aphrodite

''Hey,'' he rasps, voice rougher than you've heard it in years. He pushes off the doorframe and takes two unsteady steps inside, then stops like gravity is pinning him to the floor. ''I made it. Barely.''

You reach him before he can say anything else, hands sliding up his arms. His biceps feel the same, warm, thick, impossibly solid, but when you squeeze, there's no flex of superhuman muscle pushing you back.

''You're shaking,'' you say, almost an accusation.

He lets out a low, surprised laugh that turns into a pained groan. ''Yeah. Turns out flying without a full charge is... well, exhausting.''

You guide him toward the couch, but he doesn't sit right away. Instead he leans back against the wall, head tipping until it thumps against the plaster. His suit is still pristine, but sweat beads at his temples and darkens the collar. You've seen him come home bruised and bleeding after fights with gods, but he's never looked this... mortal.

''Talk to me,'' you demand, voice kind but insistent. Journalist habit. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing the freshly shaven skin. ''What's happening?''

Clark exhales through his nose, eyes sliding shut for a second like even that small motion takes effort.

''The solar eclipse,'' he says finally. ''The moon's blocking the sun completely. Has been for almost two hours. I didn't have enough left to fly to space, so I burned through my solar reserves getting back here.''

He opens his eyes again, meeting yours with a dopey (and slightly delirious, you're assuming) smile.

''I wanted to be home with you,'' he admits, quieter. ''Before I couldn't fly anymore. Before I couldn't... do anything anymore.''

Your pulse kicks up. ''And now?''

''Without the Yellow Sun, my powers deplete until I'm functionally identical to an ordinary human. A normal, mortal Kryptonian without powers. I'm just... me. Six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty pounds of farm muscle, and a really inconvenient hard-on because—'' He stops, cheeks flushing. ''Because I haven't felt this... equal to you in a long time.''

You stare at him. He stares back. The apartment is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the soft, uneven rhythm of his breathing.

''Equal,'' you echo, testing the word. Your fingers slide down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under the S-shield. It's not the slow, steady metronome you're used to. It's fast. Human. ''You mean... you wouldn't have to hold back?''

His throat works. ''There's not much to hold back when I'm this...'' He gestures vaguely at himself. ''...depleted. I wouldn't have to worry about breaking your pelvis if I thrust too hard, or leaving bruises on your skin. I wouldn't accidentally snap the headboard in half when I—'' He cuts himself off again, jaw tightening. ''Gosh. I sound like an animal.''

''You sound like a man who's been fucking his girlfriend like she's made of glass for years,'' you correct him, voice dropping low. ''And now doesn't have to.''

Clark's eyes darken. You step closer until your body presses against his, feeling every inch of him, still towering, still broad, still so much bigger than you, but without that effortless power coiled underneath.

''Tell me,'' you murmur, fingers tracing the line of his jaw down to the pulse hammering in his throat. ''What do you want to do right now, Clark?''

He swallows hard. His hands, big, calloused, trembling, settle on your waist.

''I want to make love to you until you can't think straight,'' he admits, voice rough. ''I want to feel every flutter and clench without having to listen for your heartbeat to make sure I'm not hurting you.''

A slow, wicked smile curves your lips.

''Then do it,'' you whisper. ''Show me what Clark Kent feels like when he finally lets go.''

His control snaps like a frayed rope.

One second you're standing, the next he has you lifted, still strong enough to do it easily, and your back hits the wall with a solid thump that rattles the framed photos of you, Clark and Krypto.

His mouth crashes into yours like a man starved, messy and desperate and tasting faintly of ozone and sweat.

You laugh breathlessly against his lips when his hands fumble with the hem of your shirt, fingers clumsy from fatigue.

''Need help, Kent?'' you tease.

''Shut up,'' he groans against your lips, but there's laughter in it too, bright and surprised. You help him yank the shirt over your head. Then his hands are on your bare skin, warm, rough, greedy, and he groans like the contact alone is enough to short-circuit him.

''Golly,'' he breathes against your neck. ''You feel so good. Always do. But like this—'' He bites down on the sensitive skin, your back arching with a sharp moan.

''Like this,'' he continues, voice wrecked, ''I can feel every shiver. Every goosebump. Every time your pulse jumps under my tongue.''

His hips rock forward, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you through the suit. You hook a leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

''Then stop talking,'' you say, nipping his lower lip. ''And fuck me like you've always wanted to.''

Clark doesn't need to be told twice.

He scoops you up again, carrying you toward the bedroom with long, determined strides, the heavy thud of boots on hardwood and the ragged sound of his breathing filling the apartment.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, wood rattling in the frame, and drops you onto the mattress with enough force that the springs groan in protest. You bounce once, twice, laughing breathlessly as you prop yourself up on your elbows. He's already tearing at the clasps of his cape, fingers fumbling for the first time because there's no super-speed to make it effortless and quick.

''Gosh darn it,'' he mutters before finally ripping the cape free and flinging the red fabric across the room. It lands in a heap against the dresser.

You're already shimmying out of your sweatpants, watching Clark with hungry eyes. He looks... wrecked, in the best way. Hair mussed from the wind of his labored flight home, suit clinging to sweat-damp skin, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, and so fucking hard the outline of his cock strains obscenely against the red fabric.

He catches you staring and gives a crooked, almost shy grin that doesn't match the feral glint in his eyes.

He's on you in two strides, knees sinking into the mattress, caging you beneath him. His hands, still trembling faintly from the lack of solar energy, grip your hips and yank you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, and you moan at how easily he manhandles you.

''Gosh,'' he breathes, staring down at where your legs wrap around his waist. He drags one palm up your inner thigh, spreading you wider, and groans when he sees how wet you already are. No super-hearing to tell him exactly how soaked, but he doesn't need it. The slick shine on your folds is obvious, obscene.

''Tell me if it's too much,'' he says suddenly, voice cracking with lust and worry even as his thumb brushes your clit and makes you arch. ''I can't— I can't hear your heart. Can't tell when your pulse is spiking because you love it or because I'm hurting you.''

You reach up, cupping his face, forcing him to meet your eyes.

''Clark,'' you say firmly. ''I'll tell you. I promise. But right now, I just want you to fuck me like you've been dying to.''

His pupils blow wide.

He doesn't bother stripping the suit all the way, just yanks the crotch open with a sharp rip of fabric that makes you gasp. His cock springs free, thick and flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. He's bigger than most men could dream of being, and it looks absolutely obscene.

He notches himself at your entrance, drags the head through your slick once, twice, coating himself. ''You feel incredible. No one makes me feel the way you do,'' he mumbles absentmindedly.

He slams home in one brutal stroke, bottoming out so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your back bows off the bed with a choked cry, nails digging into his shoulders. He's huge, always has been, but without his powers tempering the force, the stretch burns in the best way, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

''Oh, wow,'' he pants against your neck, hips stuttering like he's fighting not to come already. ''So tight. So, so tight around me. I can feel you fluttering. Gosh, I can actually feel it without having to focus—''

His hips snap forward again, harder this time, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. The bed creaks ominously, but he doesn't stop. He can't. He fucks you like a man possessed, each thrust driving the air from your lungs, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head so you can't do anything but take it.

''Look at you,'' he rasps, eyes raking down your body. ''Taking all of me. Every inch. Look how your stomach—'' He presses one palm low on your belly, right where he can feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. The pressure makes you clench hard around him, and he whines. ''Yeah. Right there. Feel that? That's me.''

You're already close, overstimulated from the relentless pace, the size of him, the way he's finally letting go. Your thighs tremble around his hips.

''Clark, I'm gonna—''

''Come,'' he orders, voice rough. ''Let me feel it. Let me feel you soak me.''

Your orgasm hits like a freight train, sharp, blinding, your walls clamping down so hard he nearly loses it right then. He talks you through it, whispering praises and dragging it out, making you shake and whimper as aftershocks ripple through you.

But he doesn't stop.

He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and drives back in from behind. One hand fists your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to arch your back perfectly for him.

''Again,'' he pants. ''Give me another one. I want to feel you come while I fill you.''

You're oversensitive, clit throbbing, every stroke too much and not enough. You sob into the sheets, pushing back against him anyway.

''Clark—''

''You can take it,'' he interrupts, more of a desperate plea than a command, but then guilt floods him. ''Tell me to stop if—''

''Don't you dare stop,'' you gasp. ''Fill me. Please.''

He slams in one last time and comes with a broken moan that vibrates through your whole body. Pulse after pulse floods you until you feel it leaking out around his cock, dripping down your thighs even as he keeps grinding, trying to push it deeper into you.

He collapses over you, careful even now not to crush you completely, chest heaving against your back. His cock is still twitching inside, still leaking the last of it.

''I didn't hurt you, did I?'' he whispers after a long minute, voice wrecked.

''Never.'' You turn your head, catch his mouth in a messy, sated kiss.

Clark stays buried inside you for a moment, hips twitching with aftershocks, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel every uneven exhale against your skin as his weight pins you to the mattress in the most delicious way.

Eventually he rolls to the side so he doesn't crush you completely. You feel the hot rush of his come immediately when his cock slips out of you, leaking out of you and onto the sheets. He watches it with something like dazed fascination, one big hand sliding down to cup your pussy possessively, thumb smearing the mess over your swollen clit.

''Golly,'' he mutters, voice hoarse. ''I... that's a lot.''

You laugh softly, still catching your breath, and turn to face him. His cheeks are flushed, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes heavy-lidded and tired in a way you rarely get to see post-sex.

You reach out, trace a lazy finger down the center of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart slowing gradually.

''Feeling mortal yet, Kent?''

He huffs a laugh that turns into a groan when he tries to shift closer and his thigh muscles protest. ''Yeah. Very.'' He winces as he stretches one leg out. ''My quads are burning. And my back— For gosh sake, did I pull something?''

''Clark,'' you laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can look down at him properly. ''You're just sore.''

He shoots you a mock-glare, but the corner of his mouth twitches. ''Laugh it up. I haven't had to deal with lactic acid buildup since... ever.''

You trail your fingers lower, over the defined ridges of his abs, then lower still until you're brushing his softening cock, still impressive even at half-mast, slick with both of you. He twitches under your touch, sensitive, but doesn't get hard again. Not instantly. Not like usual.

''Look at you,'' you tease, voice dropping to that soft, filthy murmur he loves. ''No super-speed recovery. No round two in three seconds flat.''

Clark's eyes darken at the words, even as his cheeks flush deeper. He catches your wrist, squeezing gently.

''Keep talking like that,'' he warns, voice rough, ''and I'll find a second wind whether my body likes it or not.''

You grin, leaning down to brush a slow kiss against his jaw. ''Promise?''

He groans again, but it sounds more like a laugh this time. His arms wrap around you, still big and strong enough to make you feel small and safe.

''I'm gonna need a minute,'' he admits, nuzzling into your hair. ''Maybe ten. Possibly a nap. Is this how tired normal people get after sex?''

You hum happily, tucking your face against his throat where his pulse is still racing.

''Take all the minutes you need,'' you murmur.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

As a receptionist at the Daily Mail, you heard everything. If it wasn’t coming from the mouths of the reporters, editors, photographers, it was by anonymous reports called into the hotline. There were many tips called in daily, and whether they were true or not, you always took notes on your desktop notepad. 

Details were always emphasized and if your fingers weren’t hovering the keyboard before even speaking the introduction to the incoming call, you could miss very important information that might need to be forwarded to the right person, which is how you found yourself staring at the pink sticky note on your computer. After muttering a quick thank you, your heart was pounding in your chest as you read the tip what felt like a hundred times in your head. 

‘I have reason to believe there may be some ethical issues under your news journal. Lois Lane and Clark Kent are secretly hooking up, I see him leaving her apartment at weird hours almost every other day. Now, I’m only telling you this because I know your company’s policy strictly prohibits inter-workplace relationships. If you don’t do something about this, I’ll be forced to find the information for your HR team.’

The empty threats meant nothing, you received plenty of those from Lois’s mirage of crazy fanboys. No, it was the confirmation of your suspicions for a few weeks now, that had you frozen in your seat.

The bumbling giant of a man you've been pining over since you started this job almost a year prior was taken. You couldn't blame him either, Lois was an amazing woman, extremely intelligent and gorgeous beyond words. As if on cue, your eyes find him at his desk, but he’s watching her with complete admiration.

All the stolen moments that felt too good to be true between you and Clark, from restocking the printers together or running a quick IT run after he almost downloaded malware, you would run through them a million times after the fact to delusionally feed into your one-sided crush. What you didn’t see when you were so clouded by love was the way he snuck glances at Lois from every angle of the office building during these special moments.

The sudden onset of emotions were overwhelming and nauseating and you just could not wait to get out of there.

As heart ache consumed your entire being, you were knocking back glasses of liquor to replace the feelings. To temporarily numb your hurt, your feet carried you to a nearby dive bar, the drinks cheap and the patrons sketchier. 

You slumped onto a stool, muttering, “Another one… please.” Your voice wavered with half defiance and half plea. You weren't the only person drinking past their limit tonight, and you surely wouldn’t be the last.

As the clear liquid burned its way down your throat, that’s when you felt a large presence sit down beside you. He lacked the sound effects you would normally roll your eyes at from drunken men, no groans as he sat or the long pitiful sighs, he was completely quiet. Too quiet. Broad-shouldered, face shadowed under the dim red glow of the bar’s neon sign. He didn’t look at you once, just ordered water from the waiting bartender.

“Don’t drink?” you croaked, squinting at him, having to tilt your head upwards at his large frame. Shit, that’s a gorgeous specimen.

He shook his head once. “Not… safe for me.” Well, hello man of few words.

You snorted almost immediately, hand moving to cover your mouth. “Safe? Buddy, that’s the whole point of alcohol."

“I do not have plans to forget, if anything, I just want to remember.”

If it weren’t for the unnecessary shots sitting in your digestive tract, you would’ve found him alluring–poetic even. Instead, you coughed out a chuckle and swallowed the overwhelming sense of self-preservation.

“In that case, you wouldn’t happen to know how many shots it takes to forget the man you’re in love with? I’ll take a rough estimate if you know.”

The stranger turned slowly then. His eyes weren't kind but not cold either. Like a stormlight trying to remember warmth. He didn’t answer your quip, just watching you in a gaze that could swallow you whole. It was the kind of attention you would’ve done anything to get from Clark. When he said nothing, you continued to ramble despite the gut feeling to keep it to yourself.

“I’ve spent way too long being in love with a man who’s never loved me in return. God–how could I be so foolish? I would never compare to Lois Lane, what with her brain and her bravery and her determination. All this for someone like Clark Kent.” You paused to take a sip of your drink, but it’s your last words that brought the stranger’s attention back to you. “I don’t even know your name, and I’m telling you things I couldn’t even admit to my best friend. How sad is that?”

“…Kent,” he said softly, not answering your ramble but almost testing the name on his tongue. It was not an introduction but a moment of realization that you had a personal connection to the man–albeit behind the latex suit–he was once commanded to destroy but ultimately failed at doing. It was Superman’s fault that he had no sense of purpose anymore, aimlessly wandering the streets of Metropolis until the chance to right his mistakes struck again.

You laughed through tears, because of course, his name would be the one you wanted to forget tonight.  "Even my heartbreak has bad timing."

He didn’t return your laugh but something in his chest tightened, the thought that his superhero counterpart had hurt you to this extent of drowning your sadness in a glass.

First lie unspoken:  

I’m not him.

Second truth whispered in silence:  

But I could be.

The raw emotions you exhibited were not something he was familiar with, but he had a general idea on what someone was to do when alongside such vulnerabilities. With a glass of water pressed to his chin, he hummed in response, “I cannot even imagine what she looks like, if you’re the most bewitching thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your fragile ego had you double taking, unsure you heard the stranger correctly, although the giddy smile on your face wouldn’t suppress itself. “You sure you’re not drunk, Kent?”

He blinked slowly, he wasn’t used to smiles, just commands and fighting. “No alcohol. Never touch it.” A pause. Then, quieter: “But I know beauty when I see it… even if I don’t know why it’s sad.”

You snorted into your drink, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re either a really good liar,” you muttered, “or the sweetest idiot in Metropolis.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just observed the way your fingers curled around the glass—the tremble in them fading. Then as if the moment were fleeting, he spoke again. “Maybe both.”

A beat.

The jukebox crackled a slow love song—something old and aching—and without looking at you, he slid off his coat and laid it over your bare shoulders as he almost felt your cold radiating against his warmth. It was too big and smelled like the outdoors during winter.

“Look, I doubt you want to hear about another man or anything else out of my rambling self but I’ll indulge you anyways.” You spoke as you shuffled to stand and get the bartender’s attention for yet another drink, only to feel a warm hand placed on top of yours from the strange but intoxicating man.

“You don’t need another drink,” he said gently. “You need rest.”

And because of how softly he said it, how he didn’t encourage you toward further inebriation, you let him lead you out the sketchy bar.

Why you let a random man walk you to your residence, to your private sanctuary was not an answer of logic, but something of desperation. You talked and talked and talked, and he followed with nothing to say or do but let you speak. Not one second did he take advantage of you, just let your venting and the cold air sober you up.

Not wanting to leave this moment so soon, you sit on the cracked steps of your apartment building, knees pulled to your chest. He stands a few feet away awkwardly, unsure if he should leave or stay.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” you say softly, not looking up from the gaze of your slightly scuffed ballet flats. “I’m not gonna cry again if that’s what you’re worried about, I’m all dried out.”

He shifts, his eyes darting around your surroundings like a routine check, like it’s second nature. “I… don’t know how to leave.”

That makes you turn. What an odd thing to say, was this flirting?

You blink up at him, half-smiling. “Wow. Smooth.” But your voice lacks bite. You’re tired. Too soft tonight to pretend you don’t feel something—a strange pull toward this quiet man who bought you water like it was a love offering and gave you his coat like he knew your cold wasn’t just from the night air.  

He doesn’t react to the tease, just stares down at his hands again, turning one palm over like he’s inspecting damage only he can see. “Not a line,” he says flatly. “Fact.”  

A pause stretches out. Long enough for a cat to dart across the sidewalk and for a distant siren to fade into silence.

Then, even softer, he spoke: “I walk all night sometimes… no place calling me back.”  He doesn't say home. You notice that but don’t counter, he’s not as open as you are. It’s something you gathered between the endless words you’ve spoken in response to his silent nods.

You pull his coat tighter around your shoulders that swallow your arms, still warm from him and ask without thinking:  “What do you do during those walks?”  

His jaw ticks once before answering. “Listen.”  

“To what?”  

“The city.” A beat... "People who think no one hears them."

Something shifts in your chest. Because isn't that what you were tonight? A woman crying into cheap tequila about a man who’d never loved her–only someone broken himself would hear her loud enough to stay.

