#long fics

It was early last week when Perry had announced that he'd hired an executive editor to cope with the growing roster that was the employees at the Daily Planet. Payroll, freelancers, interns – not to mention all the different departments – though Perry was beyond a competent leader, it was evident he needed a second in command. 

The question of who it would be was the subject of everyone’s lips. Lois hoped for someone younger, more able to relate to her offhand references – or perhaps an academic with a Pulitzer.

Cat wanted a man; indistinctly between the ages of 27 and 55, with pockets as broad and staunch as his muscles. Clark was indifferent. He liked meeting new people. But, it was at the back of his mind as he hurried through the building. It was noticeably quiet with most people – if not everyone – already in the meeting. 

With every step it was apparent to him that he felt as if he was walking deeper into the unknown. Would they prefer tea over coffee? Summer over winter? What if they were secretly a metahuman like he was, and just needed to take a regular job to blend in?  

The possibilities were endless. He'd just hope he could get past the meeting relatively unscathed.  

He took a breath as he neared the meeting room. Through the glass panels he could make out the side of a body, dressed strikingly in a tailored suit with a bold open collar and heels. Clark didn’t know much about fashion, but he knew enough to know that they looked like they’d come fresh off the pages.   

There was something about the side of your face that was oddly familiar; like he’d seen you in passing. Hell, he could've sworn he'd seen you in the lobby of the Daily Planet itself.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by a disapproving look from Perry, who was sat in the corner at the front. Acknowledging the man with a nod, he tried his best to ignore the few glances he got from his colleagues, scrambling to take a seat between Lois and Jimmy. They'd been kind enough to sit at the back to avoid the awkward ‘shuffle-through-the crowd’ moment.  

Mid speech, the woman at the front stopped as Clark tucked his bag under his chair. As he leant back in his seat, he swept a hand across his forehead, pushing back his unruly hair. With a second to glance at the screen behind you, the bold black letters formed your name as clear as day on the light grey background — and it dawned on him.  

He did know you. Well, of you, at the least. And being in journalism, he was practically a pariah for not realising instantly. 

It was then that you made eye contact; curious yet piercing. 

“You must be Clark Kent,” you spoke, cocking your head. Your voice was soft, a strong contrast (and in any other case a welcome change) to Perry’s gruff growling — though your tone was laced with a thinly veiled disapproval. “How nice of you to finally join us.” 

He cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry for being late, I —“ 

You raised a hand to shut him up. 

“Please don’t bore us with excuses,” you began, shifting your weight to lean against the table. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room in an instant. “We’ve sat here long enough, and we all know the news waits for no one.” 

Clark blinks. 

“Right...” he mumbles. He feels it best to close his mouth, instead choosing to gnaw on the inside of his cheek as you delve back into your presentation. From his left, he can feel Jimmy’s intense side eye; just waiting to make a joke at the situation. On his right is Lois, and though she’s focused on the screen Clark knows that she’s desperate to ask just why he didn’t let her cover for him.

Together, they both know his secret. It's perhaps the only leverage they have over you right now, if not ever.

“As Perry and I mentioned at the start of the meeting, I will be the intermediary between yourselves and the editor-in-chief. Perry still makes all the big decisions, but in the day-to-day, I’m very much your boss,”  

Clark could’ve sworn you looked at him.

No, you definitely did.  

“Effective as of Monday, pitches, drafts and expenses are to run through me first before it’s brought to Perry for final approval. In the case we don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, Perry will be the deciding factor.” you finish, clasping your hands together.  

You smile, but it’s not all that comforting. It barely makes a wrinkle on your face. Getting up from his seat, the older man nodded and placed a hand on your shoulder.  

“That’s right,” he garbled, cigar dangling off his lips. “I don’t want to hear any objections. I’ve got a lot of faith in her.” 

There was a collective nod amongst the journalists in the room, soon breaking into muffled chatter as they began to gather themselves to go back to their desks. Wringing his tie, Clark let out a deflated sigh as Steve leaned over to break the ice. 

“Looks like Kent just got a verbal spanking,” he grinned. “Day one and you’re on the outs. Impressive.” 

“Shut up, Steve,” he grumbled. “It was an accident. Roads were blocked.”

“Excuses. I’m bored,” the moustache man parroted, echoing your voice. “I would not want to be in your shoes right now.” 

“You couldn’t wear his shoes, Steve,” Lois interjected with a smirk. “He’s ten times the size of you.” 

“Kent’s ten times the size of everybody. It’s all that weird corn they fed you in Smallville.” 

Steve was first to stand up and leave, leaving the trio in a brief, but knowing silence. 

“Can you guys not do that?” he said, picking up his case. “I know what you’re thinking.” 

“If you do, then you know I’m agreeing with Steve for once,” Lois continued. “You do know who she is, right? She’s like, an editorial prodigy. The Museum of Art hosted her on a panel once. She has all the connections to thrive in this industry.” 

“Yeah, don’t you remember when I read that one edition of 30 Under 30, and we were laughing at them to cope with the fact that they were our age or younger and way more successful than us?” Jimmy said earnestly in a single breath. 

“—I didn’t partake in that.” 

“Well, anyway, she was in last years’ edition.” He finished with a shrug. “You might want to apologise before she hands you that pink slip.” 

Clark furrowed his eyebrows at the possibility. He knew he hadn't made the best first impression, but surely you wouldn’t fire him just because. He wasn’t even certain you had the power to do that.  

“…It’s Clark, Jimmy. He wasn’t going to leave this room without a sincere apology.” 

The pair watched as Clark made his way over to the catering table and wrapped a bagel in a tissue, grasping it in his free hand. Around him, he could see that the room was beginning to thin out, the human barrier between yourselves slowly lifting.  

Lois was right. Of course he was going to say something. In private. 

“Oh, so you’re going to help yourself to a bagel like you weren’t thirty minutes late?” the woman continued, nodding her head towards the baked good in his hand. “Pastries are for people at the meeting.” 

“I didn’t have time to eat this morning.” He finished with a shrug. “I’ll see you guys in five. I, uh, need to say something…” 

The pair flashed him a knowing look before they left the room, their eyes anxiously drawn to the situation even through the glass windows that were slowly coming out of view. The room looked vast now that it was empty. Your abrupt tone from minutes before was etched into his skin – yes, he’d flushed pink at your words - and it occurred to him that it felt like he’d been dropped into a lion’s den. 

“I’m sorry—“ he began, clearing his throat. “Do you have a moment?” 

You’d stopped gathering your things into a structured pile, slowly straightening your back as you took a moment to glance at him.  

Being awestruck would’ve been a clichéd thing to say, but it was almost unfathomable that you were working under Perry, rather than being the CEO of the Daily Planet entirely. Your demeanour was impeccable; like a puppet pulled straight on a string. You looked nothing short of a million dollars, down to the chosen colour of your earrings and your perfume — florals, with a hint of citrus? It seemed to walk a line between being floaty yet commanding. 

Ultimately, everything can be explained in your face. Pouting, you lend Clark a not-so-subtle once over. 

“I do.” 

He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing. 

“I’m sorry I missed your introduction this morning. I really didn't mean anything by it," he begins. “I got caught up in the accident. My Ma would kill me if she knew we got off on the wrong foot.” 

“That’s good to know,” you mused, seemingly not believing him. “I’d hate to think your absence was a sign of your disdain for having a new boss.” 

You raise a brow. It’s knowing, and Clark feels oddly dumbfounded. 

“No, of course not — “ 

“You know, Perry told me a lot about you,” you began slowly, gathering your items into your arms. Your movements are slow; deliberate. It’s like you want to drag this out on purpose. Eventually, you tuck the items to your chest.  

“I especially adore the story of how you ended up working here. Clark Kent; the shining little ingénue...” 

“I must admit I was being naïve,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd shown up to the building without an appointment, to which Perry had (rightfully) turned him away – but would only be considered under the condition he found the chief a brilliant story. “I was lucky for Perry to give me a chance in the end.” 

You cock your head. 

“Yes. He. Did,” you hum, but the tone suggests anything but admiration. Your words are a whisper, and he notices that it’s the same as your movements; whether intentional or not. It’s soft enough just to make people lean into you and listen. Venomous; like a camouflaging snake waiting to strike.  

The longer you stare at him, the more he finds himself hoping that he hadn’t made a huge mess of his tie. Or his glasses aren't crooked. Or maybe you’re looking at the bagel.  Either way, he's certain you're judging him. After what feels like an eternity, you take a breath. 

“I don’t know you, Clark. Perry does, but I don’t. He might’ve taught me about this business, but we’re very different people.” 

A warning. Subtle, amorphous…but it’s there. You’re not as forgiving.   

Blatantly done with your conversation, you walk off without lending him another chance to speak.  

Momentarily, Clark’s left in an empty room. He rolls his shoulders and takes a bite of bread, savouring the taste on his empty stomach. It’s 10:41, leaving another seven and a half hours or so to painfully mull over the fact that his new boss basically hates him. 

From the moment you’d walked into the building the following Monday, pumps clicking across the floor and flashing tight-lipped smiles to the people around you, it was clear that things were going to be very different.  

Dragon lady, career woman - you’d heard it all before. From college to internships to your first full time role, you’d lived and breathed the publishing industry; so much so that your friends joked that you’d become an editor for the sole purpose of pointing out people’s mistakes. 

Perhaps you were naturally this way, or the industry made you so – you supposed it were a bit of both. Well, that, and the fact that Perry White himself had been your mentor for the past 10 years.  

Freshly thirty; you were living someone’s city dream - starting with waking up in your Metropolis apartment on the far-west side. 

Your home was a fusion of grit and a soft, art house-glam, the raw brick exterior a sharp contrast to the inside; modern, with sleek sconces adorning the hallway and a couch ladled with overly expensive cushions from gallery shopfronts.  

Once your alarm goes off, you’re headed to your second most pride and joy – your wardrobe. It’s been curated over time with sharp suits, cosy jumpers, miniskirts, scarves, shoes; clothes in at least each type of fabric you could imagine.  

Breakfast is a struggle; sometimes you love it or you don’t, but either way you’re out the door long before the school buses come out.  

By the end of your first week, the minutes between 8 and 9am have become a bit of a crunch hour for the people at the Planet.  Morning grogginess must be quickly replaced with a perkiness, starting with the front desk ready to receive the smack of your security pass on the gates. 

And that’s just the lobby. The lobby where people move out of your way and divert their eyes to the floor. Elevator rides are silent, all because no one wants to accidentally ruffle your feathers. 

Once you reach your office there seems to be a billion notes from Perry already...alongside a text from your (ex?) boyfriend-slash-almost-fiancé Teddy. 

Teddy: 7pm dinner tonight at Mario’s? I think we should talk. My treat. 

You’ve never rolled your eyes so hard – except maybe when Steve from Sports had offered to show you around the building last week.  

Teddy was the best and worst of Metropolis; an Advertising genius (seriously, any billboard or subway poster came from the agency he worked for) yet an insecure brat second only to Lex Luthor in terms of whining. 

You’d been ignoring him ever since his scorned reaction to you revealing that you’d gotten the job at the Daily Planet. His objections had included complaints such as him ‘feeling excluded’ from your decision making, and that marriage was going to be ‘so difficult’ if you worked through such ‘unstable hours’ — completely disregarding the fact that he hadn’t even proposed yet.  

And you’d just had your 30th birthday.  

As in, guests had just left the party when he’d decided to start arguing with you. 

To everyone else, you were broken up; and even in your head it rang true, but there was the slightest, most childish glimmer of hope in your stomach that Teddy would come around -  solely because he was the only man you’d been with that had lasted.  

A matter of the heart, yes, but also strategic – editors circles were also publishing circles, which were also advertising circles, meaning outside of Perry, Teddy was the man keeping your job in the Metropolis circle alive.  It was cliquey, and it was a man’s world, but that was how you played the game. 

With the rich, bitter taste of coffee on your tongue you reply. 

You: Fine. 

