Summary: Clark Kent is your plus one to a wedding.
Warning/Themes: Fluff, established relationship, glued to the hip and super in loveeeeee, reader who does not love socialization, lowkey anxious/easily overwhelmed reader, random large family for reader, social drinking, readers fam LOVES clark, a drunk cigarette as a treat, random family member names, no mention of race, no use of y/n, not really edited or proofread or looked over
its literally 3 am guys if you see mistakes just turn a blind eye.
it was when i wrote this
Words: 6.3k
The small, white invitation, accented with delicate gold foil and a watercolor of a blossoming cherry branch, had been stuck to your fridge for months. Every time you passed it, a tiny, almost unnoticeable pit formed in your stomach. Weddings were… a lot. Sure, you always ended up having a decently fun time by the end of the night. They were still an entire ordeal, sitting, talking, listening, hot, loud, draining. Just a lot.
You'd RSVP'd only days after receiving it, because you love your cousin, of course. Checked the website, clicked the '+1' box. Memorized all the details down the name of the officiant, buffet style dinner, so no plates to choose; three drink tickets, then it's a cash bar. You picked a gift off the registry, somewhere in the healthy middle price wise. You also bought your dress right away— all in order to push the event to the back of your mind until the day of.
And now, the day was here.
The morning light shone through the curtains of your apartment window, feeling uncharacteristically bright. A warm glow your body just couldn't seem to emulate. You still lay in bed, despite being awake for nearly an hour; trying to reason yourself into rising from the warmth of the sheets beneath you, when suddenly Clark enters, pushing the door in and gently gripping a steaming mug.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that always soothed the sparking wires within your brain. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, the scent of fresh coffee spilling out from the mug and wafting around the room.
“Coffee?”
You just groan an indecipherable groan, scrunching your face up and rolling in the sheets for a moment. Today was going to be daunting, until it was over; then you'll look back on the event fondly, and wonder why you dreaded it so much.
"Okay, come on now." He chuckled. You found it impossible to be gloomy or agitated when that sound graced your ears. He sets the mug down on the nightstand.
“Big day,” Clark can't not smile at today, his eyes crinkling at the corners. All the events that offput you, like gatherings or socializing for many hours— made Clark so high energy and happy, with the same type of excitement a child possessed on Christmas morning. Happy, eager, ready to see people, ready to face it all. You know he's superman, but you'll never know how he does it.
"Yes, a day, that's for sure." you acknowledge, pushing yourself up against the headboard and grabbing the mug, taking an energizing sip of the warm liquid inside, feeling it course through your body.
He settled onto the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress just slightly. Trying his best to take up as little space and be as light as possible. Like he was nervous about disturbing the stillness in the bed. Then he chuckled, the sound as warm and inviting as the coffee.
“It’s your cousin, remember? Mostly family. And they’re all lovely.”
He knew exactly how much you dreaded these things, and he never judged you for it. Instead, he just… was.
You took another sip, swallowing as you swing your legs out from under the sheets, the cool morning air crawling up them as your feet find the carpet below. You nod.
“Lovely, yes. And numerous. And loud.”
His gaze drifted to the window, where the sun was basking the city in a gentle spring light.
“I’ll be there. I’ll make sure you get all the quiet corners you need. And I’m excellent at small talk, you know.”
You nodded. That was an understatement— Clark could charm the paint off of a wall, if he tried. Every time he spoke, he captivated whoever he was making conversation with, leaving them feeling better than before. He was the perfect buffer for your social battery, absorbing all the energy you could not.
"I know." You sigh, finally rising to a standing position; stretching your back out with a small groan.
As you straighten up, mug clutched between your hands, your eyes land on the dress hanging off the closet door. The dress, a long flowy thing, muted sage green fabric decorated with delicate embroidered wildflowers and sprigs of lavender. Clark's suit was hung in the living room, ready for him to steam and put on whenever he was ready.
You look at it. Long, hard, eyes narrowing slightly, like you were silently willing it onto your body without having to actually deal with putting it on. A long breath escapes you. Not a sigh or a huff, just resignation.
"Okay," you finally say, turning to Clark and nudging his shoulder with one hand.
"Out you go, let me get dressed."
Clark chuckled again. His laugh was so warm, it never failed to tug your lips up into a smile of your own. He pushed himself off the bed and leaned down to give you another quick kiss, this time to your forehead.
“I’ll be in the living room. Let me know if you need anything.”
With that, he was gone, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him. You heard the faint rustle of his movements in the next room.
You set your coffee mug down on the nightstand and walked towards the dress. It truly was beautiful, the sage green fabric flowing like water, dotted with delicate embroidery that snaked wildflowers and lavender around the hem and bodice.
You observed it for just a second longer before you shed your sleep clothes, sliding them off onto the floor. You take the dress off the hanger and slip it over your head, the cool fabric sliding down your body easily.
You turned, eyeing yourself in the full-length mirror, turning from side to side. It fit perfectly, hugging where it should and flowing where it was meant to.
"Clark, can you come zip me?" You call through the wall.
A moment later, his large, warm hands were on your back, carefully pulling the zipper up. You felt a brush of his breath on your neck, and his faint, clean scent of dryer sheets and sunshine.
He beamed, showing off his heart melting, knee buckling smile he reserved just for you.
“You look incredible,” he gushed, his eyes tracing the floral pattern on your dress.
“Like the whole garden decided to bloom just for you.”
And there it was. The way he complimented you, the way the words roll off his tongue, and how he looks at you so genuinely; his voice so earnest. He truly saw the beauty in everything, especially in you. It never failed to soften you, if even just a little bit. They felt like sunlight, warm and genuine, seeping into the nooks and crannies of your often skeptical heart. And he loved that. Seeing the involuntary smile tug at your lips, and seeing the goosebumps rise from your skin, making you warm to the touch, just from his words.
"It’s good, then?" you wonder, tilting your head back slightly to look at him over your shoulder.
You didn't really need his validation, but you still liked hearing it. Especially from him.
"More than good," he confirmed, his hands lingering for a moment at your waist before he pulled them away.
“Now it’s my turn to get ready. Don’t want to be late for your cousin’s big day, do we?” He winked, already moving towards the bedroom door.
You watched him go, a small, genuine smile still playing on your lips. Picking up your abandoned coffee mug and taking another sip. Your eyes finding the window, staring out at the bustling city below the apartment. Soon you'd join that clamor, getting into the car for a long drive, and an even longer night.
You turn to the vanity against the wall and decide to sit down at it, running your fingers through your hair, contemplating the things you could do with it. Messing it, then neatening it, then messing it again, until you're happy with now it looks.
You heard the soft click of the bedroom door opening again. You knew it was Clark.
“Ready, partner?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
You tilted your head, arms crossed over your chest as you turned to face him. His suit was a deep brown, the tie embroidered to match your dress. You'd never, ever, get tired of looking at him. Your tongue wets your lips before you speak,
“you look… painfully handsome, Kent. Try not to upstage the groom.”
Clark’s cheeks reddened just slightly, a familiar flush that always appeared when you gave him such a direct compliment. He got shy, always had, and you'd always found it cute; seeing all six feet four inches of him turn into a blushing mess when you so much as tell the truth.
