-year-old woman at the desk. The librarian wore a grey cardigan full of loose threads, crooked glasses, and a purple blouse that had seen better days. I liked Beth a lot; she had a motherly aura that not many people have, and she smelled of lemon balm.
“Hi, sweet girl,” She greeted me back with a blinding smile that always warms my heart. “Did you finish it already?”
“You know it.” I laugh, trying to build banter.
“Well, you returned it with two days to spare. Missed the fee by a thread.” She teasingly scolded me.
“Phew,” I wiped the nonexistent sweat off my forehead. “I have to always be this careful, then, wouldn't want to have to pay 2 dollars to the public library of Gotham. How scandalous.”
She chuckled and shook her head affectionately. “Go! I know you want to pick out the next one.”
“Thank you, you're the best,” I tapped her table twice before turning around to find my favorite section. The classics.
I started browsing through the moldy old books; the pages were all yellow, and the spines of some were crumbling. These books had been well loved, or well degraded, by many people over the course of many years. I feel lucky to be one of them.
I taught myself how to read. Sometimes when my mother passed out on the couch, I managed to get the remote from her dirty fingers and change the channel to the kids' educational one. I memorized the number and at what time Sesame Street would be on, and I used to shuffle through some old magazines, trying to match the letters on the screen to the ones on the page. Eventually, I learned to write using some napkins and a pencil stump I had found on the road. Well, maybe Elmo taught me how to read.
I browsed through enough books to find the one I had been looking for. War and peace. This copy was on the more kept side of them all, not as worn and not as moldy, perfect. Maybe it's because not many people dare to pick out War and Peace for the short period of two weeks. But come on, people, just extend the period, duh. I wiped my hand over the cover to remove any dust and trotted towards the counter, Beth was still sitting behind, a huge smile on my face.
Her head lifted up, and she eyed the copy in my hand, lifting a curious eyebrow. “War and Peace? How come you have time to read these classics in such a short time? Doesn't school drain you? My son is always complaining about the curriculum these days.”
I try to school my expression to not showcase the shame I felt at that comment. “Oh, it's not that hard, school is rather easy, I think.”
“You're a little genius. Say, my son has seen you coming in and out at times, and he developed this cute little crush, would you mind giving him your number?” She leaned in as if we were two teenagers engaged in gossip.
“Oh.” My eyebrows shot up. Her son was cute. “Sure, here,” I scribbled my number on a piece of paper she had lying around. “Look at you playing matchmaker. Maybe I'll be your future daughter-in-law, huh?” I teased with a coy smile on my face. I wasn't, though. But it doesn't hurt to give people good expectations.
“Bye, sweetie.” She said with a smile.
“Bye bye, Beth!” I said as I walked backwards towards the door, dropping my sunglasses to the bridge of my nose when I reached the outside.
–
Again, I was out on my favorite roof. It was my favorite part of the day, the quiet, the dark night sky, the crisp breeze up high in the air. It could almost be romantic if it were possible to gaze up at the stars.
I came to read my book, I managed to get through eighty pages before getting a mild pain behind my eyes, and decided to set it down for the moment.
I untangled the wired ear buds and plugged them into my phone, unlocking it and opening my music streaming app. Opting to play La Mentira by Luis Miguel.
I close my eyes, tilt my chin up towards the sky, and start humming the melody quietly. I let the air engulf me, and goosebumps rise on my skin.
“Se te olvida, que me quieres a pesar de lo que dices.
Pues llevamos en el alma cicatrices, impossibles de borrar.” I start singing along with the lyrics.
I loved this song, I found it so beautiful and romantic. The melody envelopes your soul like a lover's hug, but the lyrics provide the pain there is in longing for that same lover.
I imagine dancing with my lover up on this roof, how they would hold me like something precious, how they would look at me like I'm the moon that lights up the dark night, how they would caress me like I'm a fragile perfect being only worthy of gentleness and affection.
“Por mi parte, te devuelvo tu promesa de adorarme.
Ni siqueiras sientas pena por dejarme.
Que ese pacto no es con Dios.” I forget to keep my voice down for a moment, and just let it flow through the night breeze, like a siren call.
How would that lover look? How would they show their care? Would they be gentle? Would they be devoted? Do I even deserve that kind of love? How could anyone love damaged goods?
“Y hoy resulta, que no soy de la estatura de tu vida.
Y al dejarme casi, casi, se te olvida.
Que hay un pacto entre los dos.”
I eventually reach the end of the song, sighing and taking off my earbuds. Not really in the mood to ruin the vibe with another song. I turn to grab my book when I notice a shadow looming close.
I drop my belongings to the ground and quickly stand in a fighting stance. “Who’s there?”
The figure steps forward. Baby bird. I drop my guard and place a hand on my hip. “What are you doing here?”
He had a dumbfounded expression on his face, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Eventually, he managed to let out a “Your voice is beautiful.” His own cracking as he spoke, his face slightly cringed at that and he cleared his throat.
“I'm glad you enjoyed the show.” I lift my eyebrow and cross my arms. “Whatcha got there?” I point with my head to his hands are both behind his back.
Seemingly remembering he brought something, he shuffled the paper bags to his front. “I brought some food.”
He heard my stomach rumbling the last time. Damn, I should've eaten. And the fact that I also haven't eaten since then isn't helping.
“What did you bring?” On cue, my stomach rumbled, almost happy at the prospect of being fed.
“Burgers.” He smiled sheepishly. “So, do you accept my humble offering?” He pushed the bag towards me and shook it tantalizingly.
I presented to ponder, a finger mockingly taping my chin and my eyes looking up. “Yeah, I accept.” I grabbed the paper bag out of his hand and sat down, opening it to inspect the contents. He stayed standing in front of me.
“Well, are you coming to eat with me or what?”
That seemed to snap him out of the weird staring spell he was in.
He sat down and I placed an order of fries and a wrapped burger in front of him.
We ate quietly. The silences with him were nice, they didn't seem to have that expectation to fill the void with senseless small talk. His presence was also nice, comforting even.
“Is that your book?” He gestured towards my library copy of War and Peace.
“Yeah, just started today,” I said after swallowing a bite of my cheeseburger.
“How are you liking it?” He peeled off more of the wrapper and took another bite of his.
"It's nice, I haven't read that much yet to have a fully formed opinion.” I took a sip of my drink.
“You go to the library often?” I paused, then looked at him. He recognized the library tag that was placed over the spine.
“What are you, a detective?” I took another bite to keep my mouth occupied and not call him a stalker, he did get me food, it wouldn't be nice to insult him.
He just laughed and shook his head, looking at me with an unreadable expression. Huh.
–
I opened the window quietly through the fire escape exit. We always left the one next to the living room unlocked, it's a danger in Gotham, I know. But hey, sometimes you gotta live life on the edge.
Tonight we planned to rob the autoshop uptown. Selina wanted a new bike and said I could pick out something for me too. Usually we steered clear of stealing automobiles, due to the easy tracing of the vehicles, but Sel knew a cool guy that did modifications in his garage for us. It helped when she let him fuck her too.
I carefully entered the flat and turned to close and lock the window.
“Hey kitty” At the sound of her voice, the lamp light was turned on, I turned around to face her. She was in her usual house clothes.
“Why aren't you suited?” I dropped my feet from the windowsill to the floor one by one. My hand coming up my face to peel my mask away.
“Oh, the robbery can wait.” She stood up and grabbed a mug that was on the coffee table, coming my way and nudging it towards me. “Figured we could take the night off and watch a movie. Like the olden days” She searched my face for any familiar expression of glee, while also chuckling.
“Really? What about the club, don't you have work?” I grabbed the mug from her hand and took a careful sip. Hot chocolate, like she used to make me when I was thirteen.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “They can survive without me.” She turned around and dropped to lounge on the loveseat, looking back at me and patting the empty spot near her.
My face lit up and I let out a little giggle, ushering to huddle close to her. Cradling the mug close to my chest with both hands, I lay my head on her shoulder, her arm was around mine. Her hand came down to pet my hair.
She gave me the remote to pick out the first movie of the night. After scrolling through the streaming platform, I landed on Death Becomes Her, one of our favorites. She had shown it to me on one of my first nights at her apartment.
Midway through the movie, Pudding, Casper and Billy came to join our cuddle puddle. A cacophony of purrs were bouncing off the walls and I'm pretty sure they could be heard all the way across the flat.
The part where Madeline and Helen meet again after 12 years comes up on the screen. Selina turns to me and talks along with the screen.
“Mad!” She exclaimed.
“Hell!!” I responded.
We laughed together and I returned to my position cuddling up against her shoulder.
I closed my eyes and let out a gleeful hum. “I love you, kitty” She kissed the crown of my head. “You are one of the best things that have happened to me.”
And she was mine.
–
I'm on the rooftop, again. It was the fourth night this week, it's Saturday. And somehow I know he's going to be here. There's something off about today, though I can't point out what exactly, it feels like those disassociating nights when nothing feels real but everything feels right about to change forever.
“Hey kitten,” he calls out in a humorous tone. As if he was trying out an inside joke.
“Don't call me that.” I respond rather sharply.
The white slots of his domino mask widened in surprise, he wasn't expecting me to be this harsh. “Ouch, alright. So what's your name then?” He smirked and leaned closer.
I glanced and glared at him from the corner of my eye, “Nice try, baby bird.”
“Eh, it was worth a shot.” He shrugged.
We stayed in silence for a beat, looking out into the streets, my head was filled to the brim with possible worst-case scenarios that could happen at the drop of a hat. He seemed to notice my anxiety.
“What’s got you so worked up?” His body was turned towards me, giving me his full attention.
I shook my head and sighed, “You don't want to know.”
“I wouldn't be asking if I didn't” a charming grin graced his face.
I rolled my eyes in a fond manner and turned to face him. “Touché.”
“So?” He egged me on.
I took a well dragged out while before responding to him, willing the words to leave my clogged up throat and out of my mouth.
“I'm afraid.”
He doesn't say anything, expecting me to keep going, and I try to.
“I'm afraid of losing all I have. Afraid of going back to where I was before.”
He stays silent for a while, and when he speaks, he doesn't question my feelings, doesn't try to console me, or reason with me, or offer my ways to get over them. He just says:
“Was it that bad before?”
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale through my nose, “Very.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, his expression was pensive. Rather assessing what he should say next.
Then, suddenly “I'm an orphan.”
“What?” The confession shocked me somehow, I wasn't expecting him to be so open about his past with me.
“They were murdered by the mob.” He stares right ahead as I examine his side profile.
“I'm sorry.” I don't say ‘Me too’, because as much as I'd want it to be true, it wasn't.
“It's okay,” He ponders for a while, then confesses, “It's funny, you know.”
“What is?”
“Even though I miss them like nothing else. My life turned out so much better than what I could've imagined.” He laughed.
“Congrats?”
“No! God- What I'm saying is-” He runs his hand down his face. “There's no way to go but up, right? If you already lived the shittiest part of life, there's not much else to bring you down.”
“I guess.” I shrug and stare into the night.
He nods in thought, after a little while pondering, he seems to think of something. “Well, if it ever comes down to it, maybe I can help you.”
I laugh incredulously, “Help? How?”
“I have my ways,” He winks at me and that makes me laugh.
“Alright baby bird, deal”
“Deal” His face splits in a charming grin.
Maybe I could have a friend.
–
I felt the shift before I unlocked the door. Call it intuition, call it a sixth sense, call it anxiety, whatever it is, but please don't call it reality.
I twisted the knob and the wind hit my face. She had left the window open, I closed the door, making sure to lock it and the deabolts and make my way to the window to lock it as well.
“Sel?” I peel my mask from my face. “Selina?”
I froze for a second, no cats came to greet me at the door. “Casper? Billy?” nothing.
My eyes were starting to water, my heart beat was getting faster, my hands were feeling colder. “Pudding?” nothing.
“Selina?” My voice cracked, my breathing hitched and hiccuped. “Please.” My desperate pleas turned into sobs.
“No. No no no no”
My knees gave out and hit the floor, both my hands coming up to clutch at my hair, my chest felt both too big and too small for my breaths and my racing heart.
Breathe in, breathe out. That's it, it helps with the panic, kitty.
“Why did you leave me?” I was yelling. It hurt so much, like someone had cracked through my ribs with their bare hands and squeezed my heart as hard as they could.
Stop, stop, stop. Please, make the pain stop, please.
I can't think as I sob into my own arms. Curled up in a ball on the floor, shaking, crying, yelling.
After some minutes, I feel a gentle nudge on my head. “Pudding?”
The cat purred as she curled up against my arm. I sniffled and carefully sat up, breathing in for four seconds, holding for four, and exhaling for four.
I didn't help much, but I could at least breathe now.
She climbed my lap and laid down, my hand coming up to softly caress her fur.
I took this moment to assess the state of the apartment, she hadn't taken anything. My eyes catch sight of a carefully folded piece of paper sitting atop the coffee table.
I reach over to take the paper and unfold it. A message scribbled inside
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The streets of Gotham were always the same. The smell of smoke and rot filled your nostrils whenever you took a deep breath. The light pollution obstructed the view of any stars you might want to gaze upon. The sirens and distant gunshots served as a background melody; nobody would admit to being their favorite. The humid rooftops I ran on were now too familiar to complain about.
And then there were them, Batman and Catwoman, in their endless game of cat and mouse, or maybe cat and bat? Whatever. I didn’t mind being Batman’s sidekick; hell, I loved it. It made me who I am today. Fighting bad guys, saving innocent lives, the adrenaline of the fight, the grateful girls who’d kiss me on the cheek for saving them. Yeah, I loved being Robin. Except for times like right now.
Bruce’s obsession with Catwoman was insufferable. I get it; she’s a hot seductress in a tight latex catsuit. Sometimes a man has to have a little eye candy to run after, but damn it, why does he have to drag me along for this?
Ever since she showed up on the crime scene a few months ago, it’s all he’s been able to focus on. It all started when a high-end jewelry store was robbed in plain daylight with no witnesses or victims, like no one had even entered the vault, but somehow, five hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry was stolen.
Bruce was intrigued by this mystery criminal, following every single bread crumb they’d leave behind, even if the regular detectives weren’t able to pick up on it, he did.
“Did you really not move since I last left the cave?” It was the next night of patrol, and I had just come back from my lacrosse practice to find Bruce in the exact same position in front of the batcomputer, and it looked like he hadn’t even taken off the uniform.
I slung my bag off my shoulder to set it down on the floor, making my way towards the case where my uniform was stored.
“I found her.” His voice was gruff, as if he hadn’t spoken in some hours.
“Her?” I took off my shirt and peeked my head out to question him.
He shuffled some files to display on the big screens, some pictures, mugshots, security footage, and more endless bureaucracy shit I didn’t care to look over more carefully. I finished suiting up and made my way over to where he was sitting down.
“Our cat burglar, or should I say catwoman. She’s been stealing from high-end stores all over the richer part of Gotham, always extremely valuable items. Apparently, she’s also very skilled in acrobatics, seeing as she manages to dodge every single witness, camera, and security guard on her way in and out.” He explained while showing me a variety of evidence he found on this woman. “Except in this one, she was sloppy here.” He paused the security video when a figure in black appeared, her face slightly angled towards the camera and you could see the cat ears atop her head.
The upper half of her face was covered, but this is Batman we’re talking about. “You already found her identity, haven’t you?”
He pulled up more files, and the picture of an incredibly beautiful woman showed up on the screen, her name, age, marital status, address, you know the gist. “Selina Kyle, wealthy socialite. Well, I guess now we know where her wealth comes from.”
“We need to stop her.” I look at him now, his face has an unreadable expression as his eyes haven’t left the screen once since I came in.
“I don’t see why we have to, it’s not like she’s hurting civilians,” I said nonchalantly. Really, I couldn't care less about this.
“She’s a criminal, Dick.” He finally stood up and started going towards the Batmobile. I sighed and followed him.
That was four months ago.
Right now, Bruce was over on a different rooftop with Selina, and their endless fighting… or fucking I don’t know, with those two, both are possible.
I sigh as I flick off some dirt from under my fingernails, my back resting against the wall next to the emergency exit staircase of the building. This has been a long night.
“Hey kid,” I dropped my leg from where it was resting and whipped around, already in fighting stance, towards the voice that had just whispered in my ear.
“Easy.” She was in my view now.
Woah.
If I hadn’t just flipped around to face her, I could’ve sworn she was the one to give me whiplash.
Her hands were up in surrender. But her smirk, her eyes, her body language all told a different story. God, I want to hear that story, please tell me that story, pretty girl.
“So you’re the bird boy catwoman has warned me not to sink my claws in. She didn’t tell me you were a fetus.”
That seems to snap him out of his trance.
“Hey, I’m not that young!” I am fifteen for crying out loud! Not twelve. “You’re not that old either, you must be what? Two, three years older than me, max.”
“Still, I don’t play with little boys.” She’s circling me now, and I keep turning to keep looking into her beautiful green eyes. God, why am I being such a simp?
“Who says I want you to play with me?” I do, please play with me, pretty please?
“Your eyes are telling on you, baby bird.” She was the one leaning against the wall now.
