Welcome to the Catalogue :)

Fifteen minutes ago, you were reaching for a bowl on the top shelf asking Clark to help you reach it. But now? Now, Clark has you bent over the kitchen island, fucking you hard and rough. The way you like it.

One hand tangled in your hair, pulling it in sequences, the other on your hip helping you fuck back onto him. The squelchy plap, plap, plap fills the kitchen. His pants, your whines. God this was heaven for you.

But then he pulls out, and you're left whining for him, "shh shh it's okay baby.. I gotcha', gonna get you to bed," he says in a low rasp, voice dragged rough and familiar, like instinct more than speech.

He spins you around, cups his hands to the undersides of your thighs and lifts you like you weigh less than a feather. You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Biting, sucking, licking, anything to help relieve that deep ache settled between your thighs.

You feel it before you hear it, a deep vibration coming from his chest bubbling into a soft laugh edged with rasp, "what's gotten into you baby?"

You murmur it, voice airy and sweet like spun sugar, "jus' need you bad honey. Love you s'much.."

Your back hits the soft plush of your bed, somehow wrapping your arms tighter around his neck as if to beg him to crush you with his body weight.

His hands cup your face just soaking you in, you always look so beautiful when you're this fucked out and desperate. Clark will always be bigger than you, and the feeling of him engulfing you will never be anything other than so fucking delicious.

As your lips meet his, one of his hands slide down your body. Featherlight touches down your neck, then your chest to your midriff. Right down to the spot you need him so bad, cupping you softly before pulling his hand away.

You breathe it out, your voice gentle and airless, "please.. fuck me Clark, need you."

A ruined chuckle leaves his throat, "I gotcha' honey. Don't worry, 'm right here."

Aligning himself with you, fitting himself in you. Clark watches as you suck him in, inch by inch. Taking everything you give him and so much more.

"There y'go baby, sucking me in so good. You're so warm," he breathes out a sound caught somewhere between a moan and a groan.

All you can do is whine and writhe, more more more. Tears pool up at the corners of your eyes, silently begging.

His pelvis presses against yours, giving you everything you asked for but it's still not enough. He watches your tears fall out and whimpers escape you, drinking them all in. God, he loves you.

You feel every ridge, every vein, everything. 'Gimme more.'

Then once he knows you're ready, he fucks up into you. Hard, deep, fast. You need more, tears officially spilling out, and Clark? He licks them off your cheek. "Easy baby. I got you.. Tell me whatcha' need."

"Harder, please," your voice slips out, fast, desperate, and frantic, before you can stop it.

He murmurs softly, that familiar rasp worn raw and too close to your ear, "only cause you asked so politely baby, y're so pretty and so good t'me."

Bringing his hand back down your body, leaving soft touches in his path, before taking his middle and ring finger to swipe side to side on your little button of nerves. Pushing you over that mountain of ecstasy. There's nothing quite like pulling an orgasm out of you for Clark.

Talking you through it will always fill his chest with pride because he knows no one else can touch you like this or love you like this, “let go f'me… yeah, that’s it. I can feel it - you’re right there. Come on, pretty."

He can feel you tensing on his cock, pulsing sporadically around him “that’s it - don’t fight it. I feel how close you are. Come on, sweetheart, I’ve gotcha'.”

Your body freezes, every fiber on edge, alive with a fire it’s never known. Your heart drums wildly in your chest, your breaths come quick and ragged, and a thrilling tremor twists deep inside you. Then it happens, white noise fill your ears, spots appear before you, and even then you still need more.

Clark keeps fucking you through it, gentle thrusts just until you've come back down. "Think you can give me one more baby?" He coos at you, knowing damn well he's gonna make you cum at least once more.

You make a small, helpless noise, before just barely nodding at him, tear streaks drying by your eyes.

And just like that he revs up again, love and passion bubble up in him. He'll never get over the way you look when you're like this. Eyes hooded, tear streaks left behind, lips plumped and kissed out, chest rising and falling. "Y're beautiful."

