Ana Carolina

Hey everyone, my name is Ana Carolina, I'm Brazilian, and in this blog, I'll be sharing my ideas and personal life lol. I plan to write a lot here, and I hope you all enjoy it! I also want to say that English isn't my strong suit, so if I post something in English here, know that I translated it using Google hahaha (but I'm studying English and other languages).

[scenerthv]

How do I contact James Gunn to ask him to add a scene of Clark surrounded by a bunch of kittens

[harveystan]

HEARTBEAT

Pairing Clark Kent x Reader

Word Count 6.9 k

Note I love Clark Kent so much and I still have no idea why I only have one fic about him here, that's gonna change from now. Anyways, I am sorry if this is a tiny bit angsty but I swear there's fluff and smut and you're gonna be nauseous because these two love each other way too much. Like a lot.

Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.

One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.

The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.

He'd made Clark watch you die.

Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.

The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.

The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.

He needed to see you.

The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.

But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.

So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.

The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.

His knees nearly buckled.

He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.

Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.

“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”

He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.

The contact nearly undid him.

You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.

“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”

Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.

“Clark,” you whispered.

“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”

The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.

She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—

“Clark.”

Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.

“Clark, look at me.”

He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—

Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.

“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”

He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.

“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”

He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.

“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”

This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.

“Good. So good. Now out...”

He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.

“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”

She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.

“...and out.”

Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.

“In...”

It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.

“...and out.”

She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.

“In...”

She's alive.

“...and out.”

She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.

Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.

“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.

“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.

Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.

“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”

He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.

“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”

Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.

“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”

You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.

“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”

“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”

“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”

You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.

“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.

“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”

Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.

You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.

"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”

Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”

“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”

“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”

Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”

“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.

You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.

When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.

You kissed him again.

But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”

He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.

“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.

He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.

“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”

His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”

“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”

A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”

“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”

And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.

“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.

You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.

“Stand up,” you said softly.

He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.

“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”

He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.

“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.

You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.

“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”

“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.

“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”

He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.

The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.

You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.

“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”

He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”

“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”

He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.

“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”

Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”

He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.

“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”

He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.

“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”

He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”

He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.

“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”

He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.

And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.

He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“Clark—”

“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.

You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.

“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”

You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.

“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”

He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.

“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”

“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”

He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.

“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”

“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”

He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.

“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”

“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”

He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.

“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”

“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”

He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”

“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”

Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”

You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.

Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”

“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”

You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.

“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.

“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.

He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.

[carolinacry2099]

OTHE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING THAT I READ TODAY 😭😭😭😭

[peppepoei]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[carolinacry2099]

One thing that's almost impossible to find in this app. It seems to contain only erotic content. (I'm not complaining, as I also consume that type of content), but erotic content in excess It's tiring.

I JUST WANT TO CRY A LITTLE DURING THE NIGHT 😭😭😭

[justanonymouswriter]

Interview

⊹₊⟡⋆ Clark Kent x fem black!reader ⊹₊⟡⋆

⊹₊⟡⋆ This is a continuation of Where is Superman?

⊹₊⟡⋆ word count: 703

⊹₊⟡⋆ Summary: You're a photojournalist at Daily's Planet, and you've been trying to catch Superman for a year. But, who winds up with an interview with him every time? Clark Kent. You've decided enough is enough, and you're going to get your photo and interview no matter what.

⊹₊⟡⋆ a/n: Look at me with the double upload. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy! I do not consent for my content to be published on other platforms and such by others. Also, please don't claim my work as your own! <3

“You were rescued by Superman?! Oh my gosh are you okay?” Lois asks over the phone. You two are on face time deciding on an outfit for your interview tonight. “I’m perfectly fine, it was nerve-wrecking at first, but because of superman, I’m still alive. Maybe I should wear something a bit scandalous to show my appreciation”. Lois giggles, as you rummage through your closet. “This is cute, right?” You show her the two-piece set. “Perfect! Wear that”. After setting up to get ready, you two say goodbye. You begin your nighttime regimen, spraying perfume on yourself to finish. By eight-thirty, you prepare tea for yourself, and research Superman’s favorite beverage.  

You hear a soft knock at your fire escape window. You open it, and the broad man climbs into your home. “Hi” you say softly, taking in this 6’4 man with muscles of steel. “Hello” his deep voice is like music to your ears. “Please...have a seat” you gesture towards the dining table. You grab a soda from the fridge, “I heard it’s your favorite”. You place the can on a coaster. “That would be correct”. You smile, taking in the small victory. You place your beverage on a coaster in front of his. “I’m glad you agreed to do this interview”, You say. “Of course, I’ve seen your work. It’s quite remarkable”.  

“Thank you...I’m so touched,” you try to stay professional, but he looks so good. “Would you like to begin the interview?”. Your thumb clicks the pen, and you open your notebook. “I’d love to”. You press play on the tape recorder. Your gaze falls on him, admiring the view. “So, many women find you quite attractive”, he chuckles at the compliment.  

“Would you mind telling me how tall you are?”.  

“6’4” 

“How big are you?” 

He looks at you, flattered by the question. Your eyes widen at how the sentence sounds. “I mean how much do you weigh...”. You cover your face, completely embarrassed. “225”. 

“225...” you mutter; your eyes flick back to him. “I apologize for how my previous sentence sounded; I did not mean it in that manner”. “No... you’re fine”. He looks at you, “you’re fine” he repeats. The grip on your pen tightens, you can’t help but feel warm under his gaze. You continue the interview, asking him about why he’s a hero, and does the responsibility ever become too much to bear. You can’t ignore the looks he gives you; the tension is thick. Your finger presses the pause button, “Superman...I feel a bit of tension”. You bat your lashes at him, waiting for him to kindly reject you.  

“Well...you would be correct” he stares at you. You toss the notebook and pen onto your couch. Superman moves the table aside, giving you room to get closer. He doesn’t give you the chance, because his hands are already on you, picking you up. You wrap your legs around his waist, “I’m not one to do this” you whisper. “I believe you, because neither am I” he pants, leaning in for another kiss. His lips against yours feel amazing, his grip on your body tightens, it’s suffocating, but hypnotizing at the same time. “You’re so beautiful” he mutters against your neck. You pull his head from your neck, kissing him again. His eyes search for your bedroom to see the door slightly open. He carries you to the room, gently placing you on the bed. When he hovers over you, you wrap your legs around his waist putting your self defense class nights with Louis to work.

You giggle at his surprised expression, when he realizes you're now on top of him. He looks at your face, hands resting on your waist. “We can’t do this” he whispers, your heart drops. “Did I do something wrong?” you question. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to you, gosh no. He’s been attracted to you, since your first day at Daily Planet. With something this intimate, he wanted it to be with him as Clark Kent, not Superman. “No...no, you’re perfect. I just can’t, I’m sorry”. He gets up from the bed and leaves the same way he entered. Leaving you sitting on the bed in confusion.  

⊹₊⟡⋆ taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

@1dhoe93

@ynniksslirg

@avidreader73

@agape-for-more

[carolinacry2099]

Girl, that's exactly what I was asking for. Now I can rest in a little peace.

[kryptidfiles]

going insane imagining Clark stoming through the debris, pissed off, battle-ready, ready to kick Lex's ass. Oh Big Blue, I love when you're rough and rowdy

[marvel-hiddles-stark]

The Godforsaken Oxford.

summary: clark looks sinfully good in his work attire, and you're far too feral for your own well-being.

tags & cw: 18+ MINORS SEE YA, fem afab reader, established relationship (married), the sloppiest of sloppy toppy, deepthroating, slight power exchange, clark whimpering because....well yes, grinding, m and f orgasm

wc: 5.6k of PURE CLARK WORSHIP (you're welcome)

a/n: CLARK UPDATE IS HERE!! it should go without saying that I am a SLUT for men with tucked in shirts, especially when they look like clark fucking kent. y'all seriously can't grasp how fucking feral that look makes me...well, actually, this one shot was born from that horniness so maybe you can, but I digress. anyway, I hope you guys, uh, get as much out of reading this as I did writing it! ☺️

want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!

The evening had started innocently enough. 

Clark had gotten off early from the Planet, beating you home and surprising you with a clean apartment and dinner on the stove by the time you walked through the door. He greeted you as he always did, a kiss pressed to your lips, soft smile warm and welcoming as it moved against your mouth. Your eyes were glued to him instantly, like a moth to flame, as he helped you out of your jacket and pressed another sweet kiss to your temple. 

While Clark was oblivious to the way your stare followed him around the kitchen, you could think of nothing but the size of his shirt—2XL, fuck—as it stretched across his chest. 

