Val

In reality, it was fluorescent lighting, stale coffee, and printers coughing like asthmatic smokers. Glamour had been replaced by monotony, and you—a loyal subject to the kingdom of deadlines—had sworn fealty to no one but yourself.

Me, myself, and I. That was the little trinity you worshipped, and most days, it worked like a charm. It was the reason your career had progressed so smoothly.

Your desk was an island in the bullpen. Piles of paper stacked like driftwood, mugs gathering in a mismatched fleet, a phone that rang with alarming consistency. The poor plant you’d bought two months ago leaned desperately toward the window, as if composing its own obituary in slow, green ink.

Around you, the newsroom thrummed. It should’ve been exciting, the pulse of a city filtered through deadlines and ink, but instead it all felt muted. Like someone had muffled the speakers of your life with a blanket you couldn’t kick off.

Work, sleep, repeat. That was the cycle. No romance, no late-night whispers, no one waiting up for you when you dragged yourself home smelling of takeout and exhaustion. Just the steady pulse of a career that demanded everything you had and handed you a paycheque in return.

You told yourself that was enough.

And then there was Clark.

Clark was grounding. He was the smile you spotted across the newsroom when your screen froze for the fifth time and you seriously weighed the merits of light property destruction. He was the one who stopped at your desk with an extra coffee in hand and a pastry on Monday mornings. 

Sometimes, it was the small things that mattered the most. The way he asked if you’d eaten lunch like your answer actually mattered. The way he remembered that you hated the scratchy pens and left a smoother one on your desk without mentioning it. The way his laugh rumbled, low and warm, when you cracked a joke under your breath that no one else caught.

Clark Kent wasn’t the headline. He was the column of text beneath it—the steady structure holding everything else in place.

Sometimes, when the overhead lights caught the blue of his eyes, it sent a jolt through you, small and startling, and entirely unhelpful. A flash of warmth you weren’t expecting; something that made you wonder if the world wasn’t so grey after all.

You didn’t let yourself linger on it. Still, when Clark passed your desk on his way to the printer and offered you a smile, you felt your skin warm. Subtle, fleeting; the kind of thing you could almost ignore.

“Lois says you haven’t blinked in five minutes,” Clark’s voice came from just over your shoulder, warm and teasing. “We’re starting to place bets.”

You blinked hard, swivelling to squint at him. “Tell Lois she’s just jealous I’ve achieved journalistic enlightenment.”

Clark’s lips curved, like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Is that what you call it? Because from here it just looks like you’re about to merge with your computer.”

You laughed, leaning back in your chair. “If I do, make sure they put ‘death by breaking news’ on my tombstone. I’ve already got the obituary drafted.”

Clark shook his head, fighting a smile. “That’s morbid.”

“It’s efficient,” you joked, pointing your pen at him.

After offering you an amused smile, Clark changed the subject. “Big night planned?” he asked, tone casual.

“If by ‘big night’ you mean me, takeout, and a rerun of The Golden Girls, then yes. Monumental.”

“Sounds exciting.” He adjusted his glasses, leaning a little closer as if the newsroom clatter didn’t exist. “Need company?”

You had shared takeout with Clark plenty of times. But something about the way he asked—gentle, almost conspiratorial—sent a flicker through you.

You raised a brow. “Careful, Kent. Keep talking like that and I might actually start believing you’re trying to rescue me from my tragic tower of pizza boxes.”

“Tower, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Guess that makes me the knight?”

“Please,” you scoffed lightly, though your lips curved. “Knights have shiny armour and grand speeches. You’ve got ink smudged on your fingers and an unreasonably strong opinion about sandwich condiments.”

He glanced down, spotted the smudge, and laughed good-naturedly. “Aw, shoot. So much for my shining armour. But knights don’t usually bring coffee, do they?”

You glanced at the cup he’d set on your desk twenty minutes ago without asking. Your chest did that inconvenient little flip again.

“Touché,” you said softly. Then, because softness was dangerous, you added with a smirk, “But don’t get cocky. If you start thinking you’re some hero, you’ll never fit back into that desk chair.”

Clark tilted his head, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Hero? No, I just like making sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

For a beat, the newsroom faded: the ringing phones, the chatter, even Perry’s bark from his office. 

You broke the spell with a quick laugh, pushing your chair back. “You’re sweet, Clark. But you don’t have to worry about me,” you waved at him vaguely, “I’ll be okay.”

He grinned, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but worrying’s kind of my specialty. You’d be surprised how good I am at it.” His eyes crinkled, playful, as he added, “So… sorry, you’re stuck with me.”

Your pulse continued to drum at an entirely unprofessional pace.

You hadn’t been trying to start trouble, which was unfair considering trouble seemed very determined to find you. All you wanted was a quote from an employee at LuthorCorp, but the concept of “press badge” translated to “absolutely not” to the two brick walls in suits manning the entrance.

So there you were, slowly roasting on the front steps of a marble foyer in the middle of the Metropolis city centre, practising your most persuasive smile.

“Company policy,” one of the guards said, arms crossed.

“Company policy against free speech?” you muttered, then sighed and retreated to the pavement with your notebook still tragically blank.

Metropolis was doing its usual weekday chaos routine: taxis honking like geese, cyclists weaving with suicidal confidence between cars, office workers speed-walking with iced coffees.

Normal Tuesday chaos.

And then the other chaos started.

It began as a ripple in the crowd, people slowing, then staring upward, then running all at once. Screams fractured the air. The pavement under your shoes trembled like something massive had slammed into concrete. When you looked up, your stomach did a neat little flip.

Because, of course, on this day an intergalactic menace had decided to drop by.

The thing was enormous, hunched, and weirdly shiny, like a beetle crossed with a demolition truck. It roared, swung one jagged limb, and the glass face of a skyscraper exploded in a glittering rain.

You froze. For half a second, you just stood there, clutching your useless notebook, trying to remember the exact city ordinance on citizens running for their lives. Then you snapped out of it and moved with the crowd, letting the stream of people surge around you.

The Justice Gang was already on the scene because Metropolis was nothing if not efficient. Hawkgirl swooped past in a blur of wings and steel, her mace sparking against alien armour. A flash of green light flared as Guy Gardner erected an oversized hard-light shovel to shove debris away from traffic. Mister Terrific barked instructions into his comms, those floating spheres zipping around like bees.

It was objectively an incredible thing to witness, except your attention was snagged on something else. A dog bolted from an alley, in blind panic, fur matted and muzzle bleeding. No collar and no evidence of owners nearby. 

People screamed as the dog skittered across the pavement, limping, narrowly missing a fleeing taxi. You stopped cold. 

The crowd shoved past you, but you pushed against the tide, heart hammering as you crouched, calling softly. “Hey, buddy, come here. C’mon, it’s alright.”

The dog froze a few feet away, trembling, eyes wide and wild. You inched forward. The world roared overhead, but all you could see was the way the dog’s front paw dragged wrong against the ground.

You stretched out a hand. Almost there. And then the light dimmed.

You looked up. A chunk of something—concrete, maybe, or an entire section of street—spun wildly through the air, arcing directly toward you. Someone shouted, but you didn’t even have time to flinch, grabbing the dog and screwing your eyes shut, ready for impact.