He doesn't even mean to say it out loud, and he doesn't realize that he did, not until you giggle softly. Bringing your arms back around his neck, hand sliding to the nape of his neck before bringing him in for a soft kiss. "I love you," you say it softly, voice bright but most of all, true. He lays his forehead against you, smiling and loving.

"I love you baby.." He ends his confession with a kiss, soft at first, but then a nip catches to his bottom lip.

Somehow, he presses closer and deeper into you. "Gimme one more baby, 'know you can.."

His thick fingers find your clit once again, still puffy and needy, switching from side to side to up and down. One thing about Clark, his hands are skilled beyond comparison.

And then he does it, he finds that spot in you. The one that makes you forget everything. You forget how to breathe, how to speak, everything except Clark.

He feels it, you're there again. His sweet baby, he'll always be your undoing. You fall apart in his hands and on his cock.

Your breath shatters, stuttering in your chest, spine arching slightly as every nerve fires at once. Heat coils low, spreading upward, curling through your stomach, thighs, and chest, pulling involuntarily at every muscle. He reacts immediately, chest pressing into yours, fingers tangling in your hair, thumb brushing along your jaw, coaxing, claiming, grounding. You tilt your head without thinking, lips parting, letting a soft, ragged gasp escape as his mouth finds yours again, deeper, insistent.

Fingers curl, nails lightly digging into the curve of his neck, tangling in his hair, tracing the lines of muscle that ripple under his skin. Knees wobble, legs trembling, hips pressing without conscious thought, instinct driving every motion as he shifts with you, rocking against you in perfect sync. Every subtle brush of his hand, every whisper of skin against skin ignites sparks that race across your nerves, making your fingertips tingle, chest tighten, pulse hammer.

He hums low, throat vibrating against your lips as he murmurs, “God you feel so good around me baby” You respond immediately, whispering back a shaky, breathy sound, letting him feel every tremor of your body. Every inhale pulls him closer, every exhale shudders over him, and his own breath comes ragged, uneven, echoing yours. Your hands trace him everywhere - arms, chest, shoulders -memorizing him, mapping him, reacting to every instinctive twitch, every feather-light motion of his fingers along you.

The tension coiling in your stomach unravels, collapsing inward with a shockwave that shoots through your spine, making your muscles quake, every nerve flare raw and alive. He rocks against you, guiding subtly, pressing you closer without need for words, his lips never leaving yours, lips and teeth brushing in feral, claiming motions that make your breath hitch again. Tiny involuntary movements - arches, shivers, subtle tilts of your head - merge with his rhythm, creating a shared pulse, a feral sync that leaves no part of either of you untouched.

Every gasp, every shiver, every trembling fingertip passes between you both, threaded through each reaction, binding you together in raw, instinctual heat. His whispers slip between ragged breaths, half-words lost in panting exhalations, “Always…you’re mine…” and “So perfect…”, grounding you even as every nerve screams alive. Your body trembles, knees weakening, back arching slightly as the instinctual rush consumes you, leaving only sensation, only breath, only feral connection.

Even as the waves wash through you, leaving you breathless and buzzing, there’s an unspoken understanding in the way he holds you, moves with you, responds to you. Each tiny shiver, each soft gasp, each instinctive tug or press is mirrored, shared, creating something wild and unfiltered and wholly yours. You’re alive in him, and he’s alive in you, every nerve ending screaming in feral, perfect unison.

You feel him snap - muscles tightening like coiled springs before shuddering and melting in a wave that radiates from his chest down to his fingertips. His breath comes jagged and uneven, chest rising faster than thought, and you feel it all echo through you, a warmth that sets your own pulse racing. Every nerve under his skin sparks alive, sharp and feral, and you can feel how raw and exposed he is.

Your hands move without thinking, brushing along his arms, feeling the tremor that runs through him. His fingers twitch almost reflexively, clenching then releasing, and the shiver that starts low in his spine climbs higher, arching him just slightly against you. You feel it in the tilt of his shoulders, the small hitch of his breath, the way his body rocks instinctively toward yours, a subtle pull that draws you in closer.