“Couldn’t if I tried,” he dismissed, but his eyes were still sparkling, fueled but your words. He grabbed his keys from the dresser, giving them a little jingle.
“Alright, darling. Shall we?”
You smile at him, looping your arm through his and giving a nod.
"We shall." You determined.
The drive was calm, a little way to the wedding venue, but quiet. You watched the city skyline slowly give way to sprawling suburbs, then eventually to more rural landscapes dotted with clusters of trees and the occasional farmhouse.
Clark seemed to find joy in the journey itself, humming softly along to the radio, his hand resting casually on your knee.
As you turned onto a long, gravel drive, framed by large oak trees, a big white tent came into view, nestled beside a glimmering ribbon of water.
“Alright,” you murmured, taking a bracing breath. “Here we go.”
Clark’s thumb stroked your knee gently. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice laced with genuine delight.
He pulled into a parking spot, already unbuckling. The air, crisp and fresh, carried the faint, sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly mown grass, mingled with the distant hum of voices. Clark was already out, rounding the car to open your door. He offered his arm to you, and together, you stepped out into the bright afternoon. He looked entirely at home, scanning the small groups forming near the entrance to the tent, a smile spreading across his face as he recognizes your family members.
The river, in the distance, glinted as the sun got lower in the sky, shimmering around the bank, the water calm and still.
“It really is beautiful,” you admitted, the words escaping on a soft exhale.
As you drew closer, the scene grew more vivid. People puttered around, drinks in hand, greeting each other with hugs and squeals and hearty back-pats. Children chased each other through the lush green lawn, their giggles piercing the gentle hum.
“Clark!” Your cousin, the groom’s sister, came rushing forward, pulling him into a warm hug.
“So glad you could make it! And look at you two, matching!” She gestured between his tie and your dress, her eyes sparkling.
Clark chuckled politely, pulling away and effortlessly snaking his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.
“Wouldn't miss it for the world. You know how much we love a good celebration. This place is absolutely beautiful.”
Emily beamed, her energy infectious as she looks between you and Clark.
“Come on, let’s get you two some drinks. The ceremony’s in twenty minutes. There’s plenty of time for a quick hello with everyone.” She made a gesture towards the gathering crowd, pointing happily as she leads you towards more people.
The hum of conversation grew louder as you and Clark moved deeper into the crowd. You felt yourself tense slightly, the sheer volume of voices and faces beginning to sink in. It wasn't that you disliked people– far from it, but large events always felt like a drain, a thousand small interactions chipping away at your energy.
Soon enough, you were ushered towards the ceremony area, rows of white chairs, baskets of overflowing flowers, candlelit lanterns lining the aisle, all sat by the water’s edge.
You sat beside Clark, his knee brushing yours, your arms interlocked. He had his undivided attention on the couple, his eyes glassy during the vow exchange, full of the truest, most genuine joy for them.
You knew he was filtering out a thousand other sounds, focusing only on the important ones, and that, right now, the most important ones were the vows being exchanged and the quiet rhythm of your own breathing beside him.
The officiant’s voice, warm and excited, finally declared them married. A ripple of applause, then a burst of joyous cheers, erupted from the guests. The new couple shared a long, tender kiss, sealing their vows.
You leaned your head slightly against Clark’s shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your arm. He truly was lost in the moment, a soft smile gracing his lips.
“That was lovely,” he whispered, his voice full of awe and love.
You smile up at him, giving a gentle nod of agreement.
"it was," you muse in reply. The anxiety in your stomach easing up with the true happiness you felt. It was hard to not be reciprocal when the sheer amount of love around you radiated from every surface, bouncing off it all and back onto you. You were happy, and so happy for the couple.
The immediate aftermath of the ceremony was a cheerful chaos of photos, congratulations, and the shuffling of chairs. Clark already was springing into action, holding out a hand to help you up. His eyes, clear and blue, scanned the crowd, a warm, friendly smile gracing his lips as he greeted various aunts, uncles, and distant cousins. He just knew how to navigate these large events and gathering, a skill you admired, and had come to rely upon.
Soon, the cocktail hour was in full swing, everyone shifted to closer by the tent. A vibrant hum of conversation punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses. Servers, nimble and graceful, weaved through the bodies with trays of sparkling wine and hors d'ourves.
“Hi, sweetpea. Champagne?” Clark murmurs in your ear, his hand finding the small of your back. He guides you gently towards a server, his presence a comforting anchor in the swirling current of faces.
“Please,” you murmured, accepting the flute of bubbly, liquid gold. The cool glass felt good in your hand.
“Feeling alright?” he asked, his voice low, just for your ears. His eyes, though still scanning the room with the same fondness and warmth, held a gentle concern when they met yours.
You nodded, offering him a small, appreciative smile. “Much better, thank you. This helps.” You gestured with the flute. “And you.”
“You’re doing great, darling.” He encouraged, his thumb brushing lightly against your dress where his hand rested at your back. “Everyone’s just so happy.”
And they were. The amount of shared joy was a force on its own, a bright, infectious current that finally chipped away at your initial reservations. Clark was a social magnet, his warmth and sincerity drawing people in from the get-go. And because he was with you, that warmth extended to you, making the social navigating feel less like a chore and more like a gentle, guided dance. You laughed more easily, genuinely enjoying the snippets of conversation, feeling the collective happiness envelop you.
“Clark, my boy! Looking dapper as ever!” Your uncle, his loud laugh, and powerful hand, clapped Clark on the shoulder, nearly knocking him from your side.
“Uncle Ben! Great to see you,” Clark replied, his smile widening instantly. He was hardly thrown off balance, though, his muscles rippling slightly from under his suit jacket as he anchors you tighter to his side.
“And you, my dear,” Uncle Ben said, turning his jovial gaze to you, his eyes twinkling.
“You picked a good one here, didn’t you? Smart, handsome, always so polite. A real catch.”
Clark’s cheeks took on that familiar, endearing flush once more. The same one granted to you whenever he's given high praise or compliments. Spreading up to the tips of his ears as he chuckles humbly and shakes his head, but before he can be humble, you speak up.
“That he is, Uncle Ben,” you interjected, a smug smile playing on your lips as you looped your arm through Clark’s, leaning into his solid side.
“I had to fight off at least a dozen other admirers just to get him to this wedding.” You tease.
Clark shook his head, looking down at you with an expression of pure adoration. “She exaggerates, Uncle Ben,” he managed, though his eyes were alight with amusement and she squeezed your side playfully.
The cocktail hour continued down this vein— a parade of cousins, uncles, and family friends, each greeting Clark with warmth and familiarity. He remembered names, asked after jobs and children, and listened with rapt attention. He made everyone feel like the most important person in the room. You watched him, a quiet pride swelling in your chest. He wasn’t just tolerating your family; he loved them, and they, unequivocally, loved him back. It was a sweet thing to witness, and it made the whole affair so much easier and enjoyable for you.