Because he was still wearing it. The shirt. The godforsaken Oxford. 

Surely there was some sort of scientific, biochemical explanation as to why your nervous system went haywire whenever Clark was in this getup (which he commonly was, it was his work attire for god’s sake)—white Oxford, black slacks with matching cap toes. Cuffs undone, rolled to reveal tantalizing wrists and forearms. Shirt tucked in, because for some unknown reason it was inexplicably more attractive than the unkempt, casual veneer that the untucked look gave off. 

His behavior certainly didn’t help, either.   

Seeing your husband in his element—his domestic element, that was—did irreparable damage to your insides. You were content to watch him putz in the kitchen, head resting in your chin as he talked to you about his day. Tonight it was something about Jimmy’s failed date last weekend…you think. You aren’t really paying attention. The sinful way his Oxford looks tucked into his work slacks has your undivided attention. 

God, those thighs. They’re so massive it’s practically a sin—you want to suffocate between them. His broad shoulders and chest need their own zipcode. And something about his hair after a long shift at work…he didn’t have Superman duties tonight, but his curls are wind-mussed from his stroll home. You adore his glasses, but without them he just looks so…sophisticated. Mature. Good enough to eat. 

The thought has you absently gnawing on your lower lip like some kind of sex-crazed fiend. 

“—and I told him that’s a bit of a stretch, but what do you think?” 

I can think of something else you can stretch. 

“Honey?” 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

He’s turned over his shoulder to look at you, stirring the pot of soup on the stove. Totally oblivious to the way you were blatantly ogling his ass. 

“Jimmy’s date, Stephanie? That she’s probably an ‘astrology’ witch, not an actual, like, ‘casting spells’ witch?” 

“Oh, uh,” you struggled to recall what he’d been talking about. “Yeah, no. I agree. That’s a bit of a…stretch.” 

Blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?” 

You were quick to deny it. “No, no. I was listening.” 

His mildly amused expression said he didn’t believe you. You watched as his eyes dropped to the poorly concealed grin on your face; you were still chewing on your lip, and there was no mistaking your intent as your gaze moved painstakingly slowly down his body.

Clark took a deep breath. 

And turned back to the stove. 

Hm. So he was playing coy tonight, then. 

“So…your day was good?” 

God, his back was truly glorious. You wanted to drag your nails down his shoulder blades as he fucked you into the mattress. Listen to the headboard shake. Grip the downy curls at the nape of his neck as he sucked bruises into your skin. 

“I mean…I’ll, uh, I’ll take the silence as a yes?” 

How sweet—his voice trembled a bit as he stirred the pot on the stove. Were you making him nervous? Yes, yes you were, you realized with a triumphant grin. You kept quiet, but the silence was deafening. 

“You know, Lois was telling me about this cool new art exhibit that’s opening downtown—” the chair scraped across the hardwood as you stood up, “—and she thought you’d like it, since the paintings focus more on realism as it was portrayed in the Renaissance—” 

Standing behind him, your forehead could rest just between his shoulder blades—Clark was massive. You looped your arms around his waist, hands finding the two front pockets of his dress pants and sliding into them casually. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you felt his acknowledgment of your presence in the way his spine straightened. 

“—so I was thinking we could stop by, maybe next weekend? I know my folks wanted to come visit soon—”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“—but it would be a great little outing! Maybe Ma and Pa would want to go with us?”

You kissed the back of his neck. “Clark.” 

“You think they would like it, right? I mean, maybe not Pa, you know how he gets with pretentious people. Not that all artists are pretentious! Just some of the more modern—” 

“Clark.” 

“Yeah?” 

You stood on your tiptoes to nip playfully at his earlobe. “Turn around.” 

He obeyed immediately, looking down at you with wide eyes that were anything but innocent. Oh, he absolutely knew what your intentions were. It was unfair—how perfect your Clark was. So beautiful, so big, so tempting that you couldn’t and didn’t want to hold back any longer. 

So you didn’t. 

The kiss was filthy. Apparently, way filthier than Clark had been expecting, as he let out an adorable squeak of surprise when your tongue immediately sought out his own. His large hands braced on your hips, squeezing tightly as yours slid up his chest before settling on the collar of his shirt. You allowed a moment of silent mourning for the absence of his tie—you loved to drag him around by it, yank him down to your mouth. 

But god, the feel of his strong hands—hands you knew could effortlessly lift you onto the counter—made you voracious with need. 

You broke away from his lips, leaving him breathless (despite knowing that, realistically, he didn’t need the air, which somehow turned you on even more). Your lips and teeth painted a path across his strong jaw, down the sides of his neck, up behind his ear. Clark melted under your touch, shifting you two slightly over so he could lean back against the countertop rather than the stove. His breath caught when you bit down particularly hard beneath his jaw, desperate to leave a mark that would only last for mere minutes. 

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he breathed, hands still gripping your hips as you damn-near attempted to mount him against the kitchen counter. 

You pulled back, hands cradling his jaw as you met his eyes, pleased to find them equally as feral as you knew yours looked. “Kiss me,” you said desperately, not giving him time to answer as you smashed your mouths together again. 

“I’m…trying…to…hmph!” 

He hadn’t been expecting your wandering hands, one of which was presently cupping him through the cotton of his slacks. 

“I want to suck you off,” you stated, breathy and bold.

Clark, as you expected he might, made a desperate, whimper-like sound that rumbled from the back of his throat. It almost sounded pained, but you knew him better than that. 

“Oh, gosh. You do?” were the half-surprised words that eventually stumbled out. 

You almost laughed, barely concealing it behind a grin that you were certain he felt against his lips. You slid your hand lower, squeezing around his balls as you licked back into his mouth. This time he broke the kiss, head thunking against the cabinets as a tremor ran through his body, hips jerking against his will. 

“Yes, Clark. I want it so bad.” You let your voice drop into a whisper against his neck as you squeezed him again, “I can feel how badly you need em’ emptied.” 

“I—Geez Louise, okay.” 

That one made you laugh, a teasing chuckle that you cut off by drawing him back down to your lips. Seeing him this caught off guard was giving you a strange power-trip; your husband was no blushing virgin, but he definitely wasn’t used to you being so vulgar with dirty talk. Usually, surprisingly, it was the other way around—Clark could get you flustered so easily, especially when that deep voice of his was in your ear whispering praises and showering you with affection. And if he used his Superman voice? You were a goner. 

It seemed that tonight, however, you had turned the tables. 

“Let me help you, baby,” you murmur, rubbing all over the hard length of him. “I can feel how much you need it. It’s making me so wet just thinking about it.” 

His protest is weak at best. “Th-the soup…it’s…gonna burn…” 

“Put it on simmer.” 

You gave him no more time to argue, knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. You could tell as much based on Clark’s soft, rushed “baby, careful,” but you were too busy salivating thinking about getting his cock in your mouth to care. 

His dress shirt was ripped from his pants, and the sight of his lower belly heaving under your attention was almost enough to make you actually start drooling. 

Fuck, you could lick along his happy trail. No, wait, you could, so you did; messily licking and kissing and practically making out with that gorgeous Adonis belt of his, descending lower till you reached the line of his slacks. 

Not expecting the heat of your tongue, Clark gasped above you. He was beautifully flushed, eyes saucer-wide and lust-blown. His hands hovered innocently above your shoulders, adorably unsure of where you wanted them as he let you take the lead. 

“Golly, honey, what’s gotten into you?” 

“This damn shirt, that’s what,” you panted, raking your eyes up his body before locking on his face. It was an effort to force yourself to slow down, wanting to take your time with him despite your ravenous desire to touch touch touch. 

Clark looked somewhat mesmerized. “I w-wear these all the time—”

“Exactly.”

He had already tented his slacks, something that your eager cunt was quick to notice as it fluttered between your legs; you forced yourself to stay focused, sliding the black leather of his belt through his pantloops torturously slow. 

“Hmm. This the Armani one I got you for Christmas?” you grinned slyly at him. 

Clark nodded dumbly. Your eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed in his throat. “Mm…mhm.”

The belt thwipped free and instantly your mouth re-attached to his waistline. 

“Open your shirt for me, baby,” you requested breathily. He immediately did as you asked, breath already coming in pants as you watched his fingers tremble to undo the buttons. 

Holy shit. He looked too good, Oxford hanging open, glasses tucked into the breast pocket, hair a mess, eyes glazed over. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked tipsy at the sight of you.

You continued nipping along his scalding skin as your fingers hooked beneath the waistband of his slacks. You pulled them down so slow that they caught on the ridge of his cock, making his breath hitch before you tugged them just low enough to give you access.