Your own breath catches, quickening as your pulse syncs with his. The heat between you hums, an unspoken, feral rhythm, and every touch you share sparks him further, makes him arch a little more, shiver a little deeper. He’s caught between control and instinct, and you’re right there with him - hands, chest, and heart matching his every movement. Every taut nerve, every shallow inhale, every shudder of muscle speaks to something raw and unrestrained, and you can’t help but mirror it, letting yourself be drawn into the heat of him completely.

You're overwhelmed, feeling him spill into you, over and over again. Heat pooling deep into you, shooting straight to your cervix. It doesn't stop. You've never felt this with anyone else, it feels never ending and you really wished it to be eternal.

You’re still trembling when he pulls out, his cum and your arousal leaking out of you like a faucet, taking a second - just enough to catch his breath, and you can feel the lingering heat between you. Your skin is still tingling, every nerve alive, every muscle slowly uncoiling from the intensity of what just passed. Clark’s chest is warm against yours, his arms wrapped securely around your shoulders, and the steady rise and fall of his breathing is the anchor you didn’t realize you needed.

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, then lingers there, forehead resting against yours. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, husky in that way it gets when he’s more Clark than Superman, more human than godlike. “You’re okay?”

You exhale shakily, nuzzling into him. You don't talk yet, you can't. You're so wrapped up in him, not only are you whining from the lack of being stuffed by cock, but also just because you want him so close, and he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your ear.

“You did amazing,” he whispers. “Absolutely incredible.” His hands trace lazy, soothing circles along your back, and it feels like every lingering tremor in your body is slowly melting under his touch. “Breathe with me, okay?”

You do, letting yourself match the slow rhythm of his inhale and exhale. It’s grounding. It’s steady. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed just now. His hands never stop moving, fingers brushing gently through your hair, along your arms, resting lightly on the small of your back. Every movement is measured, careful, intimate without demanding anything in return.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, voice so soft it almost disappears into the quiet of the room. “Here - let’s get you comfortable.” He shifts you gently up the bed, easing you down so you’re half-reclined against the propped up pillows. He brings the sheets up to your chest, tucking it around your sides, and you shiver again - not from cold, but because the care, the tenderness, the way he’s entirely focused on you, hits deeper than any touch before.

Clark sits close beside you, arm around your shoulders, holding you like you’re fragile, like he’s protecting you from the world outside the door. Every so often, he presses a small, almost shy kiss to your temple, to the corner of your mouth, or down your jawline, and it’s enough to make your stomach flutter, even now.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours again. “Just gotta let me be here with you baby.” And you do. You close your eyes, letting the residual heat and the steady rhythm of him against you wash over every frayed nerve. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong under your ear, and it’s impossibly comforting.

Minutes pass in silence, the kind that doesn’t feel empty but full - full of unspoken connection, safety, and warmth. His hand drifts to yours, entwining fingers, gentle pressure that says more than words ever could. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, and somehow, that’s everything. Safe from the world, safe from expectation, safe in the cocoon of him and this quiet, lingering closeness.

When you finally open your eyes, Clark’s still there, still gazing at you with that mix of awe and tenderness that makes your heart ache. “You okay?” he asks again, though he already knows the answer. And you smile softly, leaning into him just a little more. “Yea,” you whisper, voice still unsteady. “Yea… 'm okay.”

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek lightly. “Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I’ve got you. Always.”

And in that moment, after everything, that’s all that matters - him, you, and the quiet intimacy of being held, soothed, and entirely seen.

p.s plsss bbies send in ur requests!! dividers - @uzmacchiato & @saradika-graphics

"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.

"Cool, huh?"

You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.

-

The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?

Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.

"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.

"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?

You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."

It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"

It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.

You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.

-

A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”

Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.

“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”

Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."

You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.

"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.

"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.

"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."

"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.

"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"

"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.

"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."

Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."

-

A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.

There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?

You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.

His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.

He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.

"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.

"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.

"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."

You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"

You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"

You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"

Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.

"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.

