୨⎯ CLARK KENT + READER. ⎯୧
come rain or come shine by frank sinatra
i'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you
come rain or come shine
—being loved by clark kent comes with pure devotion to your entire being. along with being a big man, he has a big heart filled with love to give. his hands could beat up beasts the size of metropolis, yet they're never rough with you (unless you ask of course).
—just because he's a softie doesn't mean he can't manhandle you a little. he throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, because you don't. and when he's needy, he'll kiss you like he's trying to climb inside. the morning after one of those long nights, clark will peck every throbbing bruise on your body he accidentally left behind. he gets carried away in the heat of the moment.
—nostalgic towards 50s/60s music since ma and pa would have it on in the background during the late afternoons. he buys you a record player and your first vinyl of the best love songs from that era. after a dinner date at home in your cozy apartment, he takes your hand and kisses the back of it like a gentleman and pulls you close to dance. you giggle at how silly it feels at first, but with his arms wrapped around your waist and your hands on his broad shoulders, you begin to see the appeal.
—his nicknames for you are things like honey, sweetheart, and darling. sometimes when he's being playful or making fun of you, he'll call you dear. oh i'm sorry, dear. well hello, dear. i've got it, dear.
—lets you patch him up if he gets hurt even though he knows damn well he'll just heal in the sun later. he loves knowing that there's someone who cares for him that isn't his parents. you'll ask why he's smiling when he has a bruised eye, and he'll respond by saying how cute you are when you're trying to wrap the bandages around his knuckles.
—clark is completely unaware of how fucking delicious he looks at work. the glasses, the suit, the curls, and those damn dimples from whenever he smiles. you bring him a cup of coffee and he sneaks a kiss to your cheek, leaving with a casual demeanour like you didn't want to pull him into the storage closet right then and there.
—you love listening to each other's voice so you take turns reading to each other to get to sleep. one night you'll fall asleep to clark's dulcet tones and then the next his head is curled up in your lap before he dozes off. who knew superman loved a good bedtime story?
𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. i'm in love with him please help i know this isn't challengers content but like ugh.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. @cinnamongmm @faiztheap @charmedntruer @sweetestfaiszts @aemondsbbgx @1sab4lla @jellyfishyy @severe-mental-illness @purpleplumpudding @vampmatic @sunsetray @1975iliwysf @stopsbeatiingg
𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader
summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here!
word count: 10.2k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist
It starts with a spill.
Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy.
The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.
(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)
It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window.
The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover.
And then there’s him.
Clark Kent.
You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence than all of these other assholes kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.
He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.
And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.
Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need.
But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.
“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.
“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”
That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”
“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”
And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.
“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”
You arch a brow. “Do you?”
He hesitates. “Yes?”
“You sound unsure.”
“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”
“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”
Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”
You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.
He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.
“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”
He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.
“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”
“Of course she did.”
You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.
(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)
“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”
You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos.
The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama.
The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.
“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”
Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.
“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.
“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”
There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.
You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”
He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”
“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”
There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.
But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.
Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”
And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”
You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.
Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T!
And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.
.
When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.
You actually like that a lot about it.
The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.
The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal.
The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.
You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity.
You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again.
Not yet.
Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.
“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”
You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.
The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.
You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.
You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."
But.
You're the opener tomorrow.
And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.
So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?
Your gaze snags on a familiar name.
It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.
The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.
No one would have to know.
You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.
You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.
You glance around. No one’s watching you.
The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.
You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor.
Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.
Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.
.
The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.
You’re not watching the door.
You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries.
Which is honestly more likely.
You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.
“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”
You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.
Clark stares back.
And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”
You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.
“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”
He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”
“Clark.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”
“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”
You don’t answer. You just pour.
You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.
You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.
Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.
“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”
You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"
Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”
You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.
“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.
And pauses.
And blinks.
And then blinks again.
“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.
It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.
You fight down a grin. Hard.
“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.
He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”
He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.
He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”
You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”
Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”
“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”
He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”
“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”
Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.
“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”
He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”
“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”
Clark looks up, startled.
You don’t look away.
Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”
Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.