A distant chime, gentle yet insistent, signaled the end of cocktail hour. A ripple went through the crowd as guests gravitated towards the large white tent, now bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights woven through its ceiling, and candles on the dinner tables.
Clark guided you to your seats, pulling out your chair before settling into his own beside you. You were at a large, round table with several of your cousins, an aunt, and an uncle, all familiar, friendly faces.
Eventually, they called all the tables up, one by one, to come make a plate from the buffet at the very back of the tent. When it was your tables turn, Clark kept one hand on your back, helping steer you through the maze of tables and bodies and noises, putting you in front of him in the line, making sure you have everything you need.
As plates were cleared and the dessert— a wedding cake, alongside an array of baked goods, was brought out, the energy in the tent shifted once more. A microphone was tested, soft feedback squealing momentarily, and then the gentle tapping began.
Time for speeches. The groom's parents, the bride's parents, the bridesmaids, the groomsmen, the groom's sister. All the words shared were heartfelt, humorous, and occasionally emotional— full of happy tears and sniffles. You watched Clark, his expression soft and attentive. He seemed to absorb every word, feel every emotion, and it made you love him even more.
“That was… just beautiful,” he whispered to you, his voice a little husky with emotion. You squeezed his hand in agreement, smiling warmly at him.
About two wine glasses full of toasts, then first dances. The newlyweds glided across the floor, lost in each other’s eyes as their chosen song filled the tent. They looked overwhelmingly happy, their movements fluid and intimate. Then, the groom danced with his mother, and the bride with her father. Then, as the formal dances concluded, the DJ ramped up the music, drawing everyone out of their seats and onto the dance floor with the couple.
Clark leaned in, giddy as he whispers into your ear. "Our turn!" He urges as he grabs your hand and leads you away from the table. He rushed right in, pulling you along. His dance moves were… unique. A little awkward, a little 90s after school special, but so… him. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his arms making wide, sweeping gestures that seemed to have no direct relation to the beat. He swayed, he shimmied, he even did some sort of step-touch, all while continuing to beam his giddy, slightly self-conscious smile.
You laughed, a loud giggle as you looked at him; the smile that remained on your face was sheer adoration for him.
“Clark, are you… doing the robot?” you teased.
He grinned, his ears flushing pink. “It’s a classic! Very versatile. Goes with anything!” He showed off another stiff, jerky movement.
The high energy beat eventually mellowed, changing into a slow, romantic melody. Couples around you shifted, pulling one another closer, swaying gently. Clark, without missing a beat, brought you in, his large hands settling on your waist as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Now this,” he murmured, his voice softer, a little breathy, “this I can do.”
His movements were simple but sincere, a gentle sway that moved only with you. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of him envelop you from head to toe. His chin brushed your hair lightly, and you felt him press a soft kiss to your temple.
"It's nice to share things with you," he muses, his voice a little lower now.
He leaned back, still holding you, but so his eyes could see into yours; so you would know how much this all means to him. Just the act of inclusion, coming to a wedding for your side of the family.
"Even things that aren't particularly your favorite. You make them better."
You scoffed, a soft sound of disbelief. You were quiet and made sarcastic comments, reluctant to partake in human enjoyment. He was the one who infused every mundane moment with warmth and genuine love. But you didn't say that. Instead, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
“You’re the best,” you mumbled against his mouth, letting your head rest back on his chest as the song slowly ended.
More drinks were had— a sip of cocktail here, a clinking toast with a cousin there. Clark, ever vigilant, made sure your glass was never empty without being pushy, often refilling his own with just water; since the booze did nothing for him on this planet.
And in between the drinks, was more dancing; jumping up and down to the upbeat songs, everyone yelling the words to the classics. Essentially a big mosh pit of all ages as people cheered and danced and hyped one another up. You let yourself be pulled and twirled, your own movements more fluid, but you didn’t shy away from mimicking some of Clark's sillier steps. You bounced on the balls of your feet with him, threw your hands up in a half-hearted disco move, and pretended to be roped in by his imaginary lasso.
“Clark, my dear! There you are!”
It was your aunt, her face alight with a mischievous grin. She was heading straight for you, her arms already outstretched. Clark smiled happily.
“Aunt Carol, it’s wonderful to see you!”
“Oh, darling, you look so handsome! I must have a dance with you!” she demands, not really asking, just already reaching for his hand, her grip firm.
“Come on, now, don’t be shy!”
Clark shot you a quick, helpless glance, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. He knew there was no escaping.
“It would be my pleasure.” He gave your hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before he was gently, but firmly, tugged away. He immediately started bouncing again, his arms flailing slightly, trying to keep up with her surprisingly energetic pace.
You watched them for a moment, a fond smile playing on your lips. Your was beaming, clearly thrilled to have him. It fueled you to see him so completely embraced by your family. He was truly one of them now, no longer just your boyfriend, but OUR Clark.
You found yourself drifting towards the edge of the tent, easily slipping past the sea of bodies. The cool evening air refreshing your senses and offering instant relief from the warm interior. Fair lights line the nearby archways and decor, but further away you can spot a different glow, orange and hot. Where a group of your cousins had congregated, leaning against the fence that bordered the vineyard, their laughter echoing softly in the night.
"hey!" Emily calls over to you first, waving you closer with her hand.
"Where's Clark?" Your cousin, Liam, asks, peering over your shoulder, hoping to find him.
you just shrug and chuckle at him, gesturing inside the tent behind you.
"Kidnapped, by our aunt." You pout at them, missing the feeling of him by your side, but knowing he was still having fun.
"I came to ask if anyone wanted to give me a little treat? For being so brave today?" you joke, holding your fingers to your lips for a cigarette.
“Here, take mine,” your cousin, Noah, offers, pulling a slim cigarette from a small pack and handing it over.
“Haven’t seen you have one of these in ages.”
You take it with a nod. It wasn't a regular occurrence for you; strictly a social, tipsy indulgence for you, at family gathering or on nights out with Lois. Liam quickly produces a lighter, flicking it open and holding the flame out for you. You cup your hands around it, inhaling deeply as the tip glows orange.
The first drag was pure bliss, a sharp, earthy hit of nicotine that spread warmth through your chest. You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the cool night air.
The conversation continued, the cousins laughed; you talked about the wedding, family gossip, childhood memories, an easy, unfiltered conversation that felt like comradery. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint thrum of the music from inside the tent, mingling with the scent of wine, fresh cut grass, and the water nearby.
You were halfway through your cigarette when you saw him, a tall, slightly disheveled figure exiting the tent, searching around with that familiar, sweet concern for you etched on his face.
He spotted you instantly, his face breaking into a wide, relieved smile. He moved towards you, hands already yearning to reach for you again, to hold you.
“There he is!” Liam called out, grinning.
"My love!!" you squeal out, uncharacteristically giddy as you giggle, reaching for your boyfriend.
He sped up, covering the distance between you in a few long strides, his arms already out, ready to cup your face, to pull you close. You move to him, leaving the cigarette in your cousin Noah’s outstretched fingers, shooting yourself into Clark’s waiting embrace.
“There you are!” he murmured. His hands find your waist, pulling you close to him.