Suddenly, the ground disappeared below your feet.

Air whipped across your face, your stomach lurched, and strong arms steadied you before you could so much as gasp. The dog yelped, warm and shaking against your chest. In the next heartbeat, you were on the other side of the street, deposited gently against the solid wall of a newsstand.

Superman stood in front of you, cape settling behind him. The imprint of his hand was still warm on your shoulder. His impossibly blue eyes searched yours like you were the only person in need of help.

“You alright?” His voice was just loud enough that it cut through the sirens and the screaming.

You blinked at him, still clutching the dog in your arms. Your heart was battering against your ribs, but words stumbled out anyway. “Fine. I’m fine. He’s—” you glanced down at the trembling bundle of fur, “—he’s a little shaken, but we’re okay.”

Superman’s gaze softened. He reached out, gave the dog’s head a quick, reassuring scratch, and for one absurd moment, you thought the animal actually swooned. Then a shout echoed from above, Green Lantern calling for Superman.

His attention flicked skyward. He gave you one last look, a nod, and then he was gone in a streak of red and blue, soaring back into the fight before you could even say thank you.

You stood there, pulse still racing in your throat, until the dog licked your chin. You tried to convince yourself you hadn’t just casually been scooped out of mortal danger by the most famous man alive.

Just another Tuesday in Metropolis. You’d really hoped for a quiet lunch break.

You looked down at the dog. He was a scrappy little thing; brown and black and all elbows, ribs showing under his matted fur. His tail was tucked so tight between his legs it practically vanished. The poor creature looked as shell-shocked as you felt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, shifting him higher against your chest. “We survived. You, me, and my totally destroyed blood pressure.”

He whined softly, nose pressing into your jacket. There was no universe in which you were putting him back down. Not after what he’d just gone through.

“Alright, buddy,” you said, tightening your grip as you started down the block, stepping over debris. “We’re finding you a vet. Preferably one who won’t charge me extra for the emotional support I’m inevitably going to need.”

The dog gave a faint, shaky tail wag, as if agreeing.

You’d barely made it through the Daily Planet’s revolving doors the next morning before the noise hit you. Someone actually cheered.

“There you are! The reporter of the hour!”

You froze mid-step, clutching your phone like a weapon. “What?”

Jimmy popped up from behind a monitor, grin wide enough to be a hazard. “Don’t play dumb! Front page, baby!” He waved the newspaper in the air like a flag, and sure enough—there it was.

A full-colour photo of you, windswept and tousled, cradling a terrified dog while Superman held you both in his arms, framed by the crumbling skyline. The caption read: SUPERMAN SAVES REPORTER AND STRAY IN ALIEN ATTACK.

You blinked at it. “Oh my God.”

“Right?!” Jimmy beamed. “Perry nearly cried when I showed him the shot. Said it’s the human heart of the story. My career-defining photo, thank you very much.”

“You took that?!” You gawked. “When? How?”

Jimmy looked mildly offended. “When don’t I have a camera on me? I was two blocks away, covering the Justice Gang situation. I saw Superman dive, thought ‘hey, that looks like—’ and boom. Click. History.”

“Oh, great. Love that my brush with death doubled as your Pulitzer entry.”

Across the bullpen, Lois called without looking up from her computer. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you looked fantastic. Terrified chic.”

You groaned. “Lois—”

“Honestly,” she continued, clicking away, “you’re lucky I wasn’t there. I’d have had to compete for headline space.”

You slumped into your chair, bag hitting the floor with a thud. “I swear to God, if one more person says a word about this, I’m reporting them to HR for bullying.”

“Oh, come on,” Jimmy said, leaning over your desk, still grinning. “You were saved by Superman. That’s, like, everyone’s dream!”

“Yeah, ‘everyone,’” you muttered. “Not jaded, underpaid adults who already had three deadlines before lunch.”

Before Jimmy could reply, Clark’s voice cut through the chatter. “Hey, there you are.”

He approached with two coffees in hand, one already held out for you. His smile was bright but soft, his eyes searching your face for something beneath the commotion. “You okay? I tried calling last night.”

You accepted the cup, trying to look unbothered when your fingers brushed his. “Phone died,” you said, then sighed. “And yes. Mostly embarrassed, but alive.”

“Embarrassed?” Clark echoed, brow furrowing. “You got saved by Superman.”

You tilted the paper toward him. “Yeah. Publicly.”

He looked at the photo, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a pretty great shot, though.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

Clark laughed under his breath. “Sorry. It’s just— well, you look…” He hesitated, cheeks pinking. “...brave.”

Something fluttered in your chest, small but definite. You shoved it aside with a smirk. “Yeah, that’s definitely what I was going for. Bravery. Not, you know, pure animal panic.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, still smiling. “I, uh, did the Superman interview that goes alongside the picture. Perry’s considering an exclusive follow-up.”

“Of course he is,” you said, rolling your eyes. “What’s next, a full-page spread on my PTSD?”

“Don’t tempt him,” Lois chided. “Perry’s already debating a human-interest sidebar.”

“You better be joking.” You dropped your head into your hands. 

Lois patted your shoulder in mock sympathy. “You’re the city’s sweetheart now. Metropolis loves a hero story.”

She sauntered away, clearly enjoying every second of your suffering. Jimmy was still lingering nearby, camera swinging at his chest, waiting for a reaction worthy of another headline.

“Don’t you have a story to cover?” you asked him pointedly.

“Sure,” Jimmy said, “but this one’s way more fun.”

You threw a pen at him. He dodged, cackling, and disappeared toward the dark room.

Clark stayed by your desk while you half-heartedly opened your laptop, pretending to work. You could still feel his gaze on you, steady and worried in that quiet Clark way.

“Are you really okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.

You met his eyes, and something about the lack of spectacle, the total sincerity, made your throat go tight. “Yeah,” you assured him. “I promise. Just… still wrapping my head around it.”

Clark nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Good. Just take it easy today, alright? You don’t have to be the first one back in the field.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “That sounded suspiciously like concern.”

He smiled, a little shy, a little teasing. “Guess it’s my specialty.”

You tried to ignore the warmth that crept in. It was the same as yesterday—not when Superman saved you, but before, when Clark handed you a cup of coffee at work. 

“Go write your Superman interview, Kent,” you said, waving him off, “the world’s waiting to hear what he has to say about saving one tragically clumsy reporter.”

Clark chuckled, taking the cue, and wandered back toward his desk.

Later, when the newsroom settled into its usual buzz, you caught sight of the front page of that day’s paper again. Your face, your newly adopted dog, Superman’s arms around you—it should have been romantic. Epic, even. The kind of thing a younger version of you might’ve cut out and tacked above your desk, daydreaming about what it felt like to be rescued by the hero of Metropolis.

But you didn’t feel swept away. There was no dizzying rush, no cinematic swell in your chest. Just gratitude, and a strange, steady calm.

You realised, almost absently, that it hadn’t been Superman’s flight or the rescue that stayed with you. It was the way Clark’s hand had brushed yours when he gave you that coffee. The way his voice had dropped when he asked if you were really okay.

Superman might have saved your life, but Clark Kent was the one who kept you from drowning long before that.

You were halfway through typing up notes when the knock came at your door. Three slow raps, just loud enough to make the dog—your dog now, apparently—perk up from his bed by the sofa. 