Success. He does blush all the way down.
“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”
“Anytime.”
You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.
You are noticing. You always have.
He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”
You blink. “For who?”
“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”
It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.
“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”
You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”
You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”
Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.
The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”
His grin could power the city.
“Deal.”
When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—
"Dude, you need to get back to work or something."
"Shut up."
.
A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.
They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.
They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser.
You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”
Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.
.
Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.
Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.
And then the bell over the door rings.
You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.
Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.
Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.
He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano.
One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.
And then Clark... doesn’t leave.
No, he glances over his shoulder.
At you.
And then—God help you—he comes over.
You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.
“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.
You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”
He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”
“You mean sitting down like a human person?”
“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”
You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”
Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.
“Can I sit?” he asks.
And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.
“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.
He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”
“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”
“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”
You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”
He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”
“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”
He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”
There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.
“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”
“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”
“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”
“That’s my love language.”
He laughs. “Good to know.”
You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”
His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.
“Actually, yes.”
You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”
“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”
“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”
He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.
“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”
“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”
You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”
He shrugs. “I peaked early.”
A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.
And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.
You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.
Clark has arms.
Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—
Anyway.
You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.
It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.
“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.
“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast.
He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”
Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”
You look at him. Really look.
Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.
And you can’t help it.
You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.
Clark stills immediately.
“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”
“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.
His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.
Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.
And he lets you.
He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.
His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.
You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.
And then you see it.
Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.
He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.
You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.
He still doesn’t move.
You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”
Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”
You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”
His ears go scarlet.
“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”
You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.
“That’s the idea.”
Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.
And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.
His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s endearing.
It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.
You don’t. Not yet.
But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.
The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.
.
It’s just a date.
Just. A date.
With Clark Kent.
But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.
You glance at the time.
Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.
But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.
You dive.
CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure.
CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird.
CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.
You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.
YOU: yeah, still good
YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever
Immediately regret it.
Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.
But then—
CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha
CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g
CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.
You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.
YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted
CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair
CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃
CLARK K.: See you soon!
You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.
.
When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.
And then you open the door.
And there he is.
Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.
It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.
He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.
And he’s a little out of breath.
Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.
“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.
And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.
He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.
“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”
You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.
“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.
You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.
Definitely.
He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.
And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.
.
Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.
You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”
You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”
“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”
You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”
“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”
You snort. “It kind of is.”
Clark chokes on his water.
And then—it starts.
The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.
Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.
“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”
“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”
Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”
“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”
He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”
“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.
He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.
“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”
Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."
You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.
“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”
“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”
You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”
He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”
You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”
Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.
Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.
He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.
Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.
He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.
“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”
Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”
You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”
“I bribe them with muffins.”
You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.
Clark doesn’t catch the signal.
He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.
“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”
You blink. That’s it?
“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.
Nothing.
You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”
Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.
“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”
“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”
“Tea?”
You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”
“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”
“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.
“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.
You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”
“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”
He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”
“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”
Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.
“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.
You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”
He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”
“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”
He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”
It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”
He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”
You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”
But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.
You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.
The kettle whistles. You make the tea.
By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.
Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.
You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.
Okay. Now or never.
“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”
Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re very obvious.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.
“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”
“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You don’t speak.
And then—then—finally, he moves.
It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.
He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.
“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.
Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.
It doesn’t.
It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.
He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.
And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.
But not now.
Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.
Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away.
If anything, he leans in more.
And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice.
Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.
You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”
His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.
“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”
Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.
“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.
You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”
He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”
“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.
“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.
And then it’s your turn.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.
“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.
You nod. “Please.”
He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.
All of him.
And goddamn.
You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.
Because this man is ripped.
Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”
Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”
You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”
You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.
He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.
“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”
“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."
You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.
Then his mouth finds your neck.
It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.
“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.
You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”
He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.
“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”
He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”
“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”
He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”
You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.
You like him. You like him too damn much.
He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
But then he stills.
“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”
He trails off. His ears are pink.
You blink. “You don’t—?”
He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”
You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”
His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”
“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."
Clark goes quiet.
Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—
"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."
You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.
"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."
Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."