The faint smell of smoke clung to your clothes, but his familiar, clean scent of fresh air and laundry detergent quickly enveloped it. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his chin resting there for a moment.
"Your aunt is quite the dancer,” he muses, leaning back just enough to look at your cousins.
Liam chuckled. “Poor Clark, you didn’t stand a chance. She’s been trying to get someone to really dance with her all night.”
Clark smiled at him, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. “It was a lot of fun. Your family is… truly wonderful.”
“We love you, Clark!” Emily called out, giving his arm a playful shove.
Clark’s cheeks took on a faint, endearing flush at the teasing, but his smile only widened as he tightened his arm around you. You glanced past your cousins, towards the darker, quieter edge of the vineyard where you could just make out the glint of moonlight on water. The river, you're sure it had to look beautiful right now, under the moon.
Your eyes were sparkling, and you tilted your head back to meet Clark’s gaze, a silent question passing between you. He seemed to get it, his eyes softening as he gave your waist a little squeeze.
“Well,” he said, addressing your cousins with that effortless charm that won everyone over,
“I think I’ve danced enough to earn a little quiet time with my wonderful partner. It was lovely catching up with you all.”
Emily waves a dismissive hand, smiling mischievously at you. “Go on, you two, we’ll hold down the fort here.”
You waved a quick goodbye to your cousins as Clark guided you away from the dark fence and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. The path was darker, uneven, with gravel crunching softly under your shoes, but Clark’s hand stayed on you. He kept you close, pulling you into his side so your hips bumped with every step.
The path eventually opened up to a small, secluded dock, lit only by the vast expanse of the night sky and the shimmering reflection of the moon on the water. A small wooden dock extended into the water, and you instinctively kick off your shoes as you move towards it.
“This is nice,” you whispered, stepping onto the weathered planks. The wood creaked softly under your feet. Clark followed. His presence is warm, solid, comforting, right behind you. You walked to the very end of the dock, gazing out at the ink-black water and the faint glimmer of distant lights on the opposite shore.
He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“This is better,” he decides, his voice a low rumble against you. “Much better.”
You shifted in his arms, turning to face him fully. His hands settled on your waist, holding you. The moonlight illuminated his face, softening the sharp angles, making his eyes seem even deeper, even more full of emotion. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb.
“You fit right in, you know,” you tell him, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like you’ve always been here.
He leans closer, his lips brushing yours. “That’s JUST how it feels with you,” he reciprocates, his voice soft.
“Like I’ve always been meant to be right here, with you, fitting in wherever you are.”
You can't really say anything to that. You really just… can't find the words. If there were any, you couldn't find them in this moment, just a soft pout that finds its way to your lips; and you rise onto your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips. His lips were soft, warm, tasting a little bit like the fruit punch he'd been drinking earlier. He responded instantly, his arms tensing around your waist, pulling you against him until there was no space left between your bodies.
When he finally pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours. Then, he pressed another kiss to your temple, lingering there. You could feel his steady breath against your head, warm against the cool air, comforting and soft.
“I love you,” you murmured, smiling softly as you lean into him.
You'd never question it again. What it feels like to be cherished so entirely, known to your fullest, appreciated in every aspect of everything you do, supported and cared for. All thanks to Clark.
He shifted, pressing another tender kiss to your hair. “I love you, too,”
You gazed out at the shimmering water, the faint outline of trees on the opposite bank. The cool air was carrying a hint of late-night chill. It was growing late, and you had a long drive back home.
With another soft kiss to your forehead, he straightened, unwrapping his arms from around you, his hands lingering on your waist, not wanting to exit the warmth of your shared space. You bend down to retrieve your shoes, slipping them back on. The chill of the night air now felt more pronounced as you stood apart. “Ready to call it a night, my love?”
You nodded, “more than ready.”
He guided you back along the gravel, careful of your steps, warning you softly of all the cracks and gaps. The walk back felt quicker, the buzz of the reception quieting down a little, but not done for everyone yet. The main tent has shifted the music to a more chill, late-night playlist, and a few dedicated dancers were still having a good time.
You made your rounds, hugging family members, promising to visit soon, and hearing gushing remarks about Clark. Everyone thought he was a pleasure, a keeper, so polite, so sweet, thoughtful, smart, sharp as a whip; and all of them were one-hundred percent correct. And Clark was one-hundred present yours. He accepted all the praise with humility and genuine humbleness. He could be as humble as he pleased, you knew, just the extent of how wonderful he was.
The music from the reception faded gradually behind you, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the distant croaking of frogs from the river. Clark kept you close, his arm a steady presence around your waist, his steps adjusting to yours.
You hadn't shown any discomfort or qualms with walking yourself back. But Clark paused, looking down at your shoes, then at the distant direction of the parking lot. The walk ahead was dark, winding through patchy grass and more loose gravel. He said nothing for a moment, just studying the terrain.
Before you could even register his intent, he scooped you up into his arms, one strong arm supporting your back, the other beneath your knees. Then, he bent down gently, without saying a word. One hand slipping under your knees, and the other snaking around your back; he's scooped you up, bridal-style.
"Oh!" a surprised gasp leaves your lips as you giggle, slipping your arms around his neck to steady yourself, leaning in closer, your nose nuzzles his neck.
You had to admit; it gives your feet an instant relief that you didn't know they needed. The pressure of carrying you around all day, busy and happy and excited, immediately easing up as you defy gravity in his arms.
"You really don't have to do this," you murmured, but you like it, you want him to, and you'd be quite sad if he set you down now.
"But this is much better. You've been on your feet all night, enjoying yourself. Let me handle the rest." He counters, his voice low and warm in your ear. Your fingers found the nape of his neck, mindlessly toying with his hair. The world swayed gently as he walked, his strides long and steady.
He skirted around a few puddles, stepping carefully over divots in the grass, until he reached your car. He set you down, gentle as ever, letting your feet touch the gravel. The chill of the night air replacing the warmth from where his arms were. You feel goosebumps rise in his absence.
He unlocked the car, putting the keys back into his pocket so he could open the passenger side for you, his arm snaking around your waist briefly until you're safe inside. Then he closed the door, walking around to the driver's side.
He started the car, engine coming to life, adjusted the rearview mirror, then turned for you, his hand reaching for yours on the center console.
The drive took a while. The world outside the car was quiet and calm, becoming just a blur of familiar shapes and colors. Winding country roads becoming lesser, bigger cities popping up. The streetlights grew brighter, closer.
You found yourself drifting, not asleep, but lulled into a peaceful state. Feeling completely safe, and content with how things were. Today was a good day, truly happy, and at the center of it all, for you, was Clark.
Soon, your body felt the familiar movements and turns of the car that led to your building. Familiar landmarks of your neighborhood as he turned into your parking spot.
“We’re home,” he killed the engine. Leaning in close to speak in your ear, he clicks your seatbelt unlocked.
He gets out first, coming around to open your door. You accepted his outstretched hand, letting him help you out. He didn't release your hand as you walked up the path to the door, his fingers interlaced with yours.