By the time it reaches the early afternoon, you’ve met with and given a tour to a new set of interns, approved a dozen or so articles for the spread (and website), and seemingly rejected even more. Afternoons are even busier at the Planet than in the morning; fingertips clacking thoroughly on keyboards, printers beeping almost endlessly, and people running in, bursting with new information to add before deadline. 

You're ten minutes out on an Ad meeting with a client – Perry says it’s good for you to know this stuff – when Mel, a freelance fashion writer catches you, her brogues scuffing against the floor in an attempt to match your pace. 

“I wanted to catch you before your meeting,” she began, rolling a pen in her hands anxiously. She looks like the stereotypical freelance writer, almost like a less glamorous Carrie Bradshaw. You note the multiple scrunchies on her arm and realise that’s why there’d been one left in the kitchen. “I had an idea for a rolling feature.” 

“Writers usually pitch on Mondays so we can plan for the week. I don’t recall seeing you there…”  

“Childcare stuff,” she says quickly, irises seemingly about to pop out as she eyes you for approval. You nod your head, and she continues. 

“I thought it would be nice to spotlight different pieces a day, like curating a monthly closet? They’re showing a lot of browns, and leath -” 

“Browns. For fall? Groundbreaking.” 

It looks as if she’s going to be ill. 

“What else did you have?”  

“Well - um – I saw some nice sculptures outside the Museum of Art... I can look into structural pieces?” 

“Perfect. Try to find items that are under $100, our readers aren’t looking for Vogue,” you say pointedly, and she scrambles to make a note on her phone. “Thank you for coming to work today.” 

Mel nods, absorbing your sarcasm-laced words as she turns away. You're briefly able to make out the words 'Hi Clark' — but it's replaced with a warm, weighty sensation down the front of your clothes that pools in your shoes. 

It’s then that Clark wishes he could’ve had the gift of hindsight. Navigating a busy bullpen with drinks in one hand and his phone in the other would only lead to a disaster.  

“Now, we know it’s late, but we saw in the paper that you got a new boss,” Ma drawled. “We just wanted to make sure that she’s treatin’ you nice—!” 

Clark chuckled and cleared his throat.  

“We’re, uh — all still getting to know her. We’re not all easy to manage…” 

“Well, I know you’ll be good. Don’t make life harder for her now, will you?” 

His cheeks were now flushed. 

“C’mon Ma, you know me!” 

“You’re a good kid, but you were a troublemaker sometimes. You used to run around the cornfields in your underwear to avoid bathtime!” he could hear his Pa interject. 

“I was four—!” 

And that’s when the collision happens. He greets Mel, and once you turn a half empty cup of Jitters coffee grazes your arm, knocking the lid off. Squeezing your eyes shut, you press your lips into a tight, thin line. Around him, it’s like the like the immediate area around you has come to a standstill. 

“I have to go…I’ll call you later, Ma. Love you, bye —“he rushes, voice breaking as he momentarily stares at you, dumbfounded. Lowering his phone, he watches your expression change by the second — surprise, to mild annoyance. 

“I am so sorry,” Clark stammers. “I was trying to do too many things at once. It was an accident. Let me get you a tissue…” 

“Accidents happen, Clark,” you say in that soft, yet forceful tone. “It’s unfortunate to be in such a position before a meeting with a client...” 

The ‘t’ is sharp and pointed. It almost spits off your lips. 

“...But these things happen. Let’s hope we don’t lose a deal.” 

He takes the cue, nodding shyly before stepping out of your way. Surprisingly, you take the tissue from his hands, though it's done without an acknowledgement before you walk away. It’s then that it occurs to Clark that he can feel the eyes of a few people on his neck.  

No one dared to stop and watch the scene – no, you probably would’ve killed them for wasting time – but they were very much stealing glances under the guise of writing emails.  

Clark spends the afternoon feeling rather guilty, trying his best to focus on his screen rather than the now empty coffee cup that's sitting in the bin by his desk, taunting him. His instinct is always to apologise — but you’re evidently not someone who seems to accept them. It’s fickle, but with the game of eggshells you’re playing with the entire office he’s starting to think that he’s cursed.  

Expectedly, at 4pm your notes on his draft come back blunt. With a flick of a finger to scroll down the page, there’s numerous red strikethroughs and highlights, to the point that it may as well be a Bridget Riley painting. Along the side, there’s an endless list of notes along the lines of: 

‘Simplify your sentence structure’ 

‘Drop the adverb’ 

And his favourite, a couple of words under a hefty three paragraphs that ignored the fact he’d have to rewrite the entire article to make it make sense.  

CUT THIS — 200 word limit.  

Apparently, the layout required an article to be cut considerably, and you’d chosen his.  

Leaning back in his chair, Clark can’t help but roll his eyes. He’s stuck between the line of this being your job, yet it’s also definitely a punishment for earlier. A message, a cruel one — mess with me, and I’ll mess with you. Though, he’s sure that in your case ‘mess’ is replaced by a stronger word with the same amount of letters. From behind, he can hear Jimmy let out a low wolf whistle, and once he spins around the red head is hunched over his shoulder, peering at the screen. 

“Looks like it’s going to be a long day for you, huh?” 

The words echo in his brain as the clock ticks along towards 6:45pm; the bustle of the Planet slowly shifting into a shuffle, with much fewer feet around the bullpen. Sometimes, an evening is busy; but evidently, it’s been a slower news day, leaving an almost empty, and certainly a little eerie building.  

Clark pushes his hands under his glasses, rubbing his eyes before turning off his screen. It’s then that the world around him comes to life; and he has the realisation that he’s done the Lois Lane thing of gluing himself to his chair the entire time he’s been writing, without so much of a break.  

He’s sent in a third version, but inexplicably you’ve gone silent, a solid half hour passing since he’s heard from you. Clark knows you're still here – there’s a white-ish light coming from room next to Perry’s that sits on the second floor of the office — so either you're very busy or you’ve taken the second grade route of lending him the silent treatment. 

It'd be silly - a death sentence, really – to leave without checking in with you first, so goes to make his way across the floor and up the short flight of steps. 

The door’s wide open. He doesn’t mean to stare, but it happens — and it’s not his fault that he has super hearing. Whatever the subject; it’s the first time he’s seen you look frazzled, pacing up and down the front of your desk whilst your spare fist alternates between clenched and unclenched. 

“Teddy, I’m sorry for not telling you, but I had to finish up. What was I supposed to do? Walk away from a deadline during my second week? — It’s different. I never asked you to do that for me. — Quite frankly, now I don’t think I wanted to spend the night arguing with you about money. It’s not like we’re even —” 

That’s when you make eye contact, Clark’s eyebrows slowly moving up his face in realisation that he’d been caught lingering. Lips parted, your eyes look sunken as you stare down the doorway back at him, body still, and for once rendered powerless. With every passing second, your chin seems to shrink into your torso. Clark twitches, the spark between his brain and hands disjointed as he waves. 

“Sorry, I- uh-” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “I didn’t hear back about my draft...” 

You blink, smothering the phone in your chest as the sound becomes muffled, and Clark notices that you don’t give the person on the other end the courtesy of hanging up – or even an acknowledgment.  

“Right,” you say slowly. “Your draft… It’s fine. You can go.” 

Clark nods to say ‘okay’, but the words can’t seem to leave his mouth, leaving them pouted in a perfect ‘o’. Stunted, he shakes his head in embarrassment before scampering off, his lips tight as he keeps his eyes to the ground, wishing he was invisible.  He’s not even thinking about the fact you’d intentionally labelled his piece as ‘fine’. 

If you didn’t hate him before, you certainly did now. There’s a heavy, constricting feeling in his chest that not-so subtly tells him that as of tomorrow, he’d be a goner.  

“She caught you eavesdropping? Jeez, Clark why would you do that?” Lois remarked, corners of her lips pulled into a frown.  

After a night of painful sleep, Clark had brought his dilemma to the break-room; the three of them huddled between the fridge and microwave.  

“It kind of just happened,” he sighed, swirling a spoon around in his mug.  “I just wanted to see if I could go, not get intel on her life story!” 

Clark cast his mind to the scene. Inexplicably, it felt as if he’d been a creep; gazing through a keyhole like some kind of less perverse Peeping Tom. His guilt was more about you – he was the last person to judge someone for being vulnerable –  but judging by the way you’d arrived and shaken up the office, it was obvious that to you the idea of being perceived as anything but a machine with a perfect life simply wasn’t an option.  

And, to make it worse, it’d been witnessed by someone who’d just spilt chain-brand coffee on your clothes earlier that very day. 

Leaning against the counter, Jimmy was munching on his sandwich, eyes roaming Clark in anticipation. 

“I hope this is the part where you give us the details...” he mused. “Otherwise, don’t bring it up, dude.” 

“I’m with Jimmy on this one. You kind of have to tell us.” 

Clark licked his lips, glancing around the room worriedly. A few people were trickling in and out, but anyone would've been able to hear. You might’ve been on ambiguous terms, but you had a right to privacy in your personal life. 

“C’mon, guys you know I can’t do that— “ 

Ma would’ve said your ears were burning, as at that very moment you walked in, heading right towards the countertop. There was an unreadable expression on your face that shifted as your eyebrows briefly furrowed in confusion at the gaggle of journalists in front of you. Your eyes met Clark’s, and it didn’t take a mind reader to divulge the source of the tension in the air. 

“Busy morning, huh?” Jimmy chuckled, pursing his lips as he instantly regretted speaking. 

“Hm,” you responded with a pout, which the trio took to mean ‘yes’. “...You’re all on lunch at the same time?” 

Clark blinked.  

“We’re strategizing...” Lois jumped in, nodding her head to the beat of her lie. “We’re working on something, and once we iron out the details, we’ll bring it to you.” 

“Really?” you hum, side eyeing the trio as you took something out of the fridge. “What’s it about?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Jimmy cosigns. “We’ve got a great source though. Nice guy. Name’s Robbie. Uh, Robbie...Robertson...” 

An imaginary crowd seems to smack their palms to their head in unison. Cocking a brow, you glance at them, intrigued, before whipping your attention to Clark, looking at him for approval. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he knows that if he stays there any longer – or even decides to speak – that his face is going to turn as red as the tomatoes on Jimmy’s sandwich. Instead, he opts to nod, lips wobbly as he presses them into a smile. 

“Well, I can’t wait to see what you bring me on Monday,” you begin with a smirk, fishing a fork from the drawers. “If it’s the same Robbie Robertson from the defunct Daily Bugle then you must get an interview with him. Not many people live to be 150.” 

You finished with an incisive smile, sweeping your items off the counter and practically sashaying out of the room, leaving the three of them completely dumbfounded. 

“…Robbie Robertson?” 

“How were we supposed to know he was some 150-year-old dead dude?” Jimmy gasped at Lois pointedly. “It’s just a bad coincidence!"

“I think it’s worse that you promised her a surprise.” 

“It was your lie!” 

“Yeah, but I was vague!” Lois bickered. “We could’ve brushed it off after a week as a dead end. Now we’re all in deep shit!” 

“Thanks a lot, guys,” Clark swallowed, shaking his head. “I know you were trying to help, but –“ 

“—We made it worse?” 

“Kind of.” 

Clark clicked his tongue, sighing as he began to head out of the break room, seemingly in your direction. “Why don’t I just tell her that there’s no story, and reassure her that I’ve kept her secret?” 

“No, you cannot do that,” Jimmy insisted, eyes on the verge of bulging out of his head. “It’ll look more suspicious!” 

“Jimmy, we lied. We’re gonna get caught in front of the whole office!” 

“Okay, I’ve been here way too long for that to happen,” Lois said, rubbing her temples before she drew in a breath. “There are a million things happening out there. We’ll find a story and let Clark be the one to give it to her. That way it takes the heat off, and we don’t look like The Three Stooges. Got it?” 

Jimmy and Clark looked at each other before they shrugged. It wasn’t as if they were in a position to say no. 

/ 

Another Monday morning had come around like clockwork, and journalists were once again filing into a meeting room; sitting around a rounded table with the anticipation of yet another pitch being chewed up by you. It seemed luck had finally caught up to Clark, as they’d found a story – a good one – one of which Clark had been privy to witness, and save, first hand. 