“Who are you anyway?” I cross my arms over my chest to appear bigger and try to wipe the hopeless puppy look I’ve been told to have around pretty girls–mainly by Bruce.
“You don’t already know? I’m hurt,” She puts a pretty manicured hand over her heart, and my eyes drift down to her chest. It takes everything in me to rip my gaze from them. Fucking hell, I need a cold shower. She chuckles, “I’m Catgirl.”
I arch a brow and suppress a chuckle in response, “Catgirl? How original.”
That seemed to piss her off; her eyes narrowed as she kicked the wall, walking towards me. “I don’t need to be original to kick your ass in a fight, baby bird.”
I puff out my chest, looking up at her, “Yeah? Bring it on, catgirl.”
I could barely blink before she did a backflip, putting some distance between us. Her leg flew up, kicking me straight in the ribs. She twisted to kick me in the head, but this time I was quicker and mirrored her backflip from before.
“Too slow,” I quipped with a too-easy smirk on my face.
She grinned back at me before doing a forward flip, but instead of standing up, she crouched down and kicked my legs out from under me.
I landed on the floor with a grunt, and she crawled on top of me just like I’ve seen Catwoman do to Batman sometimes. Her face was right above mine.
“Too slow,” She licked my nose then blew on it, the cold air a stark contrast to the heat beneath my suit.
I get Bruce now.
That was the first time she kicked my ass.
–
I must have that look on my face now, my head tilted to stare outside the passenger's seat window, domino mask lying in my lap as I recount the night's affairs.
“So you met the apprentice.” Bruce's voice cuts me from my daydream.
“Who?” I don't know why I even try to act coy. Those green eyes haunt me even now on the ride home. Bruce sees it too, but he doesn't say anything else, opting to let me simmer in my obvious attempt at denying my pitifulness.
Whatever, it's not like he's innocent either. Following Selina around with the pretense of “stopping her”, and “she's dangerous”. Yeah, buddy, dangerous to your resolve. I would never say it to his face, though.
I huff in annoyance and return to look out the window, only now, instead of thinking of a certain green-eyed girl, I'm sulking about being caught. Thanks a lot, Bruce.
—
“So then Iris woke me up banging on my door, talking about picking up my clothes that I left in the living room. But bro- she’s so fucking annoying, she acts like I do that all the time and it was just yesterday that it happened. Then when I told her to fuck off, she fucking threw all my clothes in the pool. IN THE POOL, DICK! She’s fucking crazy, you’re so lucky you don’t have a sister.”
The cafeteria was loud. Packed with kids trying to have a quick lunch before going to their extracurricular activities. Hordes of teenagers talking, gossiping, cackling together. In all honesty, this might be what hell sounds like. If I slept more than four hours this night– or any other night for that matter– I could consider it to be a lucky night of rest. But no, I couldn't sleep at all.
She wouldn’t let me.
It’s not like I haven't been around pretty girls. I’m Richard Grayson, handsome, smart, athletic, popular, charming, kind to everyone, rich, and Bruce Wayne’s ward. I basically had a fan club at school dedicated to ogling at me and sighing at every movement I made. I had options okay?
But after last night, it felt as if I'd never seen true beauty before. It was like the moonlight was made to radiate her glow instead of the sun’s, the night breeze to make the waves of her hair float and sway around her perfectly sculptured body, hugged by her suit, like my ears were created only to listen to the sweet melody of her voice. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was a metahuman with powers akin to Aphrodite. But she wasn’t just gorgeous, she was incredibly skilled, witty, annoyingly frustrating, and I wanted to know more, I wanted to know everything there was to know about her.
But right now my head is throbbing, my ears ringing and my eyelids drooping as Wally’s annoying voice yapped about some stupid shit I couldn't care less about.
“Are you even listening to me, man?” He asked in a tone that was too whiny. Damn, puberty is not treating him well. Good thing my voice dropped when I was fourteen, it would be embarrassing to talk to her in that whiny voice.
“No” I used my fork to stab at a sausage on my tray.
“Some friend…” He mumbles. “What's got your panties in a twist anyway? The old bat not giving you any slack?”
My eyes widen and my head shoots up, looking around to see if anyone heard him.
“Keep your fucking voice down, will you?” I grumbled through my teeth, not really intimidating, but warning.
“Calm down man, no one heard me.” He laughed
“Still, Bruce would kill me if he found out you knew.” I relaxed a little bit against the seat, taking a bite of my food.
“You know I’m good for it, wouldn’t want you to do the same to me and Barry”
Barry Allen – Wally’s sister’s boyfriend – was, in fact, a speedster like him. Sorry, you might know him better as the Flash.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived home one day after lacrosse to find Wally in my room - Damn Alfred for letting him in. – Staring at me with a shit eating grin while my fucking spare suit lay haphazardly on the floor.
“Hey boy wonder” – His smirk widened at my dumbfounded expression – Really, Dick? You couldn’t have picked up your fucking clothes, you moron?
I quickly shut the door, still careful enough not to slam it and alert anyone – Bruce – of my predicament. I set my bag and lacrosse equipment down on the floor and make my way carefully over to Wally.
“I need you to swear on your life you’re not going to say anything to anyone, Wally” I give him my best “life or death situation” voice. His smirk only widens.
He stands up from where he was sitting on my bed, pacing around my room. An annoying inquisitive look on his face as he tapped his index finger on his chin as if pondering something really important.
“Wait, if you’re Robin. Then who’s Batman?”
My eyes widened and he picked up on the reaction, his jaw hanging open, as if it was possible, his smile was even bigger now as he laughed incredulously.
“No fucking way, Bruce Wayne is Batman?” He exclaimed too loudly for my liking.
“Shut the fuck up! Goddamn it, you’re so annoying sometimes!” Ok, my voice is not whiny, it just came out whiny this time.
“Huh, I gotta say, I'm not that shocked.” He snorted, “You would go around in little shorts fighting beside your adoptive daddy, Dickie”
“Shut up, you’re just jealous that besides being extremely awesome, I'm also a secret vigilante keeping the streets of Gotham safe alongside Batman.”
A sudden gust of wind flew past my face and Wally disappeared from where he stood in front of me. I blink, confused as to what the fuck just happened.
“But you don’t have powers now, do you?” His voice came from behind me and I jumped around to face him, a manly groan – a squeak – left the back of my throat.
“What the fuck?”
The food at the cafeteria was extremely elaborate for a normal high school lunch. But that’s what is expected of the most expensive school in Gotham, the wealth-hoarding elite only want the best for the future generation of exploiters. My eyes were distant as I chewed the passion fruit marinated smoked salmon, my hand extending to grab my pomegranate juice.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or nah?” Wally could be such a gossip sometimes.
I swallow my food and move the bottle to my lips, taking a comfortable while to sip my juice, not in any rush to answer him at all. After I swallow the slow sip, my left hand comes up to screw the cap on the plastic bottle, his facial expression clearly showing how interested he was in the information I was amusingly holding back on, expecting it to be a top secret that needed to be pondered carefully before disclosing to a third party.
With the most serious expression I could muster, I leaned over the table, my elbows bending at my weight, looked around inspecting my surroundings, and beckoned him closer with two fingers. He lowered his ear near my mouth. “Nah.”
I internally laughed at my joke, my eyes amused and a cocky grin on my lips when Wally looked at me with narrowed eyes and a scowl. I lean back, resting my elbow behind me on the seat’s backrest.
“Dick” He grumbled, the scowl still present, clearly he was not calling my name.
I shrug, “Eh, I try” After a beat, we both look at each other, and suddenly, we break down in laughter.
–
I kicked a pebble as I paced around on the rooftop. Bruce left me ten minutes ago, a sudden alarm about a robbery two blocks away, said it'd be best for me to stay and patrol the area on my own while he handled it.
But the night was calm, for Gotham that’s a once in a blue occurrence. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, right?
Unfortunately for me, that left me to do a whole lot of nothing for two hours until Bruce lets me go back to the manor. He always stays until the sunrise, but says it's not healthy for me to be up all night, school in the morning, extracurriculars plus patrolling at night can take a toll on you in the long run.
I sigh as I look up at the moon, I should've brought a book or something to keep me busy on slow nights.
Before I could go back to wandering, a sharp pain blossomed from the middle of my spine, making my body jolt forward and throwing me to the floor. I broke the fall with my forearms, landing with a groan that took the air out of my lungs.
A weight was made present on my lower back, as a body hovered over me, an arm snaked around my throat and a warm breath near my cheek. “Taking a break, baby bird?”
Suddenly, my night was a lot more interesting. A smile threatened to grace my features, but I kept my expression locked in. “I was actually, you just ruined my relaxing time.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, baby. Want me to come back in five?” She chuckled above me, pinning my arms back with one hand while the other still held my head upright by my throat.
I flipped her onto her back with a sharp twist of my hips and hoisted myself up with my thighs, her back hitting forcefully in the gravel and the winces, letting go of my arms. I twist to face her, pinning her wrists close to her upper body while my legs hold hers closely in place. “No need for that, I can kick your ass even while distracted.”
Her shocked expression was priceless, I almost chuckled, but I had a feeling that if I did, I would leave the night with a lot more than just a bruised back. She quickly schooled her features into a neutral expression and sank her claws into my wrists, I retracted with a hiss, staring at the four trails of blood trickling down both my hands.
She kicked her legs up into a crouching pose, her left hand supporting her on the floor while her right leg kicked me in the ribs. What's her deal with kicking me in the ribs, I had barely healed from last time.
I reached back for my escrima stick and swung it at her side, hitting her ribs. Let's see how you like it now. She winced and stumbled back, I jumped up and kicked her in the chest. Her back hit the wall, her head tilting back. She weaved a shaky breath, her hand coming up towards her chest while she fell to her knees, her right hand supporting her weight as she doubled down on the floor. Damn, maybe I should've been more careful.
“Hey, are you okay?” I crouch down to gently touch her back, maybe offer some help. But she quickly snatched my wrist and twisted it around my back, making me drop my stick and yelp in pain. Yep, my shoulder just dislocated.
“Really brave hitting a girl, baby bird.” She snarled next to my ear. Next thing I know she's dropping my arm and flipping off the building.
Maybe the night didn't go as well as I wanted it to
–
“Master Dick” Alfred was already stationed in the med bay inside the batcave, Bruce was still to be out for some hours, so naturally I assume he's here to check me for injuries.
My shoulder throbs as I hold my left arm close to my chest, the pain in my ribs flare up every time I take a breath in, my wrists look like I fought off a wild animal, and I don't even want to know the kind of agony I'll feel if I bend my back.
“Hey Alfred” I manage to wheeze out in a battered breath. He moved over for me to hop onto the table.
I manage to plop my ass rather ungracefully in front of him, trying to contain my groan as a sharp pain shoots up my spine. My eyebrows scrunched up and my lips were in a perpetual scowl.
“May I ask what happened tonight?” He has his back towards me, shuffling through the medical supplies displayed rather neatly in front of him.
“You know… The usual– fighting bad guys, getting beat up, beating them up” He stayed silent while I rambled on, turning to me to help me pull off the upper half of my suit. “But hey, you should see the other guy. Am I right?” I tried joking with him to lighten the mood.
He simply raised his brow and glanced up to make eye contact with me for the first time since I came in. “Are they in worse shape?” He asked earnestly, and I knew I couldn't lie, he would sniff it right out of me.
“No.” I lowered my head in shame.
I was such a failure. After all those years being Robin, all my restless training, all the lessons Bruce taught me, the beatings I took. I still let her walk away without so much as a scratch, and why? Because I thought she was pretty? I let her whoop me around because she made butterflies swirl in my stomach? God, I'm such a failure, if Bruce knew he'd never believe in my potential again, he'd never trust me to do the right thing again.
But Alfred knows, he must see right through me. Wally knew when he asked me about how I was the other day. And pretty soon Bruce will know –If he doesn't already– and he'll be so disappointed. They all see through my so carefully curated tough exterior into the failure I am.
Alfred carefully placed one hand around my forearm and another on my bicep. I grabbed a cloth and placed it between my teeth, closing my eyes and bracing for the pain. With a sharp thrust, my shoulder fell back into its socket and my scream filled the cave.
–
“Damn, did you fight bane or something?” Wally greets me as he enters the passenger seat of my car. Ever since I got my provisional driver's license, Wally's been forcing me to pick him up on my way to school.
I had my left arm in a sling while my right hand gripped the steering wheel. “Or something”
“Who was it?” He placed his backpack on the floor and put his seat belt on while I maneuvered out of his driveway.
“Some big tough guy. He's a new villain, you wouldn't know of him” I lie through my teeth. But Wally isn't a great detective like Bruce, so he doesn't notice it.
“Word” He fell silent while connecting the aux, putting some trashy trap song on.
“What have you and Barry been doing?” I changed the subject.
“Eh, he's been helping me control my powers, teaching me some tricks. The normal boring stuff. But that's only when his tongue isn't down Iris’ throat.” I laugh at his disgusted expression.
“Lucky Allen.” I tease and he punches my arm.
“Ow. MAN!” I wince out in pain. Going to clutch my shoulder, but suddenly remembering I have to have at least one hand on the wheel.
“Sorry, sorry! Force of habit.” He raised his hands in surrender.
–
It was another week until Bruce let me go to patrol again. My shoulder was still sore, but at least it was free from the sling.
This time I was the one that found her. She was lying on her back, staring at the starless dark void we called the Gotham sky, she looked at peace. Her hair was splayed out like a dark halo around her, her hands behind her head, her legs crossed over the other, she was humming some tune while her foot swayed.
She sat up, wincing while doing so, her hand came to clutch at her back and remembered shoving her rather forcefully on a wall the week before. A pang filling my chest knowing I caused her pain. Without thinking, I stepped forward, hoping to provide assistance, but as I did, the gravel crunched beneath my feet and she suddenly became alert of another's presence in her space, hardening her exterior.
She suddenly started making her way towards me, a not so friendly expression on her face. “Hey, I wanted to see how you were–” my words stopped short when she kneed me in the stomach, her hands clutching my shoulders down.
I let out a pained grunt as I stayed crouched over my middle. She yelled as she threw me on the floor and straddled my legs to keep them pinned to the floor, my wrists were also pinned above my head.
My shoulder throbbed in pain at being handled so harshly, my stomach churning up my dinner already and my eyes were squinting, anticipating a punch to the face already.
“Please don't hit me too much, my shoulder's still sore.” Her expression turned from anger to surprise so quickly you could almost miss it, and I took my chance. “Can we maybe take the night off fighting and just rest? My back is killing me.”
She blinked owlishly at me for a couple seconds before suddenly, a laugh was gracing my ears. She has such a pretty laugh. She flips her legs over to sit next to me, still laughing like I said the greatest joke ever known to man. I chuckle nervously as I sit up and sling my arms over my knees.
We both fall into silence pretty quick, now the only sounds to me heard are of the streets below. Distant shouting, police sirens, tires on wet asphalt, and electricity buzzing.
It's a comfortable silence, the one where you can just let yourself bask in, where you can let the tiredness take over and relax your tensed muscles. It's scary how comfortable she makes me feel, even if she was beating me up not even five minutes ago, and even if she had dislocated my shoulder, causing me a bothersome week of using that sling.
I liked being in her presence, as weird as it is, she was kind of comforting. I like didn't have to pretend.
“Sorry about your shoulder.” She mutters quietly. “I didn't know it hurt that much.”
It was weird seeing that tough, angry, teasing persona fall down her face. She wasn't that same girl that taunted me the first night, right now she looked shy, scared even.
“Don't worry about it.” I try to send her worries away. “Sorry about your back, I saw you wincing earlier.”
“Yeah, I was pissed you hurt me.” We both nervously laughed.
“I could tell.”
She didn't like being hurt. It made her feel weak, powerless, vulnerable… I would never hurt her again. But I wouldn't tell her that now, words mean nothing without building trust first, so I let us sit in silence, watching the moon as she was doing before.
–
A week passes by before I see her again, pacing around on a roof talking to herself. It was clear she was distraught, her hands ruffling her hair, exasperated grunts leaving the back of her throat. In one last loud grunt, she plopped down on the ledge of the building, sighing loudly.
I waited a few minutes before making my presence known, I wouldn't want her to know I was spying on her, I was though.
“Hey.” She whips her head around to glare at me. I raise my hands in surrender. “I come in peace.”
“Sorry, I'm not in a good mood.” Her response shocked me a little, I wasn't expecting her to actually be nice, it's a new development, or maybe she's just a nice person behind the mask. I liked it either way.
“It's okay.” I slid to sit next to her on the ledge, her face facing fowards while mine was fully turned to look at her. Her expression was troubled, her eyebrows scrunched together and slightly raised, giving her a mote worried look rather than an angry one. Her lips turned downwards in a slight frown and her chin was tense, making her lower lip pout a little. She was so cute. “Is it okay if I stay here?”
She didn’t say anything and I took it in a ‘I want you here, but I don't want to admit it’ way. I turned my gaze forwards like her, my legs swinging back and forth over the ledge, my cheeks puffed out as I blew raspberries. It was a bit awkward, I must admit. I miss her laugh from the last time we saw each other.