Inside your apartment's bedroom, you peeled off the dress, warm with the residual heat from your body and wrinkled from all the day's movement, carelessly tossing it onto a chair. Clark, remaining tidy, gently retrieved it and hung it. You watched him, a smile spreading on your face as he turned off the lights, the moon casting shadows through the window.
You yawn, reaching for the soft fabric of your sleep shirt and a pair of comfortable shorts.
"Are you tired?" he asks softly, reaching for your hand again.
You reply with a lazy hum. He pulls you in closer, a long smile spreading across your face, the moonlight seeping in through the slips of the curtain highlight all his beautiful features. His eyes, even in the dim light, held the warmth that made your chest ache. His thumb brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek.
"In a good way," you assure him softly.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, before finally resting his lips against yours. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of the unspoken comfort and affection that had settled between you. No urgency, just a deep, abiding peace.
When he pulled back, his eyes still held yours. "Let's get you comfortable."
You climbed into bed, and he followed, pulling you close against his warm body. You nestled into him, feeling utterly safe and content. You listened to the steady, strong beat of his heart. His fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.
He was the best date, exceeded expectations you never even knew you had. Clark was constantly raising the bar. He was so open to every single aspect of life, embracing it fully, loving it with everything he has inside him.
You shifted slightly, pressing closer, feeling the solid warmth of his body enveloping you. He responded by tightening his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
"Sleep well," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your scalp, thick with affection. He pressed one last tender kiss to the crown of your head, as you drifted off to sleep listening to his steady breathing.
Clark had long since lost the battle to sleep. But you, you stayed up with the quiet chatter as you scrolled social media, watching cooking, home, and relationship videos overtake your feed.
Clark had been asleep for hours already since coming home from work and just crashing on your shared bed. But you couldn't take your eyes away from your phone. The light had definitely been the source of your insomnia, but you scrolled on.
You set the phone down, turning your body to Clark’s sleeping form. And that's when the idea came. You lifted your hand, shaking his shoulder. “Clark, psst, Clark.” he sank further into the bed, only replying with a grunt at first. You pushed harder. “Clark!” you said, pushing his whole body this time. “Huh? Are you okay, are you hurt?” is the first thing he said, his eyes fluttering, trying to open themselves but losing to the darkness that still overtook the room.
“Im fine,” you said, and his eyes closed again while nodding. “But I’m hungry.” his head turned back to you, eyes still closed, “Hungry?” You nodded, and he rubbed his eyes, still confused about what was going on and why he was suddenly awake. You thought it was funny, but you held in your laugh.
“What do you want?” he moved closer to you, holding you by the side. Your hand found his hair, playing with it. “Um, pancakes?” you patted his head.
You felt him nod before speaking once again. “Anything else?”
“No, just that,” and his arms left your torso as you felt him slip away and stand up. He opened the door and walked to the kitchen.
You sat there once again for 20 minutes, wondering what he could be doing in there. The pancakes surely couldn't take that long, right? You sat there for a bit longer before the door opened again and Clark came in with the tray he used for breakfast in bed.
He set the tray down in front of you, and the plate had eggs, fruit, and pancakes in the shape of hearts. “Oh my gosh, Clark. Thank you.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before returning to his side of the bed once more, but instead of sleeping again, he sat next to you, turning on the TV.
You turned to him as he pressed play on The Princess Diaries because he knew it was your favorite. “I have to be honest. I was playing a prank on you. I didnt expect you to make me food right now,” He looked at you.
“Why wouldn't I make you food?” he genuinely was so confused about the idea of not providing for you.
“It's so late,” you retorted.
“But you were hungry.” It was so casual to him, doing anything for you. Even down to the details of heart-shaped pancakes. He didnt care that the clock read 1:30; He just cared that you were happy.
Synopsis: Clark always said he couldn’t get sick. Until he did. After a sixteen-hour battle, he comes home broken. And for the first time, you're the one who has to protect him.
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, soft!Clark Kent, emotional vulnerability, implied relationship, fluff with a touch of angst, reader cares for injured Clark, post-battle exhaustion
WC: 1,287 words approx.
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It was impossible for a metahuman like Clark to get sick. Or so he said… more than once.
You looked at him with a certain curiosity every time he said it, but inside, you were nervous. Because if Clark had twice —or more— the energy, speed, and strength of a human… what would happen if he got sick? Would it be twice as serious?
That day, while you were having your afternoon coffee, you saw the news. An hour earlier, Clark had left the house in his suit, heading straight to an emergency. But this time, something felt different.
On screen, he looked… slow. Breathing with effort. Using his laser vision as if it was hard for him. Something was wrong.
You swallowed, watching everything nervously. It wasn’t the first time you had seen him fight, but it was the first time you noticed his body… giving in.
Clark and you always talked about limits. About how even he, with all his power, had them. It just wasn’t easy to reach them.
But that night… he was reaching them.
The broadcast continued for a few more minutes. Clark spun in the air, dodging, fighting. Then, a cut.
The signal was interrupted.
The final image: Clark in the sky, his laser vision burning, his eyes squinting from the effort.
You stood up from the couch as if something inside you had ignited. You paced back and forth, looked out the window as if expecting to see him appear in the sky.
It was already ten at night. There was no news.
You changed the channel. Checked your phone. Looked back at the TV.
Until, finally, a headline appeared:
“Superman saves hundreds during 16-hour battle. Current condition unknown.”
You closed your phone just as a violent crash hit your window. You turned with your heart in your throat. It was him. His body hit the ground with no strength, and you ran to the door without thinking.
"Clark," you whispered, kneeling next to him. You gently turned him over to hold his face in your hands. "Clark, look at me…"
"I'm fine," he barely murmured, exhausted, with his eyes closed and trembling breath. "No sun… I can't… I need to wait until morning."
"Can you walk?" you asked, your voice low, as if speaking louder might break him.
He nodded weakly. With effort, he managed to sit up. Despite his exhaustion, he avoided leaning on you completely. You walked beside him to his room, guiding him step by step. You sat him on the bed and began to take off his suit with careful hands. His skin was wounded, regeneration was slow. That could only mean one thing: his vision would remain impaired for hours.
You didn’t say anything. You just laid him down with tenderness, as if the mattress could absorb part of the pain.
You were about to go out for a cold towel when his hand blindly reached for yours.
“Don’t go,” he said, clumsily caressing your fingers. “I can’t see right now… and all I wanted was to get home… and see you.”
“Love,” you whispered, leaning in to brush his cheek. “Your eyes are burning. It must hurt more than you’re saying. I’m going to get something to help. I promise I’ll be right back and stay with you, okay?”
He barely nodded, and you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before standing up.
You went to the kitchen, filled a plastic bottle with too much ice, and grabbed a clean towel. You also brought a glass of fresh water. When you returned, you found him trying to touch his eyes in frustration, as if the burning was too much to bear.
You set the glass on the nightstand, dipped the towel in the ice, gently wrung it out, and carefully placed it over his eyes. He sighed with slight relief… but it lasted only a few seconds. The heat of his skin had melted the cold. You wet the towel again, repeating the process without pause, determined not to leave him alone for a second.