And suddenly you want to ask more. Who is this Kent? Why does loneliness look so natural on him? Why did his name alone feel less like irony and more like fate?

But before you can speak, his head tilts slightly, as if catching sound miles away. Then stillness.

“You should go inside,” he murmurs, eyes not meeting yours now. “It’s late.”

There it is again, that almost-gentle command wrapped in restraint. Not pushy. Protective... but holding back on purpose. And damn if that doesn't make you want him closer even more.

You stand slowly, not ready for this to end, and hand back the coat with deliberate slowness so your fingers will brush. A tiny spark flickers through you and him, but you understand the feeling while it's the absolute unspoken first for him.

“Thanks,” you say quietly—the word full of things unsaid—"for walking me home."

He takes the coat but doesn't put it on right away—he just holds its weight in one hand as if memorizing how warmth leaves when someone gives part of themselves away and walks into darkness alone.

Then he nods once, voice dropping to a lower monotone timbre. "Anytime."

Like an oath, like a new purpose was created for him. And this time it wasn’t by someone who wanted to hurt him.

You're at a dainty open-air market near the river across from your work building—early afternoon, sun hiding behind the light clouds that make the air feel brisk. Coffee in hand. You came to clear your head but mostly to escape the lingering laughs of Clark and Lois.

Your eyes follow some dogs at the nearby park, children running the grass in the distance, ducks swimming in the pond when you see him. Standing by a fruit stand like any normal person. He’s holding an apple. Staring at it like he’s never seen one before.

And for a moment, you wonder if this is real or if your heart is conjuring him again when it really needed another distraction. You look side to side as if this is just a hallucination and not actually your reality.

He looks up slowly, as if sensing you, not startled, not overly pleased… just present, like gravity pulled him here and no lie could explain why both of you ended up in this exact spot on a random Tuesday morning.

“Kent?” You say lightly, trying to sound surprised but failing because something warm sparks behind your ribs anyway as your feet involuntarily carry you closer to him.

He glances around briefly—like checking for exits or cameras or some signal from the sky—and then steps toward you with a deliberate calmness.

“Didn’t plan this,” he says simply. Not quite ‘I’m glad to see you.’ Not quite ‘I’ve been thinking about what we said.’ But there: "You look rested."

Such a small thing that lands deep, how he’s paying such close attention to you.

You didn’t expect him to remember anything beyond your tears… let alone notice whether sleep found its way back to your face.

“Yeah…” You lift the coffee cup slightly as proof, lipstick smudges across the lid and your name scribbled in fast handwriting. "Back to being a functioning human."

He notes this, your name, your favorite place to get coffee, like he’s collecting data.

"So, do you work nearby?" You ask curiously, lowering your coffee cup from your lips to blow on the steam. His eyes follow the movement, his own lips shadowing yours as if he was acting it out.

He hesitates momentarily, then answers, "Not exactly. I just walk through this area sometimes."

You raise an eyebrow—curious but trying to play it cool. "Funny, the bar we met at was a block away from here, and now you show up at this market that happens to be within viewing distance of my desk?"

You didn't mean to come off accusatorily, but it was interesting timing as you could swear you've never seen him before that night, no matter how familiar he felt.

The faintest hint of sheepishness flickers across his face and he rubs the back of his neck—not quite sure how to explain his random appearances.

The truth was he spotted you in the street one day (presumably) leaving work when he was in the middle of a mission to find Clark. Your face haunted him for weeks but he could not do anything under the watchful eye of Lex Luthor. 

So he waited, and it took weeks but now that his commander was awaiting trial for his crimes, he was off the hook to live a normal life. Well, as normal as a manufactured clone to an alien could live.

He did not know the social cues on how to approach someone, let alone someone so ethereal in his mind. Until that night you practically stumbled out of the Daily Mail’s doors with tears welled in your eyes and beelined for the bar, he had no perfect chance but he took it. And the moment you shared was all he could ponder until the next time he saw you.

"I didn't… intend to come here today," he says finally, voice rough. "It was by chance, I swear."

His eyes dart away for a fraction of a second—like he's hiding something. But you can't quite catch it because his next words knock the air from your lungs instead: "Though… I may have noticed you sitting by the window one day, typing away at your desk."

"Are you stalking me, Kent? Did I really do that much of a number on you?" you giggled

He stiffens briefly at the word ‘stalking’ before realizing you're teasing. He rolls his eyes, trying not to look embarrassed.

"No," he grunts, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Stalking implies intention. I'm just... observant." If you only knew.

The corners of your mouth turn up. "So you just happen to notice me, working at my desk? How poetic." Something drew him to you, much like you were to him. His long hair was pushed back under a dark baseball cap today, his stubble a little bit more maintained since your first meeting. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you're some fan boy using me to meet Lois Lane." In reality, if it weren't for your rant, you could tell he wouldn't know who she was.

He looks genuinely taken aback at being compared to a fan boy, his eyebrows lifting. "Fan boy? I don’t even know what that means." he grumbles, sounding almost offended. "And I couldn't care less about this Lois person when you’re standing here, looking at me like that."

He seems almost uncomfortable with the comparison, the word 'fan' sitting awkwardly on his lips. Then he notices your smirk and realizes you're just messing with him. "Very funny," he mutters, shaking his head.

"You know I got this feeling you're an only child, the way you are just easy to bait." Well he certainly was the only creation now that his creator is rotting in a jail cell, not that you would know. 

He narrows his eyes at you, not appreciating being called out so accurately. "That’s not true," he protests, trying to maintain his cool. But there's something in the way his jaw tenses that shows you're hitting a nerve. He shifts his weight, shoving his hands deep in his pockets again as if seeking refuge from the personal conversation. "But what makes you assume that?"

"Your mannerisms for one. You're just not like anyone I've ever met." This could come off flirtatious, which you didn’t hide from too much, but you also didn’t want to scare him off.

He blinks, caught off guard. Not defensive this time—just seen, in a way that unsettles him. “I’ve… never had anyone to copy,” he says after a pause, voice lower now. “No one to learn from. Just orders.”

It slips out, more than he meant to say, but you don’t push. Instead, you study him: the careful way he stands like his body doesn’t always feel like his own, the way his eyes scan the edges of the market like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, how he subtly shifts closer to you in a guarding and protective nature.

And suddenly it hits you, he isn't just strange by nature. He was made strange. Nurtured, minus the nurturing, to be a fighter from the day he was born. A military family and upbringing, you deduced.

“Have you ever had someone… teach you how to be ‘normal’?” you ask softly, trying to lighten the increasingly heavy mood.

He huffs a dry, humorless sound and finally takes a bite of that apple he’s been holding onto like a shield. Crisp crunch of leaves cut through the quiet between you before he mutters: "Isn’t that what you're doing right now?"

"Oh honey, I'm not the one to take advice from on anything, especially being normal. You saw how I handle slight inconveniences."

He actually does smile this time, it's a small, crooked, barely there kind of smile. But it lights something up behind his eyes. “You cried over a man who didn’t see you,” he says simply. “I’ve survived explosions and still don’t know how to eat an apple.” He lifts the fruit slightly in offering, juice glistening at the bite mark that didn’t quite pierce through. “Which one’s worse?”

You laugh and shake your head at his quip, his way with words naturally enticing you in the way they were spoken without restraint.

He shrugs, unbothered by the tease. “Just saying… your heartbreak looked honest.” A beat. Then quieter:  “That’s harder than any fight I’ve been in.”

The air shifts. Maybe not flirtation this time, something deeper. You realize he doesn’t pity you. He admires you in a way you’ve never experienced before, because he was unlike anyone you’ve ever known before.

"So you're a soldier.." You infer before adding, trying to change the subject of your love life, or the lack thereof, "I guess I should say thank you for your service."

He blinks, thrown off guard by something as simple as a thank-you. But this time, he doesn’t stiffen or retreat.

“Uh-well?” He stutters, like he’s not sure how to accept this show of gratitude. If you knew the battles he fought for, what he was created for, you would run for the hills and find the damn Bat signal for help.

You give a little smile, almost laughing. “You know, you don’t have to be so… stoic about it. I’m thanking you. It’s okay to say ‘you’re welcome’ back.”

He lets out a breath that could be a nervous laugh or a huff, and finally manages a response that seems sincere. He's stumbling through unfamiliar territory, trying to remember how to speak without commands. But there's something almost hopeful in his eyes—like he actually likes this conversation, even if he's not used to it.

You sip your coffee in silence for a few moments, just listening to the city buzz around you. But this time, it's not strained or uncomfortable. Just two strangers, finding comfort in each other's company.

You find solace in his company, and you hope you’re not reading the moment wrong as you wrap your fingers around his bicep and stand closer to him. Nothing spoken, just comfort. 

The moment you lightly touch his arm, he tenses but not in rejection. Like he's not used to affectionate contact, much less someone trying to make a connection on a deeper level with him.

But then, you can see it in his eyes: the way his pupils dilate the tiniest bit, how a muscle shifts in his jaw like he's fighting something deep inside him that wants to pull closer.

Slowly, his hand lifts, just inches at first, then carefully rests on top of yours. His skin is warm and rough against yours. It’s serene and you would give away money if you could to make time freeze. But that’s not how time works, evident by the alarm on your phone that startled the both of you from enjoying the sounds of the city from afar. The reminder that this fantasy has to come to an end.

You quickly reached for your phone, silencing the sound. With a deep sigh, you looked at Kent, a glimmer in your eyes that disappeared as quick as it came. “Well, my break is over, could you walk me back to work?”

He seemed almost too willing to agree. "Yeah, of course," he says, his voice a bit gruff and rushed. "I'll walk with you." You didn't need any protection, let alone in daylight, but it felt like that was his unspoken mission. To keep you safe and happy and never have to see another tear grace your rosy cheeks.

He falls into step beside you as you begin to wind through the streets back toward your office building. Your fingers grip tighter on his biceps as you try to keep in line with his wider strides, him pulling you closer in response. 

For a while, you both walk in silence, the bustle of the city around you filling the quiet. But after a while, you notice him glance at you out of the corner of his eye. He seems like he wants to say something. 

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” You grin, still looking forward at the bustling street as the Daily Mail sign comes into view. 

He hesitates, then takes a breath. "I…" He begins, then stops, stumbling over the words.

You wait patiently, keeping your eyes straight ahead, but you can feel him watching you.

Finally, he speaks again. This time, the words come out in a rush—as if he's afraid if he doesn't say it now, he never will. 

"I want… to see you again."

You freeze, the response catching you off guard. You felt the same, but a normal person would’ve phrased it as a question, not so brazenly like it was bordering a threat. Another reminder that he was not like anyone you’ve ever met.

But when you look at him, you realize he's dead serious. “I would really like that.” You said with a gentle smile, moving to stand in front of him, as to not downplay the moment.  You step in front of him, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his dark eyes, close enough that the city noise seems to hush for just a second.  

“I would really like that,” you say again, softer this time, like it’s meant only for him to hear and remember for all of time.

He doesn’t move, like he’s afraid breaking stillness will break the moment. Something shifts behind his gaze.  Relief? Hope? Something raw and quiet that he doesn’t know how to name.

His voice is low when he finally answers, “Tomorrow?” Not demanding. Not pushy. Just wanting to see you again, for as long as he can until this dream is inevitably ripped from his hands.

You smile, just a little tilt of your lips that you could blink and miss, then nod. “Same time? Same place?”

“I’ll bring coffee.” He almost looks proud of himself, as if figuring out human rituals is some kind of victory. And damn if that doesn't make your heart twist.

You take one small step back, not pulling away completely, just making space before reality sets back in. "Don't be late," you tease lightly.  

He watches as you turn toward the Daily Planet entrance, longer than necessary. He was memorizing the way your hair catches light when you walk into the sun. Or the way you subtly catch the sole of your shoe on the uneven curb that gets you every single time. Or the way your hand fumbles with the door handle as you immediately apply hand sanitizer after contact.

And when you glance back?

He’s still there. Not gone. Not vanished into the shadows or the bustling city streets.

Waiting in the same place you’d meet him for lunch for the next few weeks to come.

Of course Kent hears the rumor, that Lex Luthor was released on bond, from hushed whispers and gossiping on his daily aimless walks through the city. A man with nothing to lose and a god complex to rebuild.

His immediate thought is you, that you’re not safe or you wouldn’t be for long.

Bee-lining to the Daily Planet, his head hung low to avoid running into his nemesis, he’s tracking your usual path like muscle memory—the coffee run at 3 p.m., your desk by the window, that one bench where you sometimes eat a snack if it’s a slow news day. But you’re nowhere.

He’s hacking the mainframe of some local security cameras via his phone, speeding through footage until it tracks your early departure from your workplace. No sign of distress, just purposeful steps toward downtown Metro East, a place he knew too well, an area crawling with old LexCorp shells and black-market tech dealers.

You were chasing a tip, a whispered lead about corruption tied to Superman, that tied into the unexpected release of Lex Luthor. This could be your big break into the journalism world, and out of that demeaning receptionist role for good.

But Ultraman doesn’t know any of that. All he knows is that you’re gone, and the natural human senses he’s started developing with you told him you were going someplace you had no business being. God forbid the rumor was true, and Lex was there, if he found you first–he didn’t want to even think about the havoc he would wreck over you.

Breaking out into a desperate run, slipping in and out of the crowds with a precise expertise, his disguises fell off into the breeze behind him but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care who saw him, the real him, if it meant saving you.

As something faster than cars, faster than fear, he tears through alleyways on foot, knowing his inhuman abilities would draw eyes Lex inevitably has planted everywhere on him.

His heart pounds from panic unfamiliar even after battlefields and bloodshed. This isn’t another mission he’s run the likes of hundreds of times before, this is you, the only person to treat him with utter kindness in return for nothing.

And when he finally catches sight of you, standing outside a derelict warehouse talking into your recorder, he doesn't call out. He stops cold. He can feel they’re being watched, that this was a set up.

From across the street: surveillance drones no bigger than dragonflies hover near rusted vents scanning and listening. Tech only someone with Lex Luthor's resources would own.

You don't see them. But he does—and suddenly every instinct screams to him that you’re both being watched. 

His internal conflict hits like a truck: Does he rush in, grab you, drag you away? And then what? How does he explain how found you or why he’s taking you away from this abandoned warehouse? Or does he stay hidden—and become what scares you most? A stranger who always shows up right when you need him? A warning hand reaching too far?

Either way—it ends tonight. This facade of his is finally over and he’s mourning the moments you had together that he would never get the chance to remake.

“What are you doing here?” A familiar voice booms behind you, making you jump and drop your recorder. With a hand clutched to your heart, you spun on your heel with wide and frightened eyes. 

“I-Kent… how did you find me?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. He listens to your heartbeat to calm him while he still can. He steps forward too fast for a normal person, and crouches to pick up your recorder before the cracked pavement swallows it whole. His fingers are careful, deliberate. But his eyes? Wild.

“You weren’t at work,” he says, voice low, tight like a wire about to snap. “I checked everywhere.”  

You blink at him—still catching your breath—noticing the way his jaw ticks, how his shoulders rise with each breath like he’s fighting gravity itself just to stay still. “Kent… this is kind of insane,” You whisper, heart still pounding. "How did you even know where I was?"

He hesitates. You could see the limitless lies flickering behind his eyes—but he knows none of them would make sense so he says nothing.

But then, a drone buzzes overhead. Faint. Metallic. Not human. Not random.

His eyes break their usual contact as his head snaps up, just slightly, but it’s enough for you to notice. You follow his gaze. And now you see them too: those tiny wings in the air, hovering and scanning the ground with your bodies flashing under the projection lights. 

Your blood runs cold at the sight, anxiety brewing in your gut, as he instinctively steps closer to you in his usual protective manner. "What... what are those?"  

He finally looks at you again, saying nothing about drones or Lex or why he knows exactly what they do and who sent them. “You need to go.” His hand reaches for yours without forcing you to leave.

His eyes tell you he wants your trust, and you can ask questions later, but you need to get to safety first. It raises your defiance as well as your confusion, knowing he’s not telling you something he knows. And what he knows is bigger than the warehouse you stood feet from.

You step back from him, despite your heart wanting to take his hand and run off away from the danger. “You know something… don’t you?” 

He freezes at your voice cracking, holding a breath while he tries to think through eerie possibilities with the speed of a computer. He doesn’t want this dream to end, his hands hovering your cheeks as they heat in rage but also freeze in fear, “I’ll tell you when you’re safe. Please, just—“

You don’t ignore how he only wants your safety but now it was too late. You were surrounded. Drones are everywhere. They shift, move, and you can almost hear the faint buzz of their wings scanning you both. You gasp, trying not to panic and fighting the urge to grasp onto Kent.

Something in his eyes darkens as your face shows you processing what LuthorCorp technology was doing here, and why you seemed to be at the center of its search. “What would Lex Luthor want with me?” You paused, scanning the scene before you as a million thoughts came to mind. “Unless he’s looking for you…”

He doesn't respond right away, just looks away, jaw tensing again like he’s trying to stop himself from answering. “He’s been trying to kill me for months.”

“Why would a supervillain be trying to kill you? Who are you?”

“I’m Kent.”

“No, who are you really?” Your voice is loud despite the tremor racking your body. 

Then a voice behind you sounds, a figure leaving the warehouse. Fear almost paralyzes you, Lex Luthor in the flesh. You could feel his grip on you tighten immediately, while trying to usher you behind him.

“Why, don’t you know, my creation lived after all. Ultraman, it’s so good to see you again.” A pause. A look to you. “And your own personal damsel in distress, I didn’t even know you were capable of catching one of those.” 

“Ultraman….” You whispered, memories of every encounter flashing back to you. 

He doesn’t flinch. Just steps—slow, deliberate—in front of you. Shoulder-to-shoulder with danger now, back turned to shield you completely from Lex’s gaze.

A beat passes before he speaks up again, his arms hovering your form protectively,  “You shouldn't be here, Luthor,” Ultraman growls, his voice deeper now, edged with something raw and broken under layers of programming and pain. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Lex chuckles, a slow, slick sound like oil dripping down metal. "Oh but she does." He tilts his head toward the drones still circling above like vultures. "You came for her... didn't you? Not random protocol sweep… not patrol route.” Lex paused, eyes flashing between you and his creation. “Emotion brought you here."  

His smile widens as the truth lands. "You care about her and having these… emotions... were not of my intention when I was creating the perfect being. Emotion is what ruined Superman, and you, my dear son, are supposed to be better than him.” He pauses to look at you, words dripping with venom. “How lovely, you brought me something I can use to exploit you for my gain. This is what happens when a tiger falls in love with a mouse.”

You feel the air change with the tone of the villain’s voice, the moment everything shatters inside Ultraman’s chest. Because denial is useless now. And when he finally turns his head slightly, not fully breaking sight from Lex, but just enough so you can see one dark eye glinting in the dim light. His voice drops again, “When I tell you to, you need to get out of here.”