He was desperate and swollen beneath his black boxer briefs, and honestly if you weren’t so turned on the sight might even be a little comical. But alas, you were fairly certain you were soaking through your own underwear, head empty save for thoughts of your husband and his perfect body and his sweet voice and the reverential look in his eyes. 

Clark’s hands finally leapt to cradle your head when you leaned forward to nuzzle his clothed erection like you were in heat, mouthing along the fabric and feeling him twitch between the thin barrier of his boxers. Your hands moved to cup his heavy balls again, squeezing gently and earning you the first groan of the evening. 

He shifted his weight, hips twitching with thinly-veiled restraint, and it sounded like his brain was short-circuiting. “I– you– hon, you…you don’t have to—” 

You pulled back far enough to send him a quirked brow. “You want me to stop?” 

Bless his soul, Clark hesitated for a millisecond, piercing blue eyes glued to your face, breathing hard; as if he was really considering it. Then, slowly, he shook his head. 

No. 

Your grin was wicked. “Didn’t think so.” 

“But only if you really wan—” 

“Clark Joseph Kent,” you cut him off. “I don’t want anything coming from those pretty lips except my name and the sounds of you feeling good. Got it?”  

His head knocked against the cabinets again, eyelids fluttering. “Golly…yes ma’am.” 

That shot between your legs faster than a lightning bolt. You sighed in satisfaction as you resumed your exploratory touches, fondling him over his boxers as he fought and failed to keep his breathing level. 

You eventually pulled the elastic of his boxers halfway down his stupidly hard cock, exposing little more than the flushed-red tip. Mischief on your mind, you placed chaste little kisses along his sensitive frenulum, relishing in the way his breathing stuttered. 

“H-honey,” he rasped. 

You looked up at him with eyes of pure sin. “Hm?” 

His voice broke around a whine, “please don’t tease.” 

Arousal burned between your thighs, in your blood, in your ears. 

It was tremendously rare that Clark let you go down on him—he was a giver at heart, both inside the bedroom and out of it. You’d lost count of how many times he’d come, totally untouched, humping the bed like a dog as he made you come over and over on his tongue or fingers. 

It was all incredibly flattering, but what truly did it for you was knowing that he liked getting head; loved it in fact, but was entirely willing to shove aside his own pleasure for the sake of yours. 

But, much like your adoring husband, sometimes the lines of your respective pleasure intersected; sometimes sucking him off was what you craved, and it was more than enough to satisfy you. No matter how many times he argued that “no, honey; it’s different—it’s easier for me to get there than you,” you aggressively denied it in a vehement desperation to make him feel even half as good as he made you feel. 

Which was why you cherished every opportunity to get your mouth on him, and also the reason you didn’t tease him half as long as you probably should’ve as punishment for making you wait to do this again. 

His fingers twitched atop your head when you finally dragged his boxers down, freeing his massive cock that flinched against his abdomen. You wrapped a fist around him, offering a few firm strokes as you sought out his eyes. 

“You have such a beautiful cock, Clark.” He trembled. “It’s so pretty, and so, so hard for me.” 

“Gosh, sweetheart. S’all yours,” he said, voice breathy and uneven. “Please, just—” 

“Just what?” 

“Just…touch me.” 

You tightened your fist on the next upstroke. “I am touching you.” 

Oh, how you loved to watch him squirm. “You…you know what I mean—” 

“I’m not sure that I do.” 

You watched the look on his face when he realized you were going to make him beg for exactly what he wanted. 

Clark wasn’t one for profanities, but he sure made your name sound like a curse as he shifted above you, frantic and needy. “Please, I- just…don’t keep teasing me like that—” 

You only hummed, letting spit dribble from your mouth onto his leaking slit to loosen the glide of your hand over his dick, which was actively throbbing in your hand. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” 

His eyes rolled when you suckled gently on his tip. “B-baby…don’t make me beg you to—”

“Say it, Clark. Just tell me.” Your free hand returning to fondle his balls is what finally did it. 

“Your mouth!” he blurted at last. “Pleasepleaseplease. Just put your mouth on me. N-need it so bad—” 

“Okay. Was that so hard?” 

You were true to your word, swallowing as much of him as was humanly possible in one go, a move Clark clearly had not anticipated given the groan that bellowed from his chest and the way his fingers curled in your hair. When you looked up at him, he was slack-jawed and breathing like he’d run a marathon, chest heaving beneath his open shirt. 

Much like the rest of him, Clark’s cock was huge—not, like, disproportionately huge, but enough that it was a struggle to take him even on your best days. Clark knew this—hell, he’d spent years married to you and had long since learned how to prepare you for him—but it was a struggle no less to take him as far down your throat as you wanted to.

But given the heavy manner in which he was already breathing, you were determined to deepthroat him tonight, even if only for a few seconds.

You inhaled, forcing yourself to suppress the gag in your throat as you did your best to take him as far as your body would allow. 

“Baby,” Clark was whining sharply, “oh gosh, baby. That…thatfeelssogood b-but please be careful—”

As if on cue, your throat unwillingly constricted around him as you gagged, effectively cutting Clark off with his own groan. You could sense the concern in him without even needing to see it on his face; in an attempt to distract him you suctioned your mouth, dragging his cock out halfway to lave your tongue along its sensitive underside, tracing the pulsing vein that wrapped around his shaft. 

It worked like a treat as his hips jerked, lower pelvic muscles twitching directly in your line of sight as he shuddered. 

He was so fucking perfect you could hardly believe he was real, that he was your husband who loved you and came home to you every night and cooked you dinner and helped with the laundry and wanted to take you to art museums because he knew you loved them.  

“You’re so pretty,” he breathed down at you, incapable of not praising you when you were treating him like this. The praise washed over you, and if your underwear wasn’t soaked before it sure as hell was now. “Gosh, honey. D-don’t know what I did to deserve this, but…” 

You pulled off of him to catch your breath, but kept your hand pumping him lazily. “Just being you,” you breathed. “It’s just you, Clark.”

For some reason this seemed to affect him more than you thought it would, his eyes swelling with a sudden surge of affection that one might not normally expect when giving a blowjob. 

But your Clark was a teddy bear at heart, his innermost parts soft and gooey and sweet like melted chocolate. Even in the midst of lust he didn’t know how to turn that part of himself off, and you never wanted him to. 

You let your saliva drip down onto the wet length of him, holding his gaze and watching it re-glaze with unbidden desire. His eyes fluttered when you squeezed just beneath the tip, letting your tongue do the rest of the work as it circled his frenulum. 

“Yesss sweetheart,” he hissed, breath stuttering. “That’s…oh, honey. That’s so good. Gosh, you’re so perfect.” 

His praise forced a low whine from the back of your throat, the sound vibrating over his length and making him shudder. He relaxed his hold on your hair, running his fingers through it in a gesture so frighteningly tender that you momentarily forgot you were actively sucking him off. 

“Mmm…I know you like it when I talk to you like that. It’s all true, you know. You’re so perfect for me.” 

Feeling encouraged and oddly heartwarmed, you slowly built the tempo back up, taking him down halfway and jerking off whatever didn’t fit with your fist. You got unapologetically messy with it, knowing the vulgarity of your actions would spark something feral in Clark because, yes, he is still a man, and the sight of his wife slobbering all over his dick with absolutely zero shame was definitely emptying his brain. 

If you were honest, it was surprising both of you how obscene you were being; but if the wetness between your thighs and the state of his cock were anything to go by, there were certainly no objections. 

One hand continued to grope his balls, swollen with need and begging for attention that made Clark whine deliciously when you massaged them. Your other hand finally moved to grip the wrist of the fist that was still ensnared in your hair, tugging on it so as to encourage him to guide your movements. 

Clark took your wordless command in stride, leaving you to wonder when exactly the power dynamic had shifted, and also why you were completely content to let it happen. 

Actually, you knew the answer to that. 

Clark’s dominance had always been gentle; far sweeter than what you might’ve expected from the Man of Steel. He was so good to you that you were almost always willing—perhaps even subconsciously—to hand over the reins during sex. Even though this encounter had started with you in charge, it became obvious as his hand fisted gently in your hair, guiding your movements over his throbbing dick, that things had changed, even if he was content to let you believe otherwise. 

Thankfully though, he didn’t stop whimpering for you, which you were eternally grateful for. 

“S-so pretty. You’re so beautiful. Mmm. Takin’ me like this, makin’ me feel so good.”

On the next forward motion, you slid as deep as you could, attempting to deepthroat him yet again and this time succeeding. Your nails on his thigh were enough to reassure him of your comfort, so Clark held you there, his grip firm as he panted down at you. 

“Gosh, honey. Look at you.” 