"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.

"I don't think anyone could turn you down."

-

Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.

Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.

It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.

Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?

Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.

“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.

“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”

“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.

“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.

“We shall.”

-

For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.

Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.

“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.

You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”

“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.

“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“

Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”

It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”

Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”

You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.

“Clark. Clark Kent.”

-

Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.

“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.

“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”

That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?

But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”

You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.

"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.

You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."

It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.

"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.

"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.

"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."

-

It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.

It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.

"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.

"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.

He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.

"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.

"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.

-

Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.

To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.

But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.

"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.

"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.

"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."

He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.

"So, about what happened on the roof."

As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.

"Did you mean what you said?"

You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."

-

Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.

He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.

He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?

"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.

"Just a little obsessed?"

He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."

That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.

"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"

He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.

"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.

"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.

"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."

His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.

"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.

"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.

So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.

Reblog and comment pretty pretty please!!

CLARK KENT TAGLIST: empty

You glare at him, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He’s smug. Smug and unreadable and furious in a way you’ve never seen before.

The rest of the day is hell. He’s everywhere. Passing you coffee—without asking, of course. Standing too close at the crime board. Brushing past you in the hallway, the edge of his jacket catching your thigh, deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s daring you to say something.

You don’t. Not until the end of the night, when most of the team has left and the bullpen hums with quiet.

You storm into the file room, heart pounding. “Reid—”

He’s already there. Like he knew you’d come. Like he planned it. “Shutting the door?” he asks without looking up, flipping through a stack of folders like it’s any other Tuesday. “How suspicious.”

You do shut it. Hard. “What’s your problem?”

He sets the file down. Finally looks at you. “You kissed him,” Spencer says simply, like it’s fact. Like it’s already been dissected and labeled and filed away under Reasons She Deserves To Be Punished.

Your jaw tightens. “So what?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Until your back is pressed against the wall and he’s so close you can see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. “So,” he started, “I read somewhere that jealousy activates the same neural circuits as physical pain.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly his voice is lower, his tone less teasing. “It’s almost addictive. Like a drug. Your pupils dilated when you laughed at him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

A smirk plays on Spencer’s lips, sharp and knowing. His hand lifts, ghosting over your jaw but never quite touching. “Then why did you look for me when it happened?”

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, and his voice dips, slow and deliberate like he’s reciting a quote. “Right after. You looked up. Scanned the parking lot. Like you wanted someone to see.”

The heat that burns under your skin is immediate, prickling with shame and something far more dangerous. You want to deny it—but you had looked. Stupidly, instinctively. Like you were waiting for a reaction.

“Is that what this is about?” you snap. “You think I kissed him for your attention?”

He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t you?”

The silence chokes between you. He takes another step—closer, closer—until you’re hyper-aware of every inch between you, every uneven breath.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Spencer’s eyes flick down to your mouth. His voice is almost a whisper. “And yet your heart rate’s at least 120. Fight or flight?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d rather you did.” He says it like it’s an equation solved, a foregone conclusion. His pupils are blown, lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting to be proven right.

And maybe he is.

Because when you surge forward, fisting the collar of his cardigan and dragging his mouth down to yours, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. His hands are on your waist in a second, you gasp when he bites your bottom lip—not hard, but just enough to make you feel it—and he groans, like that sound alone snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he mutters against your mouth, breathing hard. “You really think you’re subtle?”

You shove him back a step, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows—of course he follows. His hand grips the back of your neck and he presses you into the wall again like he needs you there, like he can’t stand the distance.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you snap.

“He touched your ass,” Spencer growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes your thighs clench.

You laugh—sharp, breathless, too aware of the way his fingers are now drifting along the hem of your blouse. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Reid.”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous. “You sure about that?”

Then he drops to his knees. Your heart stutters. “Spencer—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t look up as his hands glide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with practiced, unshaking intent. “Just proving a point.”

You suck in a breath as his palms part your legs. His fingers are nimble, precise—like everything else he does, methodical but maddening. When he drags your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours like a silent dare.