You glanced at the clock. It was late enough that anyone normal would’ve texted first. Then again, there was really only one person who still thought “dropping by” was an acceptable social custom in Metropolis.

Sure enough, when you opened the door, Clark stood there with his tie loose, sleeves rolled up, and a paper takeout bag balanced in his hands. Steam curled out the top, carrying the unmistakable scent of sesame and soy.

He looked oddly at home there, framed by your doorway. It wasn’t fair that a man who spent his days chasing deadlines could look like he’d stepped out of a daydream. His gaze caught yours for a fraction too long. 

It hit you then, the quiet absurdity that the man on your doorstep looked more like safety than the one who’d caught you mid-fall. Superman had been a spectacle, but Clark was gravity.

“Don’t tell me,” you said, eyeing the bag. “You finally cracked and decided to bribe your sources.”

Clark smiled—that easy, lopsided grin capable of disarming even your worst days. “You were the last person to leave the office,” he said by way of greeting. “Figured you hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a vending machine today.”

“I’m fine,” you protested weakly. “I was just about to make dinner.”

Clark stepped inside to set the bag on the counter, his hand brushing your arm as he passed. It was a touch so natural you might’ve missed it if it hadn’t warmed your skin instantly. 

“Instant ramen doesn’t count. I brought Chinese food. But don’t worry,” Clark smiled over his shoulder, “you don’t have to tip the delivery boy.” 

You shut the door, still a little dazed. “You’re setting the bar pretty high for yourself, Clark.” You tried to sound teasing, but your chest ached with something tender.

The smell of takeout filled your apartment, and before you could decide whether to be exasperated or grateful, a scruffy blur bounded in from the couch across the tiles. 

“Biscuit,” you called out instinctively. It was the name you’d come up with after spending forty-five minutes debating a more serious name. “Be careful!”

Not that he needed to be told to behave. Biscuit launched himself at your friend, tail wagging wildly as he pressed his head against Clark’s leg.

Clark laughed, bending down automatically. “Hey there, buddy,” he said, rubbing Biscuit’s head with one big hand. His voice went soft in that way it sometimes did around you, warm enough to live in. The dog practically melted, tail thumping on the floor like a drum. “Aren’t you just a good boy?”

You stared, incredulous. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Clark looked up, startled.

“He doesn’t like men,” you explained, still eyeing Biscuit. “The mailman’s terrified of him. My neighbour tried to say hi last week, and I had to apologise for ten minutes for the way Biscuit barked at him. Apparently you’re the exception to his lifelong no-men policy.”

A faint pink rose along Clark’s ears. “Guess he can smell good character,” he said with a shrug, then added, “or maybe he likes guys who smell like takeout.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smiling. 

Biscuit ignored your suspicion entirely, plopping his head on Clark’s knee like he’d finally found peace. Clark’s fingers slowed in the dog’s fur, his gaze flicking up to you as if checking to see if you were watching. Then he chuckled and kept petting Biscuit, 

Something inside you twisted, too tender to name. The sight of Clark like that—sleeves pushed up, a hint of stubble catching the light, a hand steady on something that trusted him instantly—felt like a vow disguised as an evening visit.

You tried not to think about how good Clark looked like that. Tie loosened, hair curling at his temples, smile soft and calm. Even the low hum of his laugh settled somewhere under your ribs, steady and familiar.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that love was something dramatic. Flames, rescues, the kind of devotion that left scorch marks. But watching Clark there, you started to wonder if maybe love was just this: takeout dinner, laughter, and a man who always made sure you took care of yourself.

“So,” Clark said after a beat, still scratching behind Biscuit’s ears, “are you keeping him?”

You glanced at the dog, then back at Clark. “Yeah. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? We’ve survived an alien attack together. Kind of hard to top that for a meet-cute.”

Clark’s gaze flicked up to you, warm and a little teasing. “He’s lucky to have you.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing plates from the cupboard. “He’s lucky to have a couch to chew on and someone with bad boundaries, but thanks for the rebrand.”

Clark smiled, standing to help unpack the food. He found your favourite plate without asking, poured your drink before his, and then—without asking—drizzled chilli sauce across your noodles. It was exactly the way you always liked it, just enough to sting. 

You were sure you’d never told him that.

Clark moved around your kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before—finding the chopsticks, setting out napkins, making space for both of you on the couch. You caught yourself watching the leisurely way he did it, the small, steady kindness in every gesture.

That quiet pulse appeared beneath your ribs again, a warmth that didn’t burn so much as bloom. You’d sworn loyalty to your own independence, built a tower of late nights and stubbornness, and yet somehow, Clark had found the door.

By the time you sat down, the smell of chow mein filled the air, and Biscuit had taken up his usual post at your feet, sighing dramatically as if dinner conversation was beneath him.

“So,” Clark said, using chopsticks with surprising competence, “how’s our resident front-page celebrity holding up?”

You groaned. “Barely. If I hear one more ‘swept off your feet’ joke, I might move to Gotham.”

Clark chuckled. “You know Jimmy didn’t mean for that picture to blow up the way it did.”

“Jimmy risked getting trampled by first responders for that picture,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him. “And then sent it to the entire Planet group chat like it was a baby announcement.”

Clark’s grin turned sheepish. “Well, for what it’s worth, it was a great photo.” 

He reached across you to grab napkins, his sleeve brushing your hand. It wasn’t much, but it made your breath catch anyway.

“Clark.”

“What?” He raised his hands, laughing. “It captured the moment!”

“Of me looking windswept and awestruck! I look like I’m in a cheesy action flick.”

Clark’s shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter. “I don’t think anyone would describe you as—”

“Don’t worry,” you interrupted, sighing. “I’ve already read the comments section. Apparently, I’m Metropolis’s Most Lucky Civilian.”

For a moment, you both dissolved into easy laughter. You’d forgotten how good that felt, and you knew you could always rely on Clark to elicit it. Your stomach hurt from laughing—the best kind of ache.

When the laughter died down, you caught Clark looking at you again, expression soft but unreadable. “Seriously though,” he said, quieter now, “you doing okay?”

You hesitated, fiddling with your chopsticks. “Yeah. I mean, you know me. I’m fine as long as there’s takeout.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not scary.”

You met his eyes then, and something in your chest tightened. Clark always said things like that. With no expectation, no probing follow-up, just simple, genuine care. It undid you a little every time.

“I’m okay,” you said eventually, smiling just enough to convince yourself it was true. “You don’t have to keep worrying about me.”

Clark smiled back, that half-crooked one that made your pulse stutter. “Maybe I just like having an excuse to bring you dinner.”

There it was again: that near-confession, tucked beneath a grin. Every kindness Clark offered you felt like a promise he hadn’t said aloud yet.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You could just admit you’re hungry. I wouldn’t call it a rescue mission.”

“Old habits,” he said lightly, but his tone held something you couldn’t name.

Biscuit barked then, demanding attention, and Clark bent to ruffle his fur again. The moment passed, but the warmth lingered.

You were both leaning back now, bellies full, feet propped on the coffee table. Clark had removed his tie entirely, collar gaping just enough to make you aware of how close you were. The lamplight hit the curve of his throat, the line of his jaw, and suddenly your living room felt too small, too soft.