You retracted for air, messily tonguing around his sensitive tip. “Use me,” you demanded, voice just this side of raw from the intrusion of his cock. “Please, Clark, please.” 

“Honey,” there was worry in his tone, but also underlying need. His cock throbbed in your hands. “Are you…are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t, I promise,” you soothed, peppering kisses up and down those massive thighs of his. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.” 

“I know, but…” he trailed off, brows furrowed, hesitation tight across his face. 

“Clark,” you said sternly. “I’m asking you to. Please?”

His breathless nod was all the answer you received before his fingers tightened in your hair. That alone was enough to have you moaning in preemptive bliss, letting your jaw go slack, tongue lolling out of your mouth. Clark teased your lips with his head, tapping it gently against your tongue as you shifted your weight around on your knees. Your poor pussy was desperate for attention, your entire body wrought with energy like a live wire. 

When he finally pushed his cock into your mouth, it was with a low groan that sent what you would equate to an electrical current between your legs. Staying true to his word and your demand, Clark readily took control, moving your head back and forth, back and forth, nice and slow at first. But his need eventually won out, as it so often did with you, and soon thereafter he was panting as he guided your hot mouth over his cock, hips building a rhythm that matched the bobbing of your head. 

“O-oh, honey. That’s- mm. So fu–” he broke off on a low moan when you hollowed your cheeks on the next stroke. “Yes baby, suck it like that. Gosh, y-you’re so pretty and perfect like this f’me…” 

Your hands stroked up and down his powerful thighs, squeezing every so often just as a way to stimulate other parts of his body. Clark regarded you with an admiration only he was capable of, even with his cock shoved halfway down your throat. 

“My beautiful wife. You love worshipping this cock, don’t you sweetheart?” 

The unexpected filth of his words draws a moan from your chest. Clark hums, obviously satisfied at the sensation it provided around his dick. And then he fucking grins, something just shy of smug as he listens to your little mewls. 

“Mhm. Yeah, I know you do, hon. Got yourself all worked up for me, desperate to use that pretty mouth.” 

Clark’s pace began to pick up, his hips getting sharper in their movement as you made a conscious effort to keep your throat loose. Saliva was dripping down your chin, escaping from the sides of your mouth; the sounds his cock was making between your lips was lewd, succeeding in winding you up even more as Clark started to chase his pleasure. 

You sucked around him a few more times, nails biting into his slacks as you silently urged him along. The noise that came out of him then was strangled. “Oh…sweetheart, I’m close,” he stammered, tugging on your hair in warning as his hips kept pumping. “I- honey, m’gonna come– gosh, can I– where do you wan’ me to—”

The simple fact that you ignored his warning was sufficient enough of an answer. 

This realization is what seemed to push Clark over the edge, a beautiful shudder wracking his wide frame as he came with a whimper so sharp and so whiny that you almost orgasmed too, your pussy so swollen and aching with neglect that you involuntarily clenched your thighs. Clark’s grip on your hair tightened just a fraction, guiding your mouth over his pulsing dick. His eyes were blazing down at you, the frantic expansion of his lungs making his chest rise and fall beneath his open shirt. His signature Superman curl had fallen in front of his eye. 

You swallowed everything he had eagerly—and there was a lot to be had—making pleased little noises as his come slid down your throat. 

“Ohhh, gosh, yes,” Clark moaned in relief. “Mm. Mm, that’s so good. Oh, gosh. You’re too good to me baby.” His fist finally went lax in your hair, fingers soothing through it in reassuring caresses as his hips moved in tiny thrusts, seeking that last bit of sensation. “Oh, sweetheart.” 

Then he was guiding you to stand, hands gentle yet insistent on your shoulders. You stood, unable to help the satisfied little grin on your face as you tucked him back into his boxers and readjusted his pants. You bit your lip as the zzzip of his pants being done up filled the space between you. You gave his crotch one last little tap, a smug grin of your own forming on your face. 

Clark was still a little spaced out, lips parted as he watched you with hooded eyes. You gave him a peck on the nose, and it seemed to break whatever trance he was in. He fell forward, hands cradling your face, and kissed you deeply. 

Knowing he could probably taste himself on your tongue reminded you of your own insistent arousal, and you moaned into the kiss, struggling to keep up. 

“Thank you,” he said when he finally allowed you oxygen. He pressed his forehead into yours, “you’re incredible, sweetheart. If I had known my dress shirts affected you this much—” 

“Oh, don’t act all innocent,” you said. “You absolutely know what they do to me.” 

His mischievous little grin confirmed your suspicion. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I have somewhat of an idea.” 

Clark kissed you again, his hands travelling down your sides to rest at the hem of your own work slacks. You couldn’t help the way your body arched against his; his question was clear. 

“Let me…?” 

“If you want to.” It was a stupid thing to say, really. 

“Of course I want to, baby.” 

You yelped in surprise when he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, backing you up until you were seated on the island counter. Now at eye level, you could more thoroughly enjoy his handsome dimples as he smiled softly before leaning in for a slow kiss. 

“Least I could do is return the favor after that.” His voice dipped low in a way that made your gut tighten with need. He was dangerously close to using that voice. “Besides, you think I didn’t notice how tightly you were clenching your thighs, sweetheart? And even if I didn’t, you forget that I can smell how much you need me.” 

“Fuck, Clark…” you whined when his fingers ghosted between your legs, rubbing along the seam of your slacks. 

“Mmm, that’s it. Bet you could come just from this, huh?” He pulled back just enough to watch your expressions, blue eyes alight with desperation and something far deeper. You could feel his breath across your cheek. “Just some pressure, baby? Yeah? Does that feel good? You’re so worked up for me, honey.” 

You couldn’t form a coherent thought. It was like a switch had gone on off in Clark in some lust-addled, post-orgasmic glow. Honestly, screw him for being this irresistable; for making you so goddamn easy for him. Didn’t this start with you seducing him? You were such an easy lay when it came to Clark that it would’ve been humiliating if you hadn’t been married for several years. 

He added his whole palm now, giant hand pressing up and down the length of your searing center, palming the entire area of your sensitive clit. It was simple pressure—something firm and real to grind your pussy against, and it was making your head fuzzy with the pleasure of it. You were certain he could feel some of your wetness beginning to seep through the fabric, which was only slightly mortifying—your panties were definitely a lost cause if that were the case. 

Perhaps more unbelievable was that yes, you were indeed about to come from simply grinding on his hand between two layers of clothing. Your fingers flew to the bicep of the arm that wasn’t currently flexing between your legs, nails digging into the white sleeve of his Oxford, making you remember just exactly what had gotten you into this predicament in the first place. 

Your greedy eyes honed in on your husband, in such close proximity to you; his broad shoulders and strong chest, the soft suggestion of farm-built muscle peeking between that godforsaken shirt. Embarrassingly, seeing his uncuffed sleeves is what pushes you over. Something about the delicious blend of professional and unkempt; the implication of propriety that came with his pristine office attire contrasted against his unruly curls, perspirated face, and borderline slutty forearms. 

“G-god, Clark, m’gonna co– I–” You try to warn him, but it’s pointless. 

Clark leaned down, free hand caging you into his body as it rested on the countertop beside you. He nuzzled his face into your neck so that his words were a breath right against your ear. “Come for me, Mrs. Kent. Just like that, baby. Let it happen.” 

You shook against him, a broken cry falling from your lips as your body finally found its peak. Clark worked you through it, lips pressing kisses against your neck between words. 

So good, baby. There we go. You’re so perfect. I love you so much. That’s it, honey…breathe through it, let yourself feel good. 

He continued to hold you, hand finally stilling when the twitch of your hips signaled the dip into oversensitivity. You withdrew him from your neck when your pulse had somewhat settled, cradling the back of his skull. Now, it was your turn to smile at him, sated and lazy, fingers scratching soothingly at his nape. Your kiss was finally slow, almost chaste, nothing more than a tired exchange of gratitude. 

“The soup,” you halfheartedly mention when you part. 

“It’s simmering, it should be fine.” Clark had already preoccupied himself with hugging you as close as physically possible. Almost subconsciously, your legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him closer as he sank into your embrace against the countertop. Your body bowed backwards slightly as he leaned into you, making you giggle at how cuddly he always got post-coitus. 

One of his hands rose to your neck, absently stroking the front of your throat in a tender caress. Worry colored his next words. “I didn’t hurt you, right?” 

“No, baby,” you reassured him, hands running the length of his back. Your heart swelled with warmth at the concern in his voice. Clark, your gentle giant—capable of crushing planets and he was worried about a little deepthroating. “I would have told you. You know I would’ve.” 