“Clark,” you finally murmured, leaving the cloth on a bit longer this time, “you have a limit, love. You can’t cross it… even if everything falls apart.”
“If I hadn’t… they would’ve died,” he replied in a low voice.
You sighed, but didn’t scold him. You already knew. You understood more than he could imagine. With Clark, anything could happen… and that was what you feared the most: losing him.
You set the towel aside and lay against his chest. It was already past one in the morning. As soon as he felt your warmth, he pulled you close. His body stopped tensing. Even with his eyes still closed, he embraced you, breathed in your scent, and kissed your forehead tenderly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered. “I can’t help it. There were people… animals… waiting for me.”
You didn’t reply right away. You just held him tighter.
“I know,” you finally said, very softly. “It’s just that… it’s the first time you’ve come back this hurt.”
“When the sun comes up, your boyfriend will be back,” he said with a soft smile.
You slowly shook your head.
“My boyfriend’s already here,” you whispered, looking up at him. “What I don’t want… is to see him like this.”
You leaned in and gave him a soft kiss.
“I don’t want to lose you, Clark.”
“You won’t.”
And he was right.
The next day, when you woke up and turned to his side of the bed, it was empty. You sat up in a rush. It was ten in the morning. You had overslept. You almost ran out of the room and froze when you saw him in the kitchen. He turned when he heard you, with a calm smile. His blue eyes were shining as always. And you smiled too.
“I’m taking the day off. The city seems calm,” he said, nodding as you approached.
You didn’t say anything. You just kissed him. Though his cheeks turned red, he didn’t pull away. When you parted, you looked into his eyes. Everything was fine. Nothing out of place. And finally, you breathed calmly. He noticed.
“Told you,” he whispered with a smile. “I came back in one piece.”
cw : smut mdni, fem reader, dry humping, thigh riding, could be considered light somno, making out, praise, somewhat subby clark, cumming in pants, brief descriptions of vaginal sex
requests are open!!!
3:16 AM, the clock reads as clark turns over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
he looks down at you, curled into his chest, the picture of serenity. your head rests comfortably on his right pec as though it's a pillow. your right arm is strewn across him as well, your fingers curling around his left bicep, as though he'd slip away from you if you didn't keep him there. one of your legs is bent and slotted in between his own, cozy as can be.
your face is smushed into him as you sleep and clark can't help but admire you. he's sleepy, very much so, but he almost debates staying awake just a few minutes longer just to watch you. it would be creepy in any other context, but he's just so in love with you.
he sighs and shuts his eyes, snuggling into his pillow once again when he hears you start to whimper. he opens his eyes again, concerned he's woken you up somehow, when he realizes you're still fast asleep.
he dismisses it and goes to close his eyes again when you mumble out a "mmm clark". he's surely awake now. he starts to wonder if you're dreaming about him, almost letting out a little "awww" at the thought. how much more precious could his sweet girl get? that's when he feels you lazily roll your hips against his thigh.
oh.
clark immediately feels his cock begin to harden at the realization of what was going on. he certainly wasn't going back to sleep now.
you whimper again, still completely asleep. he feels his cock twitch, at which he lets out a groan. he tries to quiet himself after, wanting to let you enjoy your dream. you rut your hips against his thigh and moan again, lips parting, eyes still shut in pure bliss. god, he could cum right there.
you continue your ministrations a little more consistently now and clark is just melting. he doesn't know whether to wake you up or just keep watching. torn, he decides to just gently help you along, placing his hands on your hips and guiding you in rocking against him. as he does so, he begins to feel your need soaking warmly through your thin sleep shorts. he shamelessly lets out another groan.
it's not long after this that you start to stir. "clark?" you murmur, your hips slowing just barely as you become conscious. "whaddya doin?" you question, referring to his hands cradling your hips, still moving you back and forth.
"were you havin a dream baby?" he asks, ignoring your question. your eyes widen.
"mhmm," you respond simply, starting to remember. his grip on you tightens slightly.
"yea, i thought so hun," he says, voice deep with lust. "wanna tell me about it?"
you hesitate, half because you're still sleepy and half because you can hardly string together a coherent thought as he continues to move you back and forth on the muscle of his thigh.
" i- mmmh- you were letting me ride you," you stutter, the friction on your clit delicious as his thigh flexes and he pushes you a little harder against him.
"oh yeah? what'd it feel like baby?"
"so fucking good clarkie. you were stretching me out so much- oh god," you start to roll into him on your own accord.
"gosh your so hot," he whispers, growing impossibly harder, his cock now straining against the soft fabric of his flannel pj pants.
"and you were telling me that i was so tight and- ohhh fuck- you were gonna fill me up so good-"
"mmmfh, c'mere," clark moans lowly, moving his hands up to your waist to change your position. you whine at the loss of contact on your clit that is absolutely throbbing at this point, moaning in relief again when he sets you atop his clothed cock.
god he feels so big. you don't wait for instruction, you start to drag your achy clit against him with fervor, both of you moaning out in unison.
"baby im not gonna last if you keep makin those pretty noises," he says, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to hold back.
you whimper again at his words alone. "me either," you breathe out between moans. "just cum with me clark," you state, your orgasm building embarrassingly quick within you.
he pulls you in for a kiss, his tongue immediately slipping past your lips and into your mouth, causing you to moan against him. he allows you to break away as his hands snake up under your tank top and he begins to play with your nipples.
everything becomes too much. you press yourself against him even harder as you continue to bounce. you let out a near incoherent string of please and clark like it's a prayer, eyes rolling back at the increasing pleasure he was giving you.
"yeah, oh my, just like that baby, make a mess on my pants, god you're perfect," he encourages breathily. you cry out at the praise and speed up.
clark bucks up into you one, two, three times, and the coil within you snaps. your moans are borderline pornographic and your toes curl as you ride out your high, release leaking through your shorts and right onto his dick.
you're so caught up in the bliss of your own orgasm, you barely hear his broken whimpers, let alone notice him cumming in his pants.
Loser!Clark Kent jizzing his pants at the simplest of touches.
He can't, for the life of him, understand why a woman as gorgeous and amazing and perfect as you would choose him.
He doesn't get what you see in him, doesn't understand why you like him so much. But he goes along with it, believing you every time you call him cute or hot, melting when you kiss him, losing his mind when you touch him.
Just like now. It was supposed to be a simple date, you in his apartment, drinking coffee and watching TV. Instead, you've ended up on his lap, your pants tossed to the side as you make out with him.
He's losing it. He's truly out of his element. You're out of his league and he doesn't know what to do or how to please a goddess like you.
He's awkward and shy, not sure where to put his hands. They move from your thighs to your hips, then to your waist, then to the sofa, then back on you. He doesn't touch you much, only brushes his fingertips against you. He's afraid he'll mess up, afraid you'll realize how pathetic he is and leave.
You, sensing he's distraught and finding it adorable, take the lead.
“It's okay, baby. Relax,” you whisper in his ear, making him shiver. You can feel his heavy cock hard against you, pressing right against your pussy through the fabric of your panties.
He nods softly, breathing heavily. “Relax. Right. Relax.”