It wasn’t a request, but a command, deeply rooted in fear for your safety now that you’ve implanted yourself into the hands of the most powerful man on the wrong side of history. It was a silent promise, that whatever happens next—Kent wouldn’t let Lex touch you.

But Lex isn’t done playing yet. “Tell me”, He takes a step forward as he speaks your name, practically hissing. You can feel how Ultraman tenses like a coiled spring ready to break bone on impact. “…did it ever cross your mind that love stories between humans and monsters rarely end well?”

The words hit hard in your chest and it stings your eyes to think of the man you’ve gotten so comfortable around to be revealed as the person who was once trying to destroy your home and its protector, Superman.

But Ultraman doesn't move to deny it, because deep down, he believes it. He always has, but you were just a temporary distraction to the walking nightmare he used to live. For a second, he looks vulnerable and more human than ever. But then he shifts, subtle, so only you notice.  

“Lex, you bastard….”  

“Always such a sweet talker.”  Lex smirks, taking one step forward. “I wonder if Clark knows about you yet. How much have you been hiding from him? From her?”

It felt like glass shattered around you with this new information. "You.. knew Clark this whole time too?" You spoke looking at Kent as he stood in place, grimace growing stronger by the sentence.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Kent says, voice low and raw as he’s confessing something too heavy to carry alone.  “Clark… thinks I died in the battle.”  

Your breath catches, not only were you finding out of his hidden agenda but also that the man you’ve worked alongside for months was secretly a superhero. You couldn't stop your feet from backing away from him, creating even more distance between you and the two men.

Everything clicks from the way he flinched whenever you mentioned Kent. The silence when Superman was mentioned on the news. The way he watches the sky like it betrayed him.

You turn back to Lex, who’s smiling like this is all part of some grand design. “You made him?” The words are barely a whisper, barely a question.

"Oh, better," Lex purrs, stepping forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a professor giving a lecture. "I didn't just make him—I gave him purpose. Power. Pain." He tilts his head toward Kent with chilling affection. "And then I threw him away when he failed to stop Superman.”

Kent’s fists clench at his sides—but not from rage, from restraint. Because every second he stands here  isn’t about fighting Lex. It’s about keeping you from getting caught in what inevitably comes next.

You look at Kent, really look like it’s the last time you’ll see him, and your voice trembles with realization. “You weren’t walking by coincidence… were you? That night at the bar, you were watching me long before that moment.”

A beat. Then one small nod. "It was the first time I saw someone look at me... and still see a person."

It was metrical, how two broken souls who found each other in ruins attempted to put the pieces back together. All the while, the man who built his creature watches, waiting to burn it down again just to make a statement.

As Lex steps forward, smug and sure of himself, a new shadow cuts across the cracked pavement—larger than any of theirs.

A sonic boom splits the air. And then there’s impact to the pavement in front of you.

Superman lands between you and Lex like a wall of living steel, cape flaring in the wind. His voice is like ice, “Luthor. Don’t know how you managed to escape but I’ll be personally turning you in this time.”

Lex doesn’t flinch. He smiles wider and cockily. “Always punctual, Clark. Though I’d watch your six. You’re not the only you here today.”

Ultraman tenses, but Superman doesn't look at him yet. His eyes find yours first.

“Are you okay?” He asks—gentle, concerned—the same voice that once comforted headlines full of hope. The facade was ruined, you knew this was Clark now and there was no return from that. The man you once loved, here to save you, but this time?

You don’t feel warmth from his presence. You feel the comparison to his clone.

Because one man flew in with fanfare. The other walked into your life with silence and stayed when no one told him to.

You notice the flicker in his eyes as Clark recognizes you, a flash of personal emotions possessing him as he tries to map a way for you to get away. While the men lock eyes over destruction’s edge—one clone to another—Clark creates a diversion for you to escape, and you don’t waste a second of it.

Double taking as your feet carried you further and further away from the scene, your heart pounds in your chest from adrenaline, exhaustion, and the heartache all at once.

The calamity happening behind you has become white noise, an endless flow of tears pouring out of your eyes. You trip a few times on rutted concrete, turning almost every corner until you make your way back to the city streets to hail a taxi and get away. 

Ignoring the strange looks the driver is giving from the review mirror, you slump against the window and finally catch your breath. Miles and miles now separate you from the calamity that will hit the media any now, and your eyes linger over the video recording you managed to catch on your hidden phone camera.

You were a walking cliche. 

You came to this party with your friend, who you advised that another night of bed rotting would not heal her broken heart, which in turn had her coaxing you to a party, for moral support. But now, she’s gone, although you hear her constant laughs through the havoc. Inevitably, she has drunkenly left your side.

In terms of college houses to be stranded in, this was probably historically the safest, if the rumors were anything to go off of.

It was a typical extravagant fraternity house, ancient architecture that had been maintained surprisingly well for a party house that’s been used for decades. You have to step over the occasional red solo cup that scatters the floor, a karaoke disaster unfolds in the corner, and a small group of people are about to cannonball into the pool. Amidst the chaos, you spot him. The famous Clark Kent in all his glory.

Based on the amount of stacked cups in his hands, he looks like he’s six drinks deep yet showing no sign of intoxication, so it must be that frat tolerance of partying every other day.

He was hard to miss, towering over everyone else but still trying his hardest to fit in where nobody else could compare. It was alluring, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from lingering on his strong form as he tilted back another plastic cup of whatever god-awful punch was sitting beside him.

Every sip of his drink seems to add to his charm and confidence. The greek row atmosphere fits him perfectly—loud music, people having a good time, and everyone knows his name.

He catches you, out of the crowd, watching him and grins, a charmingly lopsided smile that's both cocky and boyish at the same time. There's a hint of mischief in his eyes as he saunters over, leaving the sea of people behind. It takes an alarmingly little amount of steps for him to be stood in front of you, and your heart is threatening to burst from its cage.

“I've never seen you here before,” says Clark. He was always good with faces and names, so he knew you were not someone who has crossed his path before.

“It's not exactly my scene,” You say, suppressing the defensive tone that wants to jump out in the face of this adonis. His gaze is heated unintentionally, it’s just his natural behavior, but still it makes you hyperaware of the clothing choice you could’ve put more thought into.

“Oh yeah, same here.” He replies, nodding along to just whatever you say as he clearly contradicts himself. 

Your eyes flicker to the president button on his shirt with furrowed brows, pointing a sharp nail in the direction, “You sure about that?”

“See, that line usually works when I'm not here.” Here, as in, his home for the last four years.

“So you think I'm a recycled material kind of girl.” you reply with a furrowed brow, head tilted against your red solo cup. 

“I- well- no, it just-“ you could see his brain churning with different excuses that didn’t quite work, and he eventually sighed and dropped his attention to anywhere else but you. 

“I'm just joking, Clark.”

“Well, see now we’re at a disadvantage because I don't know your name.”

“What a shame.” You hummed into your cup, before slipping away into the crowd away from the giant man. 

He was hot on your trail, eyes set on you through the calamity, until a group of his friends blocked the path to usher him to another drinking game that ultimately had no effect on him. Just another “party trick” of his, when really it was his Kryptonian metabolism. 

He spoke over the heads, knowing you were still in ear shot, and he wasn’t going to let you end this conversation so soon. “So what are you doing here, if this isn’t your scene?”

“I’m supporting my friend, who is nowhere to be seen, but I promise she’s real.” You speak loud enough for him to hear above his friends shouting, walking backwards for a second before turning around again and disappearing through the commotion.

He grins, amused, his eyes following you from behind as you retreat into the crowd. A wave of curiosity washes over him at your quick exit—he's not used to girls rejecting his advances.

He's about to follow you when another group of his brothers intercept his path. "Clark! Over here, man, we need you for a game!" He's momentarily distracted, torn between following you and maintaining his social obligations. With a bashful glance in your direction, he reluctantly agrees to join his friends in the drinking game.

Clark tries to keep an eye on you as he plays with his friends, but the room is too chaotic and you've disappeared into the crowd. His mind is still on you, replaying your sharp tone and the way you shot down his ‘line’. There's something about your quick wit and no-nonsense attitude that intrigued him.

As the minutes tick by, the game starts to get boring and his friends become more rowdy, but he can't shake the thought of you. At the first chance he gets, he’s excusing himself from the game to find you again. He remembers the sound of your heartbeat from your conversation and pulls you out from the crowd with a wild look in his eyes.

“What? You don’t want to hang out with the president of Alpha Kappa Psi?” Clark says when he finds you again, pulling your attention from an aimless conversation with some drunk girls that should be escorted home.

“Thanks for the invite, but I try not to associate with… your type.” You bite back, almost meanly, and you regret the tone you get immediately for the man who didn’t deserve it.

Clark laughs softly at your sharp reply, clearly unperturbed by your harsh words. He's used to girls who swoon at his every move, but you're a different kind of challenge.

"Ouch, that hurt." He feigns a wounded look, a hand against his chest. "And what exactly is my type, sweetheart?"

"You know, the one who has girls fawning at his feet with little to no effort, uses sports and their parents' money to get ahead academically, should I keep going?" Where this sudden attitude was coming from, you had no idea. You hadn't been scorned by a man in a few months, but damn, you must've suppressed it to release your emotions this way on Clark.

Although it was a frat guy who broke your friend’s heart, but thought going to a rival frats party was the best idea. 

Clark's smile falters slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected his usual charms to be met with such disdain. But the way you challenged him only made him more intrigued, but also annoyed.

"You've got me all figured out, huh?" He leans against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. The white button up strained against his biceps, buttons almost gapping over his front. "You think you know everything about me just because of what you heard?"

You could only shrug in response, slowly losing your fire in the face of his determination to prove you wrong.

Clark studies you for a moment, sizing you up and trying to figure out what makes you tick. He hasn't been shot down this many times since... well, ever. The way you refuse to fall for his charms is infuriating, yet strangely alluring.

"You know," He starts, leaning in closer, his voice low. "You are an enigma, sweetheart. How about we get out of here?"

Your hand involuntarily lifts to create further distance from his face to yours. "Yeah, not going to happen, big guy. But nice try."

Clark catches your wrist—too gently for the way he’s looking at you, all frustration and intrigue—just before your palm makes contact with his chest. His thumb brushes absently over your pulse point as he exhales sharply through his nose.  

"Big guy?" He echoes, voice dropping into something dangerous and amused. "Nice try?"  He leans in, just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear when he murmurs, "We’ll see about that."  

Then he lets go of your wrist, steps back, and with one last lingering look melts back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with your hand still half-raised, skin burning where he touched you.  

With a surprise quiz you had a feeling was approaching, you buried yourself in a few books for your ethics course. Your hands dug through your bag for headphones, only to come up short. Because, of course you forgot them back in your dorm when you needed them the most to dial in. Huffing in defeat, you give up on the search and return your gaze to the textbook to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of hair in your peripheral. 

Naturally, Clark Kent was here at the library, also studying from the looks of it. 

But it had to be a facade, why would a jock need to actually put in work at a school like this? Surely, there were some younger students getting paid under the table to do the work for them. So the only reason he’s here is to pick up dates, is what you thought while staring for far too long.

In any other given scenario, you were just a wallflower admiring from afar, but following your rather argumentative encounter, you wanted to shrink behind the books. You knew you owed him an apology, even if he was all those bad things and more, he didn’t personally do you any wrong, so there was no logical reason for such an outburst.

Clark had been focused on his notebook, jotting down notes as he studied. His pen paused as he felt a familiar gaze on him. He glanced up and his eyes landed on you across the room.

He recognized you immediately, how could he not? You saw the light flicker in his eyes at your recognition. The defiant girl with a sharp tongue and a stubborn attitude. He'd barely stopped thinking about you since the last time he saw you.

He watched as you scrambled to dig through your bag again, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth as he noticed the slight panic in your actions.

Feeling his eyes on you again, like a wildfire, you avoided his gaze only to awkwardly lock eyes. You looked away just as quickly as you met, slouching in your chair as much as the space let you.

Clark couldn't help the way his lips twitched. It was kind of adorable, the way you seemed determined to avoid looking at him, but failing miserably.

He leaned back in his chair, keeping his notebook open on the table but no longer pretending to focus on it. His eyes were trained on you, taking in the slouched figure trying so hard to ignore him.

"Shitshitshit" You murmured, now standing the book up on its legs to hide yourself. How idiotic, he's already spotted you, and you were caught looking at him.

Clark stifled a laugh behind his hand, shoulders shaking slightly. He'd never seen someone look so determined to disappear into a textbook before.

Unable to resist, he grabbed his notebook and stood up, casually strolling toward your table. He stopped right in front of you, leaning down slightly to peer over the top of your book barrier. "Hiding from me?" he asked, voice low and amused. "I’m honored."

Letting the book fall back on its spine gently, you shuffled in your seat to sit back up, eyes darting from his intense blue ones. "Look, Clark, I have a really important test coming up, I can not waste time bickering with you again."

Clark straightened, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. The amusement in his expression softened into something more genuine—maybe even a little apologetic.  

"You think I came over here to argue?" he asked quietly, mindful of the library setting. He tapped the notebook against his thigh once before sighing. "Actually, yeah. Fair assumption."  

He hesitated, then nudged the chair across from you with his foot. "Mind if I sit? Promise I won’t distract you… unless you want me to."

"This cockiness is what led to the argument so keep it in your pants please." You returned, tucking your hair behind your shoulder as your hands fidgeted in your lap like a coping mechanism..

"Actually, I think it was you making assumptions, albeit incorrect ones, about me." Clark responded to you effortlessly, like he wasn't bothered despite the truth that deep down he was.

Your posture changed for a split second, hands still in your lap as you chewed the inside of your cheek to even think of what to say next to the call out.

Clark exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he dropped into the chair across from you anyway. "You’re right," he admitted, flipping open his notebook with deliberate slowness. "I am cocky. And yeah, I lean on my reputation when it’s convenient." He met your eyes again, unwavering. "But you don’t know me well enough to call me out like that. Not yet, anyway."  

The not yet lingered between you like a challenge—or a promise.  

"And if I don't want to know you?" You respond, head tilted as you mock-innocently bat your eyelashes in his direction.

"Then I would say you're lying, I can hear your heartbeat from miles away." He replies, arms folded over his chest as he sits back against the plastic chair that looks comically small under his frame.

There's no way he would know that, right? You think to yourself while trying to keep your inner thoughts from showing on your expression.

Clark's slight smirk tells you that yes, he knows exactly how fast your heart's pounding, but you won’t question it further. 

"You can't lie to me, sweetheart," he says, like it's the simplest fact in the world. "I can count the beats, read your breathing, you’re easier to read than a book even though you think you’re so mysterious."  

His eyes are bright under the harsh fluorescent lights, focused solely on your face, the way you try desperately to keep your expression neutral. "Your poker face could use some work."

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you have to bite back a giggle. He is charming, and it's intoxicating, but you couldn't afford the distraction that would come from Clark and his party life. Not yet anyways. 

He just wanted another notch in his belt, and that wouldn't be you, no matter how bad you wanted it to be. He was just like the other guys and you knew time would only tell the truth. 

"Look, if you’re not going to leave, then could you just sit still quietly? I really need to study and don’t have the time for… whatever this is."

Clark pauses, the teasing glint in his eye fading at your words. He'd gotten carried away, caught up in the verbal sparring he enjoyed so much, but your blunt rejection sobers him up.  

He nods, closing his notebook as his expression relaxes into something more sincere. "Sorry, I got carried away." He runs a hand through his hair, a sigh slipping past his lips. "I'll leave you alone."  

But as he stands, there's a hint of disappointment in his gaze, like your words had stung more than he expected them to.

You allowed yourself a second glance as he looked back at you, eyes portraying the apology your words wouldn't speak. At the end of the day, not everyone could rely on their athleticism and money to skate by in college so you had to work above and beyond to see even a fraction of success he and his friends got naturally.

Clark caught the brief look you shot in his direction, the silent apology clear even without words. For a brief moment, something softens in his expression, like he could see the weight that you carried, the effort you were putting in.  He wanted to say something, to apologize properly, but the words stuck in his throat as he watched you turn back to your books. He had no right to interfere, no business getting involved with a girl who seemed to want nothing to do with him.  

So instead, he just nodded in a silent farewell and walked back to a different table, on the other side where he wouldn’t be distracted by you again.

You’re hunched over your laptop, scrambling to finish a paper due in two hours when someone slides a tray onto your table with a quiet clink.  Clark sits across from you without asking, so you brace for the usual smirk accompanied by the cocky remark.  

Instead, he pushes a plate of fries toward you. “You skipped lunch.”  

You blink. “How do you even—”  

“I notice things,” he says simply, popping one into his mouth. “Your stomach rumbling is almost louder than your heartbeat.”

Your hand subconsciously travels to your stomach. Okay, yes, you skipped lunch but only because you were in a flow state of writing and promised yourself to eat when you finished.

You eye the fries he’s nudging towards you—generic dining hall fare, nothing fancy. Then you spot his own meal: a single sandwich, homemade (crusts cut off, like someone packed it for him), and a coffee that smells like the cheap instant stuff.  

But that doesn’t fit the narrative of Clark that came to mind, the one you’d built in your head. This wasn’t that typical trust-fund kid coasting through life. 

Clark follows your gaze and shrugs. “Ma sends care packages. Thinks the dining hall food’ll kill me.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “Scholarship doesn’t cover meal plans.”  

Wait…

"I-I don't understand." Your heart warms at the gesture of him buying you food, because you were the last person to deserve his kindness, but stutter at what he’s implying. "You're on a scholarship?"

Clark smiles wryly, pushing the plate of fries closer to you. You don't fight it, just take one, and pop it into your mouth to avoid having to respond right away.  

"Yeah, full scholarship." He leans back, resting an arm over the back of your chair. "Didn't exactly grow up rolling in cash. That scholarship is the only reason I can afford college, let alone this particular school."  

The way he says it, so casual, so matter-of-fact, only confuses you further. How could you have been so wrong?

"Oh my god, Clark. Why didn't you say something weeks ago?"

Clark shrugs, fingers tapping absently against the table. "Would you have believed me if I did?"  

The question hangs between you—heavy, honest.  

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "I let people assume what they want about me. Easier that way." A beat. "But I hated that you thought I was just... some spoiled legacy kid. I’m the furthest thing from it, my parents worked so hard to help me achieve my dreams because they could never afford their own when they were young."  

His gaze holds yours, no smirk, no deflection, just the raw admission. "Smallville doesn't exactly scream 'elite college pedigree,' does it?" He smirks, but it's softer now, it’s almost self-deprecating. "Ma and Pa still milk cows at sunrise. Scholarship was my ticket out."  

Your gaze drops to your lap again, knowing that meeting his eyes would unravel you faster than you cared to admit. "I had no idea. I was such a bitch to you."