He hummed, and though you could tell he wasn’t totally satisfied with your answer he also trusted your word. 

“I love you.” He rubbed his face against your neck affectionately and you squirmed at the feel of his five o’clock shadow. 

“You better,” you teased, running your fingers through his inky hair. “Though, to be fair, you could probably get me to do just about anything as long as you’re wearing this shirt. Tucked in, of course. Cuffs undone, hair a mess. God, Clark. How are you so perfect?” 

He smothered your neck and cheek with kisses, drawing another giggle from you. “Well. I don’t know, but I feel the same way about you, if it’s any comfort.” Clark inhaled sharply, “especially when you wear that one dress. The one with—” 

“The open back?”

“Mm. Yes.” 

You laugh, ruffling his curls before pecking him on the lips. “I love you so ridiculously much, Clark Kent.” 

“That’s good,” he kissed your nose. “Because I was lying. The white bean and sausage soup is definitely burning.” 

“Clark!”

masterlist

[fic-dump-dotcom]

me simultaneously throughout this fic

[millersd0ll]

Clark Kent x chubby reader yes pls

[carolinacry2099]

You are absolutely right.

[quiteamessbabes]

just like yesterday (igual que ayer)

Clark's gonna run into you and get you back. Sort of.

Clark Kent x Female Reader

Word Count: 6k

Content: MDNI. Angstttttttt. Breaking up and talking about why it happened. Miscommunication. Emotional insecurity perhaps. Reader is a scientist. Suggestive and fluffy towards the end. Clark and reader are snobs about smoking.

A/N: Been working on this one for a long time! I had an Enanitos Verdes winter and rediscovered this song. I also got a lot of inspo from Start Over by 5SOS though. Still don't know if I like it, feel like I shoved many ideas into one piece. Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read my work. I really appreciate it. Love always, Mani.

divider creds!

“Gonna go on a walk? At 9 pm?” Jimmy asked incredulously, narrowing his eyes at Clark who was shuffling on his feet.

“Yeah.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

“There’s an emergency downtown, I need to-“

“No, there isn’t. You would’ve flown out of here.” Lois said, calling him out straight on his bullshit. They’d come over to Lois’ house to eat and finish an article. An important one. Something that would usually consume Clark and he’d love every second of it. But no, his brain had been absolute mush the last two months. He could barely focus or get anything done, all he ever thought of was you and if you were fine and if you were thinking about him. Every face he saw was yours; every song talked about you. The colour of your hair was the one on the new intern. The click of your heels walked through his apartment. The picture of you sat up nice and firm against his mirror. That’s what he had been broken down into. A lovesick and heartbroken shell of a man.

Breaking up was the right thing to do, they both agreed on it. It was late and you were both so terribly tired. There wasn’t any bickering, any jealousy, any of the flying off into space in the middle of the fight. It was tragic and sort of dumb, really. You’d been together one and half perfect, wonderful years. Everything was perfect. Clark was amazing, patient, sweet, beautiful and kind. Your mother hugged him when she met him, your dad invited him over to watch football the following week. Your friends liked him, thought he was a good fit.

You were going to adopt a kitten and move in together. Martha wanted you to spend the holidays there, they wanted to show you off in Smallville. Everything was going perfectly. You just had a one off week. Real off, but it was just one miserable week. Lex had something prepared for him every single day, a creature of some sort, a gas leak firefighters couldn’t handle, entrapped in a sewer with one of his war pigs. You name it, it had happened that week. He stepped out on dinner with your friends twice, where they pointed it out that as sweet as he was, Clark maybe wasn’t built for relationships.

He had too much going on. It was good while it lasted. You needed someone who could be there. That was what you two agreed on and parted in friendliness. No hard feelings. Clark was ruined when it happened. Lex had somehow locked him out of the Fortress so his recovery had been postponed, he looked destroyed and weak. You actually helped him unlock the fortress with a signal interference you had built in college out of a microwave with a couple of friends you still worked with.

That was your thing: science, numbers, rationality. It didn’t add up how your boyfriend couldn’t have dinner any day of the week or answer your call when you were so pissed off at your colleague you wanted to cry. It became something irrational. Something you couldn’t explain. So you suggested you two break up, while you packed up the device in a bag he could fly away with. Clark didn’t initially say much, but when you’d told him your reasons he agreed. He didn’t have the energy to fight back, if you wanted it to be over then it was over.

But as Clark walked out of Lois’ apartment, he didn’t even care if they knew what he was actually up to. It was a big city, but he knew he was going to feel you closer as he walked. It did help that you lived a couple of blocks away from Lois, and he could hear your heartbeat clearer from here. It had been banging inside his head the whole time he was supposed to be reading a file. It meant you were home. But he wasn’t going to go up to your apartment. He wasn’t that crazy. Not yet. He just wanted to hear you up close. If he was lucky, which he felt when he remembered his umbrella and capped his pen before shoving it against his chest, maybe he'd even see you. Your pretty eyes and that one freckle. See you were fine, hope you were napping and mumbling his name like you used to. He could probably track every moment of your sleep cycle by the way you breathed or moved.

He walked the street fast; eyes locked on the floor while he listened. He knew every light on your street. He could do it with his eyes closed, honestly. Your heartbeat got closer, he heard it louder and more pronounced with every step. He looked down at his feet, focusing on it picking up suddenly, beating faster. He looked up with crossed eyebrows, now worried but his eyes dropped and saw you standing there, already looking at him, heart skipping a beat as you connected eyes. His mouth hung open, he wasn’t expecting to actually see you.

You looked just like you always did, you were clearly going somewhere from your outfit. It was carefully curated, so classy, so sweet, so you. God, he missed you. He could smell your perfume from here. He could hear your breath hitch as he took a step closer to you.

“Hey.” You said, almost running to his arms but you withheld. No matter how good he looked, rested and so much better than that last time you saw him. No matter how little you had slept this last months in pure sorrow and regret. Clark agreed. He didn’t fight for you. It was fucked up, but some part of you felt more defeated from the fact that Clark didn’t even react. He just accepted. Maybe you just wanted him to beg, for you. To push away the rationality in you and make you stay. Maybe he wanted it. Maybe you were what was making him sick.

“Hi. How are you?” Clark let out a sigh, like he’d been waiting to say something to you, to your face, for ages. Not in a dream, in a wicked nightmare were you’d break up with him and he was trying to talk you out of it but his voice couldn’t come out. He’d look down and he was miles away, strapped into a deserted chair in the arctic and somehow far from you. But you were there, he could see you. You were doing that thing where you tried not to cry and sucked your cheeks in with eyes wide open. You looked devastated, like you’d been up contemplating it. But he couldn’t reach you, he couldn’t say anything.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Good, yeah. Things are calmer now.”

“Yeah, you look rested. You look good.” You responded, voice a tiny bit shaky. You were still shocked you were seeing him, here. You were convinced life had decided to make things easier for you and pushed him far, far away from your life. Since you still walked by the daily planet on the way to work and he was never outside. (He was usually at the top of the building looking at you. You couldn’t have known that, though.)

“Thanks, you look good, too- I mean, not good.”

“Oh.” Your eyes dropped and you looked down at yourself. You thought you looked okay. Clark choked on his own words as he looked at you in worry.

“I mean- you look better than good. You look amazing, you’re beautiful and maroon is your color. I’ve always loved those boots on you. I just-“You frowned, looking at him through your lashes as if you were scared to see his eyes, rabid and intense.

“I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“‘S fine. I get it.” Clark nodded, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he licked them and tried to find the words he wanted to articulate

“It’s nice to see you. Were you heading to Lois?” You smacked your lips unintentionally, not meaning to sound catty because Lois was lovely.

“From there. We were working on a piece but I- can’t focus. She’s with Jimmy.” You nodded with your lips pressed together, hugging a little into yourself from the cold wind his body wasn’t covering.

“Are- are you heading somewhere?”

“Yeah, drinks with my girls.”

“Can I walk with you? Or we can get a cab. Or fly, but that would ruin your hair and-“

“We can walk.”

The walk was filled with small talk. You filled each other in everything that had gone on the last weeks. You started a new project. Your brother was getting married. Clark’s Ma came over to stay with him a couple of days, Perry scratched his piece on city planning but encouraged him on structured payment buyers. It was all very civil; why wouldn’t it be? You didn’t end on a bad note.

There wasn’t a single person outside besides you two for all that counted. It was as if the city had deserted itself to give space to your easy smiles and small chatter. As if it was giving you the shot to do something about the distance, the longing. You got to the bar where you were meeting up with your friends faster than either of you wanted, even with slow steps and respectful street crossing.