You smile gently, grabbing one of his hands and leading it to your tits. He grunts, his cock twitching, as he feels the weight of your breast in his palm.
“Touch me,” you encourage, grabbing his other hand and leading it to drag down your front and between your thighs. You show him to press his fingers against your clit through the wet fabric of your panties, and he groans when he feels how slick the cotton is.
You grind yourself against his hand, little moans leaving you, and Clark feels like a simple being in the presence of a deity.
Watching you take pleasure from him is too much. He's feeling your breasts with his hand, alternating between them. Meanwhile, your pussy is dribbling slick onto his hand that's between your thighs, and you're moaning and whining and gasping.
As you rock back and forth, your thigh brushes the bulge in his pants and an onslaught of ecstasy crashes over him. Next thing he knows, he's spilling his thick, sticky cum onto the front of his sweats. He gasps and groans, body trembling as he rides out his orgasm.
When he opens his eyes, ashamed and embarrassed, his cheeks a bright pink, he finds you're smirking at him. You move his hand away from between your thighs, sitting right against his crotch, dragging your pussy against him.
“I'm gonna have to lick that clean, aren't I?” you say, and his eyes widen.
“W-what?” His cheeks turn pinker.
You grin at him. “God, you're just adorable, aren't you? C'mon, take your pants off. Next time you cum, I want it to be down my throat.”
Oh, you're going to be the death of him. And what a sweet death it would be.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛
We really needs to talk about how the popularization of fanfiction thanks to Tik Tok has brought into fandoms a kind of "fanfic police" that constantly shames people for reading other things than character x character fanfics. Because why is it suddenly cool to read fanfiction but the moment it’s an x reader or an x oc it automatically becomes cringe?! Let people read x reader or x oc in peace!
it’s not even hard—he’s not even hard—and the damn thing is already blushing at the tip, thick with blood and heavy enough to rest against the dense curve of his thigh.
clark’s got those lazy, dusky veins wrapping around the shaft like vines, one in particular that runs along the underside in a thick, stubborn line that catches the light when he moves. it pulses sometimes, like it’s annoyed. like it knows he’s trying to tame it into latex and propriety.
and the condoms? the xxl ones? they look like balloon animals stretched halfway up, stuck at the swell where he starts to really thicken out. can’t even roll past the middle.
they pinch and they fucking hurt like hell.
he thought it was a brand issue at first, bought three different boxes. tried different positions in the mirror: bent forward, standing up, leg on the toilet like some godforsaken centaur and every time, it’s the same problem.
“built wrong,” he mumbles, cheeks pink, breath fogging the mirror. he won’t meet his own eyes.
but the truth is, he’s not built wrong. he’s built like clark. heavyset and freckled, like every inch of him has been kissed by the sun and decided to keep the evidence. even there, right at the base, he’s got those faint little reddish freckles dusting the skin. it’s the same shade as the soft trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at the root—almost black, thick and coarse, barely trimmed because he’s too embarrassed to do anything else to it.
he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he can bench-press a tractor but can’t figure out how to be small enough to fit.
he keeps the box in the drawer like it’s a shameful secret. unopened now, just there like it’s mocking him into a reminder of how big he is.
he’s not sure if he’s supposed to apologize for it or warn someone or just… hide.
but maybe one day—maybe—someone will kiss that apologetic look right off his mouth and tell him he’s not too anything. he’s just clark. and he fits them just fine.
he lets you win arm wrestling matches all the time. he fakes strain so convincingly you actually think you’ve got him—until one day, mid-match, you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at his lips.
“wait a damn minute—”
“what?” he laughs, acting innocent.
you slap his shoulder. “you’re faking?”
“wouldn’t dream of it,” he teases, letting you pin his hand again. “you’re just… strong.”
you’re always checking on him after missions, especially after he saves a city, lands a plane, or tanks an explosion. you’ll cup his face and search his eyes, even when there’s no scratch on him.
“i’m okay,” he’ll whisper every time. “you don’t have to worry.”
“i do worry, clark. you live a dangerous life.”
and he’ll just smile softly, brushing a hand over your cheek. “i’ll always make it back home to you.”
he thinks about proposing constantly. every time you fall asleep on his chest, every time you wake him up with a kiss, every time you run your hands through his curls and call him “baby” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
but he’s scared—terrified—that bringing you deeper into his life could put you in danger.
he keeps little mementos of you everywhere—a photo of you at the planet, in his wallet, a pair of your earrings in the glove compartment of his truck, your favorite lotion tucked into his overnight bag. and he always smells like you after a night together—warm, soft, familiar.
and in the bedroom, he holds back—until you tell him not to.
there’s a night where you’re straddling him, mouth at his neck, and you say, “you don’t have to be gentle with me, you know.”
and something in him snaps—in the best way.
his hands clamp tight on your thighs, his voice gets low, and he flips you under him so fast the headboard groans.
“say that again,” he breathes, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.
synopsis: clark loses control and accidentally breaks the headboard during sex, but you stay on top—literally. i just love sub clark omg.
you had him under you again — where he belonged.
his big body sprawled across your bed, muscles loose, mouth parted, already breathless like you hadn’t even really started. the man could bench buildings, but you so much as breathed heavy against his throat and he was whining.
the best part? he loved it.
“hands where i can see them,” you murmured, running your palms slowly down his chest. “and don’t get cute.”
clark smirked. “yes, ma’am.”
he obeyed, resting his wrists by his head, fingers fisting the pillow. you knew he could lift you with one pinky, but he was always so careful. always so still when you told him to be. and tonight? he looked wrecked already — cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, thighs trembling under your knees.
you rolled your hips against him slowly, just to tease.
his breath caught. “fuck—”
“mm. already?” you smiled, dragging your nails gently down his stomach. “and here i thought superman had stamina.”
“i do,” he said, voice tight. “just… not when it’s you.”
you bit your lip, amused. “don’t fall apart too fast, baby. we’re not even close to done.”
he whimpered, actual whimpered, when you sank down on him fully. your head tipped back, breath catching in your throat, because no matter how many times you did this, it never stopped being good — the stretch, the burn, the weight of him inside you. every inch made to fill you up just right.
you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, and started riding him slow. deliberate. taking your time.
he was falling apart already — eyes half-lidded, lips slack, those strong hands clutching the pillow like it was his only lifeline.
“you look pretty like this,” you said, breath brushing over his jaw. “all big and helpless. you like it when i make the rules?”
his hips bucked a little before he caught himself. “yes,” he whispered. “you feel so good. can’t think.”
you tilted your head, riding him deeper, harder now. “don’t think baby.”
he moaned — loud and desperate.
and then—
CRACK.
everything stopped.
you blinked. slowly looked over your shoulder.
a chunk of the headboard had snapped clean off — splinters in the wall, cracks down the frame. it looked like someone had driven a sledgehammer through the top panel.
you turned back to clark, who was staring up at you like a kicked puppy.
“…clark.”
"i got excited," he mumbled.
"you broke the damn bed."
he winced. "i can fix it?"
you arched an eyebrow. "with what, laser vision?"
“i didn’t even notice i was holding on that tight…”
you sat back on his thighs, crossed your arms, and stared at the busted headboard.