You grip the shelf behind you like it might keep you grounded, like the feeling of Spencer Reid on his knees in front of you isn’t about to send you spiraling into orbit.

He leans in. Presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, almost reverent—and then one just a little higher. You squirm.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, voice already frayed.

His eyes flick up, impossibly dark. “Don’t kiss other men.”

You don’t get a chance to retort—his mouth is on you in the next breath.

And God, he’s good.

Not good in the way most men fumble and hope for the best. No—he studies you. Remembers the way you gasped at the soft flick of his tongue. Adjusts. Experiments. Executes. He licks into you like he’s trying to rewrite your molecular structure, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else—and it’s working.

Your hand tangles in his hair before you can stop it, pulling hard, and he moans into you. You feel the vibration all the way up your spine.

“You’re such a fucking showoff,” you breathe, hips bucking.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet and swollen. “Statistically speaking, making a woman come from oral alone—”

“Spencer.”

“—requires precision and patience.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, eyes still locked on yours. “Luckily, I have both.”

And he proves it. You come fast and hard, your moan muffled in your own arm as your legs nearly give out. He holds you through it, mouth insistent and merciless until your body twitches from overstimulation and you beg—literally beg—for him to stop.

When he finally stands, there’s something almost unhinged in his eyes. A wild, unspoken want. His hands are already working on his belt, but you beat him to it, fingers slipping into his waistband like you’ve done it a hundred times in your head.

“I’m not finished with you,” you mutter, dragging his pants down just far enough.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I want you to remember this the next time some fraud in IT buys you a drink.”

You grip his shirt, yanking him down to your lips again. “Fuck me, Doctor Reid.” you moan as he slides through your slick. The noise you make is shameful—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his hand slams against the wall next to your head, bracing himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—”

Your head tips back, and he takes the opportunity to drag his mouth down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin with zero apology. His thrusts are slow at first, rough but controlled, but that doesn’t last long. Not with the way you grip him. Not with the way your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to brand him there.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” Spencer grits out, fucking you like it’s a correction. A lesson. “You knew I was watching.”

You whimper, helpless under the weight of him, every thrust a punishment wrapped in possession. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Liar,” he snaps, and the hand on your waist tightens.

His mouth crashes to yours again, messy and uncoordinated now. He slams back into you so hard you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The file room walls feel too thin, the glass door too close, but neither of you cares. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to replace every trace of anyone else. And God, it’s working.

His hand curls around your thigh, hiking it over his hip, and the angle makes you whimper.

“Yeah?” Spencer grits out. “Right there?”

You nod—too breathless for words—and he groans again, pounding into that spot over and over until you’re shaking,

“Fuck, I’m—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp curls brushing your cheeks. “I’m not gonna last—”

You pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, lock him there. “Then don’t.”

He comes with a groan muffled against your shoulder, his body jerking against yours like it’s been short-circuited. You hold him through it, hands in his hair, nails raking gently against his scalp as his hips stutter and still.

You both stay like that for a moment breathing heavy. He finally lifts his head. Blinks at you, dazed. And for the first time all night, he looks awkward. Flushed and boyish and just a little bit unsure.

Then he leans in, brushing a kiss—soft, shockingly gentle—against your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” he murmurs again, you huff a breathless laugh. “Noted.”

His nose brushes yours. “Next time,” he whispers, “I’ll show you what it feels like to beg.”

You blink at him. “Next time?”

He smiles. That unreadable, smug little curve again—but this time, it’s softer around the edges.

“Oh,” he says, buttoning his pants like he didn’t just fuck you senseless against a filing cabinet, “there’s going to be a next time.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “Aren’t you going to cite a study about post-coital bonding or something?”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Actually, oxytocin levels increase significantly after orgasm, which tends to promote attachment and trust—but in this case, I’d argue correlation, not causation.”

You laugh—genuine and bright—and he watches you like it’s his favorite sound. You pull him in by the front of his cardigan and kiss him again, slower this time.

when you pull away he has a mischievous glint in his eye. “I deleted the footage,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smirks. “File room security. You’re not the only one who’s reckless.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs. “I’m a profiler.”

