#garfielddc

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The door of the Daily Planet archive room clicked shut, instantly cutting off the aggressive clatter of typewriters, ringing phones and editors shouting across the bull pen.

Inside, it was darkly illuminated with only the gray Metropolis rain washing over the high, narrow window and the faint light slipping under the door.

Then soft grunts and breathless quiet moans had echoed faintly through the narrow aisles where decades of old files and heavy boxes were stored. A sudden shift in weight caused a soft rattle of the metal shelves, followed immediately by the desperate, messy, wet sound of a makeout session that had been building up for weeks.

Clark had you pressed back against the sturdiest shelf in the room, his massive frame completely shielding you from view if anyone were to suddenly open the door. His hands, usually so careful and tentative when he adjusted his glasses at his desk, were buried deep in your clothes, mapping the curve of your waist with a sudden, possessive urgency.

"Clark," you gasped out his name, your hands roaming blindly under his suit jacket, feeling the incredible, solid warmth of his chest through his dress shirt. You needed to stop. You needed to breathe.

"Mmm?" He hums against your lips, completely refusing to break the contact. He angled his head, deep and heavy, dragging his lips from your mouth down to the sensitive skin of your jawline. His breath was hot, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, a low, rumbling vibration in his chest that you could feel right through your own ribs.

You both were trying so hard not to risk it. Dating a coworker was already a line the editors hated crossing, but dating Clark meant keeping a secret far heavier than just a workplace romance. You had promised each other to be professional, to keep a strict distance, to not show an ounce of intimacy toward each other while on the clock.

But looking at each other across a busy newsroom all morning? Sharing quiet, lingering glances over coffee mugs? Clark found it entirely impossible to resist you. And you'd be lying if you said you found it any easier to resist him.

He pulled back just a fraction of an inch, his thick tortoiseshell glasses slightly askew on his face. Behind the lenses, his blue eyes were dark, blown out with an intensity that belonged entirely to the man behind the reporter persona. His large hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, which was flushed and swollen from his kisses.

"Five more minutes," he murmured, his voice dropping into that incredibly low, soft, rumbly tone he only used when it was just the two of you. He leaned back in, his forehead resting against yours, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "Just five more minutes, please."

He pleaded, "Clark— Clark!" Your voice in a frantic, breathy whisper as you forced your hands up between his chest. "

We have to not get caught, remember?"

You then held his face in your hands, your fingers framing his strong jawline, tilting his head up so his dark blue eyes had to meet yours. The heat radiating off his skin was incredible and you could feel the rapid thudding of his heart right through his dress shirt.

Clark then blinked behind his crooked glasses, looking briefly like a man waking up from a trance. The raw, heavy intensity in his gaze softened just a fraction as he looked down at you, his large hands settling firmly but gently on your hips to anchor you both.

"I remember," he murmured, his voice incredibly thick and low, vibrating right against your palms. He leaned into your touch, tilting his head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss right into the center of your right palm. It was a completely gentlemanly, sweet contrast to the desperate way he had been kissing you just a second ago. "I know. Perry is already breathing down our necks about the front-page layout."

But as he said the words, his eyes dropped back down to your lips, flushed and darkened from his mouth. His thumbs made slow, mesmerizing circles against your hips, his broad shoulders shifting slightly as he leaned just a fraction closer, completely erasing the space between you again.

"But you smell like rain and vanilla," he whispered, a helpless, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He let out a low, shaky sigh that fanned across your cheeks. "And I've been sitting across from you for four hours just listening to the sound of your heartbeat. It’s a miracle I lasted until lunch."

You raised your brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips despite the adrenaline rushing through your veins. "Well baby, I know."

The pet name worked like a charm. Clark let out a soft, defeated chuckle, finally stepping back to give you some space, though his hands lingered on your waist for one last, reluctant second.

Then, the frantic scramble began. You both quickly fixed yourselves, the atmosphere shifting from heavy romance to breathless teamwork. You smoothed down your wrinkled clothes, desperately patting down your hair while Clark used the dark reflection of a glass-framed archive photo to straighten his tie. He adjusted his thick tortoiseshell glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose until the fierce, intense look in his eyes was hidden once again behind his gentle, clumsy reporter persona.

"How do I look, baby?" he whispered, giving himself a quick shake to shake off the nerves, looking every bit the polite country boy from Kansas again.

"Perfect." you whispered back, giving his tie one final nudge. "Let's both go back one by one. I'll go first. Cive it two minutes, then you follow."

He nodded. Then with a deep breath, you smoothed your skirt and kissed his lips one last time before slipping out of the storage roomand merged seamlessly back into the loud, chaotic hum of the Daily Planet bullpen—leaving a very flustered, very smitten Clark Kent waiting.