B

The chat had exploded with excitement, tips pouring in like rain to emphasize their anticipation of finally “meeting him”. Except... “him” didn’t exist because you didn't have a boyfriend. Hell, you hadn't dated anyone seriously in years. Your life as a faceless camgirl was your dirty little secret, hidden behind masks, angles, and dim lighting in the cramped apartment you shared with your lifelong friend, Jongseob.

And honestly, at this point, he was your last option but you’ve never even thought to cross that line.

But now, with the clock ticking down to showtime in two days, panic clawed at your throat.

The thought of him made your stomach twist in a way that wasn't just nerves. You'd grown up together — playground battles, late-night study sessions, and now this awkward roommate dynamic where you both pretended not to notice each other's late hours or the occasional muffled moans from your room during stream nights that could be passed off as self pleasure (which it basically was) or when he had someone over.

He was sweet in that boy-next-door way — messy dark hair, soft jawline, and eyes that crinkled when he laughed. Jongseob basically glowed, and he would honestly do anything for you if you asked.

But this? This was insane.

Desperate times though… call for desperate measures!…

You slammed the laptop shut and bolted from your room, barefoot and in nothing but an oversized tee that barely skimmed your thighs. The living room was dim, lit only by the glow of the TV where Jongseob lounged on the couch, controller in hand, oblivious to your crisis.

“Hey, Seob,” You blurted, voice higher than usual. He paused his game, glancing up with those warm brown eyes.

“Hm?” A pause.. “Oh, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He set the controller aside, patting the cushion next to him. You collapsed there, knees drawn up, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.

“I need to tell you something. But you have to promise not to freak out.” Your words tumbled out in a rush.

He nodded, leaning in, concern etching his features. And then it spilled — your camgirl secret, the alias “Bunny,”and the toys and teasing that paid your half of the bills and rent.

His eyes widened, but he didn't interrupt. He just listened as you confessed the latest screw-up which was the fake boyfriend stream scheduled for two days from now.

“So, you're asking me to... fuck you on camera?” Jongseob's voice was steady, but a flush crept up his neck. You nodded, cheeks burning.

“Y-Yes.” You swallow before taking a breath. This was embarrassing. “It’ll be completely faceless though. Please, Seob. I can't cancel now — they'll hate me.”

He was quiet for a beat, then a slow smile tugged at his lips — but it wasn’t to mock you, he seemed rather… interested..? “Okay.”

Oh, that was quicker convincing than you anticipated…

Really?

“But only since it's you.” A slight heat rose to your cheeks at that confession but regardless, relief flooded you mixed with something electric.

He was so easily … up for it???

Shocking enough, he had even suggested the idea of “practicing” but you ultimately both agreed to wait until the night of — because this was all just supposed to be for the camera.

The next two days dragged like molasses, thick with unspoken anticipation. Mornings started normal — shared coffee in the kitchen, him in his rumpled sleep shirt, you avoiding his gaze as you poured cereal. But every brush of shoulders or accidental touch sparked those butterflies into a flutter.

You'd catch him watching you from the corner of his eye while you scrolled on your phone, wondering if he was picturing it too — the stream and your body under his.

At night, alone in your room, you'd touch yourself to the thought, fingers circling your clit as you imagined his hands instead, his cock stretching you. Guilt twisted with excitement; he was your best friend.. but the secret hung like a charged wire.

Jongseob played it cool though, but cracks showed. The evening before, as you both cooked dinner, he cornered you against the counter, reaching for a spice jar above your head.

His body pressed close, heat radiating, and you felt the outline of him hardening against your hip. “Sorry.” He muttered, voice low, but his eyes lingered on your lips. You mumbled something incoherent, heart racing, and escaped to the living room.

The butterflies were relentless now, a constant swarm making your skin tingle whenever he was near. By the second day, the air in the apartment felt heavy, laced with the promise of what was coming.

The day arrived before you knew it and you spent a majority of your day avoiding him. As the evening approached, you dedicated it to prepping by dimming lights, testing your camera angle to ensure your faces would be kept out of frame, and arranging toys on your nightstand like little decorations.

Jongseob knocked on your door and the moment you opened it, your breath hitched. He was already shirtless, showing off his slight toned frame with loose sweats that hung low on his hips.

“Ready?” He asked, voice casual, but his gaze raked over you in your thin doll-like dress lingerie, hungry.

You nodded, throat dry, moving to the side and let him in. The room smelled of vanilla from your candle, masking the nervous sweat prickling your skin.

Without a second thought, you began the stream with a breath and before you knew it, your chat filled with excited messages.

user68: hi bunny baby 😍😍😍💦💦💦

user12: sexy🐰🐰🐰🐰

user90: Missed your tits sweetheart

user35: needed this after a hard day 😘😘

user24: where’s your boyfriend 🍆🍆

“Hi, my loves.” You stood in front of the camera, making sure your face was out of frame while you read off a separate screen where your chat sat.

“I have someone I’d like you to meet.” You said sweetly, reaching your hand out to Jongseob and bringing him over before introducing him as your boyfriend. The chat went wild, donations pinging like fireworks as he shamelessly slapped your ass for content. Your cheeks flushed as you glanced back at him — a cocky grin on his face.

user63: 😍😍😍😍😍😍

user77: Mmm do it again

user19: he’s probably so handsome 😘

user53: Bunny i want to fuck you hard 💦

As you followed through with a few more exchanges with your viewers, Jongseob held you against his chest, waiting patiently — his hands roaming underneath the flowy black lacy set and rubbing against your skin which earned himself soft hums from you.

Soon, the two of you turned to the bed where you got on your knees, pulling him down with you, hands trembling as they slid over his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

His lips met yours softly at first, tentative, tongue brushing yours in exploration. But then something shifted as his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He bit down, not gently at all, teeth sinking into the flesh hard enough to make you gasp, a sharp sting blooming into heat.