“…that’s the third bed this year.”
“i can buy you another one—”
“you’re damn right you can.”
you leaned back over him, hands pressed to either side of his head, and kissed him hard — all tongue, heat, and a low warning hum in your throat. when you pulled back, his lips were red and kiss-swollen, eyes dazed.
you smirked, then leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.
"and if you ever break a headboard again, the only thing you'll be allowed to hold onto next time is your damn knees."
he choked on air. "wait, what—?"
but you were already rolling your hips again, slow and steady, like nothing had happened. except this time, you pressed your palm to his chest and pinned him there.
he obeyed without hesitation — arms back, fists gripping the pillow like his life depended on it.
and this time, you rode him slow, cruel, intentional — listening to every gasp and tremble, watching his knuckles turn white. the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, your name under his breath like prayer, and the slow creak of the half-broken bed beneath you.
You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.
And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.
He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”
“It’s bl– bleeding.”
“I know.”
You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.
You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”
You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.
The photos of him online don’t do him justice.
“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”
“You– you’re real help.”
He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”
You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”
His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.
“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”
“You are?”
“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”
“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”
“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.
You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”
“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”
His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.
“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”
Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.
“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”
“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”
Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.
—
A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.
“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”
“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”
“It’s still a wound.”
“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”
Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.
“It looked awful, it still does.”
“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”
“Very unfortunate.”
You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”
“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”
“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”
He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”
“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”
“Please?”
He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.
You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.
“I’m sick of working already,” you say.
“Then let’s go home.”
“Clark. I’m being conversational.”
“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.
“Have you been working out?”
“Can you stop?”
“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”
Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.
—
You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.
The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.
The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“You were?” you ask.
“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”
His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”
You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”
“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.
“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.
His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.
“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.
“You seem a little flustered, is all.”
“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”
“You’ve never met a metahuman?”
“No, never.”
“We’re just like everybody else.”
You laugh.
“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”
You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.
“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.
“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”
“Why is he looking for his father?”
“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”
“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”
“You can borrow my copy.”
Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”
“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”
He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.
Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.
“Sure. Well, take your time.”
—
How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?
You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.
You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.
You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.
“Hey.”
You lift your head.
Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s really not.”
“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”
“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.
Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.
“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.
“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.
You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.
“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”
“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”
Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”
“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”
“You do?”
You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.
“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.
His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”
“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”
“I’m sorry–”
“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”
Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”
You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”
“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”
“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”
“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”
“Well, she’s a girl.”
“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”
He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.
“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”
Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.
“Not that cold,” you murmur.
“I never realised you were such a liar.”
“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”
He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”
—
“So, this book–”
You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.
Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.
“Fuck,” you complain.
“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”
“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.
“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”
“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”
“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”
“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”
“You cook.”
You blink. “You googled me?”
“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”
“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”
“Is that true?”
You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.
Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.
Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.
“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.
“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”
Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.
“Where are we–”
The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.
The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.
There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—
“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.
“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”
“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”
“You aren’t heavy.”
You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”
“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”
“I don’t remember much of it.”
“That’s okay. I do.”
You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.
“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”
You glance up to find him still staring at you.
The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.
“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.
“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.
“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”
Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”
“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”
“You’re not making this any easier for me.”
You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.
“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.
Superman presses his nose to your cheek.
“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.
He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.
“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.
—
A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.
He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.
“What’s wrong with the AC?”
“It’s leaking.”
“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.
“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.
He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”
“I can be funny.”
“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”
“Now it’s not natural, though.”
“Please?”
“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”
He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.
There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.
You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.
“Adorable.”
You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.
“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”
And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.
Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”
“I’m not that cold.”
“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”
“I don’t act like that.”
“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”
You lean on him.
Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.
And you think, I know you.
But you don’t know why.
—
Clark can't believe this is happening again.
He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.
And lately.
Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.
Or that’s what he’d like to think.
Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.
He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.
Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.
It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.
The light goes out.
It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.
He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.
It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.
Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.
—
What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.
The dark makes it hard to breathe.
You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.
You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?
You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs
You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?
You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?
He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.
And Clark Kent is out there all alone.
You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.
He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.
—
Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.
He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.
He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.
“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.
His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.
“Ow!”
Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.
“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”
Krypto nibbles his shoulder.
Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.
He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.
“Krypto, stay.”
Krypto tilts his white blurry head.
“You’re not helping.”
Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.
Krypto stays down, for now.
Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.
“Clark?”
He stops dead in the sky.
“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”
He says your name.
“Clark? I’m here!”
Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.
He has to keep you safe.
—
You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.
—
There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.
What did it say? you’d asked.
To be good.
You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.
Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.
Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.
You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.
After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.
“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”
“Uh–”
Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”
You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.
“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”
“No,” you breathe.
“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”
“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.
It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.
Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”
You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.
Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.
“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.
“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.
You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.
“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.
He doesn’t rush you.
You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.
“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.
“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.
“But you know it all.”
“I know you,” he agrees.
“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”
“Do you even remember?” he asks.
Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.
In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But–”
“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”
“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.
“Yeah, I am.”
Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.
“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”
“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.
“I was awake for breakfast?”
“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”
You flush. “I’m fine.”
Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.
“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”
“I don’t feel very hungry.”
“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”
You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.
“Oh.”
The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.
“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.
“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”
You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”
“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”
“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”
He laughs wetly.
“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”
Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.
“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”
“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.
“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”
His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.
Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.
“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.
“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.
You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”
He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.
“You’re due some hazing.”
“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”
He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
Only a little.
—
Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.
And Superman?
He’d been courting you.
The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.
“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.
“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”
“Sorry?”
“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”
You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”
“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.
“It was really going to be a kiss?”
He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”
“You know I do.”
“So kiss me.”
He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.
“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.
He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.
There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.
Clark has repaid you in kind.
Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?
How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.
I want you to know.
Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.
Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.
You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.
Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.
“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”
You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”
“The Ocean? You never finished it.”
“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”
Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!
Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.
This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink here
Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, he’s sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)
Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees 🙂↕️ currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing it🫶🏼
Masterlist
It started as a joke, really.
You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?
Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and he’d still act like it’s the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.
So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You weren’t sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at it’s window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.
There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic ‘S’ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.
“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.
Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.
You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.
If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.
And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.
Because he ended up loving it.
Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.
“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.
Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.
Because his girl got it for him.
In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.
And Clark? he adores it.
He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.
You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.
You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.
But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.
When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.
It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.
And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.
“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.
“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”
And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.
Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.
And this is only your second round.
“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.
“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.
So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.
He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.
And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.
He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.
He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.
It’s driving you crazy.
“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”
He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.
“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”
“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.
You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.
Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.
Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.
So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.
“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”
You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.
“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.
Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.
Especially after the whole necklace moment.
“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”
He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.
But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.
Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.
But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.
“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“
“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”
He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”
You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.
And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.
He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.
“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”
Neither are you. You never do with him.
You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.
“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.
He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.
He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.
Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.
He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.
Superman needs to catch his breath.
You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.
“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.
You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.
Because it’s usually the other way around.
“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”
He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.
“You put it in your mouth.”
“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.
“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”
“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.
He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”
You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.
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