You shove him. “You’re a psycho.”

a/n: down baddd for Dr Reid

He looks like he’s been shot. “You do?”

“Yep.” You smile at him, and you didn’t know anyone could be that shade of red. “You’re cute.”

Clark coughs again. “Thanks. Are we- Sweetheart, you don’t have to like it-“

“I know. But I do.”

The elevator dings, and you take his hand. Stand on your toes, as a few other people walk inside. Whisper in his ear. 

“You’ll see.”

His eyes widen, and you laugh. His fingers are almost digging into your hips, for the rest of the day. 

And when you get to bed that night, he’s still nervous. He reminds you about five times that you don’t have do this, and looks more and more embarrassed every time you tell him that you know. And you really don’t care. 

“Baby, I’ll be happy just going down on you, that gets me going too-“

“Clark.” You give him a stern look, running your hand up his thigh, and he swallows. “Do you want me to do this.”

His throat bobs, and he nods. You beam, resting your palm right above his bulge. 

“Then please.” You lean down, sticking your ass in the air, and nuzzle his crotch. “Let me suck you off, baby.” Your lashes flutter, like you’re about to cry. “Please.”

Clark stares at you like he’s seeing an angel, and nods slowly.

You’re saying please so sweetly, your breath hot even through his pants. It’s almost like you’re putting on a little sex show, just for him. 

He’s a man of willpower. Control. 

But there’s nothing he won’t give you. And you seem to really want this, so-

“Yeah.” He rasps. “Yes. You- Shhh-“

He swallows a swear, throwing his head back as you squeeze him. His hips thrust up, erection already hard and forming a heavy tent. You watch him under your lashes, as you slowly undo his belt and slide down his pants, taking his boxers with him. 

You’ve wanted to do this since the first time you so much as made out with him. When he pinned you against a wall, your hands over your head, and you felt him pressing against your thigh. Then you’d seen him for the first time—long and proud and thick—and the desire had only grown. 

So you savor it. 

You lick a long, slow stripe up his shaft, and Clark’s hand shoots into your hair. 

“I- Sorry-“ He tries to let go, but you grab his wrist. Smile coyly up at him, as you wrap your lips around his tip, swirl your tongue around his angry red head. 

Clark lets out a heavy breath, his fingers curling in the sheets and on your scalp as you slowly start to slide down his length. Until he bumps the back of your throat, and you choke slightly. He tastes like real, hard cock, and it’s a fucking drug. It makes your head spin, how big he is. You hope it makes you pass out. 

He tries to yank you up, frantic worry pushing through his clouded lust, and you dig your nails into his thighs. Moan as lewdly as possible, because he’s heavy and hot in your mouth, and you need more. 

“Baby, that’s- This is great, you don’t gotta-“

You whine around him, starting to bob your head up and down, and Clark lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan. You make a sound of pleasure, rolling your hips on the air to show him what it’s doing you, and he pants. 

“Oh my- God-“ His hips thrust up, and that’s more like it. 

He’s letting go. 

You throw everything you have, into the blowjob. Your jaw almost unhinges, to take as much of him as you can, and your hand works his thick base when you can’t take it into your mouth. Whenever you choke on him, you let your fingers dip down to play with his balls, and he makes the most sweetly sinful sound you’ve ever heard. 

Clark seems to be really trying to keep himself under some control. His moans of your name are long and desperate, but his hand is still just resting on your head. You want him to fuck your face, to let him use your mouth as a sheath for his beautiful cock. He works so hard. Puts everyone else first. 

But this is about him.

So you look up at him under hooded eyes, drool slipping from your lips as you bob up and down his cock, and whine. Your hands have moved to just support yourself on his thighs. He’s throbbing, and your spit is mixed with his pre-cum, but there won’t be release until he takes it.

And Clark lets out a low sound of frustration. He thrusts up, and you gag on him again, but before he can stop to worry you’re moving. Snaking a hand between your legs to rub your clit, still watching him with your best, innocent eyes. 