“My bunny girl,” He growled against your skin, voice dropping an octave, rough with need. “You have no idea how long I've wanted to mark you like this.” The words hit like a spark, butterflies exploding in your chest as he sucked bruises along your collarbone, each one deliberate and possessive.

He pushed you back onto the pillows, climbing over you, knees pinning your thighs apart as he yanked down the top half of your lingerie. His mouth trailed lower, latching onto your nipple, sucking hard while his teeth grazed the peak, tugging until you arched off the bed with a whine.

'F-fuck, Please—' You whispered softly, but he silenced you with a slap to your inner thigh, the crack echoing, skin blooming red.

“They’re not allowed to hear you right now.” He commanded, eyes dark, a smirk twisting his lips.

You nodded, quickly listening, while your chat no doubt erupted — probably begging to hear your sweet noises but it was clear he was egging on for more donations to change his mind.

Money hungry freak.

You couldn’t care less though, you were already lost in him. He spread your legs wider, fingers delving between your folds, two thrusting in deep without warning, curling to hit that spot that made your vision blur.

“So wet already,” He murmured, pumping roughly, thumb grinding your clit. “I know you’ve been thinking about this for days.” He whispered into your ear, and that was not at all for the camera. That was just for you.

His free hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse thunder under his palm, breath hitching as stars danced in your eyes.

The pressure built fast, his fingers relentless, scissoring inside you while he choked you lightly, control absolute. You came with a cry, walls fluttering around him, juices soaking his hand. Without warning, he pulled his fingers free and shoved them into your mouth, making you taste yourself. “Suck.” He ordered, and you did, tongue swirling as he watched, cock twitching against your thigh.

He quickly flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so your ass presented high. “Spread for the camera.” He said with a cocky chuckle, voice raspy before doing it for you to expose your dripping pussy.

He groaned, low and animalistic, before his palm cracked against your ass — skin heating to a fiery red. The pain twisted into pleasure, butterflies churning as he rubbed the sting away, only to slap again and turn you on your back.

Shocked at his boldness, you let out a heavenly sound as he dove down in order for his tongue to probe gently along your folds shallowly, while his fingers plunged back into your core. The dual assault had you trembling, another orgasm building as he ate you out filthily, slurping sounds filling the room.

Before you could finish, he rose once more, leaving you a whiny mess before he swiped down the band of his sweatpants, gripping his hard on.. thick, veined, head leaking — and lining himself up with your entrance.

He thrust in one brutal stroke, bottoming out, earning a loud whine from you. “Fuck…. bunny, you’re so tight.” He grunted, setting a punishing pace, hips snapping forward.

Each drive dragged his length along your walls, hitting deep, while one hand found both of yours and pinned them over your head.

“Come on, let them hear you..” He praised you momentarily, a sly grin on his face as he locked eyes with you.

“F—faster.” You begged through whimpers, the words spilling out, feeding his ego as you were babbling complete nonsense now. He laughed to himself, pulling out only to shove himself back in without warning. He pounded in, cock bullying your cervix.

The stream chat was a blur at this point due to the years that rimmed your eyes, the ping noise of tips and donations clouding out of your senses, but all you felt was Jongseob — your friend — who was choking you again as he fucked and whispered depraved things things to you.

“Gonna fill this pussy.” He murmured, causing butterflies to riot, mixing fear and lust into a heady rush.

You came once again, whining out and nails raking his back. He followed after you with a groan, cock pulsing, hot come flooding your depths in thick ropes. He stayed buried, grinding through his release, before pulling out to watch it drip from you. You look completely ruined with your messy hair, tear stained cheeks, and limp limbs. 

He reached forward, grabbing the camera that filmed the both of you before angling it only at your core. His fingers scooped it up to push it back in. “Don't be wasteful.” He murmured as his finger lightly fucked both yours and his release back inside you — your legs still shaking while pretty moans escaped your parted lips.

Eventually, Jongseob shoved his fingers back in your mouth, causing you to lick them clean on command, before finally clicking the camera off amid your aftershocks — and the stream ended with what was probably record tips.

He pulled you up, kissing you roughly before collapsing onto the bed with you and pulling you into his chest, stroking your hair.

“That was more than just for the camera by the way.” He whispered, saying with a sly smirk.

💌 mika’s message! THIS IS MY SMUT DEBUT SO BE KIND TO ME OKAY??? IVE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE IM SCARED. IF YOU HATE IT CAN YOU PRETEND YOU LIKE IT. Ok anyways sorry this was also a drabble from my Notes that i decided to finish but truthfully!!! this was inspired by another smut i read a few months ago im ngl. So. Take that as u will too thanks. ok i gtg Im scared I GOTTA GO. WE HAVE TO GO.

sexy people get tagged hiii: @u2jwon @chccnne @endoll @kyoteas @jiumeow @aesprn @wonwounds @wdcsvt @ericlvr @hardbeingcasual @applewormz @kyoluvrs @nataliasdiary @theosflower @seobsongz @smiles4hyuck @xionvlog @sugaryemma @seonghwaswifeuuuu @kamxstar

1. You hate that he’s always late.

Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom. 

You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.

He’s late.

Every. Damn. Day.

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.

If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.

Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Clark talking to Superman.

And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Clark.

Clark doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.

Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

You hate how nervous he makes you.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

You hate how he’s Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Clark had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Clark.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”

“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Kent.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Clark—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

The thought makes you whine.

It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. 

You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.

“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.

His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.

You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”

You glare at him, frustrated and needy.

“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.

He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.

“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”

You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.

He looks up, eyes pleading.

You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

 You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”

He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

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