Clark’s knee brushed yours, neither of you moving away. His hand rested on the back of the couch, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his warmth at your shoulder. He wasn’t touching you, not really.

“This was nice,” you said softly.

Clark glanced over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “You’ve got this annoying habit of showing up right when I’ve decided to drown in my own thoughts.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is.” You hesitated. “You’re good at pulling people back out of their own heads.”

He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was low. “Guess that’s my superpower.”

You looked up at him, amused. “Superpower, huh?”

Clark grinned. “That and bringing the best lo mein in Metropolis.”

You laughed, tossing a cushion at him, which he caught effortlessly. “You should lead with that next time. ‘Mild-mannered reporter, expert in noodles.’”

He hugged the cushion to his chest, eyes shining. “What can I say? I’m a man of many charms.”

You smiled back, but your heart—traitorous thing—was terrifyingly certain that you loved Clark Kent.

“Yeah,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to him. “You really are.”

It started, as all minor disasters do, with an email. You were halfway through a sandwich that could charitably be described as bread-adjacent when the subject line appeared in your inbox:

FROM: Perry White

SUBJECT: URGENT! Article needed for tomorrow’s Daily.

You stared at it for a solid five seconds before the meaning hit. Your stomach dropped so fast you nearly choked on some lettuce. Tonight? You blinked at the screen, reread the email, and then read it once more as though the deadline might magically rearrange itself.

Please upload the final draft before midnight tonight for the layout team to approve.

No such luck.

“Oh, no,” you breathed. Then louder: “Oh, no, no, no.”

Lois looked up from her desk, brow arched. “You’re either breaking a big story or discovering the printer’s out of toner again.”

You swivelled toward her, wild-eyed. “The LuthorCorp exposé. Perry wants it tonight.”

“Wasn’t that due next week?”

“That’s what I thought! Apparently the Star is dropping something the day after; we’ve been scooped. Perry wants ours out before theirs goes to print.” You clutched your sandwich like a stress ball. “I haven’t even finished the second half of the interview transcript. All I have to show for it are two pathetic paragraphs and a blinking cursor.”

Across the bullpen, Jimmy winced in sympathy. “Rookie mistake. Always assume Perry’s going to ruin your evening.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. 

Your LuthorCorp piece had been the lovechild of a month-long investigation. But when your source at LuthorCorp went silent for two weeks, you’d stopped actually writing the piece and took a step back to finalise the research aspect of your article. Then there’d been the Superman rescue and the front-page photo. 

Actually writing the piece kept getting postponed.

Your brain was already sprinting through worst-case scenarios: Perry’s disappointed sigh, the blank headline space on the front page, the distinct possibility that you’d have to move to Gotham and change your name.

You pressed your palms to your temples. “I’m so dead.”

Then, quietly, a voice beside you said, “Hey.”

You looked up. Clark was leaning against your desk, blazer perfectly fitted, tie slightly askew. He had that gentle half-smile that could probably stop global conflict if properly weaponised.

“You okay?” Clark asked.

“No,” you said flatly. “Not even a little bit.”

He glanced at your screen, then back at you. “Deadline trouble?”

“Deadline apocalypse,” you corrected. “I’m completely—” you gestured vaguely, searching for a word strong enough—“doomed. You’re looking at a career obituary in real time.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, but his voice stayed steady. “Alright, take a breath. What’s left to do?”

“Half the quotes are still unverified, the data’s messy, and I haven’t even touched the conclusion because I don’t know how to make it sound like I actually know what I’m talking about.” You exhaled hard. “God, I’m going to have to call Perry and beg him to push it—”

Clark shook his head. “Nope. You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he said, already moving. “Lois!”

She glanced up from her screen, unimpressed. “What, Smallville?”

“Can you double-check the LuthorCorp finance disclosures? Make sure the numbers line up with the ones in tomorrow’s front cover piece.”

Lois blinked. “You’re roping me into this?”

“You love chaos,” he said, flashing her that innocent smile that made even Lois Lane pause. “Please?”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something about Boy Scout energy, but turned back to her computer to help anyway.

Then Clark looked at Jimmy. “You still have those photos from the press conference?”

Jimmy perked up. “Course I do.”

“Pull the clearest ones. We’ll need them for the layout.”

Jimmy grinned. “On it, chief.”

You blinked at the scene unfolding around you, somewhere between awe and mild disbelief. “What are you doing?”

Clark turned back to you, calm as ever. “We’re getting your story out.”

“We?”

“Team effort.” He shrugged, the picture of casual competence. “You do the writing, we’ll handle everything else. I’ve never seen an article as well-researched as yours. Let us fact-check, you make sure it sings like all your other pieces do.”

And just like that, the panic in your chest began to loosen.

You didn’t know how he did it. Clark had a way of sounding certain things would be fine, and somehow making you believe it.

As Lois muttered swear words at a spreadsheet and Jimmy scrolled through his camera roll, you found yourself breathing again.

Clark dragged a chair over to your desk, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne, clean and warm, like cedar and something like cinnamon. He rolled up his sleeves another inch. 

“Alright,” he said, all business now. “Talk me through what you’ve got.”

You did. For the next two hours, the bullpen became its own little universe. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, the hum of the city outside fading to the occasional siren. You typed furiously while Clark sorted through your quotes, reading out lines in that steady, reassuring voice of his.

“‘Luthor and the other LuthorCorp board members declined to comment,’” he read, frowning slightly. “That should go after the budget paragraph.”

You nodded, fingers flying. “Got it.”

Clark leaned closer to point at a section of your screen, and you felt the tiniest shift in the air, the brush of his sleeve against your arm. Static, almost. You stilled for a split second, heartbeat stuttering, before forcing yourself to focus on the cursor blinking impatiently at you.

“Right,” you said, a little too brightly. “Moving on.”

He smiled, and you could tell he’d noticed your fluster. Of course, he had; Clark noticed everything.

And you had the sudden, ridiculous thought that he always would. No matter where you ran, he’d find you in the wreckage, dust you off, steady your heartbeat with a look. There was something terrifyingly permanent about that.

Hours blurred together in a haze of typing, proofreading, and Lois occasionally shouting corrections across the room. At one point, Jimmy ran to the vending machine and came back with a generous gift of stale chips and bad coffee. The four of you fell into a rhythm that was equal parts chaotic and comforting.

By the time you hit send on the final draft to layout ten minutes before midnight, the newsroom was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.

You slumped back in your chair, rubbing your eyes. “It’s done.”

Clark’s grin was pure sunshine. “Told you we’d make it.”

You turned to him, caught somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “You just assembled a newsroom task force like it was nothing. Do you realise how impressive that was?”

He shrugged, leaning against your desk, eyes gentle. “Wasn’t impressive. You just needed a hand.”

“Clark, I was about to have a meltdown.”

“Yeah.” His voice softened. “Everyone needs help sometimes. You’re usually the first to pull people out of impossible situations. I figure it’s time we all return the favour.”

You blinked up at him, throat tightening unexpectedly. Once again, you were the lucky recipient of that quiet kindness that somehow felt more powerful than any rescue Superman could manage.

“Thank you, Clark,” you said earnestly.