An idea pops up in my head. I straightened my spine and stretched my muscles in a cat-like manner. Purposefully leaning forward a bit too much. “Hey! You're going to fall” Her arm shot up to shield me from the possible fall. It would be endearing if that wasn't exactly what I was trying to do.
“Relax, I'm used to this” I lean forward a bit more until I slip off the edge and start falling off the building.
“ROBIN!”
The breeze flows through my limbs as I start to free fall, but I don't go far. I grab a stray rail, hopping onto it, then make my way back up towards the roof. She's pacing, her hands in her hair muttering something.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Her fingers are shaking and her chest heaves in short breaths. “No no no no no no no, why? fuck, why?”
She sits down again, her head in her hands, trying to calm herself down. I stalk closer and touch both her shoulders. “Boo!”
The scream she lets out is so funny, I can't stop myself from laughing. She whips around to face me, her panicked exterior melting into a small smile. “You asshole!” She hit my chest over and over, though not in a pain inflicting way, more as reprimanding.
“Sorry! I had to break the tension somehow.” She stopped hitting me and started laughing along.
“You're a dick!” She didn't seem to grasp why, but that comment made me laugh harder.
“You have no idea.”
After a few minutes of the laughter slowly dying down, she seemed to remember what she was upset about. Her expression soured again. Now that won't do.
I decided if it would make her laugh, I wouldn't mind playing the jester for a night.
I stand up from where I sat and do a flip to hang from a protruding metal bar above our heads, using the backs of my knees to hook my legs over the bar as I sway back and forth. “Peek a boo.”
She turns to look at me, her features now twisted into a confused expression “What are you doing?”
“Oh me? Just hanging around.” I winked at her.
She chortled at my joke. Yes, score. “Alright, alright.”
I twisted my body completely around the metal bar, now holding it with my hands and I used it to support me in a handstand. I let one hand go, supporting my whole body weight with my right arm as I did a one hand stand and parted my legs in a split. I gave her the tongue in a ‘Look at me, I can do this and you can't’ childlike way.
She chuckled at me again, mission accomplished. “You're kind of pathetic, baby bird.”
I smirked, then dropped to my feet on the floor. “I'll take that.”
Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader x Jason Todd
Plot: What was supposed to be a simple mission to stop Ivy takes an unexpected turn when her latest scheme leaves you, Jason, and Dick trapped, and at the mercy of some very potent pollen. With your minds hazy and bodies burning, boundaries blur, and well... things escalate fast.
A/N: I don't know if this is what y'all had in mind with this spicy pollen fic, but as you might've noticed, I'm a yapper. I don't do 'let's get it and leave' type of shit. No, we're diving deep into the filth and the feelings. So yeah... this turned out way longer than expected, but your girl loves details 😭
The warehouse stinks of damp wood and fertilizer, the air thick with the scent of Ivy's latest eco terrorist bullshit. You, Jason, and Dick move quickly through the dimly lit space, scanning for the so called "pollen bombs" that intel suggested she was planting all over Gotham.
"God, it reeks in here," Jason grumbles, wrinkling his nose behind his helmet. "What the hell is she even tryin' to do? Make the city smell like a goddamn greenhouse?"
"Could be worse," Dick muses, flipping acrobatically over a crate before kneeling beside a sleek metal canister. "Could smell like Killer Croc's lair."
Jason makes a gagging noise, and you fight back a laugh as you crouch beside them, eyeing the canister. It looks pretty standard—small, about the size of a fire extinguisher, a simple pressurized trigger system on top.
"Think this is one of them?" you ask.
"Either that or the world's most industrial lookin' Febreze bottle," Jason mutters.
Dick scoffs, running his gloved fingers along the side of the canister. "Ivy's getting sloppy. This is—"
PFFT.
The release is instant. The three of you barely have time to react before a thick, pale green vapor hisses from the canister, spreading out around you in a slow, curling cloud.
"Shit," Jason curses, jerking back, but it's already too late.
Instinctively, he pulls you with him, yanking you closer to his chest as if that could shield you from whatever the hell is happening. His arm wraps tight around you, his body stiffening as the vapor swirls around all three of you.
The gas spreads, clinging to your clothes, sneaking past your masks. You inhale before you can stop yourself, and—
"Wait," you murmur. "Why does it... smell good?"
Jason and Dick freeze, both of them taking tentative sniffs. The air is thick with something warm and sweet—notes of honey and spice, deep and rich like fresh blooms in the summer sun. It's nice. So nice, in fact, that for a second, the three of you just... stare at each other, confused.
Jason exhales sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. "Okay. What the fuck?"
Dick coughs, looking around at the dissipating mist. "Maybe it's, uh... a trap? Some kind of knockout gas?"
"We'd be on the floor by now, Grayson," you point out.
There's a beat of silence. The three of you just stand there, letting the last wisps of the pollen drift away, waiting for some kind of reaction—dizziness, nausea, anything.
But nothing happens.
Jason huffs. "So lemme get this straight. Ivy had all these bombs set up, and instead of droppin' us where we stand, it just..." he gestures vaguely, "Makes Gotham smell better?"
The absurdity of it hits you all at once. A soft giggle bubbles up in your throat, and then another, until you're actually laughing, shaking your head.
"Damn," you say, breathless. "Deadliest eco terrorist in Gotham, and she really just gave us a perfume sample."
Jason snorts. "The horror."
Dick rolls his eyes, standing up and dusting himself off. "Okay, well, if this was supposed to be some big master plan, I think we can call it a bust. Let's get back to the cave and let Bats know."
Jason claps a hand on your back, steering you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah, before Ivy shows up and actually does somethin' dangerous."
None of you notice it yet. The subtle heat creeping into your limbs, the faint buzz just beneath your skin. By the time you're in the Batmobile, it's in you.
The car hums beneath you, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the space as Gotham blurs past the tinted windows. Jason's driving, one hand gripping the gear shift, the other draped lazily over the wheel. Dick's in the passenger seat, his mask still on, head tilted slightly like he's lost in thought.
And you? You're burning up, but not in a sick way. Not in an oh God, something's wrong way. It's just... heat. Low and thick, curling beneath your skin, settling deep between your thighs in a way that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You tug at your collar, brows furrowing, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.
It's all there, wrong but right at the same time, pooling in the pit of your stomach, thrumming between your legs. Your thighs press together, the friction sending a sharp little spark up your spine.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare out the window, pretending like you're not embarrassingly close to squirming in the backseat of the goddamn Batmobile like some desperate, needy mess.
Maybe it's just—God, maybe it's just them. Jason and Dick, sitting up front, broad shoulders filling out their suits, muscles flexing with every shift of the steering wheel, every casual movement.
That's it, you tell yourself. That has to be it.
This is just because you've been down bad lately, right? Because let's be honest, you've spent way too many nights with your hand or your toys between your thighs, gasping their names into your pillow. It's ridiculous how often it happens, how they've completely hijacked your brain.
Jason, with his sharp mouth, broad chest, big hands. That stupid smirk that makes your stomach flip. His voice, rough and lazy when he calls you "doll" like it's the easiest thing in the world.
And then there's Dick. All smooth charm and soft lips, stupidly pretty even when he's bleeding, the kind of guy who can talk anyone into anything. That boyish grin, those ridiculous acrobat's hips. The way he looks at you sometimes, all teasing and playful but just sharp enough to make you wonder.
Truth be told, you're painfully under fucked. Gotham's dating scene is trash, and while you could technically take the edge off yourself, your current stash of sex toys is... underperforming. No matter what setting, what angle, it's just not enough. Not enough pressure, not enough stretch, not enough them.
Because the worst part? The part that keeps you up at night, panting into your pillow, legs shaking from overstimulation?
You don't think about some faceless, nameless fantasy. You think about them.
Jason, his big hands pinning your wrists down, his voice rough against your ear as he stretches you open. Dick, slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere, moaning into your skin as he fucks you deep.
Sometimes—fuck—sometimes, it's both. One of them eating you out while the other fucks your mouth, one stuffing you full while the other whispers the filthiest things in your ear.
Your fingers have been the next best thing, but they always leave you wanting. And now, sitting here, feeling hotter by the second, it's all rushing back—every desperate, aching thought.
No. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your cheek. Get a grip. You are not about to get horny in the goddamn Batmobile. Except... you already are. And you're not the only one.
Up front, Dick shifts in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. His suit is... well, not built for this. The material is thick, durable, but not forgiving. His cock is already half hard, twitching every time the car hits a bump in the road, the sensation sparking something hot and needy down his spine.
His jaw tightens. His thoughts have already turned against him, flashing back to every moment he's ever had to force himself not to look at you, not to stare too long at the way your suit hugs your curves, not to think about how sweet you probably sound when you moan.
But now? Now it's like those thoughts are pumping through his veins. He shifts again, pulling his hand over his lap, casually resting his elbow on the car door, tilting his head like he's just relaxing. But his fingers curl into his thigh, his cock throbbing against the fabric, and shit, he can't stop thinking about you.
He clenches his jaw. This is fine. He can just breathe through it, ignore it. Right?
Because it doesn't make sense. One second, he's fine, the next, his skin is tight, his pulse is loud, his body thrumming like it's been wired wrong. His mind flashes back to the warehouse, to the smoke. Shit. Okay. Okay, this is fine. Except it's not fine because he chances a glance in the rearview mirror.
And that is a mistake. Because there you are, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your lip, looking so warm and soft and pretty.
He forces his gaze forward, but his dick throbs insistently against the fabric of his suit, demanding attention, aching in a way that has him pressing his thighs together and shifting in his seat, trying to be subtle about it.
But Jason notices, because of course he does. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing as he watches Dick shift uncomfortably in his seat. The way his chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way he adjusts himself as subtly as he can.
Jason grits his teeth. Goddammit. This is already bad enough. He's used to getting hard, and that's not really news, considering he's around you.
It's embarrassing at this point. He's used to this constant, low level problem whenever you're near. The way his body responds to you like some fucking reflex. A glance, a laugh, a casual touch, and suddenly, he's half hard in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.
But this? This is different. This is fucking brutal. The heat is unbearable, his whole body buzzing with tension, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his pants. And fine, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about you right now, but his brain isn't listening.
It's giving him vivid fucking images—your lips wrapped around his cock, your pussy stretched around his fingers, the little gasps you'd make if he spread you open, if he fucked you just right. He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Not now. Not fucking now.
And then there's Dick. Sitting there. Shifting around. Acting all innocent, but Jason knows. He sees the way Dick's jaw is clenched, the way he's hiding behind his fucking hands, the way his shoulders keep tensing like he's fighting something off.
And that's a whole other problem. Because Jason does not get hard around Dick. But now? Now, his cock is aching, pressing insistently against the inside of his jeans, and it's fucking weird because Dick is right there.
No way in hell he's acknowledging this. He focuses on the road, breathing in through his nose, willing the heat to settle, willing the blood to go anywhere but his dick. It doesn't work. His suit is hot, the collar too tight, his whole body buzzing with restless, frustrated energy.
His fingers flex against the wheel. "Goddamn it," he mutters under his breath.
Neither of you hear him, and that is concerning. And then, Jason chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and you're squirming.
Not a lot, but enough. Shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together, lips parted ever so slightly, brows still drawn like you don't even realize you're doing it. He forces his eyes forward, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt.
Oh, this is so fucked. And he knows—knows—it's about to get worse.
The second the Batmobile rolls into the cave, you're out.
"Okay—" you blurt, voice higher than usual. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."
You don't even wait for their answers before you're practically sprinting toward the locker room.
Jason clears his throat. "I think there was somethin' in that fuckin' smoke bomb."
"Yep," Dick says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wants to say more but physically cannot.
Jason glances away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Y'know what, maybe she's right. A shower wouldn't hurt. Maybe wash these clothes, too, given whatever the fuck was in that shit is on us."
"Yep," Dick repeats, and then, without another word, both of them hurry toward the showers.
The locker room is sleek—clean lines, dark tiles, recessed lighting that casts a soft glow instead of that harsh, clinical brightness most locker rooms have. It's modern but comfortable, not cold or uninviting, just functional.
The walls are lined with neatly organized gear, each section personalized to its owner, creating a sense of quiet efficiency. Even the air has a faint hint of something metallic, like fresh tech waiting to be put to use. It's a space that serves its purpose, but it also feels like it's built for those who belong, making it almost... homey in its own way.
The showers are set up in a row, each with tinted glass dividers that fog up easily with the heat—not fully clear, but not enough to hide everything, either. No doors, no curtains, just a spacious, open layout that suddenly feels like the worst possible decision Bruce could've made.
Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. You're focused on the water cascading over your skin, the steam curling around you, the way your body still burns in a way that has nothing to do with the hot spray.
And okay, fine. You might be a little slow on the uptake, but even you have to admit now that this? This is not normal. You've never felt this desperate before. Not even after a dry spell, not even after the nights you spent aching between your sheets, body wired with need that just wouldn't settle. This is different. Worse.
You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the cool tile as the water rushes down your back. Okay. Deep breaths. Just... get through this. It'll wear off.
But then you fucking hear it. Jason's low muttering as he steps under the spray, the deep groan he lets out when the hot water crashes over him. Dick exhaling hard, shifting around, the slap of water against skin as he pushes his hair back. And now, somehow, this is fucking worse.
Because your brain? Yeah, it's not helping.
It's giving you images. Images of Jason, big and broad and dripping, water sliding down his chest, over those stupidly defined abs, down to his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
And Dick, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his own cock probably flushed and aching, his face tipped back under the spray as he runs a hand over his body, slicking up every inch of himself.
You squeeze your eyes shut. No. Nope. Not doing this. Not right now.
But the heat between your legs is unbearable. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your clit throbbing, aching for relief, and fuck it, you slip your hand between your thighs.
Your breath stutters, thighs trembling as you press your fingers against your puffy, soaked clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles. And God, you're so fucking wet. Soaked. You can feel it, slicker than you've ever been, dripping down your thighs, mixing with the hot water as you rub yourself with quick, jerky movements.
This should do. Probably. Hopefully.
You bite your lip, forcing your moans down, listening, but the water covers any sound, the steady rush of the showers masking the way you whimper when your fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside just enough to send a shudder up your spine.
This is fine. They can't hear you. They don't know. Right?
Dick exhales sharply, bracing one hand against the tile as the hot water rushes over him. His body is wired, his skin flushed, his cock still painfully, achingly hard even after scrubbing himself down, after doing everything in his power to focus on literally anything else.
But it's not working. It's. Not. Fucking. Working.
His jaw clenches as he glances down, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock—thick and heavy, desperate, the tip drooling precum as it twitches in the air. Okay, he can fix this.
It's just... the pollen. That's what this is. Not him, not you.
It's just a chemical reaction, and the fastest way to get this out of his system is to handle it. Quickly. Before it gets worse.
So he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a slow, experimental stroke. The relief is instant.
A shudder rolls down his spine as his breath hitches, his hand tightening just slightly as he jerks himself once, twice, watching the way his cock twitches, the way another thick bead of precum leaks from the tip, slicking up his palm.
Fuck, this is bad. Because now, now that he's touching himself, now that he's letting himself feel it—you're there. Well, not right next to him. Not really.
But in his head? You're everywhere. Your mouth on his, warm and desperate, your hands roaming down his chest, slipping lower, wrapping around his cock, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes.
Your breath, hot against his ear as you whisper his name, your tits pressed against him, soft and warm, your nipples dragging over his wet skin as you shift in his lap, grinding against his cock, your pussy so wet he can feel it even through the heat of the shower. His pace stutters, his breath turning ragged as his hips rock forward, fucking into his fist like a desperate, needy idiot.
Because fuck, he is needy. And the worst part? You're. Right. There.
A few feet away, just behind that glass divider, water rushing over your body, slicking up every inch of your skin, dripping down your tits, your stomach, your thighs.
And he wants you. Has for a long time.
But now? Now, it's not just want. It's need, and it's fucking unbearable. His hand moves faster, breath catching as his muscles tense, his balls pulling tight, his whole body thrumming with the need to cum.
Because he just needs to cum, and then this will be over. Right?
Jason has the exact same fucking thought.
Because his dick? Yeah, it's not going down. Not even slightly. His head tips back against the tile, a slow, heavy breath hissing through his teeth as he fists his cock, thick fingers wrapping tight around the swollen length. He's had plenty of inconvenient boners before.
That's just part of the package when he's got you in his life—skintight suits, little smirks, the way you fight like you own the city, like no one can touch you.
Yeah, he's used to being hard when you're around. But this? This is fucking ridiculous.
His whole body feels wired, too hot, like there's an electric current running under his skin. His dick hurts, heavy and flushed, leaking against his knuckles as he starts to stroke himself, slow and firm, the pressure making his breath hitch. This should help. This has to help.
He forces himself to think about other things—literally anything else—but his brain? Yeah, his brain is not cooperating.
Because all he can see is you. Your body under the spray, your tits glistening with water, your ass round and perfect, your thighs slick and parted just enough for him to see the way your pussy clenches, desperate and aching.
And fuck, you're right there. Right. Fucking. There.
So close he could just step over, press himself against your back, run his hands down your body, feel the way your slick little pussy drips against his fingers.