Clark exhales, almost amused. "Yeah, you kinda were." But there's no malice in it, just a quiet acceptance. "But I get it."  

He holds a french fry toward you again, a silent peace offering.  

A pause. Then, quieter: "So truce?"  

"Truce." You hum and grab a fry, clinking it with his own before eating it satiate your lingering hunger.

Clark watches you with a smile. It's not the arrogant one he usually wears, but an honest, relieved smile that softens his eyes. The tension between you seems to melt.  

He picks up the much better tasting drink you pushed toward him, taking a sip before arching an eyebrow. "And you owe me an apology." He adds, unable to resist a hint of teasing. "For calling me a trust fund brat."

"I apologized!" You sputtered out, turning to face him fully.

"I only accept apologies in the form of dates." Clark responds, sucking his teeth slyly, so smooth your heart skips a beat at his sureness. 

"You coerce every girl to date you?" You reply, squinting your eyes as you try to stop the heat rushing to your face.

"No, just you." Clark grins, unrepentant, and takes another slow sip of your coffee—his lips lingering exactly where yours had been. "Say yes."  

"Fine, but only if you’re quiet so I can finish this assignment." You huff out, playfully bumping your shoulder into his, turning back to your laptop and heavily scribbled over the notepad.

Clark grins a pure, unfiltered triumphant smile—but obediently quiets, pulling out his own notes and pretending to focus.  

He doesn’t. He spends the next hour stealing glances at you over his textbook, heartbeat steady for the first time in weeks.

“I don't understand, how is he of all people single? He's like, perfect.” You exclaim to your friend as you’re putting what you hope are the final touches of your makeup on. She was well-versed in all things Greek life, despite not being part of the group herself.

"Clark's always been too busy making sure his brothers are respectful and the complete anti-thesis to frat guys, he never really took the time to get a girl himself.” She responded, despite being invested in this conversation and your new found (but completely obvious to those around you) crush on the aforementioned man.

“So you’re telling me the god of a man that is Clark Kent, handsome, athletic, and popular, has never had a girlfriend–at least–in the span of being in college?”

“If the rumor mill is anything to go off of, then yeah. But that could just mean he covers his bases in terms of secretive hookups, which I strongly dou-” She’s cut off by the doorbell ringing, and her expression immediately morphs to an ecstatic one as you both sense it could be Clark.

Your eyes flicker to the time on your phone, but that would mean he’s thirty minutes early, and you weren’t even dressed yet. She is on her feet and out of your bedroom before you can even question the visitor and you rush behind to make sure your door is closed.

Hearing your roommate and Clark's hushed voices the next room over made your pace quicken. He explains to her you weren't running late, he was just always taught by his mother to be early for important events. A few moments later of shuffling touch up items and necessities into your purse (with a string of curses to accessorize) and you exited your room, dressed in a flattering outfit that you hadn't pulled out in months. It had just been hiding behind all of the sweats and leggings you hid under throughout the final year of college.

Clark's gaze snaps to you the second you step out—sharp, appreciative, lingering on the curve of your waist before darting back up to your face. The heat brings warmth to your cheeks, a light tinge of pink scattering across your face.

"Wow," he says, voice low.  

Your roommate smirks, slipping past you both with a mischievous look as she disappears into her room. 

Clark dialed in on you, too busy drinking you in, to notice the shift of air when it’s just you and him. "You look..." He trails off, shaking his head like words fail him. The action has you looking down at your outfit, mindlessly adjusting the fabric that clung to every curve and divot that graced your skin.

"Who knew some cleavage was all it took to get you to be quiet?" You smirked, before the vulnerability set in, "Is it too much?"

Clark’s eyes darken, just for a second, before he schools his expression into something more neutral—though the tension in his jaw betrays him.  

"It’s perfect," He says, voice rough. Then, he almost whispers, "You’re perfect."  

He clears his throat, suddenly aware he might’ve crossed a line, and quickly adds, "But if you’re uncomfortable, I can wait if you want to change. Or I can lend you my jacket."  He’s already shrugging it off before you can answer but you brush fingers as you push away the clothing offering.

Goosebumps follow where his fingertips would've landed if you let him give you the jacket, "It’s fine… you're right, let's go Smallville." You took his hand in yours as he led the way out of your apartment and towards his car.

He grins, clearly taking it as a good sign that you are letting him lead. He gives your hand an almost-imperceptible squeeze just because he can, then opens the car door for you.  

His car is as clean and tidy as he is, smelling faintly of him—like leather, pine, and aftershave. He cranks the heater once he starts the engine, stealing a glance at you as he does.  

"You cold?" he asks, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

How could you possibly be cold with the heat of his gaze burning your skin from anticipation? Anxiety? Lust? Who knows.

"I'm okay, I promise. Thank you." You hum and cross your legs, letting your hands rest in your lap by default.

Clark watches the way your fingers link together in your lap, how you seem to be holding on tight to whatever's running through your head. He can hear your heart thudding—a little too fast—and he has half a mind to reach for your pulse point if it means he could soothe the racing beat.  

"Hey." He nudges you lightly with his elbow until you look up, meeting his gaze. "Nervous?"

"Of course not, this is just kind of surreal." You admit, your intrusive thoughts get the best of you.

He smiles at the honesty, something warm and tender in his gaze. He's been feeling the same way, but he'll tease you for his own sanity.  "Yeah?" He muses, eyes sparkling with the reflection of you. "And why's that, sweetheart?"

"Don't laugh at me..." You pause, silently pleading with him to be gentle in the moment of vulnerability. "It's just-- you're you. The famous Clark Kent, and I'm just one face out of the crowd.” You pause, putting your ego aside for even just a moment, “If I'm being honest, you're too good to be true, and it's why I immediately retorted to shutting you down when we met."

Clark’s smile softens, his thumb brushing over your knuckles where your hands rest in your lap.  

"I’m not famous," he says, scoffing lightly. "Just a guy who got lucky with a decent arm."  He hesitates, then adds quietly: "And you’re not just another face in the crowd. Sure, our meeting was happenstantial, but you’re the only person who wouldn’t fall for the arrogant jock front. The only one who made me work for this."  

His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up—hot, intentional.  "And trust me, sweetheart. I’m very real and more than willing to demonstrate that I’m more than your imagination."

The way he looks at your glossed lips doesn't slip past you, your brain short-circuiting for a moment as you tore your eyes away. "I don't know, these kinds of things just don't happen to girls like me."

Clark exhales sharply, like your words physically pain him. He turns the car into a quiet side street and pulls over, shifting in his seat to face you fully.  "Girls like you?" He repeats, voice low. "You mean smart, stubborn, impossible to impress, yet somehow still a hopeless romantic?" His fingers tilt your chin up gently, forcing your eyes back to his. "That kind of girl?"  

He leans in—close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips—but pauses, waiting.  He’s gotten your signals wrong before, he had to let you close the distance. "Because I think girls like you deserve everything."  

"Clark..." You whisper faintly, voice wavering, his lips practically hovering yours. You didn't want to fight this anymore, you wanted this to happen more than anything, but there was so much risk and so little reward. "Fuck it," You say as you go in for the kiss, instantly melting into him.

Clark in turn groans against your mouth, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other grips your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.  

It’s messy, desperate—like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he first saw you—and when you gasp against his lips, he takes advantage, deepening the kiss with a hunger that steals the breath from your lungs. The passion proves that yes, you've both been waiting for the moment.

When he finally pulls back, much too soon to your chagrin, his lips are swollen, his eyes dark. "Finally…" he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.  

And just like that, the dam breaks. The wall you put up has fallen, all bets are off, and you feel an immediate flutter in your chest that cannot be contained. 

"As much as I could sit here for hours and kiss you, I've a date planned for you and I intend to fulfill that promise." Clark said, despite his best interests as his hand was laced with yours. He took a moment to compose himself before getting back on to the road, driving towards his favorite spot in town to be alone with some good food that reminded him of home.

Under better circumstances, you would have made fun of the cheesy date idea, or teased him for going all out with a plan, like some stereotypical romance novel love interest. But as he parked at the top of the hill, revealing the best view of the sunset over the city, you found yourself unable to speak.  

Clark climbs out of the car and opens your door for you, taking your hand to help you from your seat. His eyes linger on you for a moment, taking in how the golden light dances over you.  

"Beautiful," He murmurs, just not referring to the backdrop, rather your innocent look of admiration to your surroundings.

Blood rushes to your cheeks, looking away from him as you know it would make you crumble. "This... is amazing, Clark."

Clark smiles, but he can't take his eyes off you. The sunset is breathtaking, and so are the soft reds and pinks blushing on your cheeks. He guides you to the tailgate of the truck, helping you take a seat as he opens an old picnic basket he brought along with him.  

"It's my favorite spot to watch the city lights," he says, pulling out a thermos of steaming coffee. "I drive out here whenever I need to clear my head, or I’m homesick."

"When's the last time you came here?" You asked quizzically, helping him unload the food when he would let you.

"The night after I met you." He hummed matter of factly, like it wasn't something to be embarrassed about for him, but the admission makes your heart flutter in your chest.

Clark definitely notices the way your heart skips a beat at the revelation, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing across the back of your knuckles almost absently as he keeps unloading the picnic basket.  

"I couldn't get you out of my head," He admits softly. "So I came here to clear my thoughts. To try and figure out why I was so fixated on a girl I hardly even knew."

"Did you figure out why?" Your voice was soft and sweet, watching him with adoration.

He pauses, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, and the intensity there steals the air from your lungs.  "I guess that you remind me of my life back home, before people kissed up to me for how it could benefit them. When I was just Clark, and not whoever I could be." He murmurs, a slight smirk on his lips as he pulls you closer, shifting on the seat until you're right in front of him. Between his knees.  

One hand rests on your hip, the other on the small of your back, his touch leaving a trail of fervor on your skin even through the thick material of your clothing.  

"You weren’t made to fit in with these people Clark. You’re different, and you deserve your own separate shine from what your reputation presents.” You hum against his lips before connecting again, your movements intertwining as one. 

Clark exhales sharply through his nose when your lips meet his again, his grip tightening more than intended on your waist as he pulls you even closer. It’s close enough that you can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your own chest.  

His mouth moves against yours with a kind of reverence—slow, deep, savoring—like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit, but he would if it meant holding onto this moment forever.  When he finally breaks the kiss with obvious reluctance, his forehead rests against yours.  

“Should’ve done this weeks ago,” he murmurs, breath warm on your lips. And then, because he can’t resist, “Told you I wasn’t letting you go.”  

A candle flickered in the distance, the flame dying out slowly. It felt symbolic to your relationship, in a tragically poetic way. Resisting the urge to bite your nails with anxiety, you resorted to fidgeting with your fingers in your lap as always, your gaze fixed on the cell phone directly in front of you. 

Screen blank, no new notifications, no calls, and no texts.

A quick but unworthy excitement filled you when the phone lit up, only to roll your eyes at the promotional email that hit your inbox.

This was the third time in a week that Clark had stood you up, and when you called him to figure out what his excuse was this time around, he repeated the same thing as before, “Chapter

meeting.”

But your friend of a friend’s boyfriend was a sophomore, and told you that there were no meetings for the last two weeks. The confirmation that he was lying was all you needed for fuel to do the thing you didn’t know you had the strength to do. 

By the time you heard the distant fumbling of a door knob, you were staring into the abyss, disassociating from your reality. You knew what you had to do, but god was it going to hurt more than anything you’ve ever done before. 

Hearing Clark’s familiar clumsy steps, your body began to tremble from deep within, your adrenaline starting to consume you as it mixed with rage. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry, the meeting ran over again. Treasurer is panicking over the end of year funds and if I’m being honest, they are stressing out over me graduating.” His voice carried from the kitchen as you audibly heard the fridge open accompanied by him opening a bottle of electrolytes you always kept stocked up on. 

“There was no meeting.” Was all you could say, but your voice lacked bite. A mere whisper, but with his hearing, he caught it alongside your racing pulse. But this was different from your typical excitement, it felt new, like anger he had never felt from you before. 

He appeared around the corner, popping his head out from behind the partition wall. Scanning your face for a sign into what was wrong, his own heart dropped as he watched the distant look in your eyes. You weren’t making eye contact, and he immediately set down his drink before making it to you in four steps. 

“Are you okay sweetheart?” His hands were on your face, looking over for any signs of distress or hurt but he couldn’t see the emotional damage you were carrying.

“Where were you?” A question, but you knew where he wasn't, and he knew you saw through it at this moment. 

A life he thought he could live in secret, up until you became a pivotal part of his life, was starting to impede and he felt it too. 

“A chapter meeting baby, I already told you.” You could hear his voice pleading you to believe him and not question it further, but you couldn’t resist. If you didn’t pull the trigger now, you might never.

“No… no, you weren’t. There was no meeting.”

“Baby, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with being honest.”

You could see the gears spinning in his head, him running through every thing he could say next to every outcome, like the calculated man he was. 

“Can’t do that.” His throat bobs.

“Yeah, of course you can’t. You know what Clark? I thought you were different, but you’re a liar and a cheater just like the rest of them.” You finally pulled away from him, standing and creating distance between your bodies before you caved.

He froze, hurt etching his features at what you thought was going on, “I would never cheat on you. I wasn’t raised that way… I could never do that to you.” 

“If you weren’t cheating, then tell me what you were doing.” Your lip trembled, betraying your tough exterior.

“It’s not that simple! The truth could put you at risk and I refuse to put you through that. I’d rather you hate me than tell you everything.”

“Oh, spare me the self righteous bullshit, Clark. Where were you?”

“I-I can’t tell you.”

“Then we’re done.” You retorted, the tears that collected in your waterline now spilling over in floods. Slipping past him in silence, accompanied by the sniffles you couldn’t hide, you gathered your final belongings. His hand ghosted your wrist, stopping before he made contact. You could see him crying too, but it meant nothing if he couldn’t be honest with you. 

The life you could’ve had flashed before your eyes, but you refused to look into his own. You couldn’t even muster the final look of his apartment, something you would never see again, when you crossed the threshold of the front door. 

It closed with weight behind you, and rather than staying in place and crying against the metal structure pathetically, you held your head high and left. Past numerous friends of your now ex-boyfriend, who gave you looks of concern but ultimately left you alone. 

He couldn’t stop you, he just stared at the placemat of cold food and warm drinks you set out for both of you. A sign of utter failure on his part. 

He couldn’t tell anyone his secret and put their life in danger. He would rather you be alive and thinking he betrayed you than being hurt for knowing his identity. It was the risk he was going to have to take, and it would be the biggest mistake of his life. 

Life had never truly been the same since the departure of Clark Kent, and his life was never the same without you. 

He would look for you in every place he took you, every place you were organically. 

At an alumni party almost a year later, he stared at the gap in seats and the space that he first found you in. For some reason, he saw you prancing in with your unsure but strong attitude, telling him to work harder than he’s ever had to if he wanted you. 

But with a blink of his eyes, the fog disappeared and revealed an empty spot, and you were nowhere to be found. 

Looking back at his watch, the time read 5 am. He couldn’t wait any longer for you to show up, but his natural hope made him want to wait for you, despite knowing there was no way you would ever step foot in that building again.

He kept up with you through friends, knowing that you had a fairly successful life in a few towns over with the degree you worked so hard for. Your determination and dedication got you your dream job and a gorgeous apartment all to yourself. 

You were so strong in his eyes, to push through and achieve your dreams despite the immense heartbreak he felt radiating off of you. Clark convinced himself he wasn’t even a morsel of a thought in your mind anymore, which couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Despite it being so late, well early, the party was still bustling. All old and new brothers bonding and sharing their stories that began to morph into the same thing over and over. 

You were the anomaly in a room of repetition, a breath of fresh air that he needed to keep himself grounded, but with you gone, he had no one to hold him accountable anymore. 

Despite his best knowledge, he searched and searched for you, hoping the party invite would somehow make its way back to you, but why would you come back when you did nothing wrong? 

It was time to accept that he didn’t know who he was looking for, knowing that you didn’t go to parties anymore. 

You were past that very brief part of your life, so grown up and content in your new life.

Just as he accepted this truth, he bid goodbyes and began to head out. His phone vibrated wildly in his pocket, a crime watch alerting him to a catastrophe in Metropolis, with a strange looking person causing the damage. 

Meanwhile, back at your apartment, you fought so hard to go back to sleep but you couldn’t. It was too early to be awake but that’s what happens when you’re in bed earlier than what should be healthy. 

Accepting defeat, you turned on your living room television before padding to the kitchen to get a cup of tea to possibly help lull you back to sleep. It was a weekend after all, and there was no reason to be up at this godforsaken time of day. 

You started brewing your kettle as you heard the channel forcibly change, a news alert showing a disaster unfolding a few towns over. Below the footage read, ‘Breaking News: Chaos Unfolds in Metropolis’

You weren’t unfamiliar with the metahumans that always saved the day, but this already seemed like a bigger job than they could fix. But this one was a red and blue blur that cut across the cameras, zooming in as much as they could to keep up with their speed and power. The cape billowed above his flying figure, and you found yourself directly in front of the television.

Something compelled you to this, and your hands fumbled to find the remote again and pause it at just the right second they managed to get a blurry zoom in on his face. 

Despite how blurry the image was, you knew that person anywhere. The remote slipped from your grip, clattering against the ground, the impact causing the batteries to pop out. 

You ran to grab your phone and pull up the contact information–the same one you had to work so hard to not reach out to during lonely nights in this foreign place. Before you could convince yourself not to, you pressed the call button. 

He answered almost immediately, not letting you get in a word before trying to jump to your rescue, “Where are you? Are you okay?” 

The Daily Dose

Dear Goddess, I’m moving to a new city for work. Exciting, right? But underneath the brave face, I’m terrified. New job. No friends. And honestly… I’m not sure I like who I am right now. I’ve spent years shrinking myself to fit in, and now that it’s just me and my suitcase… how do I become someone new, someone desirable even? Not just professionally, but emotionally? Sexually? Like… how do you rebuild confidence when you’re starting from scratch? 

Above all, congratulations on this new chapter of your life. It sounds like it’s one where you will truly discover yourself and the answers to everything you’ve ever wanted.

Now onto the advice, you're not starting from scratch. You're writing a sequel, with the foundation already laid. Let me tell you first hand: Desirability isn't built, it's uncovered. You just need to stop hiding it from yourself first. And since you’re stepping into blank territory, here’s your advantage: no one knows who you “used” to be. Which means you get to decide who you want to be from here on out.

You can start by building a new wardrobe that doesn’t feel like the old you, asserting dominance in the face of ignorance (i.e. mansplaining tech bros), buying yourself flowers frequently to celebrate the little accomplishments. You can protect your peace by being very selective on who you spend your time with, especially when you could be spending that time alone. A little word of advice, if it feels heavy instead of thrilling, they’re not the person you need right now.