He breathes out your name, and you let your teeth graze against him. He jerks up again, slamming your head down, and a broken, cockdrunk sound you didn’t know you could make escapes your chest. 

“Holy…” Clark’s hand moves, thumb tracing over your cheekbone. “You really- You fuckin’ love this.”

You smile at him, eyes pricking with tears, and you won. 

Clark fully, properly, swore. So you won.

“Can I-“ He pulls your hair lightly, drawing you a little further up, and you hum. Nod around his cock, and fuck your hand between your legs. 

That’s all it takes. Clark nods, sitting up on his elbows to watch you, and starts to properly fuck your face. 

It’s messy. Wet and messy, making you lightheaded and your pussy clench around nothing as he stuffs your mouth. Your lips are swollen, your throat and jaw sore, and your hand on your clit starts to go limp as you put all your energy into breathing through your nose. 

But it’s worth it, for the sight of Clark above you. 

Completely, totally wrecked.

His eyes are blown out with lust, his mouth hanging open in one long, graphic moan of your name. His chest is rising and falling with ragged, short breaths, the thick column of his neck and bare, muscled skin of his body shining with sweat. His hand flexes in the sheets whenever you gag on him. His thrusts up to meet your warm, slick mouth are getting shorter and shorter every moment. 

Low, broken praise of my pretty girl and so- so fuckin’ good escapes him, and can’t seem to tear his gaze from where your lips are wrapped around him. Where he’s jackhammering into your mouth, how you’re uselessly trying to hump the sheets, bunched between your legs. How tears are streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never looked so dazed and happy in your life. 

And he’s throbbing, on your tongue. His thighs tense under your hands, and he grunts your name. 

“Gonna- Baby, I-“

You moan, pressing your face down further, and Clark’s hips slam up, his release spilling down your throat. 

You swallow, best you can. But there’s so much of him, and a little bit of it escapes your lips. You wait until his hand releases its grip on your hair, and pull off with a soft pop. 

Lick your lips clean, and smile up at him. As sweet as you can manage. 

Clark stares at you, an almost animalistic gleam in his eyes as he watches you wipe your chin and smear his own cum on his thumb. 

Take it into your mouth, and suck the same way you just did on his cock. 

“God-“ He groans, dick twitching between his legs. “I feel like you get off on torturing me, sweetheart, you know that?”

You giggle, and pull his hand away. Hold it in yours, as you rest your cheek on his thigh. “Maybe.”

He laughs softly, like he really can’t believe you at all.

Then he looks to where you’re still squirming against the sheets slightly, trying to relieve your own pressure. His eyes flash. 

You sigh, squeezing his hand. “Clark, you don’t-“ “Want to.” He teases, mimicking your tone from earlier. “Come on. Let me at her.” You flush, and this was supposed to be all about him. 

But he’s already getting hard again, just looking at you and begging to touch you. And who ever said there’s too much of a good thing?

“Okay.” You sigh, pushing up on your palms. “But just one.”

Clark hums, dragging you up until you’re straddling his lap. He kisses you slow and deep, groaning as he tastes himself, lingering on your tongue. You whine, and he chuckles.

“No promises.” He murmurs against your lips. “You know I like it.”

You’d worn something floral, but it had an underlying layer of musk, a woodiness that deepened the profile. One of your favorites, a scent you pick when you want confidence and a little extra femininity.

You’d been grateful you’d chosen it the second you saw him in the elevator.

It made Clark’s head spin. He’d told you later, how the smell had filled the whole room, wafting over him as you leaned over to press the button for your floor. It stayed with him all day, long after you’d stepped out onto your floor with a sweet “Have a nice day!”

The next day you wore it again, arrived at the same time again, hoping you’d catch him.

You didn’t know he’d done the same, sat behind a newspaper in the lobby and waited until he heard the click of your heels. This time it was him who slid through the doors.

“I was dying to smell it again,” he admitted, face flushed with embarrassment, “I’d spent all night trying to figure out how I could bump into you again.”