"Yes ma'am."
The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.
Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"
You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."
He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.
You just need this man in you now.
And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.
"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern.
He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"
"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."
And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."
Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.
Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.
When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"
Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.
He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.
"You like that?"
"God, yes. Clark—"
You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.
It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.
Holy shit.
“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”
You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”
“I thought you’d be gentle.”
He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”
You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”
“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”
The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.
Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys.
His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.
Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"
"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."
It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—
"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"
You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes.
He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.
Holy shit.
The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.
And then for the crescendo—
"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."
.
It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”
You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.
But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.
His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.
“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”
You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.
And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.
You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”
His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”
You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”
Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.
And it’s almost too much.
The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too.
But you let it stay. Let him stay.
You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”
Clark, already half off the bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”
You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”
And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it If he stays.
welcome to my directory of all the clark kent stories I love! all writing credit belongs to each individual writer, and if you resonate with any story, make sure to show that author some love by commenting, reblogging, or both! reader discretion is advised, so be sure to check the warnings.
ʚɞ krypto, take me home - @buckysfaveplum
when Clark can't make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you
ʚɞ eyes like pretty lights - @fawnindawn
surprising clark with a visit at the daily planet, it sparks memories of the past and how some things never change, especially clark's eyes that still shine like pretty lights only for you. seeing your best friend again in metropolis, it might be harder to leave... especially when he doesn't want you to.
ʚɞ makes paintings with his tongue! - @sceletaflores
you and clark have a conversation about superman...
ʚɞ just hold me - @plaidcowboy
a badly injured clark comes to you after a losing fight against the kaiju. not only does he need to be patched up, but his ego needs a little fixing to. and luckily for you, your praise does just the trick.
ʚɞ no strings attached...unless? - @kryptoclark
what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
ʚɞ nsfw clark kent headcanons - @lacelottie
ʚɞ whipped clark headcanons - @squipa
ʚɞ fortress - @charmedntruer
tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.
ʚɞ kiss me - @sunshine-lux
it's obvious to everyone at the daily planet that y/n and clark have an unspoken thing going on. one late night at the office might just be what they need to stop dancing around it.
ʚɞ messy makeout sess - @vemathie
thinking deeply and heavily about clark being all desperate and messy when you're just making out...
ʚɞ super-headaches at the daily planet - @luveline
Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.)
ʚɞ my hero pt 2- @jungkooklover777
an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?
ʚɞ unfold your love - @junleb
jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love
ʚɞ everyone adores you (at least i do) - @rosesaints
you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet...enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows.
ʚɞ night's so blue - @junleb
it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?
warnings -> jimmy olsen x fem!reader, a hint of jealousy, no superman (2025) spoilers!
clark is infuriatingly perfect. he's tall, broad, too sweet for his own good, charming, and jimmy is sick of it.
not that he's actually sick of clark—the guy's his best friend—but he's sick of the way clark has been effortlessly stealing your attention since you've started working at the daily planet.
you're always bantering with him and laughing at his jokes, getting into silly hypothetical debates about metahumans and discussing aliens. and when jimmy rolls around to join the conversation—because he likes talking about that stuff, dammit—you go quiet every time, without fail.
clark gives you this look every time, like he knows something jimmy doesn't. it drives him up the wall.
"want some coffee, clark?" he hears you ask from your desk—which is conveniently situated right next to clark's, because of course it is.
"uh, yeah, that'd be great, thanks."
jimmy looks over to see you taking clark's mug with a smile that makes his heart do something funny in his chest. he frowns and turns back to his computer, his own mug long empty on his desk.
what's the harm in getting coffee for himself, too?
so he follows after you to the break room, mug in hand.
"how's that new article going?" he asks, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "shit- sorry, i didn't mean to scare you."
"no, no, you didn't." the coffee maker clicks and whirs as it spits out a fresh pot. "it's, um, fine."
"right, yeah." jimmy rocks back on his heels. "clark mentioned that you might need some pictures of the justice gang fight downtown. i have a few that just need editing." he actually overheard you and clark talking about it earlier, but he's not willing to admit to eavesdropping, honestly.
he can't admit that he's that obsessed.
then the coffee maker beeps, and you're racing to pour out two cups. "oh, sure. that'd be great." you're gone before he can get a word in edgewise.
