#superman dc

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.

he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.

it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.

you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.

"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.

"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.

"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.

it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.

when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.

and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.

"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.

"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.

"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."

something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.

"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.

"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.

"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.

"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.

"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!

"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.

"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.

"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.

you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.

the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.

it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.

...

he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.

instead, he's met with silence.

pure, heavy, lonely silence.

you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.

your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.

he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.

"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.

he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.

"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.

but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.

"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.

"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.

"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.

"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.

"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.

"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.

...

lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.

it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.

it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.

"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.

"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.

his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.

"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations

"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.

he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."

his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.

"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.

"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.

"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.

"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"

"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."

"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.

"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.

he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.

"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.

you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.

he wants forever with you.

and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.