You run the most demanding department at the Daily Planet — every day is an avalanche of incompetent reporters, deadlines and breaking news at impossible hours.

And standing at the edge of your stress storm is Clark Kent — your most reliable reporter who somehow meets your impossible standards without ever making you feel like you’re asking too much.

Everyone complains about your temper. Clark never does. He only gives you soft, apologetic smiles, as if he somehow understands more than you'd ever admit — the pressure, long nights, the expectation to be perfect or be replaced.

Tonight is worse than usual. Half the team missed their deadlines, the editor-in-chief sent back an entire batch of articles for rewrites, and you’ve spent the last hour pacing your office, as anger coils tight in your chest.

The door is cracked open, and you don’t realize Clark has been standing there, watching you, until he knocks.

“Everything okay boss?” he asks, voice low.

You snap something short and irritated at him and Clark doesn't bother arguing with you, because once you've got something set in your mind, it's impossible to sway you. Unless... you're persuaded well enough.

He steps inside anyway, ignoring your tone, standing with his tie loose, sleeves rolled up, shoulders broad enough to block the doorway. His kryptonian senses pick up your shallow breath, the tightness in your muscles.

"You seem tense, boss." he says. "I know I don't have the right to say that, but I notice."

“You are observant.” You are unable to discern that he can smell the frustration and pheromones radiating off you.

"Can I help?" he asks. Clark moves slowly, but with the striking size difference between the two of you, he's looming over you regardless of if he intends to or not.

"Excuse me?"

He steps behind your chair, leaning closer to test the waters, his voice a soft rumble above you. “It's just, you do everything for everyone else, and it feels like no one's looking after you.”

His hands brush your shoulders, seeking permission. When you don’t pull away, his hands settle, thumbs pressing into the tense muscles at the base of your neck. He can feel the way your pulse and heart rate increase and how you're growing more flustered.

"And I'd like to.. If you'd let me." His hands are distracting you from throwing him out of your office, and you know he knows how tense you are, how much of it isn't even anger.

"I don't need your help, Kent." You push back in your chair, trying to move past him, but his hand closes around you wrist gently. "Let go." you hiss up at him.

"No. Not until you stop pretending you don't want this." Your hesitation and your thighs pressing together is all the confirmation he needs as he pushes you against your desk in one motion, papers scattering onto the floor. When his hips press against you, letting you feel the size of him, your knees buckle.

"You've been wound so tight, boss," he whispers in your ear, fully pressing against you, "so this time, let me be in charge."