And as for desirability? My love, that starts with touch. And I don’t mean the physical and intimate kind, but yours in this new life, new home, new you. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll definitely benefit you if you learn your body, and that I do mean intimately. But confidence doesn't always come from success, it comes from believing in your strength, and choosing yourself again and again and again.

There’s no doubt you’ll make mistakes. It will feel lonely until you find your place. But each time you choose authenticity over attention? That’s when the real desire begins, not because others see it but because finally–you do. And when you feel it, those who matter will too.

Welcome home,

Aphrodite

You’re sitting in a large office, your resume that’s not very big as opposed to the examples of your work perched atop the mahogany desk as you spoke to the editor in chief.

“I see you’ve never written for a paper directly, just all freelance work. Why change that now?” The man in front of you, whose name plate read Perry, questioned you. Much like any man his age and stature, it felt instinctual to be a little intimidated. You had a feeling that his employees saw him as a father figure with time, if the framed photos that littered his walls were anything to go off of.

“Just like any other writer, writing for an actual newspaper is a dream. I’m not going to sit here and lie to you, I want more exposure for my pieces. Despite the unconventional topics that are written about, self-help is just as popular a genre as anything your paper currently covers.” You replied, a gentle but knowing smile on your face. You knew your worth, you knew what you would bring to the table and he did too, but the interview was just a formality.

“You do understand that this would be the first of any kind of advice column for the Daily Planet?” He responds quickly, leaning back in his office chair with his hands in his lap.

“Of course, I also know that a majority of your current subscriber base are older people who are not exactly profitable. Versus my audience having a broader age range and are more likely to purchase sponsored products.” It felt strange to toot your own horn but the media world is not what it used to be, and the Daily Planet would ultimately benefit from having you on their team. He ponders your response for a moment, rocking in his office chair with a pen tapping his chin.

“I’m going to give you a chance because I’ve seen what you have to offer your audience, which means I know how important your pieces are. And as you said, you will inevitably bring us entirely different foot traffic than we’ve ever seen before.” He was sure and comforting as he complimented your work thus far. It was rarer than you’d think to find a man in charge who didn’t minimize the type of work you did. He recognized that all journalism is journalism, and you knew that your future working here was bright if this man was your boss.

“Thank you sir.” You nodded your head in gratitude, fighting the giddy and celebratory smile that wanted to make an appearance.

“Now I have another meeting to go to, but feel free to tour the building and pick out an available cubicle before you start on Monday.” He speaks as he stands with a hand lifted to shake your own, which you reciprocate immediately with enthusiasm. 

Gathering your belongings, you bid adieu with another ‘thank you’ and exit his office with your head held high. 

It’s true–your content was not traditional–you knew that going into this. That working alongside journalists who covered breaking news and local events were not going to assimilate easily with a ‘life and sex’ columnist. 

Hearing the buzz of topics and headlines thrown around by the current employees just solidified how out of your wheelhouse you were, but your field of work taught you that feigned confidence can get you through anything. 

As you approached what looked like an unoccupied desk, you spotted a trio of two men and one woman in a conversation, seemingly hovered around a computer screen reading something. The closer you got, the more you recognized the familiar page, it was your blog that they were reading. 

“Who even reads this stuff?” Says the shorter of the two, not knowing you were passing behind him, huddled in his group of two other people. 

“There’s something for everyone.” The taller one replied, rather mousey, as he adjusted his thick rimmed glasses to read the post better.

“Well, I can tell you who wrote it.” You say as you’re directly behind them, snapping their attention away from the screen to face you. 

Their heads snap up as you approach, their surprise obvious. Jimmy is the first to find his words, looking at you with wide eyes. "Woah!" He exclaims. "It's the woman of the hour… I’m Jimmy,” The freckled man spoke with a newfound confidence, and you could tell he was a natural flirt. He introduced his coworkers, Lois and Clark, to you after but in a manner that he hoped wouldn’t take your attention from him.

Clark is next, his eyes meeting yours. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, as though your sudden appearance amused him. 

“So the rumors are true, you’re joining forces with the Daily Planet. I’m surprised, it’s not exactly… what we’re known for.” Lois spoke up, arms crossed over her chest, her tone didn’t imply malice but her words hinted at it. Her expression is the most subdued, her gaze measuring as she looks you over. And for extra measure, like she couldn’t believe it, "You're the new columnist?"

“Guilty as charged. But hey, at least we won’t have to fight over breaking stories.” You paused, acknowledging each member with eye contact and a small nod of your head, “You guys don’t mind if I take that open desk right there?”

"Be our guest," Lois says, arching a brow with that signature smirk—half challenge, half approval. 

The disdain and shock that spread around the office undoubtedly made its way back to the golden trio, about how your column was inappropriate and an embarrassment to the hard work of the current journalists. Before a face was even placed to the name, Clark, with his good-natured temperament, already wanted to defend the writer behind the work. Your stance in the face of mild criticism is what gave him the confidence to back you up. 

Clark pushes his glasses up slightly, clearing his throat. "I think... it's actually helpful. People talk about sex like it’s some big scandal, but really—" He catches himself, ears pinkening. "I mean–it’s normal, factually speaking.” He straightens instantly at the confused expression of his friends and mutters into his coffee: "...I know facts."  

You blink at him slowly, teasing curling in your voice. "Your blushing betrays your words, but you’re very right. It’s a normal human experience. Unfortunately, the things we consider taboo are also the things that people need the most help with." You knew this first hand, it’s what led to you starting the column in the first place.

"As for facts," You say sweetly, dropping into your new chair with a spin. "Did you know that 87% of people fake orgasms because their partners won’t talk about it?” You tilt your head at him as he chokes on said coffee.

“Would that make you a sexpert?” Lois asks, almost unsure of you, but smirking at her own play on words. 

“No, not at all, more like a sex positive motivational speaker. But if you ever need any tips, I’ve got plenty of advice for you.” You reply, because it’s the truth. It unintentionally comes off with a bite, but you were truly meaning to be generous.

Your colleagues stare at you, dumbfounded. Jimmy is the first to recover, a smile spreading across his face. "Holy crap," he says, shaking his head in awe. "She's gonna fit in perfectly." 

Lois seems equally taken aback, but in a good way—you can see it in the lift of her chin and tilt of her head. She’s intrigued, perhaps even impressed by your boldness. Then there's Clark, still coughing as he struggles to regain composure. When he finally does, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes avoiding yours.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you guys, I’ve got to set up my computer so it’s ready for my first day.” You smile politely before the conversation becomes stale, spinning in your chair toward your new work space. 

A string of niceties fell from their lips as they went back to their own respective work. Clark is the last to pull his eyes away from your form, watching as you settle into your chair with a graceful sway. The way your hair falls atop your shoulders, how the skirt of your dress hugs the curve of your hips, even the little smirk on your lips has his heart rate picking up an embarrassing beat. 

Just what Clark needs, another distraction.

The Daily Dose

Dear Goddess, I love being passionate with my partner. I like to moan, grab him, tell him what I want… loudly. Lately though, he’s been pulling away after sex and saying things like it’s ‘intense’ or questioning everything I say during the act. It makes me feel ashamed for being myself. Did I ruin something good? 

Oh honey. First—breathe. You didn’t ruin anything. Let me say this for the people in the back: Your desire is not a flaw. Your passion is not “too much.” 

Here’s the real issue—you and your partner aren’t on the same page when it comes to intimacy style. And that’s okay! That happens more than you think and it can be really easy to overcome with time.

Some people equate intimacy with softness—quiet moments, gentle touch, a slow burn that never quite catches fire. Others (like you!) express closeness through heat—the roar of sensation, sound as connection, desire as devotion. And despite common logic, these two can still blend harmoniously, as long as you have the dreaded (and I say that lightly, because it can be very fulfilling!) talk.

The problem isn't you. The problem is communication—or rather, its absence. Instead of guessing if he's per se turned off by your passion (or maybe overwhelmed), try this: Have a conversation outside of bed. 

Not during pillow talk or mid-foreplay—but in calm moments where you can truly speak and listen. Something along the lines of: "When we’re intimate… Does my sounds or intensity ever make you uncomfortable? What’s going through your mind when we’re together?"

And give him space to answer without judgment. Maybe he loves it but doesn't know how to keep up verbally or physically! Maybe his past partners were quieter and this is new for him. Or… maybe he just can’t handle a woman who owns her pleasure unapologetically—which says way more about him than it does about you.

Either way—you deserve someone who doesn’t flinch at your fire… someone who stokes it instead. Keep being loud. Keep reaching. And if anyone tells you again that you're "too much"? Sweetheart...  They're simply not enough man to hold all of you.

Yours,

Aphrodite

It had been a month since you started at the Daily Planet, which also meant you hadn't been working out of your living room or a random cafe in the same amount of time. It was an adjustment but having people you got along with was a quiet blessing to this new backdrop of your life.

You had gotten very close to your coworkers, including ‘Shithead Steve’ who always had a dumb euphemism to piggyback off your latest column. Lois took your advice here and there, despite acting like she didn’t need it. Surprisingly, Jimmy was starting to become gently more aware of his treatment toward women, simply by tapping into the mind of your work. But Clark–he was still a mystery–he didn’t talk about dating or ask for advice, he just complimented your pieces first thing every morning in a way that made you think he didn’t actually read them but was just being polite.

Despite the enigma he was, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look forward to seeing that bumbling giant of a man. His words of affirmations or gentle reminders throughout the day helped you get through the busiest and toughest of work days. Not a lot of people could say they looked forward to work but you were one of the lucky few.

With a latte in one hand and your tech bag in the other, you stepped into the building with a pep in your step. Heading straight to your desk, you thanked your time management skills for ensuring you got to work early. That also meant you beat your coworkers there, as you routinely did.

You were already drafting up a response to a submission when you heard chattering and footsteps come in behind you almost like a stampede.

The first to enter, unsurprisingly, is Lois. She's talking as she struts through the newsroom, her gaze sweeping over everything with a critical eye.

Next is Jimmy, who lets out a low whistle as he sees you already at your desk. "Up and at it early, Aphrodite, way to go." He grins, setting his bag down across from you. The use of your pen name doesn’t slip past you.

Clark is the last to arrive, and the moment you see him, your heart gives a little flutter. He's dressed in his usual button-up, the sleeves rolled up and his tie hanging a little crooked.

“Good morning to you too.” You hum in response, watching Jimmy and Lois walk to the coffee station together as Clark was unpacking his briefcase and stealing glances in your direction.

You’re left with Clark who’s trying to muster the courage to talk to you, how his confidence only extended to his battles was something he could never comprehend.  “Can I ask why you write under a fake name?”

You pause, you’ve never been asked that. But then again, you’ve never worked with other people before. “I didn’t think the blog would take off like it did when I was starting out. I wrote under a pen name in case I wanted to pursue another career but I am really grateful I never gave up on it,”  You reply, taking a sip of your drink as your chair was turned in the direction of his desk.

Clark's eyebrows lift slightly at your reply, and his expression is almost contemplative, a stark contrast to the fumbling mess he'd turned into the first time you'd met. 

"That makes sense," he says, nodding slowly. His eyes move over your face, and there's a hint of curiosity there. "And the name you chose... it's pretty."

The compliment surprises him as much as it does you, and his ears pinken instantly. He clears his throat and busies himself with setting down his bag and coffee, avoiding your gaze.

“The goddess of love is quite fitting for my… line of work, don’t you think?” You respond with a giggle, batting your eyelashes in that flirtatious way that you know has an effect on Clark. Fishing for compliments from your crush was a cheap trick, but you never claimed to be above any of that.

His eyes flick back up to yours, widening just a fraction. He looks flustered again, and that little pink tinge on his ears spreads down his neck. "Y-yeah." Clark clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. "It's just... it suits you."

There's something in his tone when he says it that has your heart skipping a beat. Maybe it's just your imagination, but he sounds almost reverent. The brief but memorable moment is cut off when Jimmy strolls back in, passing a coffee to Clark like it’s second nature. 

In the distance you notice some mail girls watching Jimmy with puppy dog eyes, twirling their hair, and conveying all the signs of attraction. It gives you an idea. Shifting focus away from Clark so he can take a second to cool off, you speak up. “Hey Jimmy, you seem to have a legion of babes. Maybe I can get your opinion on some future pieces?” 

Jimmy grins at your comment, clearly used to the attention. He strolls over to lean on your desk, giving a casual shrug. "Babes, admirers, whatever you wanna call them." He takes a sip of his coffee. "I'm an open book. Lay it on me."

-Clark watches the exchange from his seat beside Jimmy, the slightest crease between his brows.

“So I get this question a lot—but from a woman’s perspective—all I can do is try to boost morale and encourage shooting for the stars. But what do you think—as a man—could these women do to get your attention?” You preemptively have a voice recorder on so you don’t miss any details.  

Jimmy leans back, thinking. "Well, first off, confidence is huge," he says with a laugh. "Like—don’t come at me playing shy games and then disappear when I say hi. If you like someone? Own it."

Clark sips his coffee quietly, but you catch the flicker of interest in his eyes.

Jimmy continues: “But also—not just looks or flirting. Ask me something real, y’know? Make me laugh. Catch me off guard.” He grins. “And please—no pretending to love my obscure alien tech podcast if you’ve never heard it.”

You nod, laughing softly at the adorable dork that Jimmy Olson so naturally was. You tilt your head at Clark then with a smirk. "What about you Mr. Kent? Ever had someone ‘catch you off guard’?" 

He chokes on his coffee and Jimmy snorts into his sleeve. “Oh no,” Jimmy says dramatically. “She’s going there and cannot be stopped.”

Your voice wavers just the tiniest bit, trying to understand what his friend was saying. Clark was very handsome, the glasses and curly hair combo, combined with the undeniably amazing build underneath his suit—it had to attract many women.  Although you knew the answer based on their nonexistence of chemistry, you prodded intentionally to get a relationship status from Clark. “I’m sure there’s something that drew you to Lois right, or am I reading that wrong?”

Clark chokes—again—and Jimmy bursts into laughter. "Whoa now," He says, grinning wildly. "You just stepped in it." His jokes make you roll your eyes, his voice completely background noise as you focus on Clark and his reaction.

He pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, cheeks burning. "Lois and I are just friends," he says firmly, but there's a quiet softness underneath that makes you wonder. "And no—we never… it’s not like that."

Jimmy leans in with mock seriousness. "They fight like married people though. Spilt coffee? It’s like divorce court in a fishbowl." He winks at you before walking off.

You watch Clark carefully as he avoids your gaze, adjusting papers on his desk with sudden intensity. After a beat, you murmur once your mutual friend is out of hearing distance. "So… no one on your radar?"

He freezes—just for a second—before finally meeting your eyes over the rim of his glasses. "I don’t know that I even have time… for things like that. But I’m not very intuitive to see anything either." He says quietly, almost yearning. "Too busy getting by day-to-day.”

“Well, regardless, feel free to chime in and give me your opinions on any of my pieces. Purely for scientific purposes, of course. You know, with all your knowledge of facts and such.” You hummed to yourself before getting started on your next post. 

Clark watches you for a beat, his expression softening as you turn back to your screen. "Scientific purposes, huh?" He mutters—completely to himself—with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.  He adjusts his glasses again like a nervous habit that soothes his nerves, then clears his throat and retreats behind the wall of paperwork on his desk like it’s a force field.  

The Daily Dose

Dear Goddess, I’ve got the hots for my coworker. (Don’t worry, workplace relationships are allowed!) My problem is that I don’t try when it comes to work, I show up, get the job done, and do the same thing the next day. I feel like he doesn’t see me because I have no sex appeal, which is definitely the fault of my wardrobe or self care. How can I make him see me without completely changing what makes me comfortable? 

Reader, I totally understand where you’re coming from. 

It’s SO important to not change you at your core when it comes to channeling your divine sexuality, so this is a good attitude to start off. 

You can and absolutely should have the best of both worlds. You can be sexy and comfortable at the same time. This often looks like a mindset change, something super simple but can also be the hardest to hold onto.

Now while I don’t want to overstep, you say at one point that you don’t invest time in you but also that you’re comfortable where you’re at. This feels conflicting, and I will always encourage my readers to indulge in self care. This looks different for everyone, whether it’s beauty routines that you can do on the weekends to feel effortless during the work week, finding the perfect pieces of clothing that make you feel irresistible, or finding the time to move your body and become in tune with yourself, there is something. for. everybody!

To answer your question, start small. This could be lingering glances, subtle but flirty compliments, showing interest in things he likes. The options are limitless.

But until you feel sexy in your body and mind, you will never stop thinking about what you do and don’t attract. Invest in you always, because you can’t pour from an empty cup.

Always yours,

Aphrodite 

Balancing both your cellphone and a coffee cup in your hand, you ran into Clark on the way to the elevators. His typical loosely put together outfit was now prim and proper. 

“Clark, you look great today!” You say as he steps back to let you walk in first. 

“Oh…I-uh, didn’t do anything different today.”

“Sure…” You affirmed with a smirk but you knew that wasn’t true. Your career revolved around confidence, looks, and bettering yourself every day so you would be a hypocrite to not see the obvious change in your coworker. You get lost in the crowd of other elevator passengers, but you catch Clark stealing meek glances in your direction in the corner of your eye as you wait to get to your floor. 

It’s not until you’re at your desk that you see him again. At the sound of your leather briefcase touching your desk, Clark spins in his chair to meet your gaze. As always, he is the enigmatic image of the boy-next-door, but today is slightly more.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something different with your hair today?” You say, even though you know the answer, seeking out the squiggly curl that scraped his forehead which was usually combed back into his gentle mop of waves. He is modest, shying away at the focused attention you are giving him. His hand moves to phantom pat his hair down almost like he’s comforting himself. The notion pulls at your heart strings tenderly because you can tell his appearance isn’t typically something other externally talk about.

“I stand by what I said though, you look great today. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!” The cheesy motivational line made you cringe inwardly, surely you could’ve come up with something better on the fly. Despite your underlying embarrassment at your wording, his ears turn red again, his grin tightening as he tries to shrink himself from visibility.

He did that often, not great at accepting compliments in a way that he was too shy to acknowledge but also too humble to agree. It was endearing but you were starting to wear thin on the seemingly one-sided flirting game. 

It’s not like you were oblivious either, you saw the way he looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching back. Most of your pieces were about getting the other party to reciprocate feelings, or at least show it better than they would before. Getting him to come out of his shell and open up to you would be nearly impossible, but not completely. With time, he will emerge from his cocoon just… maybe not today.

The Daily Dose

Dear Aphrodite, 

I’ve been working with this guy for months. We sit across from each other, talk every day—but there’s never that spark in his eyes when he looks at me. I don’t dress for attractiveness or know how to subtly flirt. I’m shy, plus we’re coworkers—but sometimes I wonder… does he even see me as a woman? Like… Could he ever want me? Or am I just “one of the guys” to him? 