"i'll just email those to you, then!" he calls after you.
despite all the sugar he puts in his own coffee, it still goes bitter on his tongue when he walks back to his desk to see you and clark giggling like schoolgirls. your eyes meet jimmy's for just a moment, and his heart stutters.
clark looks over his shoulder at him and then back to you and prods your shoulder playfully. you swat his hand away and mutter something to him with a roll of your eyes.
moment officially ruined.
god, this whole "crushing on his coworker" thing is getting old fast, and you've only been here for a month.
he spends the rest of his day editing those photos for you, making sure that they look as good as possible. he picks out the clearest ones he has of the fight and the aftermath—he got one with that mr. terrific guy and all his tech that he's particularly proud of.
"man, how do you do it?" jimmy asks, after you head out for the day.
"do what?" clark spins around in his chair and furrows his brow.
"seriously?" and clark has the gall to shrug. "it's like every girl here fawns over you."
"they aren't fawning over me, jimmy." clark gestures to two of the interns who are very much staring at jimmy. he waves awkwardly back, and they giggle.
"yeah, but the new girl is."
"is not."
"is too!"
"i promise you, she is not." clark spins around in his chair to face his desk again with a roll of his eyes.
"then explain all of the giggling and the lingering looks and the coffee!" jimmy gestures exasperatedly at the mug on clark's desk. "she doesn't get me coffee."
"maybe she's just quieter than the interns," clark says with a shrug.
"yeah, quieter with me, not you."
clark looks at him like he's said something ridiculous and sighs. "maybe it's for the best that you're a photographer and not an investigative journalist."
"what's that supposed to mean?" jimmy crosses his arms defensively.
"c'mon, i didn't mean it like that. just-" clark pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "you're not asking the right questions, is all."
"not the right-" then it dawns on him with all the subtlety of a brick being flung against his skull. "oh."
"yeah, oh." clark laughs then, and shuts his laptop. he makes quick work of packing his things up while jimmy stands by his desk, visibly buffering.
-
okay, so maybe jimmy is awkward the next morning. maybe he fumbles around the coffee maker for a little longer than strictly necessary in the hopes that you'll walk into the break room. maybe he looks at you for a little longer than strictly necessary, waiting for his shot.
clark is very obviously trying to hold back his laughter when he catches jimmy doing it, and lois does the same—betrayal of the century. he seriously told her, too?
you, on the other hand, seem entirely unaware. you wave politely to jimmy, thank him for the pictures, and continue on your day, business as usual.
this might just be worse than believing you were into clark.
because now he's caught off guard, has had the rug pulled from under him, and he figures it's best not to ask you out in front of the entire office.
but he wants to, dammit. he's itching to talk to you, to make you laugh, to take you out for dinner—or lunch, or to the movies. he'll take anything, really.
he finally gets his shot during clark's lunch break, he rolls his chair over to your desk. the office is mostly empty, except for you, jimmy, and a handful of interns—most people are out getting lunch, really. so, it seems like a great time.
he takes great pride in the small smile you shoot him as he approaches.
"hypothetically, if you were going on a date, where would you go?" he prompts with a grin.
your smile is gone in an instant, replaced by a confused furrow of your brow. "what?"
"y'know, hypothetically."
"uh, i guess the park downtown. why?" in his own head, jimmy cheers. he loves that park.
"okay, so, you want to go there this weekend with me?"
"sorry- me?" you point to yourself like you're not sure he's actually talking to the right person, and jimmy, frankly, has never been more confused.
"yeah...?" why wouldn't it be you?
"this isn't some kind of joke, right? like, clark didn't put you up to this or anything?" he watches with a furrowed brow as you look over your shoulder for any sign of clark.
"um, no?" jimmy is lost, totally and utterly lost. why would clark put him up to this?
"this isn't, like, practice for them?" you point to the interns who have been watching the entire interaction with rapt attention.