He smiled. “Anytime. Really.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The newsroom was empty now. Lois and Jimmy left half an hour ago when their jobs were done, and you and Clark were the last people left in the bullpen.

You could feel your pulse picking up.

Clark looked at you then, really looked, and you swore the air shifted. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “You’ve got ink on your cheek.”

You blinked. “What?”

He reached out before you could react, thumb brushing the side of your face. Just a small, careful touch, but your brain promptly short-circuited. You were pretty sure your heart forgot its job entirely.

“There,” Clark murmured.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you, or rather, how little of it there was. Clark’s hand lingered for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, and for one reckless second, you almost leaned in. Because somehow, in this quiet, coffee-stained newsroom, you were already his.

Then Nino’s voice cut through the quiet like divine intervention. “If you two are done, I need to lock up soon,” he said, holding up his keys.

You jumped so hard your chair squeaked. Clark stepped back instantly, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink.

“Right,” he said. “Locking up. Good idea.”

Nino smirked on his way out, and only once the door clicked shut did you turn back to Clark. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to laugh or apologise.

“Thanks again,” you said quietly.

Clark smiled that small, unbearably kind smile. “Anytime,” he said again. Then, softer: “Get some sleep, alright?”

You nodded, but you knew you wouldn’t. No matter how tired you were, you could still feel where Clark’s thumb had touched your cheek. You knew it would haunt you all night.

You’d had a great day.

Scratch that; you’d had the perfect day. The kind of day you’d once imagined back when you were an intern fetching Lois’s coffee and praying you wouldn’t trip over the piles of papers and books stacked on the floor by her desk.

Your exclusive was on the front page that morning, Perry had clapped you on the shoulder in front of the entire newsroom and declared: “That’s damn fine journalism, kid.”

By lunchtime, half of Metropolis was quoting lines from your piece. Before the end of the workday, other outlets were citing you as their source. Someone in the bullpen even said the piece had Pulitzer buzz, and though you’d immediately laughed it off, you hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

You decided you had to celebrate, which was why you were sitting on your couch in your pyjamas and petting Biscuit, who was curled up beside you like the spoiled angel he was.

“Can you believe it, Bis?” you murmured, scratching behind his ears. “I might’ve peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

He blinked at you with the profound disinterest only dogs could muster.

You sighed. “Yeah, okay, I know. I should call Clark.”

You didn’t, of course. You’d spent all day with him already. He’d brought you an extra coffee that morning for luck, grinning like you weren’t already vibrating with caffeine and nerves. When Perry made his little speech, Clark had looked at you in this quiet, proud way that made your chest feel like a champagne bottle mid-pop.

You hadn’t told him how that look had felt. Or how much it meant. Or how, when he’d squeezed your shoulder on his way out of the newsroom, you’d almost blurted out that you loved him right then and there.

It was strange to acknowledge something you’d been keeping bottled up. You loved Clark Kent. You loved him. You just hadn’t said it aloud yet.

You dropped your head back against the couch with a groan. “I’m doomed, Biscuit.”

Your dog huffed in agreement.

You stood suddenly, before your brain could veto it. You grabbed your keys from the hook, muttering, “I’m just gonna tell him. What’s the worst that can happen? He laughs? He’s Clark, he doesn’t laugh at people. Be good, Biscuit,” you swung the front door open, coat and keys in hand, “I’ll be home after being rejected in the most polite way anyone’s ever been—” you stopped abruptly.

Clark was standing right there, hand raised like he was about to knock.

“Hi,” he said, blinking. He was still in his work clothes, blazer gone; white shirt rolled to his elbows, tie gone, glasses slightly crooked, like he’d walked straight from the newsroom to your door.

You blinked right back. “You—”

“—was just about to knock,” Clark finished, holding up a pink pastry box. “I come bearing victory cake. Your favourite, of course.”

For a second, you just stared. Then you started laughing—sharp, incredulous little bursts that tumbled out before you could stop them.

Clark smiled, confused but no less amused. “You okay?”

“I was just about to come see you,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Like, I was mid pep talk. I was saying, ‘I’m just gonna tell him,’ and there you are.”

His brows rose. “Tell me what?”

“Uh,” you said eloquently, “that I want some cake. Way to be a mindreader.”

Smooth. Truly impressive comeback.

Biscuit bounded off the couch and ran straight to Clark, tail wagging so hard his whole back end wobbled. He pressed against Clark’s legs, demanding affection.

Clark crouched automatically, laughing under his breath. “Hey, buddy. Missed me?”

You frowned, still weirdly thrown every time Biscuit showed Clark affection. “You know, it’s the strangest thing. He really doesn’t tolerate any other men. None whatsoever. He avoids going into the hallway if one of my neighbours comes by. But you? He’s obsessed.”

Clark scratched Biscuit’s head, smiling faintly. “I’m easy to get along with.”

He stood, setting the cake on the counter. You suddenly became aware of how quiet your apartment was. Just the hum of the fridge, the clink of cutlery as he grabbed forks to eat the cake straight out of the box.

Clark looked at you then, soft and earnest. “You really did it today. I’m proud of you.”

It wasn’t teasing or casual—it was the kind of pride that hit right in your chest.

You swallowed, unable to hold back a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been working so hard,” he continued, stepping closer. “You deserved every word of praise.”

You could feel the warmth of him now—faint, steady. “You helped a lot,” you said. “You’re always helping. You saved my life on that deadline.”

Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t have done for me.”

“Clark.” You took a small step closer, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “You always show up. Even when I don’t ask. Especially when I don’t ask.”

Something flickered in his eyes then, unguarded and bright. You both seemed to realise, simultaneously, how close you were standing now.

Your heart thudded in your chest. “I was actually coming to find you because…” You trailed off. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to tell you that today was amazing, and all I could think was that I wanted to share it with you. Which sounds stupidly sentimental out loud.”

Clark shook his head immediately. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds wonderful.”

You chuckled, more from nerves than humour. “You’re one of my best friends, Clark. And…”

His hand brushed yours tentatively, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. “And…?”

You looked up at him. The low lights in your kitchen caught the icy blue of his eyes, softened by the faint reflection on his glasses. There was something fierce and unguarded in the way he looked at you. A stray curl had fallen over his forehead, and you had to physically stop yourself from reaching up to smooth it back, fingers twitching with the urge.

“And I think I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

The silence that followed was so still you could hear Biscuit breathing faintly in the background. 

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat, and for a horrible second, you thought maybe you’d actually forgotten how to breathe. The pause stretched long enough for panic to start creeping in at the edges—until Clark’s mouth broke into a wide grin. 

It started small, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, then his grin grew until it lit up his whole face. Your muscles unclenched at once, dizzy with relief and something warmer that pooled low in your chest. Totally worth the cardiac event.

Then Clark exhaled, a quiet, shaky sound. “I know.”

You blinked. “You— what?”

He gave a small, helpless smile. “I’ve known. Or hoped, maybe. I didn’t want to assume, but I wished on every star in the sky that you felt the same way.”

You stared at Clark, at the faint blush creeping up his neck, and then laughed breathlessly. “And you just… waited for me to figure it out?”

Clark’s smile turned lopsided, head tilting in a cheeky slant. “You’re worth the wait.”