Sat together, there was a joint swelling within their chests, excitement manifesting in Clark’s right leg under the table that bounced uncontrollably. This would finally be it, his moment to prove that he wasn’t a clumsy dork who’d snagged a job at the prestigious Daily Planet by an act of chance. 

He runs through the key points in his head, but his thoughts soon become a jumble once you walk through the door; head held high, and the hem of your skirt even higher. 

The fabric moulds and sways around your legs perfectly, somehow inching further up your thigh as you sit angular in your chair, legs neatly crossed but kicked to the side. Burying his chin in his chest, Jimmy side eyes him as he fumbles through his notebook, conspicuously looking for nothing in particular.   

The clanking sound of your mug hitting the table draws their focus to the front, along with a short greeting.  

“Stories. Let’s hear them,” you say curtly, shooting daggers into the pairs of eyes around the table. Some people are still shuffling in or are woefully unequipped for a meeting (there’s hardly any notebooks on the table – how else are they going to take your feedback?) and today their hamster-like scuffling is even more of a hindrance than normal.  

Raising your eyebrow, you tuck a manicured hand on the side of your face and nod. “Lane, Olsen, Kent... you can start.” 

As rehearsed, Clark’s the one to speak. He clears his throat. 

“There’s been information coming out about the broken vessel two weeks ago that suggests it wasn’t just an accident, but deliberate,” he begins, eyes drawn on you in intrigue. “When we looked into it, we found that a mafia in Blüdhaven had ties with the shipowner, but recently the relationship had gone cold. Apparently, there were several unauthorised personnel at the docks in New Jersey. Lois wanted to look into their city archives to investigate the history of the gang, but we haven’t got to that yet...” 

Tsk.  

“And why not?” 

They blink. 

“Well, they’re notoriously cagey...” 

“Interesting,” you hum, nodding your head twice. It's become a telling sign that you were impressed by something. Cocking your head, you jot something down in your notebook before whipping your focus back to Clark.

“I want you to go to Blüdhaven and get around this... barrier.” 

His mouth falls open, and before you can make the comparison of calling him a dead fish, he clears his throat to speak. It’s comical how flippantly you've labelled a restriction of protected historical archives (in another state entirely) as nothing more than a minor obstacle.

“Me?” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I give credit where it’s due, and you’ve brought me a promising story. But if we can’t get any lucrative information then there’s no point in running the article,” you shrug. “Am I reaching for the stars here? Not really. Unless you have some other brilliant thing to be getting on with, I’d like some movement on that by the end of the day.” 

And if nothing gets done, don’t even bother coming back, Clark can practically hear you say as you note down something in your journal, swiftly moving on to the next person.  The small, under the table fist pump from Jimmy is replaced by a subtle look of collective worry, and, in Clark’s case, frustration. 

Once it’s over, he explodes – in his dorky, Clark-ish way.  

“Darn it, she is really out for me!” He exclaims, voice breaking as he throws his hands in the air before they drop to his sides, fingertips frantically rubbing on the fabric of his trousers. “Blüdhaven is miles away, I’ll never make it in time! I should’ve never have listened in; it was a silly mistake... She should’ve just fired me on the spot — “ 

Jimmy squeezes his shoulder.  

“Dude, calm down. She liked the idea, that’s huge! Besides, you’re in a better position to do this than the rest of us…” he trails off, one eyebrow raised as he glanced at the time before looking back at Clark. “You got this.” 

Lois nods, echoing Jimmy’s statement before her desk phone rings, speedy as she moves away to answer it.  

Folding his arms over his chest, he scrunches his nose and frowns, feeling rather at a loss. He's not an academic, or a historian, but just a field reporter, hence it unreasonable for you to ask him to do this – yet it makes sense. It's a punishment, but it's also much more of a test; and even a second (technically third) chance. 

Like any journalist, hell, like any employee, you knew how much it meant to him that you would really see him as valuable – and you were making him work for it. Ironically, just like Perry. 

Golly, you were mean. And kind of calculating. But it was kind of exciting. 

Hastily, he scoops his items into his arms, giving the time a final glance before shovelling his phone into a pocket. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.  

He's got this. 

LATER 

When Clark arrives back at the Daily Planet, he moves briskly out of the elevator and up the stairs, heading straight for your office. The bullpen’s thinned out; desk lamps replacing the overhead as people type away, and receptionists begin to pack up their items. He knows Lois and Jimmy are still about – they wouldn’t miss this for the world – but there’s a tingling feeling in his stomach that he just can’t shake from his body, so much so that he swallows down his smile as he nears your door.  

It’s open; and it’s occurred to him that he hasn’t seen it up close. To the left is a short, but long black bookcase of files, some of the folders scuffed and faded at the edges and framed on top is a large painting of the city, black and grey rectangles and white splashes depicting the skyline. To the right is another bookcase mirroring the left, but on-top is a rich brown espresso machine, fitted with stainless steel linings and a temperature reader.  

The window behind you was large, and the blinds were only halfway drawn; the colours of the evening streaming through the slats and outlining you from behind. Though the white lighting of the screen was harsh, it seemed to illuminate your features in a subtle, yet provoking way. He was almost convinced that he was staring so hard he could see the smallest of frown lines between your brows.  

The gentle rasp of his knuckles on the door got your attention.  

“I got access to Blüdhaven’s archives. Can I come in?” 

He spoke simply, hands behind his back in a formal manner as he walked a few steps towards your desk, placing a business card on the surface. 

“What’s that?” you said flatly, poking at it with your pen as if it were a dead mouse. 

“The details of the records manager and archival officer, in case you needed it.” 

Cocking one eyebrow, you shifted in your seat, leaning back in your chair to glance around. Briefly sucking in your cheeks, you sigh, looking up at Clark expectedly. 

“I don’t see these fabulous archives. No photocopies, or anything?” 

He smiles, and it produces a dimple on one cheek. 

“Oh no, I got an entire selection of the documents digitised. They should be in your inbox right now. It provides an entire history of businesses that have existed in the area, and information it’s links to whaling. Blüdhaven has a history of port and sea related controversies. I think it’ll be enough to start examining the incident.” 

A beat passes, and with parted lips you gaze at him sceptically. Clark’s grin is knowing as his hands remain tightly around his back, rocking back on his heels as he watches you move your mouse, clicking through something on the screen.  

He studies you with a soft intensity as your chest heaves, listening as you take an almost silent, but ragged breath through your nose as you scroll through the content. Your lip twitches as you squint, and he’s not oblivious to the passing smirk on your face as you close the screen.  

He knows you’re stunned, but you’re not giving much, if anything away. You never do. 

Clark breaks the ice.  

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do?” 

There’s a throbbing silence after that. It’s a moment before you look up at him, eyes making a few rapid blinks as you rhythmically sway about in your chair. He doesn’t leer, but his eyes flicker towards your skirt again, material wrinkling as you switch your legs over with a flourish. It’s a little erotic. Inhaling, he folds in his bottom lip, jaw tight as he bites down on the pink skin.  

From your seated position, Clark looks a million times bigger than he does when you’re standing. It’s crude, but the way he’s stood – body on total display – makes his shirt stretch across his broad chest and hug his biceps in the immaculate way that Roman sculptors would carve the illusion of fabric into statues. There’s a pink hue on the tips of his cheeks — and God, it’s so self-assured that you’re almost proud of him.  

“No,” you say, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. “You’re fine.” 

Mario’s was a busy restaurant on a quaint street on the west side of Metropolis. It was one of those places that were booked to a hilt every weekend, with people queuing up in the hopes of a glimpse of the swanky interior. Dim lighting, a speakeasy style bar and a small, but certainly hazardous fire feature — Mario’s was the place where you’d had your third, and most important date, with Teddy.  

Where once you’d enjoyed the intimate exclusivity, now it felt cold…and it wasn’t just because the man had reserved a table at the back, right by the side window. It wasn’t a functional one that opened, yet there was a noticeable draft; the glass cold against your skin when you’d lean back. 

“You look…wow,” Teddy grinned, eyeing you. Today you’d worn an off the shoulder sweater, exposing the very neck he used to be able to kiss. He, on the other hand, looked forever the poster child of a Yuppie. “Fall always looks great on you.” 

You nod, unamused, and take a sip of your wine. Flattery — classic Teddy. If he wasn’t here for a firm apology than the night was going to be over before you’d even made it past the complimentary breadbasket. 

“It’s nothing special. I wore this to work,” you said dismissively with a wave of your hand. “You know, the place you had a problem with me going to?” 

He sucks his cheeks in and huffs. 

“Well, how was it?” He continues, ignoring your attitude. “Has that Mark guy brought in Superman yet?” 

Teddy’s idiocy is baffling at times. Either way, you feel like you’ve gone overboard with the wine as your body suddenly runs hot at the mention, no matter how incorrect. 

“His name is Clark Kent,” you correct quickly, and Teddy thinks nothing of your elongated pause. “And no. He doesn’t just write Superman stories. There’s more to him than that.” 

Teddy shrugs, shifting his attention back to the menu. He’s just stalling. He’s getting veal. He always gets the veal.  

He waits until the waiter has taken your orders before lowering his voice, cocking his head so that he looked you in the eye. 

“Listen, I’ve been thinking…I’m sorry about what I said,” he begins, reaching a hand across the table, but doesn’t initiate holding yours. “I think it’s great that you took the job. You’ve been doing some good stuff —“ 

“Well, it was never about whether I’d be good at it or not. To me, at least.” 

Teddy’s brows furrowed. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he corrected, biting the inside of his cheek. “I want things to be good with us again.” 

That was so vague. Was it an apology? Not fully, but it wasn’t as if he was shying from the fact that he knew there was a tension between you.  

“Explain what you mean by that?” Your managerial voice tended to slip out 

“We make such a good team. You working at the Planet, me in Advertising…it’s just right,” he waffles, and it’s evident to you that he’s speaking a whole lot of nothing. “The things about hours…we can make them work! We practically do the same, anyway.” 

“My day starts at 8. Sometimes 7,” you say decidedly, shifting in your seat. “It ends only when everything’s approved and Perry’s happy. Is it going to be a problem if I come home late?” 

Teddy frowns. 

“Why? You’re a Managing Editor—“ 

“—Executive.” You correct. If he’d had cared a damn about you, he would’ve known or even chosen to acknowledge that.  

“Well, I’m Accounts Executive and it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just a title. Either way, you’re not the Chief.” 

The belittling of your position doesn’t hurt you as much as his biting green jealousy. That’s all it’s been – jealousy, a competition. He was more than happy to love you and keep you on his arm through your Masters and the entry level jobs, but now you’d peaked he resented you. And in truth, probably had with every passing milestone leading to this point. 

“And what if I am some day?” 

Teddy throws his head back — and laughs. As if you’d just told him you believed in Santa. 

“Come on, it takes years to become an editor in chief! The average age is what, 45? 50?” 

“There are younger editors. Of smaller papers, yes, but they exist,” you snapped, but not once did you raise your voice. “At least I’m on a path somewhere. You still haven’t gotten any closer to becoming Head of Accounts or even Creative Director because your boss wouldn’t care if you dropped dead.” 

His gall was astounding. You’d spent countless nights listening to him complain about not getting credit on a concept for a commercial. It seemed no amounts of butt-kissing (and Teddy did loads) would ever get him a promotion. Why he hadn’t left the company, you weren’t sure. But now, you certainly didn’t care. 

“It’s different, there’s a hierarchy,” he said matter of factly. “If you ask me, I think Perry cares a little too much about keeping you close.” 

The implication was the ugliest thing you’d heard from his mouth, perhaps ever. Perry White was like a second father to you. Folding your lips, you slump back in your seat as if to claim defeat. Teddy’s nostrils are flared, and he runs his hand across his forehead, absentmindedly shaking it. In true Teddy fashion, you know he’s going to come out with a half-hearted apology, but you decide to down your wine before giving him a chance to speak. 