"no, i'm pretty sure i'm asking you out."
your confusion melts back into a small, embarrassed smile. he grins back at you. "oh, then, yeah, i'd like that."
"great, i'll pick you up on saturday?"
"sounds great, jimmy." you mirror his wide grin.
he drums his hands on his legs and spins his chair back to his own desk. his heart his racing in his chest, and he can't tamp down his own smile—even when perry calls jimmy into his office to interrogate him about deadlines and photo ops.
when he sees clark laughing with you later and spots the wide-eyed look he gets when you catch him watching, something in his chest flutters. and maybe he's a little embarrassed when clark laughs even harder.
a/n: i LOVED Superman 2025 guys it was so good i saw it twice i have been. thinking a lot of thoughts and krypto is the best character in the film so. in a tag full of clark kent smut i knew i had to write some angst.
warnings: cursing, clark being the best boyfriend, angst but also fluff so, head injuries, hospitals, autistic clark i mean what who said that, canon typical violence, torture (nothing too crazy), kidnapping, i do NOT know how photography, darkrooms or concussions work, pet names, nightmares, lots of kissing, established relationship, not proof read, probably some other stuff but oh well <3
wordcount: 6.4k
summary: your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week.
now playing: gold rush - taylor swift
"what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?/with your hair falling into place like dominoes/my mind turns your life into folklore/i can't dare to dream about you anymore."
MINOR SPOILERS FOR SUPERMAN (2025) AHEAD!
Sunday
The dream starts out like any other. The sun is shining—It’s always shining when Clark dreams. This dream is warm, it feels real.
He’s sitting next to you on a porch swing.
The dreams always start out like this.
Your hand is on his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into your touch.
And in an instant, your hand isn’t your hand anymore—Instead, your skin turns a robotic black and feels like sharp metal against his face. Nanites spread from the tips of your fingers into his nose, and into his mouth—
He’s panicking, using both hands to try and claw the nanites out of his mouth, but they’re like sand, he barely shovels a handful out when twice as many show up, now traveling down his throat to his lungs and up his face.
He can’t breathe. He looks to you for help, but you’re no longer there—The sun is no longer shining, and Superman is all alone. He can’t breathe.
The nanites take over his eyes next and he is plunged into darkness—Alone, scared and unable to breathe. He can’t think, he must be dying. He must be.
“Clark,” He hears a voice from far away. He knows that voice. It’s your voice. “Clark, baby, wake up,” And he can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the darkness starts to shudder like someone’s shaking him. But he follows your voice, stumbling his way through the darkness, attempting to breath until—
He wakes up gasping for air, sitting up in bed, this panicked, frenzied look in his eyes. His hand comes up to his mouth to check for nanites but all he finds is saliva and tears. His heart is racing, but he needs to check if you’re okay. His head turns towards you, and there you are, hair messy from sleeping, in a Smallville Decathlon tee shirt that he outgrew a few months after he got it, and sleep shorts.
His hands come up to rub his face as he attempts to refocus. Everything is fine, he reasons. But everything isn’t fine. Superman doesn’t have nightmares.
Your voice cuts through the sound of him trying to steady his breath as your hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles on it.
“It’s okay, baby, It was just a nightmare.” Your voice is sleepy and far away, but what little energy you can muster at—Clark checks the time—four thirty-two in the morning is focused on him. So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. And after a few minutes he hears you ask, “Wanna talk about it?”
He wonders how much you already know, if he was talking in his sleep. But he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” His throat feels dry, “I didn’t mean to wake you,”
“Don’t be silly, Clark,” You mumble, your hand traveling up now from his back to the ends of his hair, twisting your fingers between curls. You don’t bother saying that it’s fine to wake you if he’s having a nightmare, that he might be Superman, Krypton’s last son, destined to save humankind, but you’d travel to the ends of the earth to help him get a better night’s sleep. You don’t bother saying it because he already knows it.
He just nods before laying back down, trying to focus on deep, soothing breaths. Your brain searches for anything that could be comforting in this moment, but your brain only finds one thing you could do for him in your sleepy state.