You’d made small talk that time, telling him you worked in HR, and had heard plenty of stories about the reporter who knew Superman.

He joked that one more tardy and he’d probably be sent to your office.

You half wished he was right.

The third day you flirted, armed with the same florals you even pretended to bump into the buttons so you’d have some extra time.

He’d asked if you’d like to get coffee, you’d beamed and told him you’d love to.

He’d doubled back to your floor a half hour later because he forgot to get your number.

When you asked how he found you, he lied and said he asked someone.

The truth was that he followed his nose.

You slowly introduced him to your catalog of scents.

Orange blossoms and sweet spices for coffee.

Sandalwood and Patchouli when he offered to walk you home.

Lavender and tuberose the first time you kissed.

Vanilla and cardamon the night you asked if he wanted to come upstairs.

Slowly, Clark learned your rituals.

Jasmine and neroli when you have a big meeting.

Cedar wood and lemon when you’re feeling overwhelmed.

And just like that first night, vanilla and cardamon when you want him.

Again, it was an accident, choices you make so unconsciously you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into such a pattern.

Clark didn’t notice either, but his body did.

An extra slow kiss on your lips when he says hello.

A possessive hand on your lower back while walking you home.

A low growl in his throat when he kisses your neck and catches whiff of it.

When you wore it work one day, only to get pulled into a supply closet, met with heavy breathing and fogged up glasses.

“Driving me crazy today.” He’d said, like it was an excuse, “Smell so good.”

The night he took you out to dinner to celebrate six months, you’d spent half the meal with his hand up your skirt, a low drawl of “Smell like sugar…” a drag of his thumb over your clit as he gathers your wetness. “What’s that sayin’ about having desert first?” Slowly bringing that same finger to his mouth and sucking it clean.

Your cousins wedding reception, vanilla on your collarbones and Clark’s hard on pressing into your back all night. Genuine apologies whispered in your hair as he used you as a shield. Teases of “See what you do to me?” as he nibbled your earlobe.

You’re not stupid though.

It only took so many dingy bar bathrooms, and ruined panties before you realized the common denominator.

Now you wield it like a weapon.

A drop on your ankle for him to find mid thrust, savoring the way his hips falter when it hits him.

A spritz behind your knee, perfect for when he sits between your thighs and pulls them over his shoulder.

A rub on your wrist, tantalizing as you reach over him to grab something. Exhilarating when his hand grabs yours and brings it to his lips, laving a wet kiss over your pulse point.

Vanilla starts to invade all of Clark’s world.

The shampoo he got you for his shower.

The candle that sits on kitchen island, chosen because ‘it smelled like home.’

His fabric softener, the first time he’s ever picked something that wasn’t what his Ma used.

A box left on your side of the vanity, topped with a bow and a note in messy scrawl

“You know me better than I know myself.”

Inside is a bottle of vanilla and cardamon, in the largest size possible.

On the back of the note, a time next to your favorite restaurant, the one with quartz sink and a big mirror in the private bathroom.

“Almost as well as I know you.”

Pinktober Masterlist

Main Masterlist

I run a tight program (psychological warfare)! 3 days left, be careful out there my friends if you see a SINGLE man dressed at Clark Kent it’s actually the worst man alive, don’t let them trick you!

(This warning does not apply to men in Superman suits, they are safe to pursue. Couples dressed as Clark Kent and Lois Lane are also exempt, however they will kick your ass at drinking games.)

Taglist: @alex-cheraya @seraphina-barnes @its-carlerrr @pestoluvr8 @strawbvrrystrgirl @nothing-behindher-eyes @purple-soldier @shadeaave @x-fanaccount1-x @youvebeenbrekkered @avgdestitute @billieatusn-blog @aeriwifee @mistalli @bad-wolf1991 @star-yawnznn @absinthe-xxx @lilbloggs @j23r23 @ssasa-romanoff @miraclediviner @metal-armed-muse @clarknsun @helloimokaynow @hailmary-yramliah @diorbymel @jeanournal @after8hore