“How can I be with you when all I’ll be thinking about is how you’re competing with me?” You say softly, but it’s not out of fear. In fact, it’s rather haunting, and Teddy’s eyes are wide as the breadth of his mistakes seem to crash down upon him. Slowly, you gather your items; sliding on your coat and clutching your bag to your chest.  

You’re in the right mind to hit him with it. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you laugh, smiling as you feel a growing sense of relief. You’re probably going to break down, eventually, but if anything, you’ll do it in private.  

“Lose my number. I’m done with you.” 

As weeks passed, there was an unspoken air between yourself and Clark; a shift that had found you more accommodating to him than before. You're still impossibly strict (that’s a non-negotiable), but it’s common for you to at least give a compliment within that.  

It starts with you passing by his desk one afternoon, a pen in hand as you lean against a pillar, stopping him mid-email to praise him on his interview with Superman. You read tens of articles a day; some for print, some for the website, so it’s natural that sometimes writing will merge into one and become black words on a white background cooked up by some nebulous ghostwriter. But that day, Clark’s interview had grabbed you – his questions provocative in a way that showed initiative – and it’s kind of brilliant.  

He's brilliant.  

Perhaps that was an overstatement, but the curly haired farm boy who’d spilt coffee down your clothes in your second week was growing on you - and it’s not horrible. With every little encounter you grow fonder; like his little grin of amusement followed by quick assistance when your scarf got caught on the revolving doors at the entrance (in your defence, you were on an important phone call – and you fucking hated those doors), or your quips about wasting time when he’s in the breakroom enjoying a slice of someone’s birthday cake. 

Clark’s a little naive, but he’s not silly; and he knows that inside, it feels like more than the smarmy pride that would come from being the boss’ favourite, (Did you even have one to begin with?) and something that was more like a crush. Almost the exact same ways it felt in high school when a cheerleader looked at you, even if their intentions might not have been genuine.  Where the cheerleaders in school might’ve been cruel to the core, he suspects that’s not the case with you. Hard shell, soft inside. 

It was that, and the fact that every day you seemed to look better than before – all because of those gosh-darn outfits. They all suited you perfectly. 

Alas, having a crush on your boss was fine, maybe even normal. Dating your boss was a HR no-no, and a distant fantasy even for the man who donned the red cape. So, Clark pooled his focus into a Friday night out with his friends instead. 

When it wasn’t under attack by inter-dimensional threats, city life in Metropolis was pretty great. Especially on a Friday night in the hotspot that was The Red Star. Though it had the feel of an old saloon, the vibe was very much the opposite – buzzing, lively. 

It just so happened to be the go-to spot for the Planet’s employees, namely Lois, Jimmy, Cat and Steve - who’d dived first into margaritas and beers whilst huddled in the corner booth.  

“...Tell us again how exactly you managed to get those documents digitised in one afternoon?” Jimmy grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he spoke. It was probably the beer talking, but he’d been far more invested in the story than Clark himself. 

“It helps when their head archivist is a Superman fan. Without breaking confidentiality, I told him some stories,” he shrugged. “And I’m now the photo of his grandma’s lockscreen, so...” 

“Fucking brilliant!” Steve bellowed. “I don’t know how you do it, Kent!” 

Folding his lips, Clark’s smile was bashful. 

“What are we celebrating, anyway?” 

“That we’re three months into the Ice Queen’s reign and none of us are fired.” Jimmy grinned. 

“Steve almost did.” Lois remarked. 

“—Almost.”  The moustached man corrected as he rolled the glass in his hand. “She took me off international football coverage as a compromise. Which is great, because it sucks.” 

“Hey, we got paid. That’s all that matters!” Jimmy said, raising his bottle in the air. 

“I’ve got to say, she’s growing on me,” Cat spoke up, finger curling around her hair. “But I never really had a problem with her to begin with…she’s like, my style icon of the year.” 

Steve nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly.  

“She gets my vote for babe of the year. I’m gonna take her out for prime rib someday.” 

“You couldn’t afford her, Steve.” Lois said. “And even if you could, you’re the last person to know anything about being discreet.” 

Clark smirked to himself, stealing a fry from Jimmys tray. You were the same age as some of the staff, of course they’d be interested in you.  

“At least she doesn’t yell like Perry does.” Jimmy nodded. “I actually think she’s mellowed him out.” 

“He is less stressed,” Lois spoke, shifting in her seat so that she was leaning into the table, hands clasped. Angling her head, she made eye contact with Clark.  

“Speaking of stress, can you believe she’s bringing the deadline forward on our articles though? We shouldn’t even be here; we should be out slaving away at our desk like she wants.” 

Twisting his lips, Clark tutted. 

“Come on, Lois, that’s not fair. Perry made the call.” 

“The least she could do is vouch for us,” the woman sighed, unexpectedly feeling betrayed. “Besides, I complain about Perry too. I still like the guy.” 

Jimmy slapped the table.  

“Lois is right. It’s natural to complain about our boss - it helps to get it out of our system,” he began. “One time she said that my photos should be ‘that of an auteur’. You’d think we were working at Vogue.” 

Cat snorted.  

“I was there, Jimmy,” Clark corrected. “You missed the part where she said she likes your approach.”  

“You’re defensive, Clark…” Cat said knowingly, dragging her finger around the rim, gathering salt.  

Pulling a face, he shrugged. He could feel his cheeks warm, and he hoped none of them would notice under the dim, neon lighting of the bar. 

“I’m being objective.” 

“I think you’re blushing!” The blonde squealed.  

“It’s the beer!” 

“You’re drinking a light, Kent,” Steve said, playfully jabbing him in the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got the hots for her too, huh? Don’t take it personal when I become your de-facto boss.” 

With a playful ‘shut up’, the night swirled on around him until he'd decided he’d had enough, politely declining the option to go to Jimmy’s. 

The streets were still lively; though most of the sound came from the muffled thump of bars, and rumble of chatter from people crowded in restaurants behind foggy windows. Apparently, it had rained; the pavements shiny with precipitation, puddles reflecting the white streetlamps that hung from above against a black sky.

Clark had grown to enjoy the post rain shower sensation in Metropolis – even if it couldn’t compete with the smell of morning dew on damp grass back home. He liked it, just like many other things in the city. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he found himself staring longingly into all the storefronts with open windows, happy couples nestled into corner tables in high-end eateries, or even just huddled outside a club with a cigarette. That was the great thing about Metropolis; there were so many places that were perfect for a loved one, regardless of what they were into – which meant that love looked and felt a little different here than in Smallville.  

Home was home – insular, but the perfect place to raise a family. Here, it was a challenge, exciting, something new – which scared him but also filled him with hope. He'd been on a few dates from college until now, but he’d never really gotten it right. But Metropolis was a city with a million people - and Clark, being the loverboy he was - still clung on to the idea he’d find the one. 

Clark reaches a junction, puffing his lips mindlessly as he waits for the traffic lights to change. He's staring right into Scrappies, a pizza joint (which, despite its name is good), when he makes out a familiar figure. Sure enough, it’s you, looking rather forlorn, hand tucked under your chin with your knees pressed together under the table. As the lights change and he draws closer, you stand up to retrieve your box from the counter, pushing on the front door just as Clark reaches the pavement. 

Your eyes are a pinkish red in the corners, and your lips are bare. You've almost certainly been crying. Despite this, you don't make the effort to move away. 

“Hey,” he begins, clearing his throat. “I thought you’d still be at the office...” 

“I’m bringing the office home with me,” you sigh. “I’m obviously not going to cook, and no one’s there to do it for me, so...” 

“I live alone too. But you made the right choice. It’s good pizza.” 

You roll your eyes, but it's noticeably less energetic. Instead, you opt to stare wistfully at the ground, fingers poking and fiddling with the warm cardboard box. A beat passes, and Clark shifts his weight.  

“...Are you ok?” 

You sigh, diverting your gaze once more before looking back at him. 

“I passed my probation today...” 

“Oh,” he blinks, though he’s not convinced that you’ve been crying happy tears. “That’s great, congratulations —” 

“Yup...” you said distantly, popping the ‘p’. “It’s funny. I’m fully settled into the very job I broke up with my ex over...” 

“Teddy?” 

“Teddy. His numbers’ gone from my phone, alongside two people I thought were my friends basically calling me selfish for choosing a job over a fiancé.” 

Clark cocks his head at that. He’s not sure if it’s out of jealousy, guilt, or intrigue, but it’s somewhere in between. 

“You were engaged?” 

You scoffed. 

“He hadn’t even proposed yet, but he wanted me to stick with my junior editor position because it was ‘safer’. I used to believe that he would, but now I don’t even think marriage was ever on the cards unless I failed. He just couldn’t handle that I was doing better than him. They never can,” you trail off, and he presses his lips into a line, lending you the space to speak in a stream of consciousness. Under the streetlights at a quiet intersection, he’s listening to you, seeing you, even.  

‘They’...you’d been through this before. 

He may be virtually indestructible, but the depth of your feelings — the rawness — is enough to penetrate his skin. You're beautifully human. For some reason or another, you, his boss, is lending him a bit of your soul; and, after today, whether you choose to remember it or not, you’re that bit much closer to each-other.  

“...And today I shadowed a publishing meeting with Perry. All men, so you know how that went. It’s like I’m not even there.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. He’s heard the horror stories from Lois. “I know it’s difficult. You’re probably not the only one in the building who’s put up with that – but that’s why it’s great you’ve got this job.” 

He sighs.  

“And as for Teddy...well, he doesn’t sound all that huggable,” Clark jokes, and you let out a soft chuckle that leaves him grinning for slightly too long.  “You deserve this position. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job at it. We’re lucky to have you.” 

It’s weak, but you give him a smile, cardboard box wobbling in one hand as you rub your forehead, exasperated, with the other. The silence between you is comfortable, though Clark’s unaware of the depth of his words on you, even with your head fuddled with thoughts. He happens to be just the medicine you need right now.  

Slowly, you open your mouth to speak, tip of your tongue moving ever so slightly to form a word, and Clark angles his head, lower, ready to listen in. He doesn’t want to delude himself, but he’s almost certain that there’s a softness, an offering, in your eyes that’s wanting to invite him – dimmed at the sound of brakes pulling up to the pavement. 

It's like you’re awakened from your trance. 

“Can I —“ you finally speak, nodding your head past Clark and gesturing to the car behind him. He's blocking your way. 

He blinks, stammering. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were…” 

“Yeah.” 

“Right…” he nods, stepping aside as he watches you get into the backseat of the car, careful not to wander too close behind. He's not your boyfriend. He's not even your friend. Just a colleague, and he doesn’t want to be clingy. “Enjoy the pizza.” 

The window’s rolled down a nudge, just enough to make out the centre of your face. It's away from the neon lights of the storefront and into the soft gold of the passenger light, and you look positively angelic. The feeling is akin to the rich words that leave your mouth just before the car takes off, fingers curled around the edge of the window as if reaching out to him. You smile, larger this time, and your eyes seem to sparkle. 

“Thank you, Clark.” 

A THURSDAY 

Clark slung his bag over his shoulder, adjusting the strap as he skimmed the bulletin board next to his desk. He’d been careful to ensure everything was complete – with a lengthy drive back to Smallville ahead of him tonight, he didn’t wish to spend the trip agonising about unanswered emails. Perry had passed by everyone’s desks earlier today, muffling a ‘Go home when you can, kid’, to which nobody had taken lightly – hence the quiet bullpen at 5:30pm.  

Tucking his chair under his desk, he went off in search of you, running through the scenario in his mind. It was paper thin, really – he just wanted to tell you he was leaving and notify you about his absence on Monday – but it was much more of an excuse to have a reason to see you. Staring at you from across the room whilst you spoke to another journalist wasn’t enough - even if you made his mouth feel like putty in your presence. 

The lights by your office were still on, but it was rare that your door was closed. Knocking, he waited for you to call back to him before opening the door, leaving just enough space for his body to slip through the gap. Sure enough you were at work, sat poised behind the wooden desk, though your torso was noticeably draped in a dull coloured shawl. It was certainly more relaxed than anything he’d seen you in, but it looked cosy all the same.  