Oh sweet girl. First: He sees you. Whether he admits it—even to himself—is another story.

You're not invisible. You don't have to wear tight skirts or bat your lashes dramatically to be seen as sexy. Attraction isn’t only loud; sometimes it whispers through silence—lingering glances when they think no one’s watching, slight hesitations before speaking, the way their breath catches when you laugh unexpectedly.

But here’s what you’re really asking:  "Can someone who doesn’t look at me like fire still feel the heat?"

And honey… yes. Some men—not all—are wired like malfunctioning smoke detectors, they only respond after everything is already ablaze. They see kindness over sex appeal. Friendship over flirtation. The brain first, then much later the body clicks in too. And that delay? It has nothing to do with your worth or desirability. It has everything to do with emotional availability and how someone was taught—or failed—to connect desire with intimacy.

So if this man is respectful, present, talks easily with you... then chances are good—he already likes being near you more than others—it just hasn't crossed his mind what else that could mean yet.

So instead of trying harder, Try being slightly bolder—in small ways: Wear something that makes you feel soft and sure (not for him—for you)  Lean into playful teasing (“Wait—you think my tone in that email was too much?”)  Let your voice drop an octave when making eye contact.

Don't chase attention. Command it by existing fully where you are—one unapologetic breath at a time. Because some men need permission disguised as subtlety. A doorway left open by confidence—not desperation. And if after all that he still doesn't look? 

Then maybe love lives down another aisle but damn, he’ll spend years wondering why yours burned brightest.

Yours always,

Aphrodite

Clark reads your column. Like clockwork, every morning, although he acts like he doesn’t. Then—like a man possessed by quiet determination—he does nothing dramatic. No grand gestures. No sudden wardrobe overhaul or awkward flirting attempts.

But over the next few days… little things shift. He starts arriving just after you—never before, never late. He walks past your desk with a soft “Morning,” voice lower than usual, like he’s testing out that octave thing you wrote about. His voice is already deep so you don’t catch the shift in tone too easily. He doesn’t stare. But when you look up, his eyes are already on you—then away just as fast, like he didn’t think you would catch his pathetic gazing.

One afternoon, Jimmy makes a joke about your piece from last week—something dumb like “So does this mean I should moan during meetings now?”—and Clark doesn’t laugh. Instead, he says quietly. "She’s not writing for laughs. She’s writing about connection."

And when both of you turn to look at him in surprise? He adjusts his glasses and mutters into his coffee: "...It's important." The air changes after that moment—a hairline crack in the wall between professionalism and possibility. It might be the most emotion towards you you’ve seen from him yet, and it almost reopens the door of chances.

That afternoon you’re alone at your desk again because you’d rather work for free than sit in rush hour traffic. Wrapping up edits on next week's post titled "Why ‘I’m Not Ready’ Is More Powerful Than You Think." while all of your colleagues began to leave the building one by one.

He watched you from afar as you’re deeply engrossed in your work, the surge of determination hitting him like a lightning bolt as he knew what he had to do now.

It’s later that night, he’s sat on his couch, his glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of his laptop. No one is around but Krypto, who watches him like he’s lost his damn mind. He’s already paced his living room upwards of ten times, unsure of what to say or even if this would work.

He was convinced he was being ridiculous, he writes for a living, how could he not just say how he feels? Maybe because he doesn’t write about his emotions, just fake interviews with heroes and local community news.

He opens your submission form on the Daily Mail website and types with shaky fingers. Lately, he’d been good at taking your advice, well, the advice that could apply to him, that is. You were thrilling, not heavy, and he needed to either take this step or never try again.

Username: smallville618  

Question: I work with someone incredible. We're not close—not really—but I notice everything about her: how she hums when she’s thinking, how she tucks her hair behind her ear when focused… even how her laugh cuts through a room like it belongs there. I’ve never felt this way before—like I want to be better just because she exists near me.

But we’re coworkers and I don’t know how to cross that line without ruining what little we have—or worse, making things awkward if she doesn’t feel the same. Is there such a thing as silent attraction that stays silent…. should I act on it?

He hits submit and sits back in his chair with an audible groan, almost slamming the device shut like it would guard him from his feelings. He stares at the ceiling like he just confessed to a crime when he could’ve gotten away with it. Krypto barks once—as if judging him—and Clark mutters: “Dogs have it so easy.”  

By Monday morning, you're sipping your holiday latte while scrolling through submissions, and one comes in from the weekend that you completely missed before clocking out on the last work day.

Your breath hitches as you notice it’s written by a man, the liquid in your cup rippling from the sudden intake of air. It wasn’t the first submission from a male writer, but they were far from common for you to respond to. After all, who would ask a girl for advice on guy matters?

Something about the username feels familiar—the rhythm of his words, so formal yet deeply tender. It hits you like a truck, your gaze moving to his desk to see the small picture of his high school football days with his parents, the jersey print showing the town’s name over his chest. Your eyes linger a little too long at his cheesy smile and his arms wrapped on the shoulders of his parents who oddly have none of his striking features.

You glance across the room at Clark—who is very pointedly reading an article about agricultural subsidies in his hometown. Your lips curl into a slow knowing smile. And without looking up from your screen—you whisper for only yourself to hear: “I’ll cross that line if you’re too scared to.”

But then you glance across the bullpen again and find Clark watching you this time. He’s not subtle. His eyes lock onto yours across the room like two beams of sunlight and you can practically see thoughts churning behind his glasses.

It feels like time slows as you hold his gaze. You wonder: Does he know you know? Did he think you wouldn’t figure out it was him? Was his submission a test of some kind?-

You didn’t spend hours of your day writing to your readers to be confident, take control, and make decisions, just to shy away from what was in front of you. The day was coming to an end and very few people remained in the office aside from you and Clark. But you could be in a room full of people and still look for that quiet farm boy.

Quickly gathering your things, you looked around and spotted him waiting for an elevator that dinged for your floor. “Wait!” You called out to him in hopes he would, before you lost your nerve. 

The moment you call to him, his shoulders straighten instantly, and he spins. His gaze lands on you, a subtle surprise on his face. But he holds the elevator door open, and you catch that flicker of hopefulness under his surprise as he watches you approach. “You’re leaving early today?”

That soft reminder that he knows your schedule like the back of your hand was a boost in motivation. So you step in front of him as the elevator doors close with you two, alone. For the first time ever without desks or paperwork or coworkers to hide behind.

He clears his throat in a futile bid for composure, but the jagged rhythm of his breathing gives him away. Through the distorted reflection of the elevator’s polished metal, you trace his every line, watching him from every angle. The air grows heavy and thin, charged by a heat that seems to intensify with every passing second.

“This attraction… is anything but silent.” You whisper before wrapping your arms around his neck, moving to your toes to press a gentle but passionate kiss to his unexpecting lips. It’s immediate with how he reacts, hands wrapped around your waist as he pulls your body closer to his, closer than you’ve ever been before. And it’s like everything you’ve ever written and read about, but so much more because it was authentic and it was with him.

“How did you know it was me?” He says as he reluctantly pulls away from you with disbelieving eyes. His brows are furrowed as he regains his breath without taking his hands off of your body.

“Mr. Kent, I read every piece you write. I could pick your writing out of a lineup.” Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as his hands linger on the rounded skin of your hips—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. “And Smallville?” You whisper against his parted lips, breathless. “You think I wouldn’t recognize your beloved hometown? Or that careful way you chose every word… like it matters more than life?”

His eyelids fluttered shut for a heartbeat—a raw collision of shame, desire, and utter ruin. It ravaged him to realize you had seen through every layer, mirroring the way he had always cataloged you.

“And only you,” you whispered, your fingertip tracing the rough grain of his jaw, “would write about the struggle to be better… when you’re already better than everyone else.”

When his eyes finally opened, they were a turbulent, storm-swept blue. “I didn't think you would ever see that message,” he murmured.

“You did.” You flattened your palms against the startling, solid heat of his chest. “You wouldn’t have sent it if a part of you didn't want to be caught.”

A heavy silence hung between you until he let out a irregular, breathless laugh against your neck. “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you walk out of Perry’s office.”

You gave a playful roll of your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “Took you long enough, Smallville.”

You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

.

It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.

A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.

Have a good day at work, babe. I love you!

A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was “accidentally” left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident. 

None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.

You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.

.

The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.

Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.

You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.

You knew the timing. Knew his tells.

The reply came two minutes later.

Clark: Good morning, my love You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair. Have a good day!

You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.

At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.

Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.

Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:

You: Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me. I knotted this pretty tight.

His response came faster than you anticipated.

Clark: Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!

You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.

At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?

Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.

He left you on read this time.

Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered “you’re trouble.” If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.

By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.

The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!

Clark: did you buy that just for today how long have you been wearing that

You answered with audio.

“Since you left,” you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. “Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you.”

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.

The next few hours were a study in escalation.

A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.

A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.

Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered “Clark” said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.

By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.

Clark: tryn to focus ur making so difficlit DIFFICULT Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.

It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.

And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.

You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.

The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.

You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.

“See what you do to me, Clark,” you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. “I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you.”

Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.

“Hope you’re not mad,” you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.

You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.

“It’s not the same,” you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. “It never is without you.”

You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.

“I even tried this,” you lamented.

When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.

“Oh—oh God—” You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. “It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do.”

You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.

Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.

“They’re not big enough,” you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. “They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you.”

You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.

“This isn’t fair,” you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. “You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…”

You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.

“It’s not your thickness,” you breathed. “Not your heat.”

Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.

“I need you, Clark,” you panted, eyes fluttering. “Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you.”

The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.

“And your cock,” you added, voice breaking into a whine. “I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—”

You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. “This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you.”

You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.

“Come home soon, Clark,” you whispered, biting your lip.

And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.

You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.

As if nothing at all was about to explode.

.

Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.

Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.

You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.

Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.

You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.

The windows rattled.

You didn’t even flinch.

The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.

Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.

He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.

You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.

“Hi, baby!” you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. “How was work?”

Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.

“You—” he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.

You tilted your head. “Moi?”

“Honey,” he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. “One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel.”

You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.

“You liked it,” you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.

“No, I loved it,” he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh?” you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. “What’s the point then?”

He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.

“The point is—” he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. “I have been trying to be good all day.”

“So have I. Guess we both failed.”

Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.

“Sweetheart,” he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. “I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—” He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. “You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you murmured, one leg brushing between his.

His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.

“And then,” he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, “you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—”

You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.

“Superman didn’t save me this time.”

His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.

There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.

“You have any idea what you did to me?” he rasped. 

“You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me.”

A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach  even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.

“Every second of your video,” he growled. “Saying your fingers not being enough—” A long breath. “How empty you still felt. Using the toy.”

You shivered. The air between you went heavy.

“Clark—” you warned, already trembling.

“I haven’t even said hello properly,” he muttered darkly.

Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.

You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.

“Been waiting for this,” he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo.”

His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.

That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.

“You’re unreal,” he panted between kisses. “You were made to drive me insane, huh?”

A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.

“What’s unreal is this bow,” you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. “Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?”

His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.

He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.

Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.

“Though this?” he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, “Is a problem.”

Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.

The sight of you underneath?

His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.

The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.

In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.

“This,” he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. “This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there.” His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. “It’s all I could see."

“Clark,” you moaned, voice cracking with lust.

“Payback,” he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.

"Still wet?” he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. “Still aching for me, hon?”

“Y-yeah, been a-all day,” you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. “Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you.”

A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real

“See what you do to me, sweetheart?” he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.

You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.

“F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing behind your ear. “I’ve got you.”

With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.

Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.

The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.

You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.

“G-gosh,” he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. “You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—”

You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. “S-stay right there—just—stay.”

He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.

Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur. 

His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.

“You like that?” he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?”

“Y-yes! Yes!” you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. “Wanted this—wanted you—”

He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.

All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.

Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.

And now?

Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.

There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.

Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.

And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

.

Re: Late to Meeting From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/23 9:57AM

Clark,

While I appreciate you letting us know in advance, I do not appreciate the fact that this is the third meeting in a row that you will have been late to. The topics we discuss in these meetings are crucial to the progress we make as a team, and I can't do my job properly if there isn't a clear and effective line of communication between us. I take my role as Head of Photography very seriously, and I don't appreciate people who hinder my ability to do my job. Please take into consideration other people's time and efforts, especially those who actually care about our work instead of assuming the work day revolves around you and your tardiness.

Kind regards, Head of Photography

P.S. Please let me know how your latest piece on Superman is going. Are there any opportunities for photo ops, or should I expect to include a candid shot instead?

—

Superman Feature From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/23 11:30AM

Good morning,

Again, I apologise for being late. Unforeseen circumstances came up and I couldn't delay them.

Regarding my latest interview with Superman, I've made sufficient progress with the article and hope to have it completed and edited by the end of the week. I think a candid shot would work best, as he has told me that he will be especially busy over the next coming days and has no timed for a pre-planned photo op. He has sent his regards and hopes to work with you again some time soon.

Kind regards, C. Kent

P.S. Is there any way I can make up for missing the meeting? I really am sorry for not being there. I would love to buy you lunch or coffee if it helps in any way.

—

Re: Buying Me Lunch From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/23 11:33AM

Clark,

Thank you for your offer.

Unfortunately, I'm completely swamped at the moment and am unable to take my break any time soon. However, if you do happen to go out, Mason's down the road does a life-changing club sandwich that is especially enjoyable with extra pickles and a lemonade on the side. Give it a try and let me know how it goes.

Thank you again, Head of Photography

P.S. Send Superman my regards and that I look forward to our next photo op.

—

Re: Re: Buying Me Lunch From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/23 11:35AM

Gotcha.

—

Mason's From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/23 1:06PM

Apparently, Mason's is an incredibly hot spot for young couples who have nothing better to do on a Tuesday, and a twenty minute line along with a thirty minute wait time is considered "normal" in this society. But it seems that you were right—one of the best sandwiches I've ever had in my life. Consider my life changed.

Thanks a lot, Clark Kent

P.S. Check the fridge in the staff lounge. You'll find a very familiar-looking sandwich in there :)

—

Re: Mason's From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/23 1:54PM

"A Tuesday" that just so happens to be Valentine's Day. It pains me to remember but my ex introduced me to it and took me there for our V-Day date a couple years back. Like a true gentleman, he made me pay and drained my wallet of a couple of fifty notes, but thankfully, I ended it a few weeks later. Made my life a whole lot lighter.

P.S. It was a little soggy but no less delicious than it always is. Thank you, Clark.

—

Re: Re: Mason's From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/23 2:26PM

Oh, jeez. Glad you got rid of him, what a douche.

On another note, I really would like to apologise again. I admire the work you do and your work ethic immensely, and I hate to be a hindrance to what you do. If the sandwich wasn't enough, I'm happy to work my way back into your good graces again. Please let me know how I can do this, and I'll try my best.

—

Getting in my Good Graces From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/23 2:31PM

I think we can make it work. I do enjoy getting coffee before work most mornings…

—

Re: Getting in your Good Graces From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/23 2:33PM

Done.

—

2024

Latest Superman Feature From: Perry White ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) ,You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 9:31AM

Kent,

While I'm sympathetic to the circumstances that have made you late each morning for the last year, I do not appreciate you continuously missing your deadlines. I assigned you to work with the Head of Photography because I knew that she could keep you in check and push you to do better, but if you can't respect her time and efforts and allow her to get her half of the job done. If this continues, I'll have no choice but to assign you less pieces, and I'd hate to lose one of my best writers.

Write your damn articles, son, so she can take her damn photos.

Kind regards, P. White

—

Re: Latest Superman Feature From: You ([email protected]) To: Perry White ([email protected]) 14/02/24 9:34AM

Good morning Perry,

As soon as Clark arrives to work, I'll make sure he gets it done. Leave it with me, boss.

—

Perry Bugging Us About This Week's Superman Feature From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 9:46AM

Clark,

I have a whole bunch of meetings from 10 to 12:30, but I can take my lunch break at around 1-1:30 if Superman was interested in flying around here at that time? You're more than welcome to join me, of course!

Thank him in advance for me, Head of Photography

P.S. Did Perry sound a little more passive aggressive in his email than usual? Reckon I should get him a coffee before he snaps at anyone in person?

—

Re: Perry Bugging Us About This Week's Superman Feature From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 9:50AM

Superman would be more than happy to help out, and I will gladly take you up on that offer.

P.S. Maybe I should do it? Soften him up a bit?

—

Re: Re: Perry Bugging Us About This Week's Superman Feature From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 9:51AM

Good! I didn't want to get up anyways <3

—

Photos From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 1:45PM

Clark, look at how good these turned out!!

Thank u again, I promise I will make it up to you by not watching the next season of Hell's Kitchen without u

Attached: Superman Photo Op 14/02/24

—

Re: Photos From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 1:52PM

I'm glad you liked them.

I don't trust you though. How the hell are you already on season 13? I'm STILL on season 11.

—

Re: Re: Photos From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 1:59PM

Idk dude, you're just a little slow at watching. Too busy Supermaning and all that. Binge-watching TV shows is a lifestyle, Kent, you just don't know how to live it to the fullest.

btw!!!! Perry approved the photos, you just need to finalise ur Supes interview from last week, I can't do all the heavy lifting in getting you back in his good graces

—

Getting into Perry's Good Graces From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:16PM

First off, I do live life to the fullest, thank you.

And secondly, how do I get into Perry's good graces?

—

Operation Get Clark into Perry's Good Graces From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:18PM

Let's see.

You got back into my good graces last yr by getting me coffee and look where that got us. Friends now!

How'd buying him coffee go this morning??

—

Re: Operation Get Clark into Perry's Good Graces From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:21PM

Already had one on his desk. Didn't look too flattered unfortunately. I could get him Mason's but I don't think he'd like it very much.

—

Re: Re: Operation Get Clark into Perry's Good Graces From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:24PM

Ouch.

Yeah, he wouldn't appreciate Mason's too much, i don't think. Honestly Supes I just think you should get to work on time more. Just food for thought perhaps

—

Re: Re: Get Clark into Perry's Good Graces From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:27PM

Haha.

Are you a comedian now?

I come across at LEAST twenty people who need Superman's help in the mornings and that's just within a minute of walking out my door. You're one of them.

—

Re: Re: Re: Operation Get Clark into Perry's Good Graces From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:33PM

God forbid a girl have an early morning crisis jeez. be a hater then fine. I won't help you and you can be perry's #1 public enemy for life. lex luthor who?

—

Cyber-Bullying From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:40PM

Don't say that name, you KNOW how I feel about him.

—

I'm Not Cyber-Bullying You From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:42PM

It's okie Clark don't be ashamed, everyone wishes they could have an enemies to lovers story as good as urs and lex's <3

Okay but seriously, this is a very serious topic of conversation do you really think i'm a bother in the mornings?

—

Re: I'm Not Cyber-Bullying You From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:44PM

Of course not. You could never bother me.