“How about I make you some breakfast?” You wonder, because you know that no matter what he says or does, part of him is still in Kansas, always longing for his Pa’s cooking (and conveniently enough, you had been taught by Pa Kent himself how to make French toast just the way Clark likes it the last time you had visited).
Clark smiles just a little.
“Yeah, that would be great.” He says softly, and you move to get up, but he grabs your arm, “Wait, just..” He avoids your gaze as his thumb rubs your skin, “Just.. lay with me a while?”
You smile.
You don’t hesitate to melt back into bed, finding yourself wrapping your arms around him, and he pulls you close like you’re made of feathers. He pulls you up so your head is on his chest, listening to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. Something about the weight of you on top of him, so alive and real, soothes him.
You both fall asleep with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.
Monday
He had only left the room for a minute!
But, for Krypto, a minute was all he needed. He had only agreed to let Krypto visit his apartment after you begged him all day, having an extreme soft spot for his cousin’s awful dog (whom you couldn’t help but fawn over).
Really, Clark couldn’t find it in himself to deny you anything, especially when you asked with the manners of a lady (even though at lunch that day you had eaten tacos with your hands and gotten siracha all over your face).
But he really needed to go take a shower, so—
“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him while I shower?” He wonders, and you just laugh.
“Clark, I know he’s a handful,” He watches as Krypto tugs you around the room by a length of rope you had bought to play tug of war with him. You giggle and stumble around Clark’s living room, “But he’s just a dog, and he likes me! Watch,” You turn to Krypto and say, “Krypto, Sit!” And after raising his ear to listen to you, he sits easily, mouth still latched onto the rope. You grin and begin to pet him, “Good boy, Krypto, who’s my special man?” You coo, and Clark just rolls his eyes.
He looks to Krypto with a defeated sigh, and points to him.
“Hey, dude,” He starts, but Krypto doesn’t stop wagging his tail and staring at you. “Krypto,” He says, and his attention is finally turned to your boyfriend, “Be good, okay?”
Krypto just lets out a bark in response, before beginning to drag you around the living room, and Clark is comforted as he walks out of the room to the sound of your laughter.
Which lasted all of a minute, while he turned on the shower, took off his glasses and loosened his tie—
Bang!
Something had hit the wall next to the bathroom. Clark doesn’t even bother turning off the shower before running back to the living room, met with the sight of you settling onto the couch with Krypto whining by your feet, a fresh head shaped hole in Clark’s wall.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo at the dog, barely noticing Clark, “I’m okay,” But your blinking is slow, and all Clark wants to do was panic. He knows Krypto’s strength, but Krypto hadn’t seemed to realize that you aren’t like him or Kara—your head can’t just take blunt force like theirs could.
“Krypto,” Clark’s voice is sharp in a way neither you nor Krypto are used to, and you just frown,
“It’s not his fault! He just didn’t know,” You start, “Please don’t be mad at him, baby,” You beg. Clark bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you anything. If Kryptonite was Superman’s only weakness, you are Clark’s.
He goes towards you, looking down to Krypto with an unapproving stare, gently tapping the dog with his foot to get him out of the way. To his credit, Krypto does seem guilty, like he really wasn’t aware of his own strength. With Krypto settled next to your feet, Clark kneels down, his hands resting on your knees.
“Sweetheart,” he starts with his soft, Kansas farm boy voice, and you could melt,
“Hi, baby,” You hum, and he can’t help the slight smile he gives.
“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “We need to get you to the hospital.”
You look at him for a long moment.
“..Why?”
Clark sighs. This is going to be tougher than he thought.
“Because I think Krypto gave you a concussion.”
“…Krypto is here?” You wonder, and that’s when Krypto lets out an ‘arf!’ by your feet, causing you to giggle and go to lean down to him, but Clark’s hand gently comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look at him.
“Can you focus on me for a second?” His voice is soft, but it demands your attention. “How about we go to the hospital?”
Your face falls into a frown.
“I.. I don’t like hospitals, Clark, you know that.” And he does. Needles frighten you, and it’s often bright and overstimulating in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.