“This is me. They should be- oh.” You looked at your phone, reading the message from the group chat that you had gotten a couple of minutes ago but hadn’t seen.

“What’s wrong?”

“They left to go buy… lavender cigarettes. God, they’re such hippies.” You mumbled the last part to yourself, rolling your eyes ad you stuffed your phone back into your coat pocket. Clark laughed, watching you lean against the brick wall outside the establishment. It all rang so familiar, you two here. Pushed aside by smoking.

“You don’t smoke either?” You asked the tall man who was also at the other side of the bar. Everyone smoking was on the other side, including your friends and as it seemed, his too. Clark looked down and locked eyes with you, immediately becoming soft and a small smile took over his lips. You looked like good intentions and temptation. “No.” “Moral superiority sure has its price.” You responded and he laughed, nodding as he watched you put your hair behind your ears. Okay, you saw him from the other corner as you avoided the smoke coming from your friend’s mouth and thought he was handsome and looked very lonely. With some liquid courage and assurance that you looked good tonight, you walked over to the giant that was looking at the sky as if he could see exactly what was going on above it. “Try asking for a hot chocolate and not a cold brew at work.” “I drink green tea, hate coffee.” You responded and Clark smiled big at you, nodding and offering you his hand. “Well, I’m Clark. Fellow coffee hater deserves a celebration drink. What’s your poison?” You smiled and gave him your hand, shaking it and a little in shock of his way of introducing himself. A handshake? Really? Were you selling him a used car? Were you insane to be charmed by it? “Anything that doesn’t taste like alcohol.” “My kind of woman.”

“Want me to wait with you?” Clark asked, pleading silently for a yes from your lips. He had

“If you don’t have anywhere better to be.”

“Where in the world could it be better than with you?” You smiled, heat pressing into your cheeks and downwards at his words before you remembered. He didn’t fight for you. He didn’t fight for you. He didn’t fight for you.

“Clark, why didn’t you fight for me?” You suddenly asked, too lonely and miserable to stop. This was the first night you’d agreed to go out since you two broke up, you’d spent it wallowing in misery around the house. It still smelled like him, his “world’s best reporter” mug still sat in your cupboard, the flowers he first got you and you turned into potpourri were still in the bathroom. His picture still sat on the back of your phone case, a copy from his daily planet badge you found in his nightstand and took without telling him. He was still in your social media, still followed each other and your profile picture was still the two of you on Halloween dressed like Star Wars side characters no one else knew. He was still there.

“What?”

“Clark, I- wanted you to say something. I wanted you to just- fuck. Do something.” Clark’s mouth dried up at your confession, brows joining together as he tried to remember the situation.

“You broke up with me.”

“I know! I know I did, believe me. But you just agreed, Clark. I thought you loved me more than that, but you just let me go. Didn’t even look at me.” You were tearing up by the last part, embarrassed and pressing your fingers into your tear ducts so they wouldn’t fall and ruin your makeup. Clark sighed, running a hand down his face. He thought you had your mind made up, you sounded cool and collected. Nothing like you were right now, clearly stressed and upset.

“I thought you had your mind made up, and what you were saying was true.” You rolled your eyes and bit the inside of your cheek, “You deserve someone who can be there, no matter how much I love you, which is so, so much, I can’t be that sometimes.”

“So what? That’s it? You love me but can’t be bothered to try harder? You’re a fucking idiot, Clark.” You spat straight venom, you were angry, offended, perplexed.

“You’re right. It was the right thing to do.” Clark shook his head, he couldn’t believe this had slipped from his hands like this. He had thought this whole time if he saw you, if he got the opportunity to try and talk to you he’d give it all he had to get you back. But he was cornered by your questions and so confused at his own sense of perception to not notice how this was optional. He could have stopped it.

“I’m not saying that, honey. I just thought you had decided it and I was tired and beat down-“

“I just wanted you to change my mind. I gave you so many ins. I left my window open for a week hoping you’d come and try.” He’d closed that fucking window. He thought it was an accident and wanted you to be safe. He thought you’d get the flu from the cold and closed the window when you couldn’t notice. Oh Jesus, he was such a fucking moron.

“I’m- I didn’t know.”

“I know, I’m being unfair, I wanted you to read my mind. But I just thought…. I don’t know.” You shook your head, closing your arms around yourself and trying to bring some comfort and heat. It was freezing. Clark would’ve reminded you to bring a thicker jacket. Clark shuddered at the mere realization of what he had done, or actually, what he hadn’t done.

“I didn’t fucking know, okay? I wanted to respect your decision. I didn’t think- I don’t think it was the right call. We shouldn't have broken up. I can do more, I can be more for you. I love you.”

“I don’t know if it counts anymore, Clark. It doesn’t feel good to know that to get it I had to beg.” You mumbled, eyes closed shut to avoid looking at him. You heard the laughs of your friends coming around the corner, looked up and shook yourself out of it. Clark's mouth ran dry when he noticed you watching and snapping back to being cool and collected. He had lost the window.

“I’m heading in, don’t want them to see me like this.” Clark watched you walked into the bar and once again, said nothing. He needed to get his thoughts collected, know what to say, what to do. How to convince you that this could work in long run, that he wasn't a coward, an idiot (well, sometimes). That he’d chase after you where you’d go.

“Jesus fuck.” You mumbled as you saw him in half superman attire (lower half, much to your dismay because that lycra against his bulge did something) sat on your staircase. He had been here since you went into the bar, waiting for you with the right thing to say. He knew better than cornering you or confronting you in front of your friends. He was giving you a sorry smile, like he was ashamed it had come to this. He hadn’t been here too long; you’d come back after an hour and a half before your sorrow turned into a long island iced tea you followed by puking in the alleyway. You closed the door of your house, moving towards him and staring at him through the glass. You’d never admit how glad you were to see him here, how terrified you were that you pushed him away again for good. You hated your mouth and how it moved faster than your brain, that's why you had forged an analytical, factual, a quantitively sterile way of life. Besides a genuine love for science, you had a hard time controlling your emotions when you were younger. You were the crier, the yeller, the delicate one amongst your family. You hated when you couldn't control it, so you mastered it. Still, Clark had pulled something you thought you had discarded. The raw, mouthy side of you that talked before thinking. That felt things and said them without considering the truth behind them. That wanted to make people hurt like you had. He had turned you into something you recognized all too well, your desperate want for protection and need. You found yourself letting go that desire to protect yourself from speaking too soon, from calculations and scientific methods. He made you free, and as much as you despised it sometimes, you hadn't felt more like yourself.

“Just let me talk, sweetheart. For real this time.” He pleaded as you walked towards the window and opened it, letting him inside. You sat on your couch and sighed, throwing your head back onto the pillows. Hell of a day, hell of a month. Clark kneeled in front of you, at your eye-line and with those kicked puppy blue eyes that always made you melt.

“Honey, I- I was an idiot, you’re right. I thought I was doing you right by leaving you alone, you looked so tired. I thought I did that. I hated myself for it. You know I've always been afraid of being too much or too little and it felt like you saw that now.” Clark had been naive about love first. He saw his parents, the couples on tv, the people around them as perfectly in love. He knew love wasn't so easy, but he never considered he'd have an extra thing to worry about. He wasn't human. He was Superman. He had different anatomy and a calling to humanity. So, he was picky, picky with who he let in. He doesn't want to lie to anyone who's close, so he keeps a short amount of people close. And choosing you was easy, he never hesitated to trust you with his secrets, his identity and how he felt. Clark thought that understanding was enough. That it meant Superman wouldn't get in the way of you two because you understood, it meant he wouldn't feel like he wasn't there enough or he was too much to handle. He was somehow never ready for the complexities that always came.

“I know. It wasn’t your fault.” You mumbled, letting him take your hands into his.

“I should’ve tried harder. That week was hell, but I made it harder by drifting away. I should've known you'd be hurt and done something. You’re always there for me; you always fix everything I can’t. You’re my better half and God, these weeks without you have been hell. I can’t focus, can’t look at anything in my house. I miss you so much.” You nodded, his heartbeat slowing down finally when he noticed you were putting down those walls that you set that week in April.

“I was such a bitch, I said I needed someone who could be there for me because you missed one dinner. What the fuck is wrong with me?” You had been feeling particularly guilty about that because Clark had always been there for you before that time; it was mean and reductive. Clark shook his head with a slight smile, one hand wrapping around your neck to get you closer.