—

Re: Re: I'm Not Cyber-Bullying You From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:47PM

I don't believe you.

—

Re: Re: Re: I'm Not Cyber-Bullying You From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 2:52PM

Could I perhaps find a way to convince you?

—

Re: Re: Re: I'm Not Cyber-Bullying You From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:00PM

Depends. what do u have in mind?

—

Dinner at The Charles? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:07PM

Thoughts?

—

Re: Dinner at The Charles? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:16PM

The Charles????? As in the super exclusive French restaurant that's booked out 360/365 days a year, The Charles??????

—

Re: Re: Dinner at The Charles? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:23PM

Tonight at 7, reservation's under my name, I'll see you there.

—

Re: Re: Re: Dinner at The Charles? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:29PM

WDYM TONIGHT???? CLARK??????

—

Re: Re: Re: Re: Dinner at The Charles? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 3:34PM

It's literally Valentine's Day Clark how tf did you manage to get a boOKING FOR THE CHARLES??

—

You Looked Gorgeous From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/24 10:16PM

Literally. Just that.

I've never seen anything prettier than you in my life, and I've seen clear starry night skies in Smallville during the summer.

Nothing compares to you.

—

Personal Email and Everything From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/24 10:58PM

Wow. Not even messaging me.

If I didn't know any better, id say ur hitting on me.

Are you hitting on me Kent?

—

Re: Personal Email? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You (yn.yln@gmail. com) 14/02/24 11:03PM

And if I am?

—

2025

Bored From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 9:21AM

Hi honey,

I'm hungry and bored and Perry is pissing me off.

Help.

—

Re: Bored From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 9:23AM

Hi hungry and bored and Perry is pissing me off,

We just got to work.

I fed you before we left, how are you already hungry? Do you want me to grab you a granola bar?

—

Re: Re: Bored From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 9:25AM

Sex tires out a girl (shocker!).

Thank you for the granola, baby <33

P.S Would mentioning sex in work-related emails get me sent to HR?

—

Don't Try From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 9:23AM

I would rather my girlfriend didn't get sent to HR over talking about things like that, especially considering that they're already watching us like hawks ever since we disclosed our relationship.

—

Re: Don't Try From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 9:23AM

Don't look at me like that, angel, you know I love you.

—

Lunch From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: Jimmy Olsen ([email protected]) 14/02/25 11:23AM

Wanna go to Mason's instead of going home?

—

Wrong Person From: Jimmy Olsen ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) , Clark Kent ([email protected]) , Lois Lane ([email protected]) 14/02/25 11:27AM

Clark wants to know if you wanna go to Mason's instead of going home?

Lois and I wanna know if we can come.

—

Re: Wrong Person From: You ([email protected]) To: Jimmy Olsen ([email protected]) , Clark Kent ([email protected]) , Lois Lane ([email protected]) 14/02/25 11:33AM

Yes, and yes <3

(Ignore Clark, I would love for u two to come)

—

WHY WOULD YOU INVITE THEM??????????? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 11:35AM

?????????????????

—

Post-Work Activities From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 12:49PM

After work do u wanna go for a walk?

—

Re: Post-Work Activities From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 12:54PM

That subject line should count as catfishing. But yes, I would love to go for a walk.

—

Re:Re: Post-Work Activities From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 12:57PM

Yayy okay. Brb perry asked to have an impromptu meeting and I have a feeling he's gonna yell at me……. i SWEAR im doing my job……..

—

Re: Re: Re: Post-Work Activities From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 12:59PM

I didn't know playing the snake game when no one's looking is your job?

—

Re: Re: Re: Re: Post-Work Activities From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 1:00PM

Flipping people off at your workplace is unprofessional by the way!

—

Guess What? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 3:23PM

u gotta guess

—

Re: Guess What? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 3:28PM

What?

—

Re: Re: Guess What? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 3:41PM

okay that's not a guess but lois asked me the other day why we email so much n i told her that it's bc we're not on our phones a lot so email is the next best option yk? and then she asked if we've ever sexted over email. sexmail? u get what i mean

—

Re: Re: Re: Guess What? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 4:02PM

First off, what happened to not talking about sex in our work emails and second, please tell me you didn't answer her question

—

Re: Re: Re: Re: Guess What? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 4:11PM

technically right, she asked if we email each other everything and i went "wdym by everything……?". soooo that's not exactly a yes, right?

—

Hi From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 6:47PM

Did you see the lady with her kids at the park earlier?

—

Why Are You Emailing Me? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 6:51PM

yeah. why? whats up?

—

Re: Why Are You Emailing Me? From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/25 6:55PM

I'm on my laptop supposed to be working but I was thinking about that lady and her kids. They looked really happy. reckon that'll be us one day?

—

Re: Re: Why Are You Emailing Me? From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/25 7:03PM

I hope so, baby. I really hope so.

—

2026

Read Later From: Clark Kent ([email protected]) To: You ([email protected]) 14/02/26 5:24AM

Honey,

I'm writing this to you as you're asleep in my arms—drooling, of course, because you've drooled in your sleep long as I can remember.

I know you won't read this until later, because today's our day off and you "refuse to ruin a good day with an inbox full of useless works emails". This'll definitely get lost in your inbox, but in the very unlikely chance you decided to read your emails and you ignored the very obvious "Read Later" subject line, pretty please with a cherry on top put your phone down and go do something else.

You'll know when to come back to this.

Welcome back, honey.

Everything I say to you now is nothing new, but there's only so much I could fit in my proposal speech before you started bawling your eyes out. And yes, I know that, at the time of writing this, it's pre-proposal, but I know you, and I know you'll cry when I propose, so I know you've already cried at the time of reading this now.

But like I said—there's only so much I can say when I propose, so everything I missed out on will be in here. Starting with this:

I love everything about you.

The way you snap at me when you've reached the end of your line (my fault, most times, but I won't say I'm sorry because I love the way you look when you're angry too much to try and do better). The way you always stay awake and wait up for me on the nights I come home late, soup still warm on the stove because you somehow know exactly when to start cooking so that it's never cold by the time I get back. The emails you send me during work that keep me going every time Perry decides I'm his next and best target. The way you defend me to no end, even when everyone has something to say about me. The way you've kept my secret under lock and key and devoted your life to protecting it, just as I've devoted my life to protecting you.

That's a big part of it as well—your unwavering loyalty to who I am, even when it's been challenging, to say the least. I know I'm not home a lot, and when I am, I'm tired or hurt or busy. You love me in spite of it. You were the first person to see past the human, the alien and the Man of Steel, the first person to truly love who I am behind it all.

With you, I can be just Clark, the guy who laughs a little too loud even when the jokes are unfunny, whose cooking skills are unsurprisingly horrid (I hope you'll enjoy breakfast for dinner for the rest of your life on the nights I'm cooking), whose life is so unbelievably messed up but all the better because I have you in it.

Honey, you've made me the man I am today. Not exactly punctual yet, but you know I'm working on that. Because of you, I'm stronger—here is no force on Earth or at any end of the universe that could stop me from returning home to you at the end of the time. Because of you, I'm gentler—you've shown the beauty in life, the care and tenderness that acceptance and awe requires. Because of you, I'm weaker—just as you are my greatest happening, you are my greatest weakness, and there is nothing I fear more than a single scrape on your knee.

The world counts on Superman, but they have no idea how much Superman relies on his world. On you.

My best friend. My other half. My reason.

I don't deserve you, but I love you to no end, and I am so eternally glad I met you.

Thank you for trusting me with your heart, Your Future Husband

—

2027

Today's the Day From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/27 9:38AM

The Love of my Life,

I will always thank myself for getting mad at you that morning. If I hadn't, who knows where we'd be right now?

They're possibilities I can't begin to imagine, because I can't begin to fathom a life without you in it.

And that's funny to me, I guess, because growing up, I'd always been told that I come off too strong, too abrasive to be the kind of girl a guy would want to get know or date or fall in love with.

Be quieter, they told me. Blend in, listen to others, don't fight back, not everything needs to go your way.

They told me no one would love a girl who loves her work more than herself.

For the longest time, I genuinely thought that they're right. That maybe I was too intimidating, maybe I did speak my mind too much.

Because of them, I never let myself imagine a white dress in my future, never dared to picture what kind of makeup I'd get done or how I'd style my hair or which of my mother's jewellery I'd wear or which of my friends would be my bridesmaid, let alone a man as wonderful as you to meet at the end of the aisle.

I never allowed myself the guilty pleasure of simply envisioning a future like that, wholly convinced it wasn't in the cards for me.

Funny how life has a way of surprising you.

Because here I am now, unable to imagine a possibility where you aren't mine.

Every day, I am blessed to wake up beside you, to be able to have a glimpse into that brilliant mind of yours.

You've helped me become comfortable with things that I used to be afraid of. "I'm sorry" comes more naturally, and "I need help" is habitual now. You've taught me that it's okay to be vulnerable, to not be the perfect girl everyone expects me to be—that it's okay to be imperfect because you'll love me anyways. You've shown me that true strength lies not in the muscle I have or the punches I can throw (though this has signficantly improved over the last few years, thanks to you), but rather in the way I can stand up for myself and for what's right and honest and true.

With I'm with you, I feel like myself after only being around people who have always been so determined to push me into a mould of their making. Around them, if I wasn't perfect, I was useless. Flawed as I am, you never seemed to mind. Every time I was ever snappy or blunt or rude was just a straight up bitch never deterred you.

With you, I've never felt the need to change or quieten down or be someone I'm not. On the days I feel as though my voice isn't heard, you make me feel like I'm the only one worth listening to. And on the days that the world is too heavy to bear on my shoulders, you carry the weight without hesitation or making me feel like any more of a burden. You've healed an ache within me that, in the past, felt permanent, like a hole in my chest that was impossible to close up.

I love you, Clark Kent, in a way that is simple and easy and true. You are my Guiding Light, my North Star, my Constant in everything I face. No crashing wave or brick wall or stray path could ever stop me, so long as I have you.

Without you, I was lost.

With you, I'm still—admittedly—lost, but at least I'm not alone. Your hand is always in mine, warm and strong and steady and it grounds me.

That's the greatest gift you've given me. The knowledge that I will never be alone.

For that, I thank you.

If the rest of our life is just having takeaway from Mason's while we work on articles together in our tiny apartment, then it'll be the best life I could possibly live.

Thank you for giving me the best day of my life.

Neverendingly, Yours

—

2028

The Best Thing to Ever Happen to Us Pt.2 From: You ([email protected]) To: Clark Kent ([email protected]) 14/02/2028 11:45AM

Clark,

Okay, I lied.

Today is the best day of my life.

Love, Your Loves

Attached: Baby Kent Sonogram <3

From teachings about the history of the kingdom that will be yours one day, sooner rather than later, to the awful archery lessons in the early mornings, your father reminded you of your bright future with an iron fist. With great power comes great responsibility, they say after all.

The exhaustion that came along with your new life stresses, blossomed not only in your mind, but also in your body, like a plum of dark smoke. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt utterly at ease. Your aching joints yearned for rest. Your loaded mind demanded emptiness.

It was on a wintery Tuesday morning when you first learned about the pinnacle.

You were in your chambers, still in your white, frilly undergarments. The wiring of your corset harshly bit against your smooth skin, as you sat in front of the mirror whilst your best maid, Catherine, brushed the delicate strands of your hair.

For the first time in forever, you took a good look of yourself, but you didn’t recognise the ghost that was supposed to be your reflection. The bags under your eyes had turned into a freakish shade of purple, and your left eye kept twitching in consistent intervals.

You folded your lips into a thin line, which was your universal sign of dissatisfaction, something Catherine remembered all too well of being your personal maid for years on end.

“Is there something the matter, your highness?” Catherine spoke into thick air, the question lingering in the air like smoke diffusing.

You kept quiet for a moment. Yes, there were many matters. Your father, for one. The neverending pressure of being the perfect representative of your kingdom. The unrelenting pain blooming in your right arm due to archery lessons and the sore spot inbetween on ribcage that was turning a concerning shade of blueish-purple.

A princess, however, never complained. That is what your father had taught you, and you felt the unspoken promise to obey his every request flutter away when you opened your mouth.

“I am quite used up, I suppose,” you decided to say, deliberately avoiding your maid’s regard in the mirror, holding up your nose demurely. “I am afraid my newfound responsbilities have taken up too much of my physical and mental capacity.”

Catherine abruptly stopped brushing your locks. “Shall I bathe you at once, ma’am?”

“It is not needed. Thank you,” you told her, although the warm steam caressing your bare skin did sound alluring on a cold morning. “I am afraid a bath should not help it. I feel the ache bloom from inside. Mental. It is deep, and I can assure you the best doctor shall not be able to cure me.”

The girl behind you swallowed. The air was packed with tension. “Princess, tell me— have you ever relieved your… urges?”

You cocked up one eyebrow in indignation. “What are you talking about, Catherine?” Your tone was not harsh or mean, but genuinely curious and coated in wonder.

“The— have you ever reached your… pinnacle, ma’am?”

You were completely, extremely lost in comprehending what your maid was trying to tell you. Your eyes were emotionless as you search for Catherine’s trusting look.

“My apologies; I do not know what you mean, ma’am.”

Catherine’s cheeks flushed a shy shade of pink, and she tried to faintly suppress a grimace at your innocence, your naivety.

“Reaching your pinnacle is when a woman reaches a point of maddening bliss. It is a floaty feeling that starts bet–between your legs, ma’am. And— and it spreads out to your whole body. Like your heart has been set on fire, Your Highness.” Catherine actively avoided your eyes.

Heavens, you thought. You lived in a castle with a library as big as a village, but no book could have educated you on a matter as important as this.

“You feel it everywhere, ma’am. You really do.” She added, voice soft and shy. And you could not help but feel a faint buzz in your head. You had to have that pinnacle right that moment; it seemed like the only cure for your desperate state.

“How do I reach it— my pinnacle, that is.” You politely asked, your back straight as a pin. At that, your lifelong maid let out a sharp chuckle.

“You will know, Your Highness. Simply follow your female intuition.”

That night, the silky fabric of your bedding felt cold against your skin. The muscles of your thighs were flexed open, and your nimble fingers danced on the hem of your soft nightgown.

You had to remain tranquil, calm. Perhaps hopeful as well, but you could not help but hold your breath in anxiety as your fingers found your tight hole.

Simply follow your female intuition, Catherine had said, but you felt like anything but a woman now. It was supposed to feel like maddening bliss, like your heart shattered open and light poured out through the cracks.

A devastatingly fluttery ache pooled low in your belly, and you wanted it. God, you wanted it, to chase that feeling. You tried to listen to your female intuition as she whispered out to you in your noisy mind.

Your blunt fingers started to prod at your unopened hole. Nothing. Your fingers and pussy didn’t feel wet enough, not comfortable enough, as you gently tried to shove your middle finger and ring finger inside of you.

Your eyes were squeezed shut tightly in the hopes of firing up that dull spark inside. With stiff, rugged motions you tried to move your fingers back and forth in you. Still, nothing.

You tried to think about exciting things. Things that satisfied you. Promenading through your rose garden. The smell of petit fours with too much strawberry confiture in the middle. The pride you would feel if you would finally be queen of the kingdom.

You tried to force a moan out of your mouth. To your dismay, it sounded impish. Annoyingly skittish and pathetic, watery and more like a cry for help. Tears of frustration welled up in the very corners of your eyes, harshly pulling out your two digits.

Your fingers were a little damp, nothing more. The overpowering feeling of disappointment and anger dawned upon your shoulders, but there was nothing you could do about it.

“What is wrong with me?” You said to no one in particular. Your voice sounded shaky, as if you were in disbelief.

“What if I will never reach my precious pinnacle?”

What you were not aware of, was Knight Clark who kept watch, right outside your chambers, and had heard everything: the wild rustle of your sheets, the frustrated groans and the careful, uncertain moan.

His breath hitched in his throat, unable to think of anything else. The vivid image of you in your nightgown, legs bare and shiny. Your hair down. Oh, what Clark would do to smell your hair. Or taste you. But he couldn’t. You were the Princess, for heaven’s sake.

He was the King’s best, most trusted Knight. Having thoughts of the King’s daughter like this...

Archery lessons were your least favourite. The King was known to be proactive and give you these lessons of self-defense himself. So when it seemed your father suddenly had fallen ill that morning and was not able to teach you, it felt like you were walking on sunshine.

You lived your day like normal. Breakfast was scrumptious, and you spent the rest of the day practicing the piano forté. The pingy melody ricocheted off the saloon walls for hours on end.

It was almost as if you had forgotten about the pinnacle. This day of rest is exactly what you needed. Except, you didn’t sense a delicious ache between your legs. More than ever, you felt like you were missing out on the summit of the female experience, despite being the woman in the highest regard within society.

It felt like a foolish joke. Something you, as a princess, were not a part of.

You had already retreated to your chambers for the night when footman Alan knocked on your door before walking in. “Your Highness— The King has found a way to resume today’s archery lesson. He expects you on the training grounds directly.”

Distressed, you gathered your arrow and bow. Your fear was immediately replaced by an emotion of dutiful obligation.

At last, when you stepped foot on the damp patch of grass, your heart fluttered in your chest. You had expected your father to be there, but no. Instead of the King, Knight Clark stood there. You almost did not recognise him without his shiny armour.

Instead, he was wearing a simple shirt and dark blue trousers. The look in his azure eyes was not stern. His hands were clutched behind his back, patiently waiting for you to get closer.

The look in your eyes however, could be characterised as shocked. You did not know Knight Clark looked like this. Almost black hair, the bluest eyes on the planet and thick, bulging arms under the cheap fabric of his shirt.

He looked like a God.

When you were close enough, Clark carefully took your delicate hand. You felt sparks fly when his warm lips came in contact with your knuckles. “Good evening, Your Highness.” Clark mused, a mischievous smirk plastered on his plush lips.

You were so overcome with shock at seeing Knight Clark. “I— I request my father at once.” You almost shrieked out in disarray. Your pupils were blown wide in fright.

“I am afraid that shall not be possible tonight, my Princess,” Clark started. His eyes bored into your soul when he spoke to you. “I shall be assisting you with your archery lessons tonight, at last, Princess.”

When you did not respond, he let out a gracious sigh. He knew better than to engage in baseless discussion with you. “Very well. We shall start then.”

The lesson consisted of aiming at different targets. You were still learning, and Clark was an exquisite archer, of course. The orange light of the torches casted an elegant shade onto Knight Clark’s jaw as the demonstrated how to shoot.

The heavy breaths that came from Clark when he released the arrow shot straight to your core. You were overridden by jealousy when you thought of how his silky cravat was able to cling onto his skin for eternity.

The delicious swell of Clark’s biceps everytime he drew his bow, completely undid you. It had you thinking it was almost improper, to be left here, unattended.