You should’ve said something clever or teasing or at least something that didn’t sound like a confession waiting to happen. But your brain had officially stopped processing words. So instead, you reached for Clark, and he met you halfway.

The first kiss was almost shy.

Clark’s mouth brushed yours like he was giving you a chance to change your mind. He tasted faintly of coffee and mint and the last bit of self-control you had left. His hand found your waist, fingers warm through your shirt, and the second his thumb moved just slightly, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing with oxygen.

The kiss deepened, slow and certain, until every nerve in your body woke up and paid attention. You fisted the front of Clark's shirt, tugging him closer until your knees bumped. Clark made a low sound in his throat, barely a laugh and mostly a groan. You felt it vibrate against your lips. 

Clark kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck. His fingers threaded through your hair, gentle but firm enough to send a shiver down your spine. You caught the faint scent of cedar and ink and something warm that was just him. The press of his chest against yours was steady and solid.

You shifted closer until you were pressing him against your kitchen counter, your hands finding their way up his chest. His heartbeat thudded against your palms, fast and heavy. Clark smiled into the kiss, the corner of his mouth brushing yours in a way that made you laugh, breathless and a little dazed. You kissed that smile away.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads touching. Your lips were tingling, and you could feel the ghost of Clark’s smile still pressed against them.

“Clark,” you whispered, dizzy, voice catching somewhere between laughter and awe. “I meant what I said. You’re my hero. You always have been. That night Superman saved me—”

Clark froze. Just barely, but enough for you to notice.

You frowned. “What?”

His jaw tightened. He seemed to weigh something silently, and you felt your stomach hitch, that tiny coil of tension that always meant he was about to reveal something huge. Then he said, almost too softly, “I know. I was there.”

You blinked. “You—”

Clark met your eyes, and the truth was suddenly there, plain and devastatingly simple. You could feel your pulse in your ears, fast and insistent, as if it wanted out from below your skin.

“Oh my God,” you breathed. “Clark. You don’t mean that—”

“Yeah,” Clark said, voice low. “It’s me.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. 

The room felt like it tilted, every half-formed suspicion and half-forgotten instinct snapping into place. You felt it in your fingertips, that itch of recognition when you touched the edge of Clark’s sleeve. The way he’d always shown up right after Superman disappeared. The way Biscuit adored him, even though he despised and feared all other men except Superman. The way Clark carried himself, quiet and impossibly strong.

You just started laughing. Not mocking, not incredulous; just stunned, helpless laughter that sounded too loud in the suddenly tiny space of your apartment. You could feel your cheeks warm and your knees weaken as you laughed.

Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not quite the reaction I was expecting.”

You covered your face, still laughing. “I just— of course you’re Superman. Biscuit knew. He knew, and I didn’t, because apparently my dog has better journalistic instincts than I do.”

Clark smiled sheepishly. “Biscuit’s a smart one.”

You met his gaze again, and your stomach twisted in that way that always meant everything was about to change. “So when I said you’re my hero…”

He shrugged, shy and impossibly endearing. The movement made his shirt shift over his shoulders, and you couldn’t help the way your fingers twitched, itching to brush against that steady, strong frame. “Guess you were right.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning like a fool. “Don’t get cocky, Superman.”

Clark laughed softly, relief written in every line of his body. His shoulders dropped, and he leaned in without meaning to, his body deciding before his brain could catch up. 

His hand brushed your arm, light and instinctive, steadying both of you. You felt a shiver trail down your spine, and your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat. You watched him for a second, memorising the tilt of Clark’s head, the soft shadow under his jaw, the way his lips caught the light. 

You reached up, fingers tangling in his shirt at the front, tugging him closer, and his hands found your waist. Clark’s grip was firm, grounding, and your legs bumped together in that deliciously awkward way that made it impossible to think about anything except him.

And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you tugged him back down into another kiss.

This one wasn’t as careful. Clark reached up mid-kiss and slid his glasses off. Practical, maybe, but it still made your breath hitch, your fingers curling into his shirt without meaning to. 

You pulled back for half a second, taking in his features without the disguise, and could barely tear your eyes away. “That’s cheating,” you whispered.

Clark smiled, thumb brushing along your jawline, and you could feel the subtle press of his hand against your collarbone. “So’s flying.”

You laughed and dove back in. Your hands tangled in Clark’s hair, tugging lightly, testing the line of his neck. Clark’s hands roamed higher, one sliding around your waist, the other tracing up your spine, fingertips slowly teasing along your ribcage. The heat between you was maddening.

You felt Clark’s lips shift, teasing, tracing the curve of yours, occasionally pulling back only to smirk against your mouth, then pressing harder. Every brush sent sparks through you. Your fingers roamed over his shoulders, chest, and the edge of his shirt, desperate and testing.

You laughed against his lips, panting, “Clark,” and he captured your mouth again before you could finish, leaving you gasping.

You threaded your fingers through his hair again, tugging lightly, enjoying the way Clark hummed into your mouth, that low, vibrating sound that made your knees wobble. You shifted closer, pressing against him, and his thumb traced circles over your jaw and down your neck. You shivered.

His lips left yours briefly to trail down the side of your jaw, then back up, brushing your earlobe, and you shivered again, tugging at his shirt with a quiet, breathless, “Clark.”

You felt him grin against your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make your heart stutter. Then he claimed your mouth with the slow, deliberate pressure that made it impossible to think.

At some point, Clark angled his head, lips brushing yours differently, slower, deeper, and you felt the line between playful and frantic blur. Your hands stayed in his hair, pulling, threading, guiding, while he explored every inch of you. Every movement was edged with urgency, and your body responded without a single thought.

You pulled back just a fraction, forehead against his, and let your eyes linger over him. You remembered the flashes you’d seen of Superman in photos and the brief moment where he rescued you, and all the tiny details matched Clark. The tilt of his head when he listened, the way his jaw set just so, the subtle warmth in his smile.

All the half-formed instincts about Superman that had always made you feel safe clicked into place. 

You blinked, caught between awe and disbelief, and then your gaze drifted down to Biscuit, snoozing nearby. It hit you suddenly and fully why the dog adored Clark so completely. Not just because he was Superman, not just for the heroics or the dramatic rescues, but for Clark.

Clark, who had always been quietly, steadily, completely impossible to resist.

He leaned in, brushing lips over yours again, and this time you let yourself sink into it completely, clutching him like he might disappear. 

“Clark,” you whispered, voice shaky. “I love you.”

He smiled, that soft, entirely-Clark smile, and brushed his nose along yours. “I love you too,” he said, deep and warm with certainty. 

“That’s nice,” you sighed happily, leaning in just enough to find his lips in a few quick kisses, soft and deliberate.

— NOTES: happy new year!!! im so grateful for this past year as a writer and for being able to star a second year writing for my favorite boy in the whole world ♡ this one was highly requested so take it as a gift since i couldnt do a christmas fic. this is very very filthy and descriptive, if you're not into f-m-f or wlw, just don't read it! also i called her lexi cause NO ONE suggested me a name, but you can put your own if you'd like :) not proofread, but hope you enjoy it just as much as i did ♡

matt had an amused smile lingering on his face throughout the whole day, an occasional smirk appearing whenever you stared at him for too long.

matt was totally okay with you being bisexual — more than okay. he found it extremely hot. as a very shy and private guy, matt never spoke about bringing someone else to the bedroom. however, you were different, and you always encouraged him to explore beyond his imagination, to push the limits of fantasy. and you managed to get him extremely excited for this one.

a close friend who you occasionally used to make out with, lexi, gladly accepted spending the night with you, after all, matt’s looks were intoxicating and you were irresistible.