“You’re not- don’t say that about yourself. You were frustrated. You had a bad week too. I get it, I do. I’m gonna be better though, baby. I am. I won’t let you go.” You nodded and pulled him into your arms, hugging the life out of him. He corresponded, hands firm on your back like always and that warmth gave you tingles. You missed him dearly. With your head on his shoulder, the tears finally fell. But it was filled of relief, like you could finally let go and admit you fucked up. And he came back to you.

“I’m gonna stay; I want to. I’m so sorry. Don’t leave.” You mumbled, so vulnerable and un rational you know only Clark would be able to pull it out of you. He matched your world in all the most important parts; he respected science and data and liked how you put lotion on leather to stretch it out. He liked how you were collected and strict with work but bent the rules for people you loved. He made you more emotional and spontaneous; he made you feel free. His lips found yours again as he cradled your face between his hands, feeling the heat from your wet skin. You corresponded, of course you did, through shaky hands and a desperation you didn't know how to contain. You didn't want to. You wanted to show him you were still his, nobody could take his place. The candle was still there, waiting for them to light the match. The spark needed just a little to reignite. You pulled away when your lips became numb and Clark looked at you, make up smudged and lipstick faded against his mouth. His favourite view. He started noticing the house and everything looked the same. His sweater was still hung on the coatrack, the plant he got you from Kansas seemed healthy and taken care of. He was still everywhere and no one had erased him. You were still his as much as he was still yours. As much as your slippers were still by the door, your hairbrush was still in the sink. He bought the yogurt you liked in the grocery store even if you wouldn't be there to eat it. Nothing had changed, except the honesty between you two.

"You still have the picture up." Clark motioned to your tv stand, next to it was a picture of the two of you placed within a wood frame he had built with his own hands. It wasn't dusty or hidden. It looked as well as ever.

"Of course it is. I left the window open." You whispered, a soft smile spreading your lips as you noticed how much it meant to him. With a smile he kissed you again, guiding you upwards from the couch and letting you stand without ever separating. He slapped his hands against your thighs, trying to get you up and climb him like the big, dumb, beautiful tree he was., But you didn't. Instead, you let him go and went to your room, sitting on the bed as you watched him get the mark and start to undress, Superman suit bunched up on the floor, shirt following close behind. When he finally got to your room he had nothing besides underwear on.

"C'mere, sweetheart. Let me show you how much I missed you." He said as he laid back on your bed, memory foam moulding his body like it missed him. You smiled and kicked off your boots, watching him light the candle that always rested at your bedside. It smelled like roses and vanilla and oddly enough, just like him.

"Good, right? We're good?" Clark nodded.

"So good. Too good. I love you."

"I love you. I'm sorry." You whispered as you straddled his hips, he smiled up at you and touched your cheek.

"No more apologies, love. I don't want to win. I want you." You nodded, glancing at the window you had kept open with the hopes that he'd come back. The flowers that hung from there were blooming prettier than ever, you knew it was because of summer coming, but you also knew it was because he came back. Because you never needed to leaved cryptic messages and risk a bird flying into your house, you just needed to talk to him. Nobody knew what it was like to be you two.

Clark sat up slightly to connect his lips to yours, unbuttoning the shirt that hung from your shoulders and revealing his favorite piece of clothing beneath it. A beautiful lace bra that had made him get chills down his spine the first time he saw it. He sighed as he looked down at your chest while he used his extra vision and saw how you were beating loud and clear to the rhythm of his own heart. He wouldn't be surprised if he found his heart inside there too.

"Stop staring." You mumbled with a smirk. He looked back up to you and wrapped his arms steady around your waist to bring you closer.

"Did you know?" He wanted to know if you had guessed you'd see each other again tonight just like he had.

"I hoped. Had a feeling." He nodded with a smirk, pulling you closer with to press his chest against yours, feeling the mould getting back together. The candle was on. The flowers were blooming. The picture was still up. Everything was still there, waiting for him to come back. He'd be damned if he would ever let the space grow again.

"Stay the night? Haven't been sleeping well."

"I'll put you to sleep every single night of your life, angel." Clark responded, as if he would ever leave again. You could be a little dumb too.

"My kind of man."

[carolinacry2099]

Troquei a foto, amores. (Eu amo esse homem e esse é o único gesto de amor que posso demonstrar a ele.)

I love Snoop too 🫪

[mira-angle]

[mira-angle]

[pullmecloseman]

YOU MAKE IT DIFFICULT

summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.

Clark “Superman” Kent

word count: 3k

a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now

warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language

Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.

And yet—

“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.

You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.

“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”

Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”

Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.

You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”

Clark glanced down.

The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”

The bullpen erupted.

Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.

Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.

And weirdly adorable.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”

He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”

“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”

Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.

Clark shot him a betrayed look.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.

Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.

It hit you like a truck.

Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.

Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.

He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.

-

Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.

Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.

You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.

Mostly because of Clark.

Which was ridiculous.

You barely knew him. Technically.

But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.

He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.

Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.

Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.

And his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.

Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.

Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then you noticed patterns.

Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.

It was honestly kind of endearing.

Today, however, was especially bad.

You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.

Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.

Clark stared down at it in horror.

You stared at him.

“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”

You pointed.

The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.

Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”

“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”

He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.

“It was slippery.”

“The mug exploded.”

“It’s a very slippery mug.”

You laughed again.

Clark visibly melted.

Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.

It was becoming a problem.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”

“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”

“They can interfere with technology.”

“Sure.”

“It’s science.”

“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”

Clark huffed out a laugh.

God.

That was dangerous too.

Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.

You liked making him do it.

Probably more than you should.

“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.

You blinked.

Shit.

“I am not.”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Clark’s ears turned pink.

And for some reason, that made you bold.

“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”

Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”

“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“That’s actually insane.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”

The room went completely silent.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.

Then he physically walked into a cabinet.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Never better.”

“You hit that cabinet really hard.”

“I’m durable.”

You snorted.

Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.

And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.

-

Lois Lane cornered you two days later.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”

Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.

“You and Smallville.”

“We are coworkers.”

“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Lois smirked.

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”

You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Absolutely.”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”

Cute.

Right.

Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.

Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.

It was that he was good.

Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.

Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.

Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.

Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.

Who does that?

Who is actually like that?

“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”

“What?”

“With Clark.”

You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”

“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.

You looked up instinctively.

Big mistake.

Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.

Which honestly was possible.

The man moved weirdly fast.

Clark smiled the second he saw you.

And there it was again.

That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.

Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

“Worth it.”

Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.

Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”

Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

“Everything,” Lois corrected.

Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.

Clark looked adorably confused.

You looked anywhere except directly at him.

“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”

He handed them over carefully.

Your fingers brushed his.

Clark froze.

You felt him freeze.

The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.

It was ridiculous.

A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.

And yet.

Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

A nervous laugh escaped him.

“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.

“What?”

Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”

“Clark.”

“It’s not important.”

“Clark.”

His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”

The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.

“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.

Clark blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so calm around me.”

You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”

For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.

Then he laughed.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a soft huff.

An actual laugh.

Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.

Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.

“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.

Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“I think you’re incredible.”

Oh.

Oh, you were in serious trouble.

-

It started raining halfway through your walk home.

Not normal rain either.

The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.

You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”

“You forgot your umbrella too?”

You turned.

Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.

Of course he had an umbrella.

Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.

“You stalking me, Kent?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”

He lifted a paper bag slightly.

You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”

Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”

You narrowed your eyes.

Clark smiled innocently.

Suspicious.

Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.

Warmth immediately surrounded you.

Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.

You tried not to notice.

Failed horribly.

“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”

Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.

Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.

Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.

Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.

“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.

Clark blinked. “I am?”

“You’re getting rained on.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, move over.”

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.

Clark immediately went completely still beside you.

Your arm brushed his.

Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.

Clark looked down at you slowly.

And there it was again.

That look.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth handling carefully.

It made your chest ache.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”

“Is that what this is?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”

Rain hammered softly overhead.

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.

And suddenly the space between you felt very small.

Very warm.

Very dangerous.

A car horn blared somewhere nearby.

Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”

“Yep.”

“That was—”

“Definitely something.”

Clark laughed nervously.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.

Clark went silent.

His fingers instinctively curled around yours.

Warm.

Careful.

Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.

You looked up at him.

Clark looked completely undone.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”

Clark stared at you for one long second.

Then he smiled softly.

“I might argue you did.”

Your heart was never recovering from this man.

Ever.

-

By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.

Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.

You were trying not to look equally affected.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.

Neither of you moved.

“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”

Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”

Neither of you let go.

A smile tugged at your mouth.

Clark noticed instantly.

“What?”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.

“Oh.”

But he still didn’t let go.

Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

The movement was absentminded.

Gentle.

Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.

Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.

His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.

“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Clark stared at you.

You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.

“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”

Clark still looked frozen.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

Your eyes snapped back to his.

Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”

The rain suddenly felt very far away.

Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.

Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.