Fuck. His strokes get faster, hips bucking up into his own grip, stomach tightening as he groans under his breath, low and rough, trying to chase that sharp, bright edge of relief.
Because yeah, if he just gets this out of his system, if he just cums, then maybe he won't be thinking about how he wants to bury his cock inside you so fucking bad he's starting to lose his mind.
You rub your clit in tight little circles, slick and needy, but it's not enough. The ache between your thighs burns hotter with every second, but you can't tip over the edge. Not like this.
Not with Jason and Dick right there, close enough that your mind keeps conjuring them instead of whatever weak fantasy you were trying to focus on. You bite your lip, hips shifting slightly as your fingers work faster, but it's no use, because all you can think about is how good their hands would feel instead.
Jason's fingers, thick and rough, stretching you open. Dick's tongue, wet and eager, lapping at you until you're a trembling mess. Fuck. You let out a shaky breath and force yourself to stop, frustrated beyond belief, body pulsing with need that refuses to be satisfied.
Meanwhile, Jason is in his own personal nightmare. Fisting his cock was supposed to help. He thought if he just got off, the unbearable need would settle. But no, he's still rock hard, twitching in his grip, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's a miracle his jaw hasn't snapped.
It's worse because you're right there. He knows you're showering only a few feet away, completely naked, slick water running down that perfect fucking body of yours, and it's driving him insane. His strokes slow, and he tips his head back against the tiled wall, a groan tearing from his throat before he can stop it.
And that's when Dick stiffens. Not just in the obvious way, though yeah, he's still rock hard, still throbbing, and still aching for more, even after cumming. His skin is flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, and his cock hasn't softened at all. He's still leaking, still desperate, and it takes everything in him not to wrap his fingers around himself again and just keep going.
Then Jason groans again, and it clicks. Dick's movements still. His brows furrow slightly. And before he even thinks it through, his gaze shifts—just barely—toward Jason's stall.
Jason, who is definitely still jerking off. Heat rushes up Dick's spine, a mix of embarrassment and something else—something dangerous—curling deep in his gut. They're both fucked.
Jason must feel the stare, because his grip falters. He huffs a breath, tilting his head to the side just enough that their eyes meet through the fogged up glass, and... oh. Oh, fuck.
The realization is heavy between them, thick with unspoken tension. Dick's lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his side, and Jason—still flushed, still panting—grits his teeth, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow his fault.
"This shit is fucked," Jason mutters, voice rough and strained.
Dick sways awkwardly, still pulsing with unbearable heat, and nods. Jason swallows hard, and when his gaze flicks to Dick, he finds the same wide eyed, panting, wrecked expression staring back at him. They're both so far gone it's pathetic. And if they're this fucked, then you must be even worse.
And then? You step out of the stall.
Wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water dripping from your skin, steam curling around you like a fucking wet dream. And when you lift your gaze and see them, your breath catches.
Jason is still gripping his cock, hand frozen mid stroke, his whole body stiff. Dick is still hard, still flushed, his eyes wide and dark as he takes you in. The tension is suffocating.
You all know what's happening here at this point. You swallow hard, your body throbbing with heat, and realization slams into you: none of you are getting through this alone.
The silence is thick, the kind that clings, all steam and heat and unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. All three of you just stand there, dripping wet, but you're the only one still clinging to any semblance of modesty, wrapped in a towel that suddenly feels too tight, too hot against your skin.
Dick and Jason? They're just there. Naked.
And maybe you'd all just keep standing here, awkward and unbearably turned on, if Dick didn't clear his throat and break the silence.
"So, uhm..." His voice cracks a little, and he grimaces before trying again. "There was something in the—"
"I know," you cut him off, and your voice is not as steady as you'd like it to be.
Jason, ever the blunt one, just snorts. "Yeah, so jerkin' off isn't doing shit."
That gets a laugh out of you, sharp and a little breathless. "You don't say."
And you really shouldn't be looking. You shouldn't. But they're right there. And when you finally, really let yourself look, trailing your gaze over bare skin, all toned muscle and broad shoulders and glistening tattoos, your eyes flicker down to their laps.
Fuck.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself, trailing down to where they stand, cocks heavy and thick against their stomachs, hard and mouthwatering, flushed at the tip.
Jason's hands flex at his sides, itching to reach for you.
Dick sways forward slightly, like he's barely restraining himself, like he wants to drop to his knees right then and there. And you whimper. A soft, needy little sound you cannot take back, and it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room.
Jason notices first—of course he does, always the one to pick up on the filthiest shit—and his eyes darken as his fingers twitch like he's about to grab you.
"So," he starts, voice thick, rough, the kind that settles low in your gut. "Maybe we should, uh... try and help each other out?"
You snap your gaze up to his face so fast your neck nearly cracks, and when you glance at Dick, he's already looking at you.
There's no denying it. There never has been. The attraction between you three has always been there, simmering under the surface, never acted on, never spoken out loud. You've thought about it. Of course you have. Working alongside them, running into them on patrol, spending late nights at the manor or in Jason's safe house—how couldn't you?
You know they like you. They know you like them. But friendship has always come first.
You know you're all good; you get tested regularly, a necessity when you're constantly fighting Gotham's worst, and besides, you're on birth control. You could walk away, end this right here, but they're right there. Naked, wet, needy, dicks that have no business being that fucking big, let alone rock solid.
And you want them so bad. So you do the only thing that makes sense: you let the towel slip from your fingers and drop to the floor.
The second it hits the tiles, their eyes devour you. It starts at your face, flicking down over the curve of your neck, the soft swell of your tits, the dip of your waist, the plush of your thighs, until finally, finally, both of them are staring straight at your bare, aching pussy, slick already glistening between your thighs.
And they look wrecked just from seeing you. Jason's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Dick sways slightly on his feet, but neither of them speak, too caught up in the sight of you until Jason finally breaks the silence.
"Fuck," he rasps, voice rough and thick. "You're fuckin' gorgeous."
Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible, heat rushing to your cheeks as they reach out almost in sync, hands gripping the knobs on their respective showers, twisting the water off in one smooth motion before stepping out.
And shit, they're even bigger up close.
Not just big, but big. Tall, broad, all muscle, sleek and strong, shoulders wide, thighs thick, every part of them defined—from the solid lines of their chests to the way their abs flex as they move, glistening wet, drops of water trailing down their skin in slow, teasing paths.
But it's their dicks that have you aching, twitching hard, flushed, heavy, and when Dick's cock gives a sharp throb, you bite back a moan so desperate it nearly chokes you.
Jason steps in first, heat radiating off him as he cups your cheek with one big, calloused hand, tilting your head up, eyes dark and hungry as he leans in.
And then he's kissing you. Hard, deep, hungry. His lips move against yours, hot and insistent, tongue sliding into your mouth like he's been waiting for this, starving for it, and fuck, he kisses like he fights—possessive, dominant, all consuming.
His other hand doesn't hesitate, palms smoothing over your skin, rough fingers sliding straight down to your ass, grabbing a handful, squeezing tight, yanking you up flush against him until his cock presses firm against your belly.
You moan into his mouth, body shuddering as heat coils in your gut, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, every inch of him burning against you.
Behind you, Dick curses under his breath, and you can feel the heat of his stare, feel the way his breath comes out sharp, ragged, as he watches Jason kiss you like he owns you.
Dick steps up behind you, heat radiating off his body, slick skin pressing against your back, and you melt between them. Sandwiched, trapped, caught between two broad, solid bodies, both of them flushed and aching, cocks hard and hot against your skin. Jason groans when your tits press into his chest, and then Dick—fucking Dick—lets out the softest, neediest little exhale against your ear as his hands slide up your sides.
His fingers trace over your ribs, then higher, cupping your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples, teasing, stroking, making you gasp as Jason leans in and kisses you again.
It's not like before. This kiss is slower, deeper, Jason taking his time to drink you in. His tongue licks into your mouth, lazy, hungry, and his hands roam, one gripping the back of your neck while the other settles on your waist, fingers flexing like he can't decide whether he wants to pull you closer or just hold you there and enjoy every shaky breath you make.
Behind you, Dick's mouth is everywhere—pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder, up your throat, teasing your ear as his hand dips lower. Fingertips ghosting down, past your belly, until they finally find your puffy, swollen clit.
You twitch at the contact, a sharp little gasp escaping against Jason's lips, and Dick groans, louder this time, pressing a little firmer, rubbing teasing little circles as he mutters, "You're so fucking wet."
Jason pulls back just enough to watch your face, brushing his thumb over your kiss swollen lips.
His voice is strained, rough as he asks, "You okay with this? With whatever's about to happen?"
His eyes are dark, intense, filled with want but laced with concern, because they need this, need you, but not like this, not unless you want it just as badly. You nod quickly, already breathless, but Dick? Dick's not having it.
He dips his head lower, mouth brushing right against your ear as he whispers, "Use your words, love. We don't wanna push you into anything."
It's almost cruel, the way his fingers slow down, teasing, playing, rubbing lazy, barely there strokes over your clit when all you want is more.
"Yes," you gasp, pushing into his touch. "Please."
That's all it takes. Jason and Dick lock eyes, silent for a moment, and then? Dick nods once, sharp, decisive, and says, "Sauna. Now."
Jason groans. "Jesus fuck, Dickie-bird."
But he doesn't argue. He just watches as Dick takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the sauna with Jason trailing behind, adjusting the settings so it's warm, comfortable—not stifling, just enough to chase away the cold still clinging to your damp skin.
And the sauna? Yeah, of course it's luxurious as hell. Bruce built it, after all. The benches are smooth, made from high quality wood, wide enough to lie down comfortably, and the warm lighting overhead makes everything feel softer, deeper. It's the kind of place you usually use when you're sore and beaten up after patrols, when you need to relax and let the heat soothe your body.
But tonight? Yeah, you're about to use it for something very different.
Before you can even process what's happening, Jason spins you around, hands everywhere, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing.
You yelp, legs spreading instinctively as he hooks his arms beneath your thighs, locking you open, exposing you, presenting you, and Dick fucking drops to his knees.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on your dripping pussy, hands already reaching, fingers brushing your inner thighs as his mouth parts in awe. "Look at you."
Jason groans behind you, rolling his hips up just enough to grind his cock against your ass, kissing the side of your head, whispering, "You should see what you do to him, baby. He's fuckin' mesmerized."
And Dick? He kind of is. His chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate breaths as he stares, like he's starving, like he can't decide if he wants to taste you or just kneel there and worship.
Dick's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing firm, grounding himself as he leans in, eyes fixed on your swollen, dripping pussy. His breath stutters out, warm against your slick skin, and he groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, this is so much better than he ever imagined.
And he has imagined it. More times than he'd ever admit. Nights spent fisting his cock to the thought of you, to the way your suit hugs your curves, to the way you smell when you're close, the teasing, flirty little smiles you send his way. He'd always wondered if you'd taste as good as you look.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky.
With two fingers, he spreads you open, watching your slick drip, glistening in the dim heat of the sauna, and his tongue flicks out, hungry, catching a taste before he can stop himself.
And it wrecks him. His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue pushing deep, groaning as he devours you, hot and wet, lapping up every drop like he's been starving for it. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady as he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking, circling, pushing in deep before dragging back out, flicking against your clit in slow, teasing swipes.
And the sounds you make? Insane.
Breathless, needy, these little gasps and whimpers that make Jason groan behind you, arms flexing as he adjusts his grip, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Solid and so hot against your back, his cock pressing thick against your ass, twitching every time you moan.
"Fuck, Grayson," Jason mutters, voice strained. "She's gonna lose it."
And you are.
Because fuck, Dick knows how to eat pussy. He's skilled, dedicated, every lick and suck sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He moans into you, the vibrations making you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together, but Jason's grip doesn't let you move.
"Feels good, huh, baby?" Jason murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, his tone all smug and filthy, like he's enjoying this just as much as Dick is.
You can't even speak. Your fingers tangle in Dick's damp hair, clutching hard, back arching against Jason's chest as Dick flicks his tongue against your clit in quick, teasing strokes, like he knows exactly how to unravel you.
Jason groans behind you, his arms tightening around your legs. When your head falls against his shoulder and your eyes meet his, he kisses you.
Hard, deep, like he's claiming you, like he needs you just as much as Dick does. His tongue licks into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, bruising.
You whimper against his lips, and he groans, rolling his hips against your ass, grinding his cock against you, needing friction, needing something, because fuck, this is too much.
And Dick? He just moans against your pussy, tongue fucking into you, making you shudder so hard Jason has to tighten his grip just to keep you steady.
"So fucking good," Dick mutters, pulling back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making you sob his name. "So sweet. Fuck, I could eat you for hours."
Jason breaks the kiss just to groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Christ, Dickie, you're gonna kill her."
Dick grins against your skin, licking another slow, teasing stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you twitch, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your little gasps turn into full whimpers, desperate and broken.
His fingers ghost over your entrance, teasing, barely there, making your pussy clench on nothing. You squirm in Jason's hold, breath hitching as anticipation coils tight in your stomach, but Dick takes his time. Watches the way you drip for him, spread open and helpless, Jason's arms locked under your thighs to keep you wide and vulnerable.
"Fuck," Dick rasps, his voice thick with arousal, his breath hot against your pussy. "You're soaked."
His thumbs part your folds, and he groans at the sight—slick, glistening, so fucking pretty. His tongue flicks over your clit again, and your whole body jerks, a whimper spilling from your lips.
Jason tightens his grip, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his cock twitching against you as he murmurs, "Easy, baby. Let him take care of you."
And fuck, Dick does take care of you. His mouth works you over, tongue lapping at your swollen clit, lips wrapping around it to suck, firm and slow, drawing needy little noises from your throat. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you from writhing too much even though all you want to do is grind against his face, chase the pleasure that's building fast.
Then his fingers press at your entrance again, just the tips, teasing, and you moan, the need to be filled overwhelming. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through your core before he finally pushes a finger inside.
It's so much thicker than yours, so much longer, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter around it. He eases it in, lets you adjust, then curls it up, searching, until—
"Fuck—" you gasp, back arching as he finds that spot, rubbing against it before sliding another finger in beside the first.
The stretch burns just a little, but the way he moves them—God, the way they scissor inside you, slick and warm, thrusting deep—has your mind blanking.
"Feel good, sweetheart?" Jason murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw, hands adjusting their grip on your thighs as he holds you steady.
You nod frantically, but it's not enough. Not when you feel like you're unraveling from just this. "More," you breathe. "Please."
Dick groans like the plea physically pains him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, stretching you open as his lips wrap around your clit again, sucking just right, tongue flicking against the swollen bud.
Your thighs tremble, pleasure tightening, the slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you obscene, messy, wet. You're dripping, leaking down his hand, onto his wrist, but he doesn't care. His cock is throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he doesn't fucking care.
All he wants is to make you cum on his tongue. And God, you're close. You can feel it winding tighter and tighter, pleasure curling deep, building fast. Your mind is spinning, flooded with heat and hunger, desperate to feel them everywhere. Their mouths, their hands, their dicks stretching you wide—
Fuck, you're gonna cum.
It hits you fast. A sharp, electric snap of pleasure, burning through every nerve, sending you spiraling. Your whole body locks up, and then, you're cumming, and it's so much. Your cunt tightens around Dick's fingers, pulsing, fluttering, sucking him deeper as wave after wave of heat crashes through you.
It's almost too much. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and a broken moan spills from your lips as your orgasm drags you under, pleasure rippling through every inch of you. You don't know if it's that fucking pollen messing with you or if Dick just knows how to make you come undone like this, but it feels insane. Shattering, like you're falling apart in Jason's arms, completely helpless to the pleasure tearing through you.
But Dick doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue over it, dragging you higher, stretching out your orgasm until it's too much, too intense.
All you can do is choke out a breathless, "D-Dick, wait—"
But he doesn't.
Your body jerks, overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop. His fingers work you open, deep and relentless, his tongue still lapping at your clit, pushing, pushing—
And then you gush. A sharp, full body shudder racks through you as hot, slick arousal pours from your cunt, drenching his fingers, his wrist, his fucking face.
It splashes against the sauna floor, and heat flares in your chest, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you gasp, "S-shit, I'm s-sorry—"
Jason lets out a rough groan, voice thick with arousal. "Fuck. A squirter, huh? That's so fuckin' hot, doll."
Dick doesn't care. He doesn't stop. His mouth stays on you, licking up every drop, his fingers fucking you slow, coaxing another trembling aftershock out of your spent, twitching cunt.
Your body is wrecked, boneless in Jason's grip, but Dick soothes you. Soft kisses pressed to your puffy clit, to your inner thighs, murmured praises against your overheated skin.
Jason groans against your ear, nipping at your jaw as he murmurs, "So pretty when you lose it, baby."
Dick finally pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy, and you whimper at the emptiness, body still twitching in the aftermath. He stands up, lifting his hand between you, watching the way your slick drips from his fingers before he licks them clean, moaning like he just tasted the best thing in the world.
And then he's kissing you.
It's not like Jason's kisses—Jason devours you, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Dick? Dick takes his time. His lips move slow over yours, teasing, coaxing, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.
His cock grinds against your swollen, soaked pussy, dragging thick and leaking between your folds, and you feel the heat of Jason against your back as he presses closer, lips finding your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks.