“can you at least pretend you’re not about to cream your pants?” you mocked matt and his pathetic grin. he sunk his teeth on the bottom half of his lips, trying to hold himself back, but he just couldn’t.

you rolled your eyes as you got closer to matt, standing on your knees, grabbing his chin and forcing him to lock eyes with you. “is my sweet boy excited?” he nodded, smiling again. “yeah? you wanna see another girl playing with us?” you cooed, ruffling his hair.

“you” matt said, nuzzling his face against your chest. his poorly shaved beard tickled your cleavage, making you chuckle. “i wanna see her… eating you out” he continued.

“is that so?” you couldn’t hide the excitement in your tone. matt nodded again, placing both of his hands on each side of your hips. “you’re gonna be a good cuck for me? watch me getting fucked by another girl?” you teased, a guttural whine coming from the back of matt’s throat. his pants got tighter, the sudden nickname — which felt more like an insult — and the thought of having two beautiful women in front of him made his blood run faster to his cock.

lexi stepped out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around her frame, the knot revealing her plump breasts, and came across the sight of you and matt making out on the sofa. with careful steps, she crossed the room and stood against the wall, coughing weakly to catch your attention. you pulled away from the kiss, resting your hands on matt’s chest as you tilted your head back to see her.

with a chuckle, lexi undid the knot, standing entirely naked in front of you and matt. he widened his eyes, startled by her boldness, but didn't say a word, simply allowing you to get off his lap so you could take her by the hand and lead the way to the bedroom. 

matt promptly followed you, locking the door before he laid down with his back against the headboard. lexi didn’t need to know in advance that he was going to sub, therefore, he could enjou himself a bit. matt lifted his arms up and placed both hands behind his head, enjoying the scene unfolding in front of him.

as you sat in front of lexi, you also traced your own finger through the fabric of your shirt before slowly unbuttoning it. you removed your shirt and tossed it towards matt, who attentively caught the cloth. you leaned your body against the mattress, holding your weight with both elbows as you called lexi to come closer with your finger. she crawled in bed, reaching for your tits and sitting in one of your thighs.

she started massaging your flesh with both hands, causing you to moan. her hands were soft and gentle, the touch was delicate yet intense. you placed a hand in the back of her head, lightly pulling her hair and biting her lower lip before going for a deeper kiss.

her tongue twirled around yours, the wet muscle exploring every inch of your mouth. lexi gradually started to grind against your bare thigh, feeling her own heat growing stronger. you smiled between the kiss, reminiscing the times you both would do that for fun. with another seal, you pulled away, watching as she picked up a pace on her movements. “so pretty, riding my thigh like a good little slut” you spitted out, taking a strand of her hair and placing it behind her ear.

both of your hands moved to her round hips, your grip helping her to go faster and practically hump her wet pussy against your skin. her soft whimpers became louder when you latched your lips around one of her nipples, sucking it hungrily.

as you circled your tongue on her hardened nubs, you tilted your head in order to take a look at matt. he looked like a virgin watching porn for the first time, his mouth hanging agape as his chest panted, his hands holding the sheet in a fist. you chuckled at the adorable sight, giving lexi your full attention. you could tell she was close by the way her cunt throbbed, the juices flowing from her coated your entire flesh.

“princess” you called, receiving a whine in response. “can you be a good girl and do something for me?” you asked as she slowed down, nodding eagerly.

“mama’s getting all wet watching you” you praised, “can you help me out before you cum? eat me out real good and put on a show for that little boy over there?” you said, pointing at matt who was visibly struggling with standing still.

“anything for you” lexi breathed out, getting off of your lap and placing her hands on your waistband, quickly removing your shorts. you were now fully bare and matt was the only one left with the clothes on. she caressed your legs with her beautiful, long nails as she trailed kisses down your body, stopping right above your pussy.

you gasped when she gave you a long kitten lick, dragging her wet tongue from your hole to your clit. matt adjusted himself on the mattress and quietly unbuckled his belt, pressing his boner over his jeans. it was a delightful sight. your fingers immediately tangled on lexi’s hair once she started sucking your clit, a loud moan coming from the back of your throat.

while still eating you out, she placed her thumb on your clit, rubbing circular motions as she traveled through your folds. unwittingly, you opened your eyes and glanced at matt. he had his cock out, his large palm slowly stroking his own lenght. his blue orbs were attached to yours, both of you breathing heavily. he fastened the movements of his fist when he saw your legs trembeling, as if he could feel the knot on your lower tummy begging to be released.

soon enough, spasms took over your body. the fact that matt was watching you being fucked by another girl and jerking off to it threw you over the edge, your orgasm washing over you as your high-pitched moans filled the room.

lexi made sure to lick all of your juices before crawling to matt, who was completely caught off guard when she kissed him and spilled your release inside his mouth. matt loved your taste, his flushed tip starting to leak when lexi replaced his own hand with hers.

you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy watching the scene. once you fully recovered, you quietly reached for the nightstand, searching for your strap and adjusting it before they could notice.

matt was the first one to pull away, loosening the grip on lexi’s waist and turning his attention to you. he gulped when he saw your pink dildo, not sure if you had planned on fucking him in front of another girl.

“open your mouth for me” you told matt and he quickly obeyed. he already knew what to do — put his tongue out like a good slut.

you held the dildo by its base and placed the tip on matt’s tongue. he wrapped his lips around the plastic dick, trying his best to fit everything he could. you tangled your fingers in his brown locks, starting to bob his head up and down in slow movements, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.

you decided matt had done enough when you heard him gag. he deserved to enjoy the night, not get a sore throat. “such a good boy” you praised as pulled out, wrapping your knuckles around the dildo and spreading his saliva.

“mama on top?” you asked lexi, who had been touching herself the whole time. she denied with her head, her cheeks suddenly gaining a pink tone of embarrassment. “i… i wanna ride mama, please”

“fuuuuck” you heard matt whispering. you chuckled at him and sat by his side, spreading your legs and patting your tights so lexi would join you. she quickly went for it, placing her lower lips around the tip of the dildo and gradually sitting, a heavy sigh leaving her nostrils.

“all full?” you teased, placing your palm on her lower tummy. with a bit of pressure, you could perfectly feel the thick, veiny dildo filling her up. “so, so full” she whined, holding on your shoulders for support.

matt could no longer hold himself. his cock was hurting and the tip wouldn’t stop leaking pre-cum. he didn’t want to cum untouched, so as lexi started to ride you, he nuzzled his face on the crooked of your neck. “what is it hm? want the attention all for yourself?”

“nuh uh” he pouted. “just hurts… need your help” matt whimpered. you smiled at how well behaved they both were, listening to everything that you said.