“Hey — have you got a minute?” 

“I suppose.” You replied, eyes glued to your screen even as he shut the door behind him and slowly began to approach you, shoes making a tapping sound with every step. Though Clark doesn't feel he's owed your affection, it's very clear that you’ve got your ‘executive’ brain on – as if the events of last Friday had never happened.  

On the surface to the left was an empty box of Chinese takeout, sides sticky from the sauce, and on the floor below you were a small heater. That's what explained the shawl – he couldn’t feel temperature like you did. 

“Late night?” Clark hums, nodding to the box.  

“No. Tonight’s the editors gala and I’m going with Perry,” you say. “‘Dinner’ to them are six small plates of cold canapés and lots of alcohol. We both figured we’d eat ahead.” 

He snickers at your sincerity. 

“I thought you’d have left by now. What do you need?” You finish, finally glancing up at him. The light from your screen and desk lamp dances over your face, and he can see that you’ve put on a layer of eyeshadow.  It suits you. 

“I thought you should know that I won’t be here for the next meeting,” he says slowly, and there’s a childish glimmer of hope in his chest that you’ll miss him. “I’m driving back from my parents on Monday.” 

Of course, you say the obvious. The very thing Clark knew about the whole time he’d been sat at his desk, running over the scenario on his head. 

“I could’ve known that by looking on the system.” 

Swiping his tongue over his lips, Clark shifts his weight.   

“Well, I thought you needed to know what I’ll be working on…” 

On the one hand, he’s aware he looks painfully desperate; pathetic, even, but on the other he hopes that his ‘forward-thinking’ is impressing you. Right now, he’s the very definition of a teachers’ pet. You raise a brow and shake your head. 

“There’s no harm in checking in on Tuesday.” 

Clark pouts and nods, feeling a little dejected.  

“Oh, okay…” he murmurs, backing towards the door.“I’ll just leave - “ 

You don’t answer. Your gaze is back at your screen, and Clark gives you a final, wistful glance before he leaves, shoulders slumping as he begins to twist the doorknob, foot crossing the threshold to the outside when he stops at the gravelly sound of the wheels of your chair pushing back against the floor. It’s then that you speak. 

“Wait, Clark?” 

He turns around, and it’s as if time stops completely. In the process of standing up, the shawl has been discarded on the chair behind you, leaving for a Cinderella-like reveal. You're wearing a slinky evening dress; one shoulder exposed as black ruched fabric clings to your waist, loosening as it flows down your legs. Built into the top is a scarf, that drapes around your neck and collarbones in the way that the designers had only envisaged, sitting neatly behind you. His legs are like steel, bolted into the ground as his eyes briefly wander the length of your body before looking back at your face, his cheeks beginning to run hot. 

“Could you hand me my mail?” you nod to the surface by the door where a mixture of sized envelopes sits.  

You don’t even seem to know what you’re doing to him.  

Clearing his throat, he nods, closing the door behind him as he shuffles the small distance to pick them up, steadily walking over to you. You tut. 

“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.” 

Picking up his pace, his cheeks flush deeper, briefly glancing down at a shiny rectangular piece with cursive writing.  

“That’s funny, I didn’t know they gave these out. I thought it was all electronics and secret guest lists…” 

“Oh, it is. I figured I’d keep this one,” you hummed, taking the object from his hand. Clark smiles at your implicit sentimentality. You run your eyes over the object before shrugging, looking back up at him. “Get good and you can go someday.” 

Shaking his head, he chuckles. His laughter seems to amuse you, side eyeing him as you’ve leaned your head to the side, fixing an earring. 

“The nicest suit I own is from a boutique in Smallville…I don’t think I’d look as good as you do…” 

The words leave his mouth before he can think, abruptness causing the accessory to drop from your hands, rolling somewhere along the floor.  

“Shit — “you hiss, flustered, and blood drains from Clark’s face as the weight of his words sit in the air. 

“I just meant that you fit in — “he corrected, tongue tied. Being able to locate the earring better than you, he looks to the floor, picking it up almost instantly.  

“I’m sorry, let me help…” 

Your bodies go for the object at the same time, meeting at the front of your desk. It’s now that you’ve both realised that you’ve gotten impossibly close – proximity wise – the tips of Clark’s shoe inches away from the hem of your dress. Silently, he stretches out a hand, offering the lone earring to you, to which you take, your fingertips momentarily lingering on his palm. To his surprise, you don’t instantly walk away, but instead your eyes slowly up make their way up towards his physiognomy – tracing from his palm lines to his chest, and eventually to his face.  

Clark can feel his breath catching in his throat – feeling similarly like the time he found out he could fly – his heart is thumping; but it’s not nearly as loud as yours. He can hear it. You want this just as much as him, and it’s quietly confirmed by the coy way you’re peering at him through your lashes, eyes lustrous as they focus in on his lips. It’s not about the earring, or the invitation anymore, and perhaps it never was.  

He shifts towards you, lips parted as he angles his head down towards your mouth. The aroma of your perfume – a tender Jasmine scent this time – intensifies as you lean in, eyes shut.  

You’re centimetres away, breath mingling with each-others as Clark’s hand cautiously makes its way to your waist. Drawing in a breath, you speak the magic words through a half-lidded eyes. 

“My town car’s outside…” you breathe, apparently coming to your senses. “Perry’s waiting for me.” 

It’s only then that you take a small step back, now disillusioned. Stunned, Clark blinks and follows suit, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.  

“Gosh, I’m sorry…” he murmurs, watching you recompose, shifting the scarf around your neck as if to shield yourself. He steps forward, outstretching a hand. “I didn’t mean — “ 

“I know,” you reply quickly, but it provides only the slightest comfort. “You should go…start your weekend.” 

You can barely look at him, hurriedly grabbing your phone and spare items before brushing past him, heading towards the door. Hovering by the doorway, you absentmindedly fiddle with the handle, mouth opening and closing a few times before you speak.  

“Turn the lights off before you leave.” 

It’d been nothing short of a painful weekend. He dearly treasured time with his parents; but as he lay in the very same bed he had during his teenage years across those three nights, he found himself staring up at the ceiling, reliving the scene in his head.  

He couldn’t have been delusional — your touch had dawdled; you'd made the effort to close the gap between yourselves...your breath had hitched in your throat. But you’d stopped, and he understood why. Still, like a boy, he wondered what would’ve been if you hadn’t - if those magic words had been ‘Kiss me, Clark’, and he’d planted one on you, what you’d taste like, how you’d feel...but it was just a fantasy.  

A common fantasy, Cat had mentioned once, something about the dynamics between power and risk that was so enticing. It wasn’t all lust to him (even if he’d had to fight a raging erection on his way out of state), but something more; a need, an appreciation for your staunch spunkiness and to oddly be a part of it. 

There was so much about you that he wanted to learn; if you’d been a city dweller your whole life, if you had any siblings, what your favourite kind of music was — anything and everything.  

The drive back had been agonising. It was hard to tell if he’d even be walking into a job at all. He’d made it through the revolving doors without so much as an objection from Niño, eventually falling behind the swarm of workers that piled through the lobby.  

There was an odd sense of comfort from it all — there was a tendency to become incredibly self-centred when falling in love that he'd seemingly forgotten that he was just one face in a pile of many. He wasn’t supposed to be that important to you, and so, as he filed on to the elevator, he took relief in the fact that he could shroud himself amongst everyone. It seemed he’d made it to the avoidance stage of your withdrawal.  

Little had he known that you were pressed against the opposite wall of the shaft, your presence becoming apparent once the company lawyers had exited onto their floor. You both inched closer to the centre but left a comfortable gap between you. Surprisingly, you were the first to break the ice. 

“Nice weekend?” you said, eyes focused on the ascending numbers on top of the doors. 

Clark smiled, a dimple pebbling on his cheek. 

“Yeah, it’s always great to go home…” he replied, letting the silence fall over you. It wavered, pleasant for a few moments until the air began to feel thick again. Clearing his throat, he made the choice to elaborate. 

“…Funny, one of our — uh — cows had a calf,” he began, angling his head to acknowledge you. “Which is weird because she’s kind of old, but also great because she was acting strange and we thought we’d have to put her down…” 

You turn to him, cheeks rounded as you flash him a genuine smile and hum. 

“That’s nice.” 

His heart flutters. Perhaps he’d overthought the situation in his head. 

“Did you get up to anything?” he questions, acutely aware of how the lift is inching forward to the floor. Once you’re out of here, you're almost certainly going your separate ways. “How was the gala?” 

“It was fine.”  

Your reply is quick, preliminary to releasing a long, drawn out sigh. There’s no hesitation in your voice as you speak – lilting, yet almost like it’s rehearsed. 

“Look, Clark — Let’s move forward, okay?” you nod, and his lip wobbled in surprise at the sudden change. Your eyes are wide and earnest, as if you were trying to infiltrate his brain. 

“You know what I’m talking about...what almost happened never did. Nothing’s changed.” 

“You want me to forget?” 

“Try,” you plead, feeling the elevator come to a halt. The doors open, and you assume your position, head held high and back impossibly straight.  “It’ll be so much easier if you do.” 

/ 

Forgetting someone you had romantic feelings for was hard. Forgetting someone you have romantic feelings for but can’t act on them and have to see each-other every day was even worse. 

Clark had begun to recognise the sound of your footsteps across the marble floors, even in as busy bullpen. It was brisk, but not too hasty – fitting for a woman who was always on the go. In an unintentional case of Pavlovian Conditioning, his head perked up when they’d grow louder (it was frequent that you wore a heel), passing by his very desk or even stopping completely behind him when you’d speak to Lois. And yet, if you were around him he’d find himself inexplicably keeping very still, trying to camouflage completely and yet desperately wanting you to acknowledge him. 

He even knew what time you took your (rare) breaks, because more often than not he’d catch a glimpse of you walking along the corridor of the second floor (your office overlooked the bullpen), a bag in your hand from some immaterial store as it was evident you had little time in your life to run errands.  

His cataloguing of the little details could’ve easily been viewed as pathetic, given the fact that it had been, as you’d rightly put it, an almost kiss. But Clark considered himself a little more in touch with his feelings (he was raised that way) — and it was all about the implication.  

Gosh, he sounded a disastrous rom-com protagonist. Though, for all his mulling and mental torment, it brought Clark comfort knowing that he wasn’t alone. 

He’d actually caught you staring. At his desk, he’d glanced up to see you in conversation, though intermittently you’d stare off into the distance – just so landing on Clark’s desk – lending him a distant, pining look before you’d draw your focus back to the individual, checking your phone to hide your embarrassment. 

Or, and even better yet, when you’d actually come to his desk and specifically handed him a piece of mail. A job that honestly, on his first week of knowing you, wouldn’t have ever imagined you’d be caught doing. 

“For you, Kent,” you’d said cooly. “It got mixed up in mine.” 

You’d propped it up along the side of his computer, but there was an attentive way about the manner you’d done it – careful to make sure it wouldn’t slide flat. It had been fleeting, but at the end of the interaction you’d made eye contact through his eyelashes. There was a tension, a wobble in your throat that was oh-so clear to the both of you that you were holding back.  

Yet, it simply looked an offhand, out of character action to an eagle-eyed bystander. Clark didn’t think anyone had caught on, not even his best friends. Still, there was only so long you’d be able to keep up the joint façade, as the dreaded second-quarter performance reviews were right around the corner. 

“Okay, I’m dying to know what she said in yours,” Jimmy egged, breaking Clark from his thoughts. With wide eyes he spun around in his chair.  “I’ve heard some of them were kind of scathing — Perry was playing good cop.” 

“I think that’s an exaggeration,” Lois interjected.  “She said that she sees herself in me. I don’t know if I should be honoured or terrified.” 

Jimmy clicked his tongue. 

“I can see that for you…” 

“I haven’t had mine yet.” Clark hummed earnestly, the pair flashing him a confused look. Pouting, he shrugged, the following words acting also to quell his thoughts. “There’s loads of us. I'm sure it'll come."