Similarly, Clark could not stop inhaling your sweet scent. He wanted to touch your soft hair, the smoothness of your skin underneath the multiple layers of undergarments. He wondered what your voice would sound like, all broken and pitchy when he finally had his hands on you. Or in you.

You recreated his solid stance, right foot forward. Knight Clark examined you for a quick moment before speaking up. “Allow me to correct you, Your Highness.” To which you let out a low hum in agreement.

His hands were heavy when they landed on your hips. The taller man could feel your shape underneath your precious dress, and wanted more. It was not a daily occurrence to teach the Princess to shoot, so he felt like nervosity and fervour were in order.

He longed to dig his fingers in your hips and in the back of his mind he longed to bounce you up and down, back and forth on his cock. But the thoughts were improper, and he felt like a sinner in disguise, thinking of a princess like that.

Clark tilted your hips, just slightly. His face was so close to the crook of your neck, and he could inhale your familiar smell. He could bury his nose there, stay there forever. Planted behind you, his half-hard dick rubbing against your ass as he breathed in the scent of your hair.

The air was tension-ridden, too dangerous for two people so lost in each other, and definitely too dangerous for Clark. Clark finally woke from his bewildered stupor when he heard your helpless yelp.

You had tried to draw your bow too tight. Eyes zoomed in on a target when you released the arrow from your fingers, but you did not realise you had lost your footing until you toppled over like an unstable pile of jellied fruits, right to the cold hard ground.

Once Clark gained awareness of your predicament, he rushed over to you with an urgence only a mere knight could have for his sweet princess.

He knelt beside you. “Your Highness—” he whispered, stable and sure, with the security only a well-trained knight could have. “Did you get hurt? Please tell me you did not hurt yourself.”

A faint burning sense emerged from your ribcage, but you kept silent. After all, a princess does not complain. Your father had taught you well.

“I am unaffected, Clark—“ you whispered back in between heavy breaths from shock and angst, your eyes locked on Clark’s adam’s apple bobbing with restlessness.

“Tell me where it hurts, princess.” The noiret pleaded, his eyebrows drawn together in utmost compassion for you. His clammy, strong hands were clutched around your waist, hoisting you up carefully, so that you were sitting upright. “I can not harm you under my watch.”

“I am not in pain, my Knight.”

In a rash, unresponsible moment, you decided to grasp Clark’s fleshy hand and bring it to your bosom, right over your beating heart, showing him you remained unaffected. “I find myself in proper state.” You concluded primly, ignoring the aching sensation between your ribs.

“I conclude this archery lesson terminated for tonight,” Clark almost mumbled, voice layered thick with ardour. For you. His eyes kept on searching for a flick of pain, uncertainty, in your beautiful features. He could kiss you. “I shall see you to your chambers, my Princess.”

The walk over to your chambers was long. Ever since you saw Clark’s soft features in the delicate moonlight, you could not stop thinking about that muffled fire in the pit of your stomach. That was probably the reason why you had lost your footing in the first place.

Your skin burned where Clark had touched your hips when correcting your stance. His fresh breath cascading condense into the crook of your neck. The gentle brush of his fingers over yours, demonstrating you how to grip your bow perfectly.

And Knight Clark’s fingers pulsed where you had held his hand to your bosom. The feeling of you in his grip was just like he imagined many times. Your flesh was soft, silky, balmy. As if you smeared a thick filter of lotion on your skin every day before you began your daily duties as a princess.

He wanted to push his nose inbetween your tits and keep your scent all to himself. You were so prim, so proper. Poised, too. Elegant. Oblivious to the fact you had an effect so strong on him. The womanly sway of your hips was evident, even under all your skirts.

It took Clark all of his self control to not act on his impulses. The halls of the castle were dark and lonely. All the footmen were sleeping, and Catherine had retreated too.

When the heavy door of your chambers came into view, Clark felt the bitter taste of your “goodnight”and impending doom on his tongue.

You turned to him. “I shall bid you goodnight then, my Knight.”

One corner of Clark’s seductive mouth jerked up. “I will keep watch while you ready yourself for sleep, my Princess.” You did not answer, too scared of a cracking, whimpering voice to emerge from the sound of his protective tone.

And there Clark stood like a dutiful knight, breathing still heavy and deep, his hand itching and burning from your chest and the delicacy of your heartbeat.

Tonight was the night, you were sure of it. You felt the churning desire in your stomach and between your legs. Your pinnacle was waiting for you. You did not even bother to store away your corset and chemise, too eager to crawl under the sheets and left them on the cold bedroom floor.

With utmost precision and desire, you let your hair down, changed into your most wonderful nightgown made of your finest baby blue China silk, the exact same colour as Clark’s eyes. Clark, who was still stood right outside your chamber doors, suspected nothing, but he was the least of your concerns. Your godforsaken pinnacle was here!

You were quick to settle under your thick sheets, made of imported pashmina. You felt your heart thrumming not only in your chest, but oh, down there too.

Almost instinctively, you closed your eyes. Your head lay messily on your pillow, and you were almost writhing in need and desire. Your breathing turned laboured and heavy, slow and deep.

The pain, the faint pleasure in your stomach became unbearable. Your hand travelled down to your lower stomach, and you pushed down gently, trying to ease the fire, the floaty feeling deep inside of you. That only increased the building pressure. It felt like you were about to have a heart attack. You scooted up and down your mattress like a puppy in heat, hopelessly trying to soothe your hunger.

Knight Clark’s deep voice when he spoke to you. His thick forearms, his precise fingers. His pink mouth. His thighs, he was so much bigger and stronger than you. He could easily overpower you, but he chose to be noble and serve his duty as a meager knight—

Once again, your thighs automatically fell open. And like the female intuition that Catherine told you about, you knew what you had to do when you pushed two digits — again, your middle finger and ring finger — into your hot mouth to wet them.

On instinct and quite not fast enough to your liking, you brought them back to your core. It felt like your pussy was calling out his name with every heavy, thumping pulse. Clark. Clark. Clark.

Your mouth fell open in ecstasy when you found yourself wet and ready. With every second, your breathing became heavier, louder.

And nothing like the first time, your fingers slid home, like a calling, with a wet, squelching noise. Female intuition really did exist, you thought. The sensation felt weird, but soothing. Your heartbeat sped up, and you felt the innate urge to make noise— which was unusual, because a princess never draws unnecessary attention to herself.

You tried, oh, you tried to stifle your pathetic mewls and whimpers from escaping into the dark night. You bit down your lower lip harshly. No one could know what the prim and proper princess was doing at night.

His voice— what would Clark tell you to do in this situation? Would he watch you like a deer caught in headlights, or would he want to help you out, like a respectable knight? He was so kind to you. So, so, so kind. He would tell you to take care of yourself, to not be so stern with yourself.

The rhythm of your fingers inside you sped up and became more frantic, and your thumb found refuge on a tiny button that aroused a million more emotions within you. It felt like waves were crashing inside your stomach.  

That was the moment you could not keep quiet any longer. The pleasure became too much. Too floaty and fluttery, and you did not know what to do with yourself. At this point, your nightgown had ridden up, resting just below the swell of your bosom. You felt exposed to yourself, in the best way possible. You really felt like the epitome of a woman, and not like a princess: alluring, confident, thrill-seeking.

Your thumb kept rolling unending circles to your clit, and the desperation that coursed through your veins caused you to hum and whimper. Loud. It felt like you were almost there, almost at the top of the mountain, the peak of bliss and sensuality.

Deep inside, you kept imagining Clark’s thick fingers digging at your entrance. His warm hands on your bare hips, his mouth to your neck. What he would tell you, to “keep still”. The way the honorific word of “my Princess” fell from his lips made your muscled hole clench tighter around your now sticky fingers.

Just a little bit longer. The wet noise of your fingers sliding into your pussy was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Mixed with your shy yet vulgar moans, it constituted the perfect recipe to reach your pinnacle, at last.

The hallway was cold and dark. Clark swore he could smell your scent lingering in the air, as he waited to hear the rustle of your sheets that indicated you were safely in bed.

He waited and waited. Yearned and craved. More of your touch, more of you. He still was not over the warm feeling of your bosom. What had granted you the confidence to do that? And he had harmed you, under his supervision. You fell over, because of him. Clark was so upset at himself. He was a bad knight for allowing that to happen.

Tomorrow he would bid you a personal apology, he decided. He would do anything to make clear his Princess his first priority. Forever and always, now and in the future. Until death decided to capture him in the throes of inferno for treating his Princess in this fashion.

Clark pulled his cravat loose in despair and agony.

Knight Clark was absolutely overcome, deep in thought about you and the deserved apology we would give you, until he heard a sharp moan from behind the mahogany doors.

Clark waited a second. Then another. The moans kept emerging. They sounded frustrated, painful and a bit wistful in his ears.

You had lied to him about being unaffected, Clark was sure of it. You were in pain. Unable to make another faulty choice, he wasted no time in briskly opening the heavy doors with all his might, and walking into your personal space, eyes and mind set in determination and concern.

“Princess?” He murmured out without thinking, voice small and affected. But what he saw was not what he expected.

You, squirming under the blankets on your bed, eyes shut and eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure. Consistent, steady “ah— ah— ah—“’s fell from your heavenly lips, almost if you were panting in lust. Your hand, the same hand that had grabbed Clark’s, to hold it to your chest, was dipped under the white sheets.

Clark could make out the faint motions of your arm under the blanket, and it dawned upon him that he knew exactly what was happening. What you were doing. The impropriety of the situation gnawed like a broken promise at his back.

He clutched his cravat between his fingers, like an anchor to keep him safe and settled. Blood rushed further down south, and a sense of appetite swallowed him. “Princess?” The noiret tried again, voice strained.

That caught your attention. Your eyes peeled open, though still hooded, your fingers still moving inside you and noises kept falling out of your mouth in broken whines. Your breaths got deeper, and it felt like you were dying in elation when you saw the one and only person that could satisfy your cravings standing in front of you.

“Ah— Clark, it does not w- work,” you whimpered pathetically inbetween heavy breaths, mouth open in a perfect O, “it does not work— I am broken. It feels so good, but I can not reach—”

You dug your head deeper into your pillow at the fiery, blazen expression on Clark‘s face. “Help me, my Kn— Ah—” His eyes were pure sin and silk, cracked open in astonishment, and he could feel his dick harden under his trousers at the sight of you. He swallowed before saying, “what does not work, princess? I can assure you, you are not broken.”

The knight before you had a knowing, devilish, filthy and slow smile on his face. He took one step toward you, toward the bed, and it felt like you were right on the edge of your great undoing. The constant stimulation of your fingers worked in tandem with the object of your desires in front of your eyes.

Sweat pooled in the dip of your collarbones, and your pinnacle felt closer than ever. Within reach. You looked like an angel to Clark, your hair cascading like waves over your pillowcase.

All of a sudden, the look in Clark’s eyes — sensitive, squeamish and nervous — turned into something else. More confident, smug, secure and certain.

“Let me help you, my Princess,” the knight suggested, calmly leaning over you, with your digits still penetrating yourself underneath the sheets where no one could see. Clark shoved away the delicate fabric that covered your open thighs, and without looking, he settled between them with the quiet confidence of a... rake, almost.

It was safe to say you were in shock, but the chase to your high was more important at the moment. “Or better yet, let me show you.” Clark corrected himself. His balmy hand slid all the way down, to where your fingers were stuffed in your puffy hole.

Clark’s much bigger hand clasped around yours, pulling your fingers out with a filthy, smooth glide. They were sticky and slimy with your desperate juices. It felt like your heart would leap out of your chest, the way he studied your digits for a long moment.

What he did next astounded you. He closed his full lips around the two fingers, lapping up all the slick that came out of you, never breaking eye contact in the process. You released a couple of high-pitched mewls at the way the look in his eyes had an obscenely different nuance to them.

Because here you were, in your bed, the Princess, vulnerably open and at the mercy of a knight. You felt the waves of pleasure slowly dissipate, again replaced by heat not only in your pussy, but also your stomach and cheeks.

The sight of Clark the perfect knight's tongue swirling around your fingers maddened you. Without any thought, Clark’s lips freed your fingers from his suction, and he hoisted himself higher up so that he was face to face with you. And without thinking, he slotted his soft lips around yours. His hand was still clasped around yours, and the touch of his hand around yours alone was enough to make you dizzy in the head.

You moaned into his mouth, finally feeling the touch you had been craving, the relaxation from your daily busy programme as a princess. And soon enough, you felt Clark slide down all the way, leaving little kisses and licks on your ribs and bare stomach in the process. His experienced hands caressed you thoroughly, and the rough slide of his nose against your skin felt almost ticklish. Clark looked feral.

Your hips jerked at his warm breath on your bare flesh, but Clark was quick to lay his weighty arm over your stomach to keep you still. Eventually, his face lined up with your warm pussy. He carefully examined you, and you felt more open and vulnerable than ever.

“Need to work you open, Princess.” It sounded like a threat and promise in one. The compassionate nature that resided within Clark immediately spotted the flare of your nostrils, and the slight uptick in your heart rate, and he pressed a tiny kiss to the inside of your thigh.

 “’S why you’re not enjoyin’ yet, sweetheart,” he crooned lovingly at you. “Just say the word, and I’ll quit.” Another kiss to your other thigh. You took notice of how his words had become slurred and shortened, as if he were revealing a different side of him to you. You felt same filthy smile spread against your skin.

The throb between your thighs demanded immediate attention. “Pl— please, Clark, show me.” And he wasted no time in giving you a small lick, just over your palpitating hole. His nose prodded at your clit in maddening precision, and you felt your back arch on instinct, like a perfect bow at the initial contact of his mouth on you.

His warm hand caressed the fat of your belly, the fat of the underside of your thighs, and your hands found purchase in his dark, damp hair. At this point, the languid licks of his tongue made you see stars. The sounds — the moans, whimpers of his name — were sure, loud, obscene.

The veins in his corded forearm bulged at the strength he held you with. You looked at the way Clark’s jaw worked, as if he were taking small sips of his favourite drink, small mouthfuls of ecstasy. Your arousal shyly dripped out of you, coating the inside of your thighs and Clark’s chin as he ate you open.

“’S sweet and warm, sweetheart,” the knight mumbled between short flicks of his tongue on your clit, “best pussy I’ve ever tasted.” At this point, Clark was moaning too, and you felt like he was enjoying this more than you. Like he was talking to himself instead of you.

“I know, Ah— Clark— I—” You shoved your fingers into his hair, shamelessly grinding on his tongue. “It’s for you, just for you.” This was everything you had dreamed of, and you felt the waves of pleasure become tighter, like a knot.

You felt a big finger bluntly prodding at your entrance. It reminded you of the first time you tried to pleasure yourself, when you just shoved them inside. But now, when you were so wet and ready, lost in the throes of passion, Clark’s digit slid right in with ease. “Look at that—” Clark mused, more to himself. “So polite f’r me.”

You did not answer him. The press of his larger body on yours was overwhelming in the best way possible, completely caging you in, and it made you forget you were supposed to be behaving like royalty. “Y’want my tongue too, Princess? Inside your pretty little hole?”

If you had to honest, you wanted it all. You did not see the way in which Clark rutted against the mattress to soothe himself, and you merely nodded. “Y-yes.” You breathed out, voice suddenly tiny and shy.

Clark’s tongue entered you, as if he had done it a million times before. And Clark himself, he was unable to believe it. The situation he found himself in. Your jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, and Clark with swollen lips and stamina for days sounded like a beautiful duet of passion and ardency. “My Princess wants to be full of me. Fingers and tongue.”

Again, the echo of your sloppy pussy ringed in your ears, like a ceaseless memory. Most fine ladies in society would feel shameful to be pleasured by a knight, but you did not seem to be occupied by that fact.

The low passionate hums, slurpy sounds and hungry gruffs from Clark, the tickle of his hair against your thighs, and the delve of his tongue into your core, in and out, in and out, in and out, shaped the sweetest sense you had ever felt. The knot wound tighter and tighter with every dip of his finger, precisely grazing your walls and the spot that made you mewl a little louder.

This really was your great undoing. “Clark— I feel—” you cried out. Clark shushed you gently, momentarily deattaching his mouth from your core, just for a second. “Don’t. Just feel it, sweetheart. Allow yourself to feel it.”

You allowed yourself to drown out your thoughts, and only focus on the man between your legs. The man who hungrily lapped up your slick like a man starved, your sweet juices. His hums and moans vibrated through your cunt. The careful grasp of his large hands, his big nose gently bumping against your clit as he ate you out.

You felt special, and loved, and there was no place you would rather be than here, with Knight Clark between your legs. “I— O-oh.”

This was it. Your pinnacle. Reaching your pinnacle, to be exact. Your back leaped off the mattress, baby hairs sticking to your forehead and lips red and swollen from biting them too often.

“Give it to me,” Clark encouraged you, his thick fingers still buried deep inside of you to ride out your orgasm. You felt like a supernatural creature, the way your tight hole kept fluttering and contracting around Clark and kept leaking out more clear, white slickness. “You look perfect when you come undone for me, dearest.”

Unnecessary mewls escaped your lips at the newfound petname. You did not know you liked that. And the tension in your shoulders was suddenly gone when the last waves of pleasure streamed out of you. You were so out of breath, but felt like a new woman altogether. Lighter, in your heart and head.

“I will clean you up at once, sweetheart.” Clark reached up to you again. He was so close to you, noses touching. You never let anyone too close, and Clark is a first. His blue eyes flick towards your lips, and before you know it, he tilted his head and pulled you in a searing, toe-curling kiss. You tasted your own essence on his tongue.

You did not mind.

You did not concern yourself with Clark’s urges. You were soon to be the Queen, after all. You did not have the time to occupy yourself with unneeded affairs.

Clark had returned from the washroom, a fluffy damp rag in hand. “Did you enjoy it, my Princess?” He asked, kneeling down to clean you up. You were still sensitive, and you had the urge to scoot away from the pressure between your legs.

“I certainly did.” You told him, suddenly shy and ladylike, nose in the air, unable to look into his blue eyes.

“Very well then,” Clark spoke. He was awkward as well, carefully pulling down your expensive blue nightgown you put on earlier that night. “Now, I shall bid you sweet dreams.”

And before you knew it, he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, as if he planned on doing it. Hastily, he blew out the lone candle on your bedside table and left you alone.

You lay in the dark staring up at the ceiling, satisfied and happy. You still felt the roll of Clark’s tongue working your cunt, and the stretch of your core ached sweetly under the sheets.

You laughed to yourself.

A pinnacle is worth reaching.

a/n: holy shit that was cringe but anyway, a couple of things i want to say: i didnt know how to end this, so sorry if the end was quite abrupt, i tried to write it super bridgerton-esque but i think i failed. do you guys think this needs another part, where they have like a secret relationship and a bit more yearning (since this was quite rushed)?