You leaned into his touch before he could ask.

Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.

Then he kissed you.

And—

Oh.

That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.

There was nothing uncertain about it.

Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.

Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.

Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.

Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.

Sweet.

Tender.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.

Clark looked completely wrecked.

His glasses were crooked.

His hair was damp from the rain.

And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.

“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.

You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”

“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”

“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into laughter.

Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”

“You walked into a wall?”

“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.

“That is somehow worse.”

Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”

The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.

You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”

His ears turned pink again.

“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”

Clark looked away innocently.

“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”

A soft smile spread slowly across his face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Softer this time.

Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”

Clark considered that seriously.

“…Probably not.”

You laughed.

And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

[carolinacry2099]

EThat's what I was talking about. !!!!!!

[pullmecloseman]

YOU MAKE IT DIFFICULT

summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.

Clark “Superman” Kent

word count: 3k

a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now

warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language

Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.

And yet—

“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.

You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.

“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”

Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”

Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.

You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”

Clark glanced down.

The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”

The bullpen erupted.

Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.

Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.

And weirdly adorable.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”

He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”

“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”

Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.

Clark shot him a betrayed look.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.

Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.

It hit you like a truck.

Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.

Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.

Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.

He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.

“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.

-

Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.

Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.

You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.

Mostly because of Clark.

Which was ridiculous.

You barely knew him. Technically.

But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.

He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.

Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.

Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.

And his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.

Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.

Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then you noticed patterns.

Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.

It was honestly kind of endearing.

Today, however, was especially bad.

You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.

Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.

Clark stared down at it in horror.

You stared at him.

“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”

You pointed.

The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.

Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”

“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”

He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.

“It was slippery.”

“The mug exploded.”

“It’s a very slippery mug.”

You laughed again.

Clark visibly melted.

Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.

It was becoming a problem.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”

“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”

“They can interfere with technology.”

“Sure.”

“It’s science.”

“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”

Clark huffed out a laugh.

God.

That was dangerous too.

Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.

You liked making him do it.

Probably more than you should.

“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.

You blinked.

Shit.

“I am not.”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Clark’s ears turned pink.

And for some reason, that made you bold.

“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”

Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”

“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“That’s actually insane.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”

The room went completely silent.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.

“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.

Then he physically walked into a cabinet.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Never better.”

“You hit that cabinet really hard.”

“I’m durable.”

You snorted.

Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.

And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.

-

Lois Lane cornered you two days later.

“You like him.”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”

Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.

“You and Smallville.”

“We are coworkers.”

“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Lois smirked.

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”

You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Absolutely.”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”

Cute.

Right.

Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.

Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.

It was that he was good.

Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.

Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.

Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.

Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.

Who does that?

Who is actually like that?

“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”

“What?”

“With Clark.”

You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”

“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.

You looked up instinctively.

Big mistake.

Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.

Which honestly was possible.

The man moved weirdly fast.

Clark smiled the second he saw you.

And there it was again.

That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.

Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

“Worth it.”

Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.

Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”

Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

“Everything,” Lois corrected.

Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.

Clark looked adorably confused.

You looked anywhere except directly at him.

“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”

He handed them over carefully.

Your fingers brushed his.

Clark froze.

You felt him freeze.

The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.

It was ridiculous.

A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.

And yet.

Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

A nervous laugh escaped him.

“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.

“What?”

Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”

“Clark.”

“It’s not important.”

“Clark.”

His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”

The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.

“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.

Clark blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so calm around me.”

You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”

For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.

Then he laughed.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a soft huff.

An actual laugh.

Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.

Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.

“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.

Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“I think you’re incredible.”

Oh.

Oh, you were in serious trouble.

-

It started raining halfway through your walk home.

Not normal rain either.

The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.

You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”

“You forgot your umbrella too?”

You turned.

Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.

Of course he had an umbrella.

Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.

“You stalking me, Kent?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”

He lifted a paper bag slightly.

You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”

Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”

You narrowed your eyes.

Clark smiled innocently.

Suspicious.

Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.

Warmth immediately surrounded you.

Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.

You tried not to notice.

Failed horribly.

“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”

Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.

Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.

Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.

Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.

“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.

Clark blinked. “I am?”

“You’re getting rained on.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, move over.”

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.

Clark immediately went completely still beside you.

Your arm brushed his.

Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.

Clark looked down at you slowly.

And there it was again.

That look.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth handling carefully.

It made your chest ache.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”

“Is that what this is?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”

Rain hammered softly overhead.

Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.

And suddenly the space between you felt very small.

Very warm.

Very dangerous.

A car horn blared somewhere nearby.

Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”

“Yep.”

“That was—”

“Definitely something.”

Clark laughed nervously.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.

Clark went silent.

His fingers instinctively curled around yours.

Warm.

Careful.

Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.

You looked up at him.

Clark looked completely undone.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”

Clark stared at you for one long second.

Then he smiled softly.

“I might argue you did.”

Your heart was never recovering from this man.

Ever.

-

By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.

Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.

You were trying not to look equally affected.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.

Neither of you moved.

“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”

Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”

Neither of you let go.

A smile tugged at your mouth.

Clark noticed instantly.

“What?”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.

“Oh.”

But he still didn’t let go.

Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

The movement was absentminded.

Gentle.

Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.

Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.

His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.

“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Clark stared at you.

You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.

“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”

Clark still looked frozen.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

Your eyes snapped back to his.

Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”

The rain suddenly felt very far away.

Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.

Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.

You leaned into his touch before he could ask.

Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.

Then he kissed you.

And—

Oh.

That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.

There was nothing uncertain about it.

Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.

Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.

Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.

Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.

Sweet.

Tender.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.

Clark looked completely wrecked.

His glasses were crooked.

His hair was damp from the rain.

And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.

“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.

You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”

“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”

“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into laughter.

Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”

“You walked into a wall?”

“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.

“That is somehow worse.”

Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”

Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”

The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.

You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”

His ears turned pink again.

“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”

Clark looked away innocently.

“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”

A soft smile spread slowly across his face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Softer this time.

Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”

Clark considered that seriously.

“…Probably not.”

You laughed.

And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

[unificsation]

exposition, rising action, climax ✒

⋆.𐙚 ̊. an interrobang oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.

au · editor!clark kent x author!reader, 9.5k

when Planet Publishing’s editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herself—except it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…

🖊️ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)

📓 READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too

☕️ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetus—your encouragement carried me here to the post button <3

i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa

1

Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesra’s body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.

“Look at you,” he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. “Better than I’ve dreamed.”

Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongue—something about Cassius having dreamt of her—but the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didn’t show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.

The warmth of Cassius’s mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.

“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.

He groaned, mouth still on her tit. “Feel what you do to me? That’s all your fault.”

The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed against—

Someone clears their throat.

Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book you’re reciting.

A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”

“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.

Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.

It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.

Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.

And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.

(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)

So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.

Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.

That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.

But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.

Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.

Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.

You’re under his skin like an influence.

“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.

You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”

Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.

“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”

The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.

The latter part? He can only dream.

“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”

Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)

“I was being serious.”

“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.

And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.

M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.

You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”

Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.

And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.

“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.

God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.

Like right now.

“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”

“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.

You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.

You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.

“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”

“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?

Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.

It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”

Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.

He tries to make it sound casual.

“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”

There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.

A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.

“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.

The subject is dropped just like that.

Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.

He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.

The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.

He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.

Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.

He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.

Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.

He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.

The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.

You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.

But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.

But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.

You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.

He drifts off soon after.

2

You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.

That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.

On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.

Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.

On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.

You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.

And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.

“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.

He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.

“Thanks for the Advil.”

“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.

You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.

Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.

You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

୨୧

Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.

Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.

There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.

If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.

“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.

“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.

You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.

“Something happened yesterday.”

His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.

“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”

Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.

“And so are you.”

He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.

Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.

“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”

That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”

“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"

“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"

There’s a pause.

" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”

You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.

“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”

He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.

“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”

He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s because you’re a great writer.”

He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.

The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.

He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.

Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.

You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.

Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.

Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

taglist: @ultimatewolverine @singulartoast @sparklingsin

[carolinacry2099]

Oh my God, now I want to live life to the fullest after reading this (David's Clark is so hot).

[ifwgossip]

How I feel when the author describes y/n as petite, zero figure, -50 kg weight, hourglass, perky 💔💔

[cinnalityy]

When you have the perfect fic in ur head but can’t write for shit..

[anemoxlys]

Genuinely how most of my writing comes about and then I never upload it because I realise I can’t write for shit

[carolinacry2099]

I feel exactly the same way. My ideas are great, but when I try to put them on paper, I can't.

(I want to be a writer in the future lol)

[cinnalityy]

When you have the perfect fic in ur head but can’t write for shit..

[anemoxlys]

Genuinely how most of my writing comes about and then I never upload it because I realise I can’t write for shit