Dick pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with need.
"You still with us, love?" he murmurs, voice low, sweet, but so thick with hunger.
And you are. But you need more. Jason slowly lowers you to the ground, careful, like he knows your legs won't hold you up yet. And he's right. The second your feet touch the sauna floor, your knees almost buckle, but they're right there.
Jason's strong hands steady your waist, while Dick's arms wrap around you, letting you melt against his chest, your cheek pressed to his flushed, sweat damp skin. His heartbeat is racing, just like yours.
They try to soothe you, even though they're still buzzing with need, cocks aching, pulsing, leaking against your skin. You can feel it, how hard they both are, how they're holding back, muscles tensed like they're barely keeping themselves together.
Dick's fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head up as he murmurs, "You okay?"
His voice is strained, rough with hunger he's barely keeping in check.
You nod, breathless. "I need more. I want you both, I want—"
Jason groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, his dick hurts, throbbing, hot, swollen with need. He's usually not like this—he's got control, he can push past anything, but this?
That fucking pollen? His logic is gone. The only thing left is the raw, aching need clawing at his gut, the sight of you, flushed and needy, still dripping from what Dick did to you.
"You sure?" Dick asks, voice tight, hesitant, because they care, because you're friends, because this is everything all at once.
"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, I can't—I need more."
They try to resist. Try to be good, to be the men who have held themselves back all these years, who have ignored the teasing, the tension, the way you've always looked at them.
But it's too much. You're naked, hot, trembling between them, still soaked with slick and sweat, so fucking desperate for them, just like they are for you.
They exchange a look, like they're about to actually say something, like they're going to make one last attempt at self control.
But you're having none of it.
You grab both their hands, lacing your fingers with theirs as you guide them toward one of the benches, the air thick with tension, steam, and the undeniable pull of something you've all been trying to ignore for too long.
You stop in front of Dick, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes as you say, "Sit down."
And he does, because of course he does. Because he knows better than to fuck with you when you've made up your mind, and even though you're smaller than both of them, you've always had a way of getting what you want.
You grab a few towels, spreading them on the floor in front of him because, honestly? Your body is already gonna be wrecked when this is over—bruises, hickeys, everything—and you really don't need your knees all fucked up on top of it.
Then, slowly, you kneel between his legs.
Jason is still standing behind you, watching, stunned, because sure, you've always been bold. You've flirted, teased, laughed in their faces when they tried to resist you, but this? This is something else.
You turn your head, looking up at Jason through heavy lashes, and say, "I need you to fuck me while I suck Dick off."
They both go still. Like their brains just short circuited. Like they can't quite believe what the fuck just came out of your mouth.
And you can see it happening, the exact moment something inside them snaps, because they've both fantasized about this, both thought about it more times than they'd ever admit, and now? Now you're on your knees, looking up at them, demanding it.
Dick swallows hard, his cock twitching, leaking against his stomach. His hands clench at his sides like he's trying so fucking hard to keep control. Jason? Jason just lets out a rough, breathless laugh, shaking his head, because fuck, you're gonna kill him.
Your ass wiggles as you shift into position, and behind you, Jason groans, deep and rough. "Fuck, look at you."
His big hands settle on your hips, hot and firm, fingers flexing like he's trying so hard to keep himself in check. And he can't help it, so he slaps your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your cunt.
"Oh—"
You gasp, thighs twitching, and Jason smirks, rubbing the mark he left behind, soothing the heat with his palm. "You like that shit, huh?"
You nod, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, glassy eyes, and his grip tightens.
"Got it, baby."
Then you turn back to Dick, gaze dropping to his cock. And God, he's just as long as Jason, maybe a little thinner, but just as pretty, thick and flushed, the veins along his shaft standing out against the hot, velvety skin. Precum beads at the tip, glistening, and when you lick your lips, Dick shudders, his breath hitching in his throat.
Behind you, Jason's hands slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your ass before he spreads you open, groaning when he gets a good look at you.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, almost dazed, like he can't believe what he's seeing.
You're so wet, swollen, your slick dripping down your thighs, smearing against the inside of his fingers. And your pussy? Fuck, it's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—hot, flushed, clenching around nothing, like you're begging for something to fill you up.
His head tips back for a second, like he needs to pull himself together, but when he looks down again, when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing, aching to be fucked?
He's fucking gone.
Because he knows you're gonna squeeze his dick like a glove, knows you're gonna be so fucking tight, so hot and wet around him that he might actually lose his mind. You're perfect. And this? This can't be real.
But oh, it is.
You shift your weight onto your knees, looking up at Dick, and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind too. Especially when you wrap your fingers around his cock. He sucks in a breath, head falling back against the bench as your grip tightens, your palm gliding over his length, slow and teasing.
Then you lean in, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Dick whimpers. The sound makes your cunt throb, pleasure sparking up your spine, because he looks so good like this—so flushed, so desperate, so pretty.
His cock pulses in your hand, leaking all over your fingers, and you purr, "Poor Grayson," before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap up his precum, tasting the salt and heat of him.
Behind you, Jason curses under his breath, and then you feel the hot, thick weight of his cock press against your dripping cunt.
You gasp, back arching as he rubs the wet head of his dick over your slit, dragging it up and down, teasing your swollen, puffy folds, mixing his precum with your slick until you're soaked in it.
And you? You're trembling. Because you need this. You need them. The second your lips part, taking Dick's cock into your mouth, his hand tangles in your hair. His fingers thread through the strands, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his other hand cradling your cheek.
You moan around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and he hisses, his head tipping back against the bench. "Fuck—"
You take him deeper, inch by inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate his length. He's thick, hot, the weight of him pressing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping when you bob your head slow, teasing, testing how much of him you can take.
His fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching—just barely—but you feel it, the way he wants to thrust, to fuck himself down your throat, but he waits, panting, letting you set the pace.
Behind you, Jason is shaking. Shaking.
His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his whole body tight, because fuck, your ass is wiggling, pushing back against him, grinding against his cock like you're trying to drive him insane.
And it's working. His dick throbs, thick and aching, leaking against your soaked, swollen cunt as you shift again, tilting your hips just right, and Jason snaps. He lines himself up and starts to push in, slow, deliberate, even though his whole body is telling him to fuck you, to take you, to split you open and wreck you.
But he waits. He has to wait. Because he knows he's big, and with how tight you are—so hot and wet, squeezing around just the tip—he can't move, not even if he wanted to.
His whole body trembles as he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, grounding himself as much as he's grounding you. His big hands smooth up and down your sides, soothing, steadying, feeling the way your breath shudders as you try to relax, try to take him deeper.
But he waits, even though every muscle in his body is coiled tight, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, because even through the pollen haze, Jason cares. He needs you to feel good.
Your walls stretch around him, clutching at him, and he slides in so easily, your pussy welcoming him, pulling him in. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, splitting you open until he's fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt, and you can't help but moan. The vibration makes Dick's hips jerk, a curse tumbling from his lips as his fingers tighten in your hair.
And Jason?Jason groans, burying himself inside you, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder.
"Breathe, baby," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing slow, soft kisses along your shoulder, his body trembling as he forces himself to stay still, to let you adjust, even though he wants to move so fucking bad.
He gives you time, even though his entire body is screaming at him to fuck you, to finally lose himself in the heat of your cunt.
"You're doin' so good," he rasps, voice strained, like the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock is driving him straight to the fucking edge.
You slide off Dick's cock with a gasp, a line of spit still connecting your lips to his flushed tip. Your fingers tighten around the base, stroking him as your head dips forward, and Jason groans behind you, eyes clenching shut, breathing through it, fighting against the way your pussy is milking his cock.
You can't breathe. You can't think. The feeling is overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside you, stretching you so wide you feel full. Too full, almost, but Jason soothes you through it, his lips trailing soft, slow kisses along your skin.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, his jaw clenched, his whole body so tight he thinks he might snap in half.
And then, finally, you shift against him. A tiny moan leaves your lips, and Jason can't wait any longer. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock dragging against your sensitive, fluttering walls, making your whole body tremble. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, filling you up again, stretching you, claiming every inch of your cunt.
It burns. It aches, just a little. Your whimper is soft, almost inaudible, but Jason hears it.
And he shushes you, kissing your shoulder again, whispering, "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me."
Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging into your soft skin as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling you up again, making you moan.
It's too slow, too teasing. You need more.
So you refocus, letting yourself drown in the heat of Dick's body, the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and flushed and leaking all over your fingers. You slide your tongue over the tip, swirling around the slit, savoring the salty taste of his precum before taking him back into your mouth, sinking deeper this time.
The stretch is obscene, your lips stretched wide around him, your jaw aching as you push further, inch by inch, your throat tightening as he hits the back of your mouth. You gag, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, but you don't care.
You love it. It's better than every fantasy you've ever had, better than every late night thought of them, better than you could've ever imagined. Because they feel so good, sound so good, and you know you're not coming back from this.
Dick is gone. His fingers tangle in your hair again, watching the way you take him, the way you look up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, and fuck, you're so pretty like this, drooling all over his cock, taking him so fucking deep.
His whole body tenses, muscles tight, abs flexing, the veins in his forearms standing out as he tries to control himself, to hold back, but Jesus Christ, you're making it so fucking hard.
Jason is just as wrecked. His pace is still slow, but he's obsessed, his mind fuzzy with how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect your pussy is wrapped around his cock, gripping him like a vice.
He has to see it.
So he moves his hands from your waist, big palms spreading over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh before pulling your cheeks apart, groaning when he gets a clear view of your soaked cunt stretched so tight around his dick.
His cock twitches, a groan slipping from his lips because fuck, you're swallowing him whole, your pussy gripping every inch of him, making a mess all over his cock, slick glistening along his length.
This is the best pussy he's ever had. But he knows it's you. It has nothing to do with that pollen. It's you.
And he's so fucking gone over you.
You whimper around Dick's cock, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching the way his chest rises and falls in quick, desperate pants. And then, slowly, you let him slip from your mouth again, gasping for air, your hand tightening around the base as you pant.
"Fuck my mouth."
Dick freezes, his breath hitching, his lips parting as his brows furrow, like he's not sure he heard you right.
"W-what?"
You lick your lips, eyes heavy lidded, spit glistening along your chin as you repeat, slow and clear. "Fuck. My. Mouth."
His whole body shudders, and he doesn't even think. Doesn't hesitate. He does it.
His grip tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, and then he's pushing in, slow but firm, guiding his cock past your lips, groaning as the heat of your mouth wraps around him.
And behind you, Jason hisses, his fingers tightening on your ass before landing another sharp slap, making you jolt forward.
"Shit," he groans, his voice thick with arousal, dark with want. "You're freaky as fuck."
Dick's grip tightens in your hair as he starts to move, slow at first, thrusting shallowly, watching the way his cock glides over your slick tongue, the way your lips stretch around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
"God, baby," he groans, voice strained, wrecked, his abs flexing as he pushes deeper, testing your limits, his hips jerking when you moan around him. "You feel so good—fuck, you're perfect. So sweet for me, taking me so well."
His words make your pussy clench around Jason's cock, the praise making your head spin, making you drool more as you relax your throat, letting Dick push deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your mouth. Your eyes flutter, heat sparking in your core as he fucks your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes.
His breath is ragged, his voice thick as he murmurs, "Just like that, pretty girl. You're doing so good. Such a perfect little thing."
Behind you, Jason groans, his grip bruising as he watches you take it, eyes dark, hungry.
"Fuck," he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty, baby. Goddamn, you're gonna make me lose my shit."
His hands slide over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open so he can watch the way your pussy stretches around his cock, gripping him like a fucking vice, sucking him in, milking him.
"You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching inside you, his jaw clenching. "So fuckin' wet. Jesus Christ, this is the best pussy I've ever had."
The words make your walls flutter, make your body throb, and you can't help yourself. You push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips, moaning around Dick's cock as Jason curses, his fingers tightening on your ass.
And then he snaps. His patience shatters, his control slipping as he slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your eyes roll back.
"Fuck, yeah," Jason growls, dragging you back onto his cock, setting a relentless rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steam filled air. "That's what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Shit, you're so fuckin' needy, baby."
Your moans vibrate around Dick's cock, making him groan, his hips stuttering.
"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his fingers tugging on your hair, his head tipping back as he watches you, his cock throbbing as you swallow around him. "You're so fucking good, baby."
Jason groans, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine.
"Look at you," he rasps, voice low, dark, wrecked. "Gettin' your mouth fucked, gettin' your pussy fucked—shit, baby, you're drippin' all over my dick."
His words send a sharp throb through your core, making your walls squeeze around him, making him curse.
"Yeah, you like that? You like bein' a messy little thing?"
His words mix with Dick's soft, sweet praise, the contrast making your head spin, making your body ache for more, more, more. You're soaked, you're gone, and you're about to cum so hard.
Dick's fingers clench tighter in your hair, his whole body shaking as you take him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. His moans grow louder, ragged, his hips jerking forward, his self control slipping between his fingers.
"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice wrecked, shaking. "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—"
You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him harder, and that's it. That's all it takes for him to lose it.
His cock twitches on your tongue, the thick veins pulsing against the heat of your mouth as his orgasm slams into him, ripping through him like a live wire.
"Oh, fuck—"
His breath catches, his whole body locking up as the first hot pulse of his cum spills onto your tongue, thick and heavy, coating your throat as he shudders, trembles, his head tipping back against the wall, his lips parting in a wrecked, shaking moan.
You swallow it all, every last drop, your throat working around him, and it's too much. His thighs tense, his abs flex, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his hips jerk, his cock throbbing, overstimulated, as you keep sucking, drawing out every last spurt of his release.
"Jesus Christ, baby," he whimpers, his grip tightening for a second before his hand slips from your hair, his body melting, shaking, spent.
You finally let him slide free with a soft, wet pop, licking the last traces of him from your lips, and when he finally cracks his eyes open, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and a dazed, blissed out expression, he groans.
"God," he breathes, still catching his breath, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip, cleaning up the mess he left behind. "You're so fucking good."
You only have a second to grin before Jason grabs you. His arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up, pulling you against his chest as he slams his cock back into your pussy, the force of it making you gasp, your body arching as he fills you up again, stretching you all over.
"Fuckin' shit," Jason growls, his voice low, desperate, his breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you, his cock hitting deep, slamming into that spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble.
His free hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, his fingers slippery with your arousal.
"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he grits out, his voice dark, wrecked. "Gonna soak my fuckin' dick?"
You whimper, nodding desperately, your nails digging into his arms, your whole body coiling tight, every thrust, every press of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.
Your head tilts back, your lips parting, and Jason takes it as an invitation. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss filthy, messy, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the steam thick air.
It's too much. The way he's pounding into you, the way his fingers are rubbing your clit, the way his mouth is devouring yours—it's all too much.
You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body locking up as your walls clamp down around Jason's cock, your pussy spasming, milking him as you moan into his mouth, your whole body shaking from the force of it.
But he doesn't stop.
"Yeah," Jason groans, his pace relentless, his fingers still working your clit, pushing you higher, keeping you right there, shoving you into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.
"Oh—fuck—"
Your whole body seizes, and then you gush, hot, wet, soaking his cock, the mess dripping down your thighs, pooling on the towels beneath you as your mind goes blank. Jason groans, his grip bruising, his voice full of awe and lust and pure fucking greed.
"Shit, baby," he growls, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, squeezing, his hips still slamming into you. "You're so fuckin' hot—goddamn, look at this mess you're makin'."
You're gone, trembling in his arms, panting, whimpering, still coming, your body wrecked, and he loves it.
But even after you've soaked his dick, even after you've cum so hard your legs shake and your body trembles, he just keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing his own high, refusing to let you catch your breath.
Your thoughts are a mess, a haze of heat and pleasure and pure, desperate need. Every time he thrusts back inside, it knocks the air from your lungs, sending another sharp jolt of electricity up your spine, making your toes curl.
His dick is so big, so hot, so thick, stretching you to your limit, the swollen head hitting your cervix with every deep, brutal stroke, the impact sending sparks of pain-laced pleasure licking up your spine.
Jason groans, his breath hot against your ear, his big hands sliding from your waist to your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers.
"Fuck, baby," he moans, voice wrecked, breathless. "You feel so good—tight little pussy's so fuckin' wet, takin' my dick like a fuckin' dream."
His voice is a growl, his breath ragged, filthy, and it makes you clench around him, your body reacting to the sheer, raw hunger in his voice.
"Drippin' down my fuckin' balls, makin' a mess all over me," he mutters, his pace getting faster, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the air. "Such a fuckin' good girl, lettin' me fuck you like this—shit—"
His moan is deep, gritty, his lips brushing against your neck, and it makes your brain melt.
You can feel Dick watching.
His heavy, ragged breathing, the way he groans softly under his breath every time your tits bounce from the sheer force of Jason's thrusts, the way he's still hard, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen as he watches Jason destroy you.
Jason buries his face in your shoulder, his pace stuttering, and then his voice turns urgent, desperate. "Shit," he pants. "Where do you want me to cum, doll?"
The words slip out before you even think.