“They’re being done by department,” Jimmy said, lowering his chin. “All the Arts and Culture writers are getting theirs's done now...” 

Scrunching his lips, he shrugged again, uncharacteristically silent as he turned back to his desk. Again, he found his legs bouncing uncontrollably, thoughts racing as he tried to focus on his screen. It had to have been deliberate, right? Perhaps Perry was going to do his review? Maybe he didn’t need a review at all, and he’d be handed one of those filing boxes and a pat on the back before being kicked to the curb for good.  

Then, as if you’d read his mind, your name popped up on the side of the screen. 

‘Review in Meeting Room 5 @ 3:10pm. Please bring a notebook.’ 

He’d never been so happy to be under scrutiny. 

Meeting Room 5 just happened to be one of the only rooms without glass panels – tucked off to the side and was a room that was probably no bigger than the average bedroom. Confidential in the sense that it was less intimidating, but also equally stuffy (fitting, giving the circumstances), to the point that Clark felt bigger and bulkier than he did usually – cheeks pink the moment you'd instructed him to take a seat.

He’s tried to listen to the criticism of the overall quality of his writing, but your words droned out, solely because you were wearing a striking, fluffy cerulean cardigan that reminded him of his very suit and made his heart pang at the thought of wrapping you in in his arms. You’d never worn the colour before; slightly daring given your general eye for fashion and it being towards the end of November...but it suited you.  

It was towards the end of the meeting where Perry had left. Admittedly, Clark had been confused, especially as you flippantly instructed him to remain in his seat. The corners of your eyes crinkled as you smiled the older man away, gaze heavy as you waited for the click of the door closing. Then, a sigh of relief. 

Silence. A working week; five days in and out, simultaneously went with a blinding quickness and an agonising slowness. To keep Clark (let’s face it, you held the power here) in the dark was for so long was not only cruel to him, but to yourself also. There’d been sleepless nights, wondering if it were possible to move on from such an obvious flirtation — and the answer changed with every passing day.  

Clark — dark curls and blue eyes, always polite — Kent was a hunk, just what you needed after weedy city-bred Teddy. As someone who was often always composed, he had a profound way of making you want to devour him. 

“I know you’re wondering where this is going, considering I told you to forget...” you lull. He waits for you to explain yourself, but it doesn’t come. Clark swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat and nostrils flaring. He’s somewhere between hurt, annoyed and anxious – and you’re just prolonging the ripping of the band aid. 

“Why are you being like this?” he finally asks, the dissatisfaction in his voice taking you aback. “I understand if you want to put this behind us, but with all the looks you give me and this -” he gestures flaringly to the isolated meeting room, “it doesn’t make sense.” 

You frowned. 

“You can't speak to me like that; I’m still in charge of you.” 

Clark blinked, his mouth agape. 

“You almost kissed me!” 

“Well, I’m sorry for doing that.” You replied flatly, but there was a hint of humour in your words. No matter how out of character, there's something funny about you bickering like an old married couple. 

Clark shakes his head, and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, lowering his voice. 

“I understand why you’re avoiding this, but it’s obvious that we can’t.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say softly but flatly. You draw in a long sigh as you organise your papers into a pile before pinching the bridge of your nose. “We can’t avoid each-other. My job is to be around you, I read your drafts, I see you in meetings…” 

He frowns. 

“If you weren’t avoiding me, then why is my review only happening now?” 

You click your tongue. 

“Because of that,” you say pointedly, gesturing over your shoulder to the door. “I knew Perry would have to leave early today. I scheduled a dentist appointment the afternoon I did Jimmy’s so I’d be out of office and wouldn’t have to do yours.” 

Clark sat back in his chair. He slumped his shoulders, but he wasn’t upset. He did, however, feel a bit guilty for pressing you. 

“Oh…”  

You sighed and walked around the table to perch yourself on edge in front of him. He bit his bottom lip, eyes stealing a glimpse at your thighs and looked back up at you, who was staring at him wistfully. It occurred to him that he felt like a naughty schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal. Extending your hand, you place it on the lapel of his suit, smoothening out the details as you allow your fingers to linger on his chest. He doesn’t stop you. 

“Don’t feel guilty about what happened that evening. You weren't there alone," you began, eyes scanning his face intently for a reaction. 

His breathing seems to stop entirely at your words. He looked gorgeous; dark lashes long and pretty against his creamy skin, staring at you with puppy blue eyes. It took every inch of you, every modicum not to abandon your morals for your wanton desires, slide into his lap and take him right there. 

“But that’s the problem. We’re around each-other every day and the tension is just…sitting there.” 

Clark was half surprised you said it out loud. Then again, you weren't really someone to mince your words. Blushing, he shyly glanced to the floor and ran his tongue over his lips.  

“I-I can’t disagree with you on that,” he said quietly, staring back at you with keen eyes. “Are you saying that we…” 

He wanted it. Krypton knew he did. And here you were, offering yourself to him. 

“I’m saying that we resolve this. We kiss, fool around, and we’re done. I go back to managing you and nothing more,” you sigh, breathing a ragged breath. The edges of your lips trembled. 

“What happened that day can’t happen again. If someone had walked in, I could’ve lost my position for good…” you say, lips tight as you folded your arms over your chest. 

“Legally, ethically — it’s complicated, Clark. You know that.” 

Clark nodded slowly, taking in your words as he could practically see everything unravelling in your head. You’re not treating him as inept, nor like he was some infatuated servant with an obsession. 

He admires your ability to still be practical in the face of such an unprofessional situation — but there’s the ties again, finding a balance between your personal life and your career.  

The last thing he wants to do is come between you and a great job — but he also knows that he’s still a man, and not immune to the agony of unresolved sexual tension. You’re right; you’re going to see each-other every day for the foreseeable future. How could he act as if everything were normal when he’d been the only one to see you at your softest? Metaphorically wipe the aftermath of your tears?Almost kiss you? 

How could things ever be the same when he knew that his heart swelled whenever you praised him? Or stopped completely when you’d find a way to make eye contact in a sea of dozens?  

Shifting in his chair, he briefly shuts his eyes, contemplating. 

“Believe me, I understand,” he says cautiously, the pace of your heartbeats hinging on his carefully chosen words. “I’d never want to get you in trouble, but — but it doesn’t mean that hooking up will make things any easier.” 

Blinking, you seem appalled, but he knows you well enough to view this as a mechanism. Facing feelings for your subordinate was probably terrifying. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I don’t, but I know that I don’t want just that with you,” he continues, and it’s his turn to stand up in a subtle role reversal. Clark may be looking down at you, but you’ve both got the power, albeit in different ways.  

“I couldn’t. You deserve someone who isn’t going to make you feel bad for wanting more…” 

The situation gets blurry —otherworldly, rather— because both of your bodies are propelled together in a biological demonstration of Coulomb’s Law. When your lips meet Clark’s, you’re overwhelmed by his softness, how his country charm seems to translate even to sudden intimacy. They dance against your own as it takes a short second to find a rhythm, but once they do it’s nothing short of perfection. It’s tasteful, with the littlest bit of tongue that only leaves you with a larger appetite. 

Your hand snakes its way around his neck, fingers inching to tug at the dark curls on his nape before he pulls away – literally leaving you hanging.  You’re not someone who can be moved so quickly and visibly, yet your legs seem to buckle during the short moment you're staring into each other's eyes, astonished.  

Mere minutes after insisting your being together was wrong, you'd gone back on your words – inexplicably leaving you with far less clarity than you’d had going in. Clark has moved every inch of you, professionally, emotionally, far more than you’d anticipated the day he’d stood in front of you after you’d sent him to Blüdhaven and done the impossible. Unlike any man you’d dated, he’d done it without trying to ‘soften’ or change you, but by simply existing. Things just don’t seem to make sense with him - yet they do. 

It's fucking excruciating standing in your joint purgatory, because you both know what that kiss meant. There was no ‘normal’ after this. If you weren’t lovers, then you weren’t anything. Just a boss with her employee. 

Clark glances down at the table, picking up his notebook and tucking it under his arm. He shifts his weight and quickly glances at the door before lending you a plaintive once-over. 

You don’t even know that you’re wearing his colours.  

“…I’m more than happy living with the fact that you wanted it that day too.”  

Now, it’s his turn to leave you in an empty room.  

December 1st  marked seven days since you’d come to an (unfavourable) agreement with Clark. December 1st also marked the official beginning of your first Christmas at the Daily Planet – and though the workplace was the last environment one would describe as ‘magical’, there was a general excitement to everyone, including Perry, who’d gone out of his way to make it feel special. 

Radios seemed to jingle Wham and Brenda Lee from every corner of the office, whilst silver and red coloured tinsel draped off the fixed TV’s that hung on the wall, and a jolly but worn looking elf sat on the front desk, assuming the role as greeter. There was even an opulent looking tree – one that you could only assume had come from Rockefeller Centre itself – in the lobby opposite the security desk. 

Despite this, it hadn’t gotten easier to live with yourself. Not only were you sexually frustrated (seriously, you wondered if it were possible to be neutered), but, more greatly, in a time that was about indulgence, you were starving your heart.   

It’s one of those odd but cherished days that you get to finish at a reasonable time. You tug on the cord to close the blinds and get a peep into the city around you; quiet and illuminated with the white of the street lights dotted on the pavement. Slightly misty, all it takes is a glance at the glimmer from the bulb to see white specks swirling amongst the light, slowly beginning to settle on the ground. 

It’s snowing. 

It’s so dammed clichéd that you can’t help but smile. Cosying on the sofa with a novel or a dose of reality TV sounded perfect. 

You slide on your jacket and wrap your scarf around your neck, bracing for the sudden chill once you hit the ground floor lobby. You’re not sure how the doormen do it. As expected, it's empty, the heels of your leather boots clacking along the marble floors as you head towards the revolving doors.  There’s still a good amount of cars on the main road, and even as the snow begins to pick up you’re able to make out the yellows of various taxis — their roofs tinted pink under the red stop lights.  

Walking to the edge, you wave one over. It stops at the curb with a screech, and the driver pokes his head out.

The usual niceties ensue, and it’s not long before you pop open the door, sliding into the back seat. It smells a little like cigarettes, but it doesn’t bother you all that much, and you actually find the red leather interior to be rather comfortable. As you turn to give the Planet one last glance for the day, your heart seems to stop as you make out a familiar figure on the pavement, apparently fighting with the strap of his bag. 

The scene is simple, but it’s enough to make you realise that the longest you were able to stay away from Clark was seven days. Seven days too long after four months of limbo.  

For once you feel uninhibited, stopping the driver just before he takes off and calling out of the window.  

“Hey, Clark…” you drawl, and he almost jumps when he hears your voice. You gesture your head to the car. “Did you want to split a ride?” 

Awkwardly, he pushes his glasses up his nose, and his mouth hangs open.  

“I’m good. I take the bus for a few stops then walk, so…” 

You cock a brow.  

“You’re going to wait for the bus in the snow? With that jacket?”  

Clark chuckles, hanging his head as he glances down at his attire. The jacket is barely there, the material thin and flimsy looking. It’s fitted for spits of rain at best. He pauses, and you make out that he clicks his tongue before deciding to walk towards the taxi, to which you slide over. 

“Thanks,” he nods. “I guess I should’ve checked the weather this morning." Pausing, he glances around the car and gestures to his seat. "What do I owe the ride?

“My treat. Christmas spirit, I guess,” you hum before nodding to the driver. It’s half surprising that he’d even accepted the offer at all. It hadn’t taken much effort, but you weren’t going to complain.

“I don’t think we live that far from eachother. We can make a stop at that intersection, right?” 

Clark grins. 

“Right.” 

The low tone of the radio travels to the back of the seat, albeit the songs are muffled. Next to you, Clark’s huge — taking up a lot of the seat, yet in a way that’s not invasive, so much so that you can almost feel the warmth radiating from his body, as if he’s a human heater. There’s a subtle smile on his face — a content — as he stares out of the window, an array of colours flashing on his skin with every block you pass. Still, you can see the natural tint on his cheeks.  

Clark Kent was a beautiful, beautiful man. 