“here’s what we’re gonna do. you can cum when she cums” you started, “if you act like a good boy and hold until the end, you can fuck mama afterwards” you told matt, giving him a peck. he nodded desperately, silently begging for lexi to cum soon.

you decided to not be mean and help them out. one of your hands went to matt's cock, stroking it at a slow, steady pace, while the other one remained on lexi’s clit, quickly rubbing it. “mommy mhm— please” matt whined. “i c-can’t hold it”

“no? you wanna cum already?” you asked in a warm, understanding tone. “is it too much for my little boy? watching two girls and not getting anything?” you continued, causing matt to whimper even more.

“mhm, ‘s too much” he answered, squeezing his eyes shut when you placed your thumb on his slit. “mama! please! cum!” matt cried out.

“what do you think, baby?” you asked lexi, who was too busy focusing on her on pleasure, mindlessly bouncing on your dildo. “should we let matt cum?” she nodded as she felt her own high approaching, her pussy throbbing.

“cum for mama, prince” you allowed matt. “and you can cum for me too, pretty girl” you told her. that was all they needed — your permission, your attention, your touch, you.

the room was filled with loud, lewd noises. the sound of skin slapping and moans took over the house, both matt and lexi releasing, surprisingly enough, at the same time. matt cried and whimpered as she moaned like a porn star — and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth spreading through your body once more, your pussy starting to drip from the wetness.

the three of you were too tired to say a word or even clean up, acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, you should take a break.

little did they know the night was just getting started.

— TAGLIST ♡⊹𑄽୧ @thepubeburgler @submattenthusiast @pearlzier @mattsfavbitchhh @bugeyedgrl @sturncakez @riowritesitall @mattsturnswife @sturnsmia @sturnthepot @mattscoquette @conspiracy-ash @ilovemattsturn @lizzymacdonald06 @blahbel668 @fratbrochrisgf @sturnobsessedwh0re @cayleeuhithinknott @sturniolo04 @1c3b4th @mattsfavbigtitties @bellassturniolo @sturnsxplr-25 @ivammbb @shadowthesim @slutformatthewsturniolo @stefansring @teeheeomg @dystfopia @riasturns @faiyaz555 @sturnslutz @alesturniolos @cvnntagious

notes: hi! i'm back! the last few weeks were extremely challenging for my mental health BUT i'm feeling much better now and finally got the motivation to write again. unfortunately, this was not requested, but i felt like i needed to write something lighter and softer (and super short and not proofread as usual lmao) before fully coming back. thank you for being so patient, i love you all so much and i hope you enjoy this one!

- ♡ -

i sighed deeply as i heard my alarm ringing early in the morning. matt groaned when i turned in bed to shut the loud noise down, leaving his arms for a few seconds before coming back and curling myself up under the blankets, trying to get five more minutes of rest with matt spooning me.

his sleep was always deep, but the moments in between his dreams and him waking up were the ones that bothered him the most. matt always had to come closer and hold me in order to fully wake up. this time, however, a still sleepy matt started kissing my shoulder from behind, mumbling something none of us could understand.

“morning babe” i said, resting my hand over his and tightening the hug. matt didn’t respond and kept on leaving pecks over my neck before reaching to my ear, slowly biting it. i rubbed my eyes with my free hand, yawning before speaking again “we’re gonna be late”.

matt brought his hips closer, allowing me to feel his half-hard cock through the sweaters. he slowly moved his hand to my shirt, massaging my covered breasts. i sunk my teeth on my bottom lip when his thumb brushed over my nipple, teasing me as he kept his eyes shut, not doing any effort to properly wake up.

“matt, i’m serious, we need to get up”, i complained, pretending to be in a rush.

“shh” he shushed me, fingers going to my lips as a sign to stay quiet. i knew i was gonna give in at any second, the wetness between my legs starting to grow as i gave a long lick on his index before putting it inside of my mouth. i let my tongue rest on his digit, gradually sliding it to the back of my mouth. i felt his breath getting heavier as the grip on my boobs grew stronger, his kisses turning into love bites. “you’re getting me all worked up” he whispered, the tent in his pants now poking my covered ass.

matt took my wrist and led my hand to his boner, allowing me to palm his full hard-on through his pajamas. he gasped when i wrapped my fingers on his clothed shaft, teasing rather than jerking him off. with his usual impatience, matt grabbed my waist with both of his hands, flipping me over and making me face him, our chests glued to each other.

i couldn't bring myself to say anything, completely astonished by his beauty - his messy hair, blue eyes, pouty lips. i brought my palms to his face, cupping his cheeks and sealing our lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. matt quickly slid his tongue in, swirling it around mine and filling the bedroom with our lewd, wet sounds.

“matt” i muffled “i need you so bad”

“yeah?” he said, hands going to my waistband before entering my pants and groping my ass “my needy girl” matt continued as he squeezed my flesh and sucked my neck, soon reaching my still covered breasts.

“wanting my cock so early in the morning?” i nodded vigorously, eager eyes expecting his next move. matt tugged my pants down my legs and removed my shirt, tossing it somewhere around the room before taking off his own pajamas, both of us lying naked next to each other.

we came closer, locking our legs together, allowing our parts to meet as matt hid his face in the crook of my neck while i wrapped my arms around his shoulders, kissing every inch of skin i could reach. he pumped his own cock a few times before bringing it to my aching pussy, rubbing my swollen clit with his tip. i moaned from the sudden contact, moving my hips forward to get more friction. “so eager for me aren’t you?”, he said as he positioned himself on my entrance, his leaking tip making my hole even wetter.

i squeezed my eyes shut as i felt matt’s cock entering me and stretching my walls. “so fucking tight, s-shit” he groaned, taking way too long to fill me up. we stood like that for a moment, matt allowing me to get comfortable with his size before i started moving, whining in frustration.

“use your words, princess” he spoke as he kissed my neck. “haven’t even fucked you and already can’t talk?”

“matt, gosh” i said as he bucked his hips forward, the swollen veins of his dick rubbing inside of me. “fuck, you’re so fucking good” i praised him, receiving a muffled moan from him in response.

“taking me so well sweetie, doing so good for me” matt said as his pace became faster, slapping his bare skin against mine, searching for his own high. i threw my head back when he hit my sweet spot, letting my mouth hang open as my pussy clenched “that’s it, good girl”.

i could feel matt’s sweat dripping as he mindlessly pounded into me, working hard to make us cum together, “feel so fucking good around my cock baby, fuck” he whispered and i felt his cock twitching inside of me.

“matt— close” i whimpered, digging my nails deep into his back. 

“already?” he teased with a smirk, as if he wasn’t about to bust. i rolled my eyes at the joke, quickly losing my senses as i felt the knot on my lower belly tightening. “‘m gonna cum!”

“no need to ask princess” he panted, his thrusts becoming sloppier as he got closer. “cum for me. c’mon, make a mess for me baby” 

 i felt his release filling me, throwing me over the edge with his thick spurt painting my walls white. our orgasms came at once, washing us over in pleasure as i trembled on him, matt groaning with the pressure on his cock.

matt, still sleepy, took longer to recover than i did. he closed his eyes after he came, panting heavily while hugging my waist.

“babe” i called. “i’m serious now, we gotta get up”.

“i don’t care” he said, snuggling onto me. “just five more minutes, please”

i knew i shouldn’t, but i gave in. i rested my head on his chest, feeling his warm embrace. five minutes wouldn’t make that much of a difference — i was already late, anyways.

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