"Inside," you whimper, the plea ragged, breathless. "Inside me, please."
Jason groans, his arms tightening around you, his body shaking. "Fuck."
He grabs your waist, slamming into you, fucking you like a man possessed, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep as possible, stretching you wide, filling you to the fucking brim.
And it's like something in Dick snaps. He drops to his knees, his big hands sliding up your thighs, and then his fingers find your clit.
"Oh—fuck—"
Your whole body seizes—Jason's cock splitting you open, fucking you deep and hard, pounding into your soaking cunt while Dick's fingers rub your puffy, far too sensitive clit, quick and precise, pushing you higher, driving you insane.
Then Dick leans in, his lips brushing against yours, swallowing your moans, devouring them, and God, this has to be the hottest fuck of your life.
His tongue, hot, wet, messy against yours, kissing you like he needs you, like he's starving for the taste of your pleasure.
And shit, these two men—hot as fuck, sweaty, desperate, ruining you. They are going to wreck you for anyone else for sure.
Jason groans, his pace brutal, his cock pounding into your swollen, soaked pussy, stretching you so wide, splitting you open, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach.
He's right there, right on the edge, voice rough, breath ragged as he mutters, "C'mon, baby, I'm so close. Fuck, gimme one more, let me feel you."
And then, Dick starts slapping your clit slightly. It's sharp, the sting mixing with the unbearable pleasure of Jason's cock fucking you stupid, and that's it, you snap.
Your whole body locks up, your pussy clenching down hard around Jason's cock, milking him, your legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, drowning you in wave after wave of pure, burning pleasure.
Your mouth falls open in a wrecked, wordless moan, eyes rolling back, sweat dripping down your skin as you shake, your whole body on fire, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, your clit throbbing, your walls spasming around Jason's thick cock.
And he loses it.
"Fuck—" His breath punches out of him, a deep, desperate groan rumbling through his chest, his grip on your hips turning bruising as your pussy chokes his cock, squeezing him so tight he can't hold back.
He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding so fucking deep, and then, he cums. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your walls, filling you up so much you can feel it, dripping out around his cock, mixing with your slick as he lets out a deep, wrecked groan.
But he doesn't stop.
Even as his dick throbs, even as he pulses inside you, he grits his teeth and fucks it deeper, slow, deep rolls of his hips, making sure every last drop stays buried inside you, making sure you feel it.
Dick's fingers never stop, still rubbing your aching clit, making you whimper, making your whole body jolt, your thighs quivering, your nipples aching, your pussy so full and sensitive that every little movement makes you twitch.
And then Dick finally lets you breathe.
He breaks the kiss, his lips swollen, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark with lust as he soothes you, his hands smoothing up your back, down your arms, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.
Your breath shudders out of you, your head dropping forward onto Dick's shoulder as Jason stills behind you, his chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin, his grip still tight on your waist, grounding you as you tremble in their hold.
Jason does the same, his big hands rubbing slow, warm circles into your waist, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath deep, calming, as he lets you come down.
But it's not enough. You still need more.
Your whole body buzzes with it, aching with it, and before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, the words tumble from your lips, breathless, desperate, "I need... I—w-want you both at the same time."
Jason freezes. "Fuckin' shit."
His arm tightens around your waist, his cock still buried inside you, twitching just at the thought of it.
And Dick? His breath catches, his fingers tightening against your skin, his lips parting as his brows furrow, something unreadable flickering across his face before he cups your cheek, pressing soft, sweet kisses all over your flushed skin.
"Love, maybe we should—"
"No," you shake your head, chest heaving. "I need it. I—fuck, I need more."
Dick hesitates. "But we'd need lube, and—"
"I have some," you gasp. "In—in my locker. In my bag."
They both freeze. Jason raises a brow, his lips twitching, while Dick blinks at you, head tilting slightly.
"...You what?"
Your face burns. "I just bought it—I was gonna take it home, but I kept forgetting—"
Jason smirks, shaking his head, while Dick huffs out a quiet laugh before turning on his heel.
"I'll get it."
Your thoughts swirl, still dazed, still high from pleasure. It's really just a coincidence, something you bought last week and forgot to leave at home, but now? Now, you're just grateful you have it.
The second Dick is gone, Jason leans in, his lips brushing against yours, slow, deep, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You moan softly, body pressing into his, heat still pooling low in your stomach.
When he pulls away, his smirk is sharp, eyes dark.
"You just bought it, huh?"
Your eyes dart away, face burning, and he chuckles. Then Dick is back, the bottle of lube in hand, and he's grinning, but there's something in his eyes, something darker, something hungrier.
He tosses the bottle onto the bench, his gaze flickering between you and Jason before he murmurs, "That's real convenient, sweetheart."
Jason's lips brush against your neck, hot and damp with sweat, his breath still ragged as he drags his mouth along your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the flushed heat of your throat. His hands slide down your waist, holding you, still keeping you close, as if he doesn't want to pull away just yet.
But then he does. His cock slips free, and the loss makes you whine, your walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty after being stretched and filled so deep.
Jason chuckles, low and rough, pressing another slow kiss to your shoulder before he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up, keeping you from collapsing completely. And then, his cum starts dripping out of you.
Thick, warm, messy, streaking down your thighs, slick and obscene, mixing with your own wetness, making your skin glisten under the dim lights.
Jason groans, watching it, his fingers squeezing at your hips before he turns you around, cupping your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.
He kisses you, deep, messy, wet.
His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, curling against yours, dragging along the roof of your mouth, swallowing the small gasp you let out as he dominates the kiss.
It's all spit and heat, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your jaw as he devours you, groaning into your mouth, his own hips twitching forward instinctively, as if he's not done with you yet.
And maybe he's not. When he finally pulls away, your lips are slick with spit, swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.
But Jason just smirks, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he murmurs, "Took me so fuckin' well."
The praise sends a shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your belly, but you don't even have time to dwell on it because you're already turning to Dick, your whole body still thrumming with need.
"Lay on the bench."
His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but he doesn't question it. He grabs some towels first, spreading them out so he can sit more comfortably, before laying back, his cock still hard, standing thick and flushed against his stomach, twitching slightly as he watches you, pupils blown.
You barely give him time to think. You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and the moment your soaked pussy presses against his cock, dragging along his length, he groans, his head falling back slightly.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your ass. "That pollen fucked us up badly."
You nod, whimpering, rubbing yourself against him, smearing Jason's cum and your own slick all over his cock, making it all slippery, all hot, and then, Dick grinds right back.
His hands tighten on your ass, his hips rolling up against yours, rubbing the thick, leaking head of his cock against your throbbing clit, making you moan, making your thighs tremble from the overstimulation.
But you need him inside. Now. Lifting yourself up, you barely hesitate before sinking down onto his cock, and it's so easy. You're soaked, dripping, stretched wide and ready from Jason, and Dick slides right in, filling you up in one smooth, wet motion, the thick length of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Dick gasps, his fingers flexing against your ass, his chest rising sharply as his brows furrow, his mouth falling open in a soft, breathless moan. His thoughts are a mess.
He's inside you. He's inside you, and you feel so fucking good. So tight, so warm, so fucking wet, and it's all for him.
Well, for him and Jason, all of you caught up in this fever, this unbearable need, and fuck, he never thought this would happen, never thought he'd get to feel you like this, but now... now he can't stop thinking about it.
Can't stop thinking about how you feel around him, how you're squeezing him, how your slick drips down his length, coating his cock, making it so easy to slide deeper, making it so fucking hot.
"Jesus," he groans, his head tipping back, his fingers gripping at you. "Baby, you feel... fuck, you feel so good."
Dick can't stop kissing you. It's like he's obsessed, like he needs his mouth on you just as much as he needs to fuck you.
Every time his hips drive up, his cock sinking deep inside your dripping cunt, he's pulling you down to meet him, his lips crashing against yours, groaning into your mouth like he's drunk on the heat of you, the taste of you, the way your walls grip him so tight every time he moves.
"God, baby," he pants against your lips, voice breathless, wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, his cock rubbing against every tender, sensitive spot inside you. "I can't stop, I can't—"
You moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him, feeling every shift of his muscles, every snap of his hips as he fucks into you with slow, deep, needy strokes.
And across from you, Jason watches. His lips are slightly parted, his chest rising with each heavy breath, his eyes locked on the way Dick's cock sinks in and out of your soaked, used pussy, slick noises filling the sauna, making his jaw clench.
"Fuck," he mutters, his grip tightening around his cock, stroking himself slowly.
His breath catches as he watches the way your body takes it, how easy it is for Dick to slide into you after he already ruined you, stretching you out, leaving you so wet that it's effortless.
His free hand slides up your back, fingers tracing along the sweat slick curve of your spine, following it down to your ass, where he grips the flesh and spreads you slightly. The moment he does, he groans at the sight of Dick's cock fucking into your pussy, your hole clinging to him, soaked and messy, your juices dripping down to your thighs, making the whole thing so fucking filthy.
You hear the slick pop of a bottle being opened, and then, his fingers, cool and slick with lube, gliding over the rim of your other hole. A soft, teasing touch.
Your breath hitches, a shiver running through you even as you grind down onto Dick's cock, making him groan, his hands flexing against your hips. Jason smirks, rubbing slow circles around your rim, massaging the tight muscle, teasing it, not pushing in just yet.
"Gotta stretch you open first, doll," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the dip of your spine. "Don't wanna hurt you."
You nod, panting, pressing back into his hand as he finally, slowly, pushes in the tip of his finger. Your body twitches at the stretch, a sharp inhale escaping you as your walls flutter around Dick's cock at the same time, making him groan, his brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself from losing it.
Jason waits a moment, watching the way you react, his other hand rubbing slow circles along your waist, his voice softer this time when he asks, "You okay, baby?"
You exhale shakily, nodding, your body adjusting to the new sensation, the slight pressure of his finger stretching you open.
And then he starts to move.
Slowly, teasingly, fucking you with the single finger, slipping it in and out in careful strokes, feeling the way your body responds, the way your walls tremble around him, your moans growing softer, more desperate as he adds another finger.
A low, drawn out out moan escapes you, your body twitching, your walls fluttering around Dick's cock again, making him groan, his fingers gripping your hips harder.
"You're so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he works his fingers in deeper, stretching you open, his cock twitching at the way you pulse around him.
His movements stay patient, calculated, letting you get used to every single sensation, letting you feel it, your body reacting to both him and Dick at the same time, your nerves lighting up from how much stimulation there is, how they're everywhere all at once.
By the time he slides in a third finger, you're trembling, panting, your nails digging into Dick's shoulders as he groans at the way you keep clenching around him.
"You're doin' so good, baby," Jason murmurs against your back, pressing a slow kiss between your shoulder blades, fingers curling inside you, stretching you wider.
Dick keeps kissing you. He can't stop.
His lips keep finding yours between every breathless moan, every shaky exhale, every soft noise that leaves your lips as Jason's fingers work you open, stretching you wider, preparing you for his dick.
You can barely think. Your body is trembling, nerves buzzing, your mind foggy with want, with need, your hands gripping Dick's shoulders as he pants against your lips, "You feel so good, sweetheart, I—fuck, I need to feel you."
Jason growls against your skin, his fingers sinking deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle until he's knuckle deep, fucking them in and out in slow, filthy thrusts. He watches you shudder, listens to the way you gasp, the way your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers just right.
"Relax," he murmurs, dragging his teeth over your neck, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "You're already takin' me so fuckin' well, baby—bet you'll stretch around my dick like a dream."
He spreads his fingers, stretching you wider, dragging them back just to push in again, deeper, rougher, wetter. The slick, obscene sounds of it make heat curl in your belly, make your whole body tighten, aching, desperate.
"Fuck, you feel this?" Jason grunts, his fingers twisting, pressing, stroking in slow, teasing circles. "So tight, so fuckin' perfect—gonna ruin you, baby."
Dick presses another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one deeper, more desperate, more needy, because he has to. He has to taste you, has to feel you, has to lose himself in you while Jason kneels behind you, his cock hard and aching, the tip glistening as he slowly, carefully pulls his fingers out of your ass.
A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you slightly, watching the way your body twitches, the way your ass clenches, still slightly open from how deep his fingers had been.
"Relax, doll," he murmurs, his breath warm against your spine as he slicks himself up with lube, rubbing the tip of his cock against your hole, teasing, pressing just slightly to gauge your reaction.
Your whole body shudders, and Dick cradles your face, kisses you slow, deep, as he whispers against your lips, "Breathe, pretty girl. I got you."
Jason presses in. Slowly. The stretch is immediate, intense, your body clenching around him as he sinks in, inch by inch, his jaw tight as he groans, hands gripping your hips, feeling the way you shake as you adjust to the sheer size of him, to the way he's filling you.
Dick can feel it too. Your walls clenching around his cock, getting tighter just from how Jason is stretching you open, making him groan, his hands flexing against your waist.
"Fuck, baby," Jason grits out, his breath coming out shaky as he finally bottoms out, his forehead pressing against your back, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. "You feel so fuckin' good."
You're a mess. Your breath is shaky, your pulse racing, your body overwhelmed in the best way possible, stuffed full, stretched wide, both of them inside you, filling you to the absolute brim.
Still, it's not enough. You need more. And the moment you shift, rolling your hips slightly, feeling the way it makes Jason's cock nudge deeper, Dick lets out a sharp, wrecked sound and tightens his grip on your hips.
"Hold still, love," he breathes, his voice low, strained, adjusting his grip on you, making sure you don't have to move, don't have to do anything except take it.
And you will. You'll take all of it. Because they need this just as much as you do, and neither of them can hold back much longer.
Jason exhales hard through his nose, his grip steady on your hips, his cock pulsing, buried deep inside your ass as he presses his chest flush against your back.
His lips graze your shoulder, his breath warm, voice low and gruff when he murmurs, "Good? Still with us?"
You nod quickly, too quickly, your brain foggy, words barely forming as you pant, "M-Move, please..."
Dick is the first to obey. His fingers flex at your waist, his muscles tensing beneath you as he rolls his hips up, fucking into your soaked cunt slow and deep, dragging a moan from your throat as the thick length of him stretches you open all over again.
Jason groans at the sight, at the way your tight little hole clenches around Dick's cock, the way your body shudders when Dick fills you to the hilt, rubbing against the spots that make you gasp, make you shake.
And then, Jason moves. It's slow, deliberate, his hips grinding forward, easing himself out just to push back in, filling your ass just as Dick fills your pussy, the slow stretch making your breath catch, making your fingers curl against Dick's chest.
Your mind is blank. Absolutely fucking blank. You can barely register the words Dick is whispering, his voice soft, warm, each praise making you clench down tighter, "God, sweetheart, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect—taking both of us so well, baby, so fucking good—"
His words make your breath stutter, make your walls squeeze around him, make Jason groan, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he kisses your back, your shoulders, your neck, his lips soft, reverent, even as he fucks you.
And you can barely breathe. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your body trembling as they thrust into you, stretching you, filling you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of pleasure you're drowning in.
Jason's hand slides around you. Finds your puffy little clit. Presses down. You wail.
Your whole body jerks, your breath shattering as Jason grins against your skin, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and cruel, all while his cock grinds deep into your ass, making your walls clench around both of them.
Dick chokes on a moan, his hips jerking, his fingers digging into your waist, his cock stuffing your pussy, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that makes you keen.
Jason groans at the reaction, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, muttering, "Fuck, baby, that's it—take it—"
And you do. You take everything. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness, the filthy praise whispered into your ear, the heat of their bodies against yours. The way their cocks move inside you, making your vision swim, making your mind blank, making your whole body tremble as they keep fucking you.
And there's nothing—nothing—you want more.
Jason's fingers keep working your clit, slow and teasing one moment, rough and insistent the next, rubbing tight little circles that have your thighs trembling, your body caught between the steady drag of his cock in your ass and the deep, devastating thrusts of Dick's cock inside your pussy.
Your breath shatters, your body taut, stretched wide, so full, their cocks filling you over and over, slick and hot, the filthy sound of it echoing off the walls, slick wet noises mixing with your gasping moans, their groans, their praises.
Dick slides a hand up your waist, warm and firm, fingers trailing the sweat slicked curves of your body, before moving higher, higher, until he cups your breast.
A strangled moan gets caught in your throat as he palms you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive, desperate, his hips never slowing, cock driving deep, kissing your cervix with every thrust.
Jason groans behind you, his cock throbbing, pulsing inside your tight, hot ass, his grip almost bruising at your hip as he watches Dick squeeze your tits, watches how you whimper and twitch, body so fucking responsive.
"Fuckin' hell," Jason rasps, pressing his forehead against your back, panting, "You're so tight, baby—grippin' me so good—"
Dick is all needy and breathless as he mutters, "You're so perfect—so wet, so fucking soft—"
And fuck, fuck, it's too much.
Your whole body tenses, muscles coiling, pleasure spiking, your slick dripping down, coating Dick's cock, soaking his thighs, Jason's fingers still rubbing your clit, still teasing, still playing with you.