And you both deserved to be happy.  

He’s alerted to the smacking of your lips as you part them, blue orbs sparkling as he stares at you expectedly. 

“I’ve been thinking about our deal,” you begin slowly, eyes tracking his reaction. It was unlikely that some taxi driver would give a shit about two random employees, but you never could be too certain. The last thing you needed was for someone to put two and two together.   

“I like you, and I want to take a risk. I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t jump on the opportunity…” 

Clark swipes a tongue over his lips, nodding slowly as he follows. He can’t seem to hold back his smile. 

“I’d like that,” he replies, and now it’s your turn to grin. “If you’re aware of the limitations.” 

“I only expect that you’ll respect them, Kent.” 

“I’m very well behaved.” He smirks assuredly, and with the statement you feel a tingling in your core.  

“We’ll see about that,” you muse, biting your lip. “Some people are completely different when it comes to a… partnership.” 

The silence says everything. The car begins to slow, stopping just before the intersection and allowing Clark to climb out, the vehicle shifting under the release of his weight. He leans down to poke his head through the window, unmoved by the snowflakes trickling onto the tips of his dark hair, and smiles, bearing his pearly whites and emanating the warmth and comfort of the holiday season itself.   

He's simply perfect.  

“Looking forward to working with you, ma’am.” 

/ 

It’s 8:30pm when you drag yourself through the doors of your apartment, peering down the long, tidy corridor to look towards the living area. The sofa’s empty, and there’s no sound of life from your TV either, yet the lights are on. Peeling off your outerwear, you fold your jacket over your arm and go through the motions of coming home; filing your clothes back into your walk-in and beginning to remove your jewellery. 

You’re mid earring when Clark sneaks behind you, large arms sliding around your waist as he pulls your back to his chest, rocking you for a moment. 

Gently, you squeeze his forearm back in acknowledgment. 

“Sorry, you know how it is,” you sigh, placing the earrings on the edge of the sink before you’re swiftly spun around. “There was a printing error, and —“  

You’re cut off by a kiss, Clark’s hands settling on your waist as you’re pressed against the ceramic. Your lips slide perfectly against each other's as you feel him smile into your mouth, teeth nipping gently on your bottom lip as he begs for entry. You let him mull for a bit, coiling a finger around a strand of his hair and giving it a tug before you let him explore you, tongue now snaking into your mouth. 

“Doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, mouth sticky. “But sometimes it kills me that I have to wait…” 

Judging by the prominent tent in his pants he’s not lying. The tips of his fingers go white as he presses them into your skin through the fabric of your clothes, as if he wanted to fuse his very body to yours. His grey blazer is heavy against your body, and as you pull away you tug pointedly at it.  

“Why the suit?” you frown. It’s not like Clark’s a stranger to your home. You blink yourself back to reality, and realise that there’s no aroma of tomato sauce or even the smell of pancakes — he hasn’t cooked for you tonight.  

He glances down at his clothes and shrugs, sticking out his bottom lip in faux innocence. 

“No reason. I thought we could order in tonight...” 

“Well why don’t we get comfy first?” You say knowingly, but he doesn’t budge. It occurs to you that he has no intention of leaving the room tonight. At least not clothed, that is.  

Your suspicions are confirmed when he begins to nip at your neck, kisses tingly as he buries his head into the crook, voice a lull as he speaks into your skin. 

“I know you popped open an extra button on your shirt today n’…leaned over to point at my screen…” he sighs in between kisses.

You gasp, not just at the sensation of his tender lips against your sensitive area, but at the image of the scenario — ‘pointing out’ an edit you’d made that he’d ignored, whilst subtly pressing his face to your chest and giving you a peek of your bra. It was supposed to be a little tease, just something to keep work interesting, but it’d worked out better than you’d anticipated. Clark was in a frenzy. 

“Tell me I’m wrong…” he breathes, and unbeknownst to him you roll your eyes, and smirk, cradling the back of his head in your hands. Clearing your throat, you square your shoulders as you put on your most ‘authoritative’ voice, cupping the man’s cheeks and staring at him.  

“I’m offended you’d imply something like that, Kent,” you say sternly, and Clark grins, baring his teeth. “I’m just a very hands-on manager, that’s all.” 

You know what he wants. It’s been apparent ever since you’d started dating. It turned out that Clark, the epitome of all things good and pure, rather enjoyed your illicit relationship and the juicy power dynamic that were wrapped up in it.  

He opens his mouth to argue, but it’s quickly replaced by your fingers on his lips. Like a good boy, he goes silent. You snake your hands down his muscular chest, fingertips gliding along the fabric of his tie. There’s a knowing look in your eye as you slowly loop the material around your hands, giving it a pointed tug before you lead him out of the bathroom, walking him like a dog.  

He’s all too willing to follow, and he’s almost weightless when you sit him on the bed and stand between his thighs, hands still firm around his tie. 

“So this was what the suit was about…” you muse, aware of Clark’s hands roaming up your thigh and under your skirt. He smirks in response. 

“I thought it made it more realistic, considering we can’t do it on your desk…” 

You’re only able to mutter a ‘tsk’ before you place impassioned kisses back on Clark’s lips, the man all too happy to return the favour. Still stood, you begin to remove eachothers’ clothing, hands fumbling with undoing the knot and discarding it on the floor somewhere before attacking his buttons, making your way down his chest.  

He’s eager; but his large hands are light as he tugs at the waist of your skirt, the sudden contact of his thumb on your warm skin causing you to shiver. Slowly but surely the fabric twists past your hips, down your thighs and eventually onto the floor, pooling around your ankles. Momentarily, you’re left in your work shirt and a pair of maroon-coloured panties with lace embroidery — all the while Clark’s staring at you, eyes positively gleaming as he finishes stripping off his shirt. 

“Golly,” he grins. “I’m the luckiest reporter in the world.” 

Playfully, you roll your eyes, your body then seemingly gliding in the air as Clark grasps your waist with the entirety of his arm and pulls you onto the bed. You’re on top of him now; moistening slit of your cunt inches away from his clothed cock as you grind against him, hoping to send a message through your wanton writhing.

But, it’d be too easy for  Clark just to put it in — there was no fun to it, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair for you. No, Clark was a guy who, more often than not, was fixated on giving you an experience; one that was hot and passionate and animalistic yet also tentative and the very physical manifestation of the depth of the words ‘I love you’ and the concept of devotion. 

As you come up for air — you’ve been making out the whole time — you absentmindedly brush a stray lock of his hair from his forehead, drinking him in. 

“You need a haircut…” you say leisurely, eyeing the uneven strands. 

He glances up, dainty lashes resting perfectly against his eyelid. 

“I know,” he pouts. “I’ll forget all about it if you cover it for me…” 

You brief confusion is replaced by a sudden twinge of excitement in your loins as he elfishly puckers his lips and nods his head, eyes focused on the ceiling above. There’s an all-knowing, cheeky grin as Clark watches you straddle him, knees sinking into the mattress you waddle over his body, your needy cunt inches away from his face. 

Clark takes charge; his handiwork impressive as he loops too fingers on either side of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. His eyes seem to waver, water even, as he stares up at your exposed pussy, with all the enlightenment and wonder of a believer seeing the clouds part with their deity. 

He cautiously helps you out of them, which is followed by a gentle caressing of your calves — goosebumps, instantly — up to the back of your thighs, where he softly presses you down onto him. 

“You work so hard,” he moans, planting wet kisses to the inner area, uncoordinated as he switches between left and right. “Let me take care of you...” 

The tip of his nose is the first to engulf the raw scent of your juices, followed by the slippery folds on his mouth. At first his movements are teasing, deliberate as he kisses and licks along your outer folds, all before he eventually cracks you open like a book with his palms.  

His tongue explores your inner folds fervently, lapping at their unique ridges as his saliva mingles with your arousal. It’s the devil’s juice – yet Clark drinks from you like a man dying of drought, the muffled reverberations of his moans sending chills up your body, quite literally making your legs shake.  

When you let out a whimper, Clark withdraws from you, taking a breath of air. 

“Want me to keep going?” 

“Please,” you begged. “You’re too good.” 

He winks at you, and in seconds he’s pulling you back down on his face — this time rocking his head up and down your privates as his nose acts as a makeshift sex toy. It’s hard not to fuck his face, and his hair – now certainly freshly tousled - is the last thing on your mind as you drag your hips against his skin.  

Clark’s all too aware of it all, reaching around to give your ass a pointed squeeze in response. You moan even louder this time, and Clark uses this as fodder to adjust your positioning, placing you on his lips and flicking at the hood of your clit. 

You know what he’s doing, and though you never thought you’d have a problem with a man working you to orgasm, you’d rather save it. 

“Mm—Clark—“ you whine. “I want to — I wanna come with you…” 

“You sure?” He says, voice muffled. “You always sound so pretty when you finish on my tongue, honey.” 

“Please..” you say, and he helps you off of him, delicately placing you on the pillow as he allows you to recover.  

He steps back, and though you’ve slept together before you’re reminded of just what a superhuman he is — sculpted arms, sculpted chest with only slight emerging specks of hair dotted between his pectorals. Propping yourself on your elbows, you ogle him, and he’s looking back at you expectedly. You let him stew for a moment before you give him a nod, putting on your managerial voice. 

“Alright, Kent. Let’s see what you’re working with.” 

He’s all too happy to drop his pants — and fuck, is he huge. It had an inhuman way of snatching the breath from your throat, even when looking. His balls sit under, plump, throbbing, and might you add aesthetically pleasing if not a little interesting.  

You beckon him over with a curl of your finger, and it’s his turn to slide between your legs; bodies intertwined as he pecks at your lips (though you’re still able to taste yourself on his skin) and lowers you onto the bed, stripping you of the rest of your clothes. Evidently, it’s a missionary position kind of night. 

As Clark nestles himself above you, you reached down to his pulsing cock, cupping the underside in your hands. It’s weighty. With a smirk, you keep your eyes on his as you bring your palm to your mouth, giving it a pointed lick before stroking his shaft. 

He lets out a long sigh, and you swear you can feel the pressure pump out of his chest. 

“Gosh…” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as you give it a few leisurely strokes. Your actions make his precum glide along his shaft, making treacly sounds as you spread the lubricant thin – preparing for him to enter you.  

Clark lets you put it in. Your walls twitch to accommodate his thick head, showing signs of resistance, but once Clark adjusts his hips there’s a feverish sense of relaxation — a still, completeness as you take the moment to enjoy each-other. He’s not even moving, and yet your cunt seems to be swallowing him up. Grasping his bicep, your chest heaves as he slowly begins to rock his hips, buttocks clenching as he slides into you before withdrawing; over and over again. 

Clark’s pace is gradual; but there’s so much more to your copulation than just the way he fucks you. It’s the way his face disappears in your neck, leaving you with a barrage of dark curls as he kisses down towards your breasts and eagerly latches onto your nipple. It’s the way he presses into you, burning with desire, in a manner that means you can feel all the relevant muscles in his body contract and release with every thrust.  

It’s the way that he moans, whispering words of encouragement and affirmation into your ear — somehow, in true Clark fashion, never swearing in the process. 

“Wow. Gee…” he sighs. “You take me so well, honey. You’re perfect…I want more of you, sweetheart. Can you take more?” 

One hand is firm around his broad waist as you purr a ‘yes’ amongst your ecstasy. His pace quickens, yet he never seems to lose his depth. Sharp clapping sounds come from your pelvis as his fat cock pounds your cunt, wet, pillowy walls drawing him in with every motion. He’s desperate, raiding to find your sweet spot - you’re not worried, he finds it every time – and your nails dig into his forearm as the curvature of his shaft finds a way to hit an area you’d never engaged before. 

“God, Clark,” you drawl, burying the back of your head further into the pillow. “You’re good…So good. Come with me, please?” 

There’s an earnestness in your silken voice, and Clark nods as he delves back into your lips, kisses sloppy as he’s focused on bringing you to orgasm. He raises your hips with one hand, giving him even further leverage to plough your cunt, the new angle leaving nerves tingling from the discovery. 

With a parched mouth you find it in you to squeak out that you’re coming, legs quivering as your stomach churns and folds rapidly, pressure building to your chest. Your back arches as you come, your mind running blank as Clark’s thrusts grow uncoordinated as you feel his cock convulse in you. The words ‘I love you’ are loud and clear as he speaks them into your mouth, as if breathing life to you the moment he’d given you la petite mort.  

Clark’s head drops to the side as he lingers in you, pussy swollen with your joint cum. It’s like a plug when he withdraws, his seed coating your insides, and a translucent sheen leaving a snail-like trail on your outer folds and the crease of your thigh. 

There’s an afterglow to Clark, (you know that he probably hasn’t used much stamina at all) flushed cheeks, bedraggled hair, glazed eyes…but Clark Jonathan Kent is a man who glows all around, regardless of day or time of year. 

Tucking a sturdy arm around your bare waist, you’re content with enjoying each-others company in silence for a few precious moments until Clark draws in a breath.  

“...So, I know you said it when we started dating, but doesn’t sleeping with an editor improve my chances of getting the front page at all?” 

You tut. 

“Don’t be daft, Clark,” you tease, scrunching your nose at him. “You know Perry makes the decision.” 

Clark glances back at you, grinning. 

“But you can influence him, right?” 

“I suppose,” you hum, and the growing smirk on his face tells you all too well that he’s rearing to go again. The man was insatiable. Pressing your bare chest against his, your nipples drag against his torso as your fingers trace patterns on his collarbone. “But you’ve got to write a really… mind-blowing, impassioned, penetrating piece."

“Alright,” Clark says smugly, eyes flitting along your face and twinkling mischievously. “I can take another shot at that.” 

FIN.

4) Halfway Home | Mature | 103,158 words

Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson were improbable childhood friends, much to Harry’s dismay. They were thrown together each summer when Harry was forced to visit Louis’ grandfathers’ ranch in Black Hills, South Dakota. With each passing year, their friendship blossomed into something more. When trail rides turned to stolen kisses, and tragedies turned to confessions until they could no longer deny the inevitable draw they felt for one another. Though life and their future plans soon set them on different paths. Ten years later, Louis is the proud owner of Halfway Home Wildlife Refuge. Harry returns to the ranch to escape the perils of his past in London, and though their memories still haunt Louis, he won’t let that deter him from his goals. However, someone has been keeping a close eye on the refuge, and possibly Louis specifically, and Harry’s return may have unleashed more than just old passions. There’s a hunter lurking in the Hills, someone who’s decided they’ve bided their time long enough.

5) If I Cannot Bend Heaven, I’ll Rise Hell| Explicit | 109,110 words

It blooms: In 1807, a boy falls for the wrong monster. It eats: In 1969, omegas began to disappear as rumors of the rising of a cannibalistic cult spread like wildfire. It grins: Now, one of the most powerful vampires of the West sits down for an interview to reveal all his sins. “Exodus 7:14-11:10, right before he sent the plagues, he said to Moses; ‘By this you will know that I am the Lord.’.” The vampire said with the ghost of a smile, small, almost intimate. “How can you annihilate something that you cannot touch, something you cannot see? How can you fight against a hungry God?“

6) Darling | Mature | 110,147 words

“Why do you call him darling?” I looked at Liam and felt my features soften. “Because he’s a darling. He’s absolutely the most precious thing I’ve ever seen. He’s a darling boy and I just want all of him and only him.”

7) The Healing Song | Mature | 111,851 words

Louis was carrying the large stuffed elephant like it was a baby, it’s trunk hanging over his shoulder and down his back and it’s front legs were resting around his neck, like it was hugging him. Said elephant was a present from Louis’ close friend Steve, who had thought Louis needed something to hug on bad days and had gifted him with a stuffed elephant the size of a one year old. Steve had been right. Some days Louis did need something to hug, and this elephant was as good as anything. Louis was having one of the rougher days. The harmonious state of the anxiety free life of a fearless Louis had ended the week after he met with Harry. It ended as abruptly as it had started. It was like pushing a button. Lights out. Almost as if the universe said “You’ve had your fun, crazy one, now go be sick” and slammed the door in his face.

8) (But) Baby We’re Everything  | Explicit | 117,618 words 

Harry and Louis broke up almost four years ago when their career paths took them different directions. Louis was hired at a primary school on the outskirts of London, and Harry went on to Cambridge to finish his degree and get his doctorate in education. But now, years later, Louis is a year two teacher at the same school he’s been employed at since the end of University, and Harry just so happens to be hired onto staff after finishing his postgraduate degree. Now that they’re back in each other’s lives, Louis has to face the secret Harry never discovered when he left years prior. Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?

9) Our Endless Numbered Days | Explicit | 120,815 words

“Harry?” whispered Louis, his mouth dry, his nose pressing against the other’s warm skin. “Mh?” Harry’s humming was gentle, his fingers lightly caressing the younger boy’s arm, his chest steadily rising and falling beneath Louis’ cheek. A couple of seconds passed, and Louis looked up at him in the darkness of the cave, barely able to make out the expression on his face. When he tried to inhale deeply, his breath hitched. He struggled to find the words to tell Harry what he was thinking about. Another couple of seconds passed, and Louis listened to the reassuring beating of the prince’s heart beneath his cheek. He couldn’t. “Nothing,” he whispered, his voice weak. I think you’re half of my soul.

10) Streetlights In The Dark Blue | Mature | 120,867 words

Louis Tomlinson is an investigative journalist. He’s spent the better part of his life researching the psyches of serial killers, and publishing articles to provide a deeper understanding into their methodologies. His pen-name, Orion, is well known around the globe. An alter-ego that keeps his pockets lined, and his identity private. That is, until a letter arrives at his home address. A letter containing a symbol. One dubbed by a serial killer who’d vanished three years prior. The postage stamp? Bainbridge Island. He’d spent so long peering into the darkness, it should be no surprise to discover that something had been looking back. The island presents a host of mysteries. It also houses a nosy witch, determined to break down his walls. And an FBI agent hellbent on shattering his carefully constructed world.

11) Three Men And A Baby | Explicit | 122,978 words

Note: There is a BH mention.

Louis’ life had been going along just fine. Until one morning when his entire world changes when he steps on a piece of lego belonging to a young boy who has randomly appeared in his flat. And with that boy comes his gorgeous father. His flatmate Zayn has some explaining to do but he’s definitely not complaining, instantly feeling connected to these new additions. Over the span of a year, life gets crazy, frustrating, surprising and most importantly…filled with love.

12) Siren Calls Me Home | Explicit | 133,762 words

Harry’s father had warned him. King Edward of Erendor had whispered his suspicions that Prince Louis of Blackmont was descended from the sirens, monsters from cautionary tales Harry was told as a child. A cruel, cold-hearted, and vicious nature wreathed in a breathtaking exterior, with coy smirks and slow blinks used to bend everyone to his will. His beauty was as well known as his cunning, his greed, and his ruthless grab for power. Time only proved the rumors to be true, and Harry made sure to keep his distance from the prince, never once speaking to him, and doing his best not to even meet his eye. Unfortunately, the ghosts of whispered warnings are powerless when one is up against the very tangible experience of being in Prince Louis’ presence.

13) The Compulsion to Find Love | Teen & Up | 140,138 words

The most prestigious English third-level institution, Candling University, accepts omega students for the first time and Louis Tomlinson applies with bright eyes and brighter ambitions. There he encounters personal obstacles, traditional mindsets and a beautiful boy who inverts every prejudice Louis has ever known.

14) Prisoner | Explicit | 140,445 words

When Louis Tomlinson heard the jury’s verdict, the world crumbled before his glassy blue eyes. Sentenced to five years in prison for a medical malpractice he did not commit, he was transferred to a maximum security prison. His days were numbered, he knew. Harry Styles, his cellmate and the monarch of the prison. Sadist like no other. The fumes coming out of his mouth were pure, bitter, flaming poison. Louis swallowed, certain it would be the last time he would ever do so. His body convulsed and his legs felt tremulous. He could have peed himself from the fear. “When I asked for a cellmate to have fun with, I didn’t imagine they’d bring me a little lamb.” If God had created Adam, the devil had created Harry.

15) No Hello Just Goodbye | Mature | 142,502 words

Louis had 9 months to try and convince himself out of it, but he knew from the very moment he saw the dreaded 2 lines that he couldn’t raise the baby. Not when the conception took place against his own will. Adoption was the only answer. He had no problems handing over his child nor did he endure any sort of regret. Or did he? 4 years after giving birth Louis sets out to search for his baby but what he finds instead is something he totally didn’t expect…… Love.

16) Where I Burn To Be | Explicit | 143,346 words

There were very few people who managed to get under Louis’ skin as effortlessly as Harry had, and even fewer who had done it in only a day and a half. It was quite an accomplishment, really. They’d only interacted a handful of times and yet Louis had the insatiable desire to slam the locker into that frustratingly well-defined face that never seemed to hold any expressions other than contempt and arrogance. “That’s right. I do own the skies. And you wanna know why?” he sneered. Without his boots on, Louis was a fair bit shorter than Harry, his eyes pretty much level with Harry’s chin and his socked toes bumping into the boots of the other man, close enough that Louis could make out the tiny scar on Harry’s brow and the individual shades of emerald in his irises. He was handsome, but that only made Louis hate him more. Heart thumping heavily against his sternum and his hands balled into fists, Louis lifted his chin defiantly and plastered a coldhearted smirk across his lips. “Because I’m the best goddamn pilot here.”

17) Your Eyes Are Tired But Keep Them Open Cause You Wouldn’t Wanna Miss A Thing | Explicit | 144,281 words

Louis is an omega in an abusive relationship everyone forced him into; he’s miserable until he meets his favorite student’s uncle, Harry, a gentle alpha with a big heart.

18) Give Me A Way To Breathe (If You Can) | Explicit | 152,100 words

“By decree of the Five Tribes of England, all omegas aged eighteen (18) to twenty-five (25) shall be bred annually at the age of eighteen warranted that they have had one (1) fertile heat. During these years, all omegas must remain unmated and fertile in time for their scheduled breeding session. Alphas between the age of sixteen (16) and thirty (30) will be selected based on physical strengths and medically exceptional sperm quality to breed the omegas. All viable children will be given to selected families. No parental rights will be given to the alpha whose sperm is donated or the omega who bears them. Those who do not serve their tribe by this law will face exile.” Louis’ eyes scanned the breeding letter. Written in a beautiful, careful cursive was the name of the alpha who would impregnate him, and it couldn’t have been more pretentious: Harry Styles.

19) Life And Love Finds A Way | Explicit | 165,244 words

Post-apocalyptic world after a plague had taken out more than half of the world’s population. In the midst of the pandemonium caused by so many people passing away, the population that was left had turned greedy and started attacking each other for food and resources now that there weren’t enough people to farm or work essential jobs. After being shot by a looter while he was on patrol, Harry had decided to leave the police department and move away to find somewhere remote to live. What he didn’t expect was for an omega to weasel his way into Harry’s heart.

20) Inevitable | Mature | 185,917 words

AU where Louis and Harry used to be more than friends, but everything had to change the day Harry introduces Louis to his new girlfriend.

21) I Thought We Were Forever | Mature | 235,556 words

“I need time alone from you.” Louis’ heart skipped a beat. That he had not seen coming. “From me?” his voice shook. Harry nodded, another tear rolling down his cheek. “I don’t understand, H.” “It’s-” “You want to go on holidays on your own or something?” frowned Louis, so very confused. A long silence settled. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this.” murmured Harry and he looked so in pain. “I like someone else. Like Like like. At least I think I do. I’m not sure. That’s why I need time alone.”

22) Boss Bitch | Explicit | 386,901 words

Harry had always wanted to work for this successful mafia; the mafia that everyone knew, everyone feared. Led by none other than the pahntom “L'eue Courante”, whom everyone knew existed, but had no other clues who this person could be. The only thing known was a high heel the phantom once left. So this person had to be woman, Harry assumend. And man, was he wrong.