Your vision blurs, your mouth falls open in a silent moan, and then you snap. Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking supernova, a shuddering, gut wrenching explosion of white hot pleasure. Wave after wave crashes into you as your pussy clenches, gripping Dick's cock so tight he chokes on a groan, hips faltering, hands gripping your waist to hold you there, fuck you through it, hips rutting up in messy, desperate thrusts.
Jason curses loud and filthy, his free hand digging into your hip as your ass tightens around him, milking his cock, making him throb, his jaw clenched so tight it aches as he rubs your clit faster, dragging out your orgasm, making you whimper, tremble, shake.
"That's it, doll," Jason growls, voice rough, filled with lust, "Fuck—look at you, so fuckin' messy, so good—"
Dick is moaning beneath you, his grip on you tightening, his cock still buried deep inside your spasming cunt, still rutting up into you, and it's so much, too much, your whole body a trembling, sweaty, soaked mess.
"M-more—"
Your voice is a broken little whimper, barely a sound at all, your body hot between them, overstimulated and fucked senseless, but still, still, you beg for more.
"H-harder—fuck—p-please—"
And that's it. That's it. Jason curses under his breath, and Dick's fingers tighten on your hips as something inside them just snaps, and they ruin you.
Jason grips your waist, holding you steady as he slams into your ass, hips snapping forward with messy, needy thrusts, cock stretching you wide, stuffing you so full, his abs flexing, sweat dripping down his chest.
Dick isn't any better. He's never fucked like this before, never felt like this before, usually so careful, so sweet, because he likes making love, likes taking his time. He's usually all slow, sensual touches and soft whispers, but the pollen, the fucking pollen.
You're soaking his cock, clenching around him, your pussy hot and wet and so fucking tight, making these little whimpering sounds that make his brain short circuit, that make him lose every single ounce of restraint.
He pounds into you, moaning, hips driving up to meet yours again and again, his mind blank, wrecked, obsessed with how you feel around him, how good you take it, how you keep begging for it.
"Yes—yes—yes—more—fuck—"
You can't stop babbling, pleading, brain melting under the push and pull of their cocks inside you, their hands gripping you, keeping you in place, using you, fucking you.
"More—more—more—"
You're whimpering, gasping, trembling, bouncing between him and Jason like you belong to them.
"F-fuck—"
Jason feels like he's burning alive, the heat of your body, the way your ass grips his cock, the way you tremble every time he fucks you deeper, the sweat dripping down his back, his chest, his hips slapping your ass, his free hand sliding up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck, squeezing just a little, just enough to make you gasp.
"Shit, baby, you're so fuckin' tight—"
And then—
"Fuck—fuck— fuck—"
Dick breaks.
His whole body tenses, back arching, muscles coiling as his cock jerks inside you, and then he's cumming, gasping, groaning, fucking his seed deep into your cunt, pumping you full, stuffing you so full, hot and thick. His arms lock around your waist, holding you down as he ruts up into you, still moving, still fucking you through it because he can't stop, can't fucking stop.
And you—
You feel it, feel the hot rush of it inside you, feel it leak out around his cock, smearing on your swollen folds, on Jason's fingers still working your clit, on his balls, sticky and messy, so fucking filthy. You love it, love the way it drips out of you, love the way Dick whimpers as he fucks through his orgasm, love the way Jason grunts behind you, voice rough, guttural.
"Christ, look at that—fuckin' drippin'—"
And he's still fucking you, still grinding against you, his cock still hard, still deep, still pounding your ass, and you whimper, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive.
Jason's fingers are merciless.
They press against your swollen, throbbing clit, slick with a mess of cum, circling it, teasing, rubbing just right.
"F-fuck, Jay, I—"
Your words break, barely more than a whimper, and Dick shifts beneath you, his hands tight on your hips, his cock still stuffed deep in your wrecked pussy, and he feels it.
He feels the way your walls are fluttering, spasming, gripping him, the way your whole body is starting to shake.
"That's it, baby, let go—"
Jason's voice is low, gravelly, and then it hits you.
A wave of white hot pleasure, so intense, so overwhelming, your whole body tenses and breaks at the same time, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent, shattered sob as you clench around both of them, your pussy squeezing Dick so tight he groans, hips jerking, and your ass—
"Shit—fuck—"
Jason chokes on his own breath, the sudden tight, spasming grip around his cock making his rhythm stutter, making his fingers falter, making his whole body tense as heat coils low in his gut, hot and throbbing, his hips snapping forward in shallow, desperate thrusts.
"Fuck— baby—"
His hand locks onto your waist, fingers digging into your soft, sweat slicked skin, and he buries himself deep, cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling inside you, thick and hot. He can't stop moving, can't stop grinding into you, fucking it deeper, groaning, shuddering against your back as his orgasm wrecks him.
You sob.
Not just because it's too much, not just because your body is shaking, not just because your clit is pulsing under Jason's fingers, because your pussy is still leaking cum, because your ass is stuffed with it, because the pleasure is endless.
You sob because you've never been fucked this good, because it's Dick and Jason, because your body is spent. Because you're so tired and still trembling, still whimpering as Jason finally stills behind you, followed by Dick, both of them still inside you, both of them breathing hard.
"Baby—"
Dick's voice is so soft, and you barely register it before your body gives out, before you collapse against his chest. His arms catch you, wrap around you, hold you tight, his big, warm hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back as you keep sobbing, sniffling, your body twitching from the aftershocks.
"Shit—"
Jason's hands smooth down your back, his lips pressing against the curve of your spine, kissing your sweat-damp skin as he exchanges a look with Dick, something unspoken, something concerned.
"Breathe, sweetheart," Dick murmurs, tucking you closer, his lips pressing to your temple, your forehead, "You're okay. We got you."
Jason hums against your back, his hands gentle now, tracing slow, grounding touches down your waist, your sides, rubbing at your hips, pressing softer kisses against your skin.
"M'sorry—" you hiccup, voice hoarse, and Jason shakes his head, arms tightening around you.
"Nah, baby," he murmurs, "Nothin' to be sorry for."
"We got you," Dick echoes, voice still so soft, lips still brushing against your skin, still pressing slow, tender kisses over your face, "We got you, love."
And the haze of the pollen is fading, just slightly, just enough to let the exhaustion creep in, just enough to let you sink into their warmth, just enough to let you breathe.
A little sniffle escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Jason exhales, his fingers tightening on your waist before he slowly, gently pulls out. You whimper, hips twitching at the loss, and he shushes you, hands smoothing down your sides, his voice low and gruff—
"Sorry, sweetheart."
It's only then, as his head starts to clear, that he sees you, like... really sees you.
The red marks scattered across your skin, the deep, dark hickeys, the little bruises blooming where fingers had gripped too tight, where mouths had been too hungry.
And normally, Jason wouldn't care. Wouldn't think about it, wouldn't dwell. But this wasn't some random fuck. This was you. And he cares about you.
He exchanges a look with Dick, who seems to be thinking the exact same thing, but before either of them can say anything, you lift your head slightly, voice soft, drowsy, still so blissed out.
"That was... that was so..." you pause as you take a slow, heavy breath. "That was the best fuck of my life."
For a second, they're stunned. Then Jason snorts, shaking his head as his hands squeeze your hips.
"You're somethin' else, pretty girl."
You hum, then shift, sitting up on Dick, your hands steadying yourself on his chest, his cock finally softening inside you.
Dick's hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, his gaze soft, fond, full of something warm and aching.
"You okay?"
You nod, but he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face. "You sure?"
"So fucking sure," you murmur, leaning into his palm, letting his touch ground you, soothe you.
Jason exhales, then reaches over, fingers brushing your damp, sweat sticky hair from your shoulder before he leans in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your skin.
They let you breathe, let you come down completely, their hands slow and gentle, smoothing over your back, your arms, grounding you with soft touches, murmured reassurances, little praises that make your stomach flip.
And then, you shift again, lifting yourself from Dick's lap, and—
Oh.
The mess is... everywhere. Your thighs are slick, cum dripping from your swollen pussy, smearing on Dick's softening cock, streaking down onto the bench beneath you, pooling on the towels.
And now that the pollen haze has lifted, now that your mind is clearer, the sight of it, the reality of it, makes your face go hot, embarrassment creeping up your spine.
They see it. They know you. Jason clicks his tongue, turns you to face him, and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you, caging you against him.
"Don't do that shit," he murmurs, voice warm, rough, "It's fine. We'll clean up."
You bury your face in his chest, mumbling something unintelligible, and he huffs, hand smoothing down your back.
"Kinda late for that, doll."
You groan, lifting a weak arm to swat at his shoulder. "Shut up."
Dick chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches, standing from the bench, his legs shaky, his hands settling on his hips as he exhales.
"You two go ahead and clean up," he says, rolling his shoulders, "I'll handle things here."
And before you can argue, before you can say I can help or I should clean up too, he steps up behind you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.
"Okay?"
You nod, still tucked against Jason's chest, and Dick hums, brushing his fingers down your arm before stepping away.
But before you can step away, Jason's arms tighten.
"Wait—"
Your words die in your throat as Jason lifts you, carrying you towards the showers like you weigh nothing, and normally, you'd protest.
Would roll your eyes, would shove at his shoulder, would grumble about carrying yourself. But right now, you're too fucked out to care. So you just sigh, letting your body go boneless against him, arms loosely wrapping around his shoulders as he carries you away.
Jason sets you down and turns on the water, the warm steam curling around you, soaking into your aching muscles. And the second your feet touch the tile, your knees buckle. But he's there, his hands steady on your waist, keeping you upright, and you let him.
His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady breath before he lifts one hand, cupping your face, his calloused fingers warm against your damp skin.
"You sure you're okay?"
His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, something almost hesitant underneath it.
You swallow, blinking up at him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, your bones, every part of you. "Yeah." Your voice is soft, barely above a breath. "I just... 'm tired."
He nods. "I know."
You pout, and God, it's that little pout that always made him wanna kiss you, that always made his chest tight, even when he'd told himself not to care, even when he swore he wouldn't let it get to him.
"I wanna go home," you murmur, voice small, pleading.
His fingers tighten just slightly on your waist. "We'll take you home in a bit."
He leans in. Just a little. Just enough to brush his lips over yours—hesitant, almost unsure, because apparently, the pollen's not fucking with your heads anymore, and maybe this is where it ends, maybe this is where it stops, where everything just goes back to the way it was.
But you kiss him back. Soft, gentle, nothing like the desperate, frantic kisses from before, and his breath catches against your lips.
You pull back, barely, just enough to whisper, "Will you stay tonight?"
His brows pull together, his fingers brushing along your cheek. "Yeah, baby."
Your stomach flutters at the rasp of his voice, and you swallow, biting your lip before murmuring, "Both of you?"
He exhales, tilting his head down, brushing his nose against yours as he whispers, "Yeah. Both of us."
You nod, barely there, barely anything at all, and Jason watches you for a second, something warm, something almost uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
And then, you kiss him again. Soft, sweet, exhausted. And something about the way his lips press to yours, about the way his hand cradles your face, about the way his body relaxes against yours, even now... it feels right.
Like it was always meant to be this way.
Like something shifts inside you, deep in your chest, something small and fragile and terrifying.
Because you've had only fucked up men in your life before. Men who hurt. Men who took. Men who left nothing but bruises and scars in their wake. And now you have them—Jason, Dick—and you're scared.
Scared of losing them, scared of ruining this, scared of the ache in your chest that tells you you want them, not just like this, not just like what happened tonight, but something tells you they feel the same. Something tells you Dick feels the same. Something about the way Jason holds you now, the way he kisses you like it's not just about the fuck, like it matters, like you matter.
After cleaning up and making sure there's no evidence of what went down in the Batcave, the three of you made your way back to your apartment, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but something warmer, something unchanged lingering between you all.
You're sprawled across your couch, tucked between two very warm, very big bodies, soaking up their heat as you all demolish a large pepperoni pizza. Because after that? After the hours of fucking, the overstimulation, the pollen that had you all wrapped up in a desperate, needy haze?
You're starving. And for once, there's no tension. No awkwardness. No 'so... what now?' kind of moment.
Just pizza. Just warmth. Just them.
Dick sits to your right, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers idly brushing over your shoulder as he chews, completely at ease.
And Jason's on your left, reclined, socked feet propped up on your coffee table like he owns the place, one arm resting over your thighs while the other holds his slice, chewing with that half lidded, relaxed expression that means he's content.
And the thing is, it's not weird. It should be, right?
You just got wrecked by both of them in the Batcave of all places, and now you're here, cuddled up between them like it's nothing, like this was normal, like this was just another night of the three of you hanging out.
Except, it wasn't just another night. It was the first time you'd crossed that boundary. The first time you let yourselves give in to the tension that had always been there, just beneath the surface, lingering, waiting for something—anything—to push you all over the edge.
And it should've changed everything. But it didn't. If anything, it felt like it enhanced it.
Like something had clicked into place. Like this was always meant to happen. Dick swallows his bite, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb as he watches you from the corner of his eye. And he knows you.
He knows that little crease between your brows means you're overthinking. That the way you press your lips together means you're trying to make sense of something, trying to name whatever the hell this is, trying to define it.
And for once, you don't have to. Because he gets it. He feels it.
He'd spent years wanting you, wanting this, but never acting on it, because you were one of his closest friends, because you were one of Jason's closest friend, because the idea of losing you over some reckless decision was too much, too dangerous.
Jason snorts as you grab another slice of pizza, shoving it into your mouth like you haven't eaten in days, and he bumps his knee against yours, mumbling, "Jesus, slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."
You roll your eyes, mouth full, and mumble back, "Whose fault is that?"
Dick laughs—a soft, breathy chuckle as he leans back against the couch, his arm draped casually behind you. "She's got a point."
Jason clicks his tongue, tearing off a bite of his own pizza. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
And it's so normal. So easy. Dick can't stop thinking about it. Because this should feel different. He thought it would feel different.
That maybe things would be awkward, that maybe you'd pull away, that maybe Jason would crack some joke that would make it feel less than what it was, like it was just another fuck, another good time.
But it wasn't.
And this—this easy, quiet warmth, the way you're curled up against them like you've always belonged there, the way Jason hasn't made a single move to leave, the way he hasn't wanted to leave... it feels like something that was always meant to happen.
Because as he glances at Jason, sees the way he's watching you, the way his fingers absently trace circles into your thigh, the way he looks so calm, so sated—he knows Jason feels the same.
Jason, who for the first time in years, isn't holding himself back. Jason, who had spent the last two hours running through every memory of you in his head, trying to figure out how he went so fucking long without having you like that, how he ever convinced himself to not want you. Because he did.
And he won't fucking say it, won't admit it, won't even let the thought settle too deep in his chest, but yeah. Yeah, he feels it, too.
He watches as you swipe a thumb across your lips, catching a stray bit of sauce, your lashes fluttering with exhaustion as you sink deeper into Dick's side, and something inside him tightens.
Because this isn't just some random hookup. This isn't just some heat of the moment bullshit he can brush off and forget. This is you. And fuck, if that doesn't scare the shit out of him.
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for another slice, and Dick glances at him, something knowing flickering behind those bright blue eyes.
But neither of them say anything. Because there's nothing to say. Nothing needs to be said. This was the first time the three of you crossed the boundaries of your friendship.
summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie
notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 21621
- Clark -
“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says.
Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.”
Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee.
“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.”
Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?”
“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says.
“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.”
“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.”
“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee.
Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years.
It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you.
The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too.
It’s always you.
“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s.
Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?”
Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second.
“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.”
You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts.
Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly.
But why?
The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited?
Do you... like him?
Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes.
Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices.
“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.”
Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.”
You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud.
He wishes he wasn’t.
He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is.
If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said—
I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out?
Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing.
And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building.
He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely.
He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day.
And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that.
He can’t risk losing you.
So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night.
“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see.
It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff.
“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?”
You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.”
Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.”
“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.”
Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping.
“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?”
Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.”
“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—”
“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.”
Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him.
You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind.
He raises a brow. “What?”
“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?”
His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.”
“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters.
You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?”
Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.”
“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?”
Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.”
“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?”
The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control.
God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom.
“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.”
Your brows shoot up. “Better things?”
“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight.
“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…”
Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance.
“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.”
Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass.
“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?”
Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win.
“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly.
“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—”
“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?"
Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—”
“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.”
Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise.
Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving.
The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least.
By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap.
Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee.
He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect.
He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room.
The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.”
Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants.
Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps.
“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur.
Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing.
The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous.
Then, of course—
“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe.
“I was just trying to—” you start.
“She was just—” Clark says at the same time.
And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists.
You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy?
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.”
Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk.
For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right.
Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf.
“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you.
You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.”
“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.”
You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.”
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain.
There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm.
Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him.
Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped.
You blink. “Gone?”
“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.”
“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends.
And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance.
By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that.
He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete.
The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered.
It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you.
He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him.
But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him.
And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one.
“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?”
Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.”
Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.”
Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory.
“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.”
Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see.
“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.”
Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her.
Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost.
“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.”
You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower.
“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair.
Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with.
“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy.
Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—”
“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.”
Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast.
“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.”
He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece.
But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special.
Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom.
Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up.
He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become.
Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom.
Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist.
And today is the longest Thursday ever.
- You -
It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk.
He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it.
“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.”
You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are.
Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—”
“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.”
Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?”
Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?”
“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.”
Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat.
“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.”
Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.”
“I know you’re delusional.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.”
Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?”
You nod. “He knows.”
“How do you know he knows?”
Well, that’s… complicated.
You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom.
“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.”
Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.”
You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs.
So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget.
Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when—
“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says.
Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is.
You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work.
“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep.
Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything.
“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair.
Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out.
Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you.
“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter.
He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints.
“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?”
You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.”
“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?”
You shrug. “Apparently something came up.”
Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?”
You give him a flat look. “Funny.”
His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—”
“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you.
Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?”
“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.”
You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge.
“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma.
You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.”
“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.”
Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?”
“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel.
“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.”
“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.”
Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you.
There’s a beat of silence.
Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug.
You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?”
“You counted?” Lois asks.
Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?”
Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire.
“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.”
“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.”
You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.”
“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.”
“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.”
“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms.
There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then—
Clark coughs. Once. Loudly.
You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile.
“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?”
Clark chokes. Your heart stops.
He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips.
Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.”
“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—”
Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.”
Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint.
And across from you, Clark is coughing harder.
“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?”
He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.”
“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.”
God. If only he knew.
“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?”
Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?”
Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?”
He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk.
Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline.
With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth.
When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?”
His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.”
Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous.
You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.”
“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it.
Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee.
By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest.
“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk.
You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.”
“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.”
You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue.
“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head.
“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?”
Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.”
“Great. Thanks.”
You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark.
You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper.
You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it—
“It’s chronological.”
You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle.
“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”
Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You didn’t knock.”
“I figured you’d hear me.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—”
“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says.
Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?”
He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?”
Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird.
“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?”
Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that.
You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.”
Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.”
“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?”
You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle.
Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?”
You give him a flat look. “Don’t.”
He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.”
He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?”
You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin.
And, well, it could—technically.
“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.”
You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments.
“What about the back breaking?” he asks.
You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.
That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function.
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees.
Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach.
“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.”
He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?”
“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?”
Clark frowns. “Right.”
“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.”
He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.”
“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.”
He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.”
“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages.
Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze.
You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
And then—
“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.”
You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—”
“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room.
You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities.
You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.”
He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle.
Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf.
Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.”
“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.”
Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door.
You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?”
“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.”
You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being.
He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks.
“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?”
“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.”
He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.”
“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.”
“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.”
And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you.
You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack.
You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore.
Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you.
But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted.
And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close.
You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill.
You cannot keep doing this. Not like this.
Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend.
-
You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could.
Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed.
It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything.
It’s perfect.
Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend.
“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately.
“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.”
It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything.
“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?”
“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.”
Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live.
Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical.
Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?”
“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?”
“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile.
He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends.
Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board.
“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly.
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.”
“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.”
You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.
“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.”
You frown. “An event?”
“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!”
Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—”
He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.”
“Well—I mean, yes, but—”
“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!”
You scowl. “Jimmy—”
“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?”
You stare at him, mouth dry.
“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.”
You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?”
“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.”
You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.”
Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.
“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
You give him a look. “Jimmy—”
“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles.
You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.”
He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.”
You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode.
He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship.
Right?
It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark.
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch.
A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming.
God. You are so monumentally screwed.
As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you.
Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements.
By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause.
You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes.
It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty.
Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen.
But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain.
“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual.
They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever.
After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door.
You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark:
Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late.
Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen:
BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis
Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come.
You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke.
Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry.
What if this is the one time things go wrong?
What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up?
What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel?
Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door.
You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it.
Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more.
You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic.
You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up.
“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.
“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.”
You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life.
“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.”
You frown. “Like... a truth serum?”
“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?”
The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery.
“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.”
The camera pans out slightly.
“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—”
The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera.
“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.”
There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio.
“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.”
You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you.
You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats.
“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench.
With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before.
You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe.
You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone.
You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.
You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.
“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”
“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.
You freeze.
He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You blink. “What? But you told me to—”
“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”
“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”
He nods—then immediately shakes his head.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter.
“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”
“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”
“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”
He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”
Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”
“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”
You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice.
When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”
He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”
“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest.
Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing.
“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.”
You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.”
He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.”
You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not.
Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.”
Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.”
And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit.
As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling.
Just one.
Just... one?
What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil?
You groan and drop your forehead to the counter.
No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous.
It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it.
He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark.
And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything.
You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him.
Okay. You need to stop freaking out.
You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system.
And if you can’t do that?
Then you need to distract him until it wears off.
By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head.
It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself.
But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?”
“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow.
You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV.
“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?”
Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide.
But not tonight.
“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.”
You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?”
“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.”
You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.”
“Do you know what triggered it?”
“The microwave,” he mutters.
Your brows rise. “The microwave?”
“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.”
You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.”
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.”
Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.”
“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.”
“Oh my God.”
“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.”
You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago?
“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”
“Good. Next question, then.”
He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.”
You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.”
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out.
You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when—
“You,” he says, voice strained.
You blink. “What?”
“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.”
Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing.
He thinks about you. A lot.
What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it?
“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Just—change the subject. Anything else.”
You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue.
“Are you a virgin?”
Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?”
“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—”
“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.”
You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.”
“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.”
You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm.
Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?”
“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.”
He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.”
You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore.
Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can.
No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver.
“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer.
“What about you?” he asks.
Your breath catches. “Me?”
He nods.
“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—”
“Is it Jimmy?”
Your eyes go wide. “What?”
“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight.
You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up.
“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—”
“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.”
Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t.
“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?”
He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—”
You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.”
“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it.
Your cheeks burn. “How often?”
“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.”
You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.”
He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do.
“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?”
“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls.
You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating.
“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?”
He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again.
You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?”
His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand.
“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.”
He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.”
You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going.
“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.”
He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes.
“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.”
You blink at him. “You really don’t?”
He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world.
“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.”
His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot.
You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.”
“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked.
You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.”
You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it.
You freeze.
“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.”
You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard.
Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears.
Your breath catches. His does too.
You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you.
“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.”
For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear.
And then—
He grins.
Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you.
This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything.
It steals the breath from your lungs.
You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent.
“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you.
You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel.
His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer.
“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.”
You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him.
He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp.
He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.”
He stills beneath you, swallowing hard.
Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.”
His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again.
“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—”
You do—grinding down, slow and precise.
He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.”
You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?”
“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—”
You press your hips down again.
“Please,” he whispers.
“Tell me.”
He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.”
You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence.
Clark Kent just said a bad word.
Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips.
“Did you just say… fuck?”
His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again.
“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.”
You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?”
His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.”
You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark.
And you love him for it.
You want him for it.
You need him.
“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.”
His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips.
“You sure?”
You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all.
You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!”
He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.”
You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.”
His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.”
Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.”
“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?”
You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.”
He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs.
Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then—
“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie.
He blinks. “Blue.”
“First thing you ever noticed about me?”
“Your laugh.”
“What’s your biggest fantasy?”
He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?”
You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?”
He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Say something filthy.”
He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.”
You blink, stunned—and a little breathless.
He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin.
You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious.
“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.”
The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there.
Because he does. He always has.
Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need.
He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time.
When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you.
“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.”
You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone.
“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips.
God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you.
“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore.
He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—”
You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.”
You shudder, eyes fluttering closed.
“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.”
You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin.
One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher.
You can barely breathe.
When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed.
“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.
You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.”
And then he lowers his mouth to you.
You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Holy shit.
Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking.
He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread.
And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it.
“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer.
His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing.
And then he starts to really eat.
There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark.
You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way.
You startle. “Did you—?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it.
Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs.
Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder.
And then he gives you more.
One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets.
“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.”
You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second.
“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—”
He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make.
You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.”
And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do.
You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth.
“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together.
He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely.
“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—”
Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved.
You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head.
“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.”
His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic.
“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.”
His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp.
“Oh my God.”
He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence.
“You—you okay?”
“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.”
He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless.
“You’re massive.”
His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.”
“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.”
“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.”
You blink. “Gosh?”
He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—”
“Say it dirtier, Clark.”
“What?”
You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.”
He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.”
“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered.
“Say something else,” you breathe.
He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.”
And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.”
“I—I can stop—”
“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.”
He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.”
And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock.
You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—”
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.”
He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“Too late.”
You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything.
He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—”
You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear.
His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in.
Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills.
Buried to the hilt. Inside you.
Clark Kent, inside you.
You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move.
And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying.
Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.
“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.”
Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall.
“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.”
His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned.
You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.”
His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest.
“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.”
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?”
You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.”
And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps.
He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more.
You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
And he’s so fucking pretty.
That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you.
He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful.
But you don’t want careful.
“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart.
Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough.
You lean up, mouth brushing his ear.
“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.”
That’s all it takes.
He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer.
“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.”
His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real.
And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.
He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins.
His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle.
And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.”
He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.”
You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back.
“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.”
“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.”
He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you.
And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing.
You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it.
But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress.
“Clark—”
His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling.
He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out.
“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you.
The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself.
And he’s watching all of it.
“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.”
Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you.
You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling.
His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard.
You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen.
His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it.
He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you.
And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless.
Then finally, he stills.
You don’t know how long the silence lasts.
Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way.
Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks.
Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?”
You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.”
That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.”
You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.”
He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern.
“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world.
You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly.
After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.”
You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again.
“You’d say them anyway?” you tease.
He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.”
You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?”
A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.”
You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying.
He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.”
You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?”
“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.”
You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst.
And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?”
He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.”
-
You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you.
By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt.
You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms.
On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too.
So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office.
“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut.
There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten.
You glance up at him. “How will they know?”
His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.”
You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.”
“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.”
His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already.
Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you.
Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first.
You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin.
“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.”
You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.”
Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.”
Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance.
“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.”
“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.”
You frown. “What does that even mean?”
You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat.
He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt.
“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?”
You slap a hand over your neck. “No.”
Clark chokes on nothing.
“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look.
“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.”
Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.”
Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?”
“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage.
Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high.
“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks.
“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.”
Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?”
“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—”
“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.”
Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around.
You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in.
You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead.
It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are.
Until—
“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts.
Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen.
“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!”
“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is.
Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face.
You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride.
“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.”
“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.”
“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly.
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.”
You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.”
“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.”
You groan again. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.”
You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate.
His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.”
You blink.
“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.”
Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.”
You snort. “I think he’ll survive.”
“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.”
You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest.
Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you.
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clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”
The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark—”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.”
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still—you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—
Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t—
But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
A beat.
You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.”
“Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.”
“Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.”
“I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait.
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois—”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.”
—C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The third kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But—”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark—”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark—”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again—soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”
You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.
Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts—and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that—he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”
You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.”
—C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 23 c.o.d men rambles with nsfw visuals (p-links) ♡
featuring!— kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, johnny ‘soap’ mactavish, simon ‘ghost’ riley, john ‘captain’ price, phillip graves, könig, vladimir makarov! ♡
₁ 𐙚 imagine fucking john doggy style, and he’s jus’ so horny for you so you guys don't even make it to the bed :( he tosses you onto the couch and lifts your ass into the air, his thick, meaty cock bruising your insides. then he grips your hair and bends you back to slant his lips over yours in a messy kiss 😖
₂ 𐙚 having a sloppy make-out session with gaz when he gets back from a mission. sucking on his tongue and whimpering into his mouth while his big hands run up and down your thighs and ass. gaz always gets you so needy and wet before he dicks you down, having tears streaming down your face and thighs trembling :((
₃ 𐙚 soap fucking his cum back into your swollen pussy while whining and whimpering, promising to get you pregnant; thick and hard at the thought of you round with his kids. he pumps your pussy to the brim with his cum that night, til it drips down your thighs.
₄ 𐙚 gaz loves to record the two of you having sex, and loves to send it to the 141 group chat. loves to show off his pretty girl whose pussy takes his big cock so well :( loves to show them how well you moan and beg, loves to show them your fucked out face, loves the way the team goes feral as you moan their names with bleary eyes and drool spilling down your chin. loves to show them that regardless, you're his.
₅ 𐙚 simon using your pussy as a cumdump... literally, when you act like a brat. he'll have you lay naked across the bed, hand fisting his cock as gazes at your tits, your needy cunt drooling and clenching. he'll watch as you cry and beg for him to fuck you, your wrists bound together and tied to the headboard. then he'll press his thick tip into your pussy and spill himself inside. brats don't get to cum, as he likes to say— sorry :(
₆ 𐙚 kyle 'will overstimulate you while pussydrunk' garrick. baby gaz just loves the taste of your pussy, especially after going so long without it :( you're so warm and sweet, needy and sobbing-- and he's missed the feel of your thick thighs wrapped around his head, missed the feeling of your hands running through his hair. so, just let him enjoy his meal.
₇ 𐙚 needy soap who swears he'll just rock against your panties, his thick cock nudging your fattened clit which presses eagerly against the pre-cum soaked fabric. soap who moves your panties to the side and shushes you with a kiss to your lips, swearing he'll just thrust against you; thumb brushing against your bundle of nerves. soap who loses himself in the moment, gripping your thighs and looking at you with pleading eyes, swearing he'll only use the tip, thick, bulbous head already stretching your pussy. 🥺
₈ 𐙚 after you had the baby, john can't stop thinking about seeing you swollen and round again, with your breasts heavy, and thighs thick. john who breeds your pussy at any moment he can. whether it be with you bent over the counter and cooking dinner, with you sleep; your pussy warm and welcoming, or even in the shower, your milk-heavy tits pressed against the shower door. ( bonus )
₉ 𐙚 makarov who finally gives in to your pleading demands, his hands rough as he forces you onto the bed, yanking down your skirt and pulling your panties to the side. his gaze is cold and calculating, even a bit annoyed. makarov who snatches the loli from your mouth, running it up your slick pussy before pushing it in. "Это то, что вы хотели, да?"
₁₀ 𐙚 he makes sure to fuck you well before he leaves on a mission, his thick cock bullying your slick cunt full of his cum. gaz makes sure you know who your pussy belongs to, makes sure he has your thighs trembling in his arms as he fucks you against the shower wall.
₁₁ 𐙚 simon loves to watch you ride him, loves to have your tits in his face, taking one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth. loves to hear you whine that your cumming for the fifth time, loves to watch as his abdomen becomes sticky with your creamy cum. loves watching your lips tremble and your eyes water as he thrusts sharply into you, knocking on your cervix and bruising it.
₁₂ 𐙚 having sex with gaz always overstimulates you in every sense of the word and not just with your body. gaz loves to watch you fall apart on his cock, loves to grab your chin and keep your eyes locked with his, loves to watch your gaze get bleary and your mouth struggle to form words all while his hand moves in quick figure eights on your clit, cock spearing through you deliciously. gaz will press kisses to your swollen lips, groaning into your mouth. "on me, luv. le' me see those gorgeous eyes."
₁₃ 𐙚 price loves to suck on your tits, while his cock slowly pumps in and out of you. loves to bury his face into the valley, placing kisses and sucking hickies. john price sucks on your nipples like a man starved, thick hands squeezing and kneading :(
₁₄ 𐙚 imagine getting punished by boyfriend graves because you fucked up during a mission, the objective getting away. he tells everyone to leave the room, glaring eyes stuck on yours. graves who orders you to strip, pushing you down against a busted couch, yanking down your combat pants, and tearing your panties. graves who angrily unzips himself, as you blubber and plead, pussy leaking and ready. he watches as your pussy struggles to take his cock, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you apologize repeatedly. "don't want to fucking hear it, sergeant."
₁₅ 𐙚 gaz fucking you into the bed after he gets home from a mission gone awry. soft lover gaz who just can't be his usual giving self. gaz who takes what he needs from you, regardless of the tears that stream down our face.
₁₆ 𐙚 könig, all needy can't help but fuck your thighs, whimpering and whining :(
₁₇ 𐙚 having a threesome with soap and gaz; who can't help but record as soap practically makes love to you with his eyes. gaz who could care less as you forget all about his cock, breathing heavily as he watches as your pussy struggles to swallow soap's cock. gaz who sends the video to the 141 group chat.
₁₈ 𐙚 imagine makarov sharing your pussy with yuri as a reward to the man. makarov who guides your mouth over his cock, all while sipping on his alcohol; yuri fucking into your pussy needily, grunting and groaning as you squeeze around him.
₁₉ 𐙚 100 percent believe this is how gaz and soap eat you out, prove me wrong. i'll wait. ( bonus: since soap made you cum first, you granted his wish. )
₂₀ 𐙚 john overstimulating you while whispering how much of a good girl you are, slapping at your thighs when you cringe away from him, his thick fingers finding your clit again. john who fucks into ravenously, cooing as you shudder and buck against him.
₂₁ 𐙚 graves finally puts your smart mouth to work, shoving his thick length down your throat. graves angrily saying your pussy isn't good enough for his cock. his words, not mine.
₂₂ 𐙚 angry sex with toxic gaz, who swears no one will ever fuck you as good as he will. who tells you that you belong to him, that you were made for each other, that you won't leave him. who fucks you dumb until you promise to stay.
₂₃ 𐙚 soap swears he won't cum inside you...
spent hours scrolling through twitter porn, help me.😔
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