“I know, honey,” He says, “But if you’re hurt, a doctor could help in a way I can’t,” and there’s really no ‘if’ about it, you have all the classic signs of a concussion.
“But you’re superman!” You whine, and Clark nods,
“I am, but Superman doesn’t have a medical license,” He reminds, and you huff. What’s even the point of dating Superman then?
“I’m not going to the hospital,” You grumble, and Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell you he will go put his suit on and fly you over to the hospital if it would make you go.
“C’mon, honey, what can I do that’ll make you go to the hospital?” He wonders, and your hands find his tie, your fingers curl around the silky fabric.
“..Anything?” You wonder, your eyes wandering up to his pretty face. And because Clark is head over heels in love with you, his answer is instantaneous,
“Anything.” Your hands play with his tie as you bite your lip, a mischievous smile on your face. For a second Clark wonders which of your many wild fantasies you’ll pull out, when you say,
“..Will you let me photograph you as Superman?”
Clark is grateful for your concussion because you don’t notice his momentary hesitation. Clark knows that everyone, including you, is jealous of how often Clark is able to ‘interview’ Superman, but it’s different for you than it is for Lois or Jimmy—you have been trying to get a good photo of Superman for years, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about interviewing Superman; but if you could get photos of Superman, you’d be one of a kind. It would do great things for your career.
But you had never asked Clark. How could you? You didn’t want him to feel like you only started dating him because of his being Superman—It felt wrong. But to be fair, you weren’t exactly in your right mind.
But you hate hospitals.
“Sure.” He says, and it takes you by surprise.
“Really?” And when he nods, you grin and throw your arms around his neck with a giggle. He hugs you tightly, mumbling into your hair,
“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, okay?”
“Okay, baby.”
Tuesday
“Can you tilt your head to the left?”
“Like this?”
“No,” You shake your head with a sigh, stepping towards him and tilting his chin just right in the direction you wanted. He looks ethereal, but real. You snap a few more shots before saying, “Can I get a few shots of your hands?”
Clark’s eyebrows furrow, but he holds out his hands for you.
You had decided that the roof was the best place to take Superman’s picture and today was a bright and sunny day in Metropolis. The cool breeze of late spring moves his cape like he’s the main damn character and you can’t help but wonder if he is.
After a doctor had looked at you and your head yesterday, they also did a couple of scans which did in fact confirm that you had a concussion. But they advised your boyfriend that it wasn’t too bad and that with some rest and Tylenol, it would be good to go back to work on Wednesday.
Clark, being the loving and devoted, and a little overprotective, boyfriend he is, decided to spend the day tending to your every need.
Of course, when you woke up this morning all you wanted (after some Tylenol) was to take pictures of Superman (a deal Clark should’ve known you would remember, despite your concussion). He had managed to get you to relax in the morning, but you were persistent.
“Do our readers want pictures of my hands?” He asked, and you shake your head.
“No, but I really like them, and I am the photographer, so..” You shrugged. You had got plenty of good shots, but you knew you wanted to get the shot. In the rest of the photos that most newspapers, including the Daily Planet, published, Superman is a red and blue streak, barely visible. Which meant that you already had the best shots that anyone in your business had, but you were ambitious—
You wanted the shot of Superman, the one that would be used in years to come, the embodiment of the last son of Krypton.
But you must be staring at him, because he blushes and asks,
“What’s that look for?”
You snap a picture of his pink cheeks.
Then, you say,
“Do me a favor, uh, kind of.. float up a few feet?” You ask, and he does, just a couple of feet off the ground. His cape is still floating in the wind, so you curl your hands into fists and place them on your hips, arms slightly bent. “Okay, pose like this,” Your doting boyfriend obliges and mimics your pose. “Okay, and big smiles,” You direct. Clark attempts to smile, and suddenly you put the camera down, letting it hang around your neck. “Seriously?”
“What—What did I do wrong?” He asks, and you just look at him. His smile was, at best, awkward.
“Your smile, it looks very forced.” You tell him, causing him to sigh.
“It’s hard,” He defends, “I don’t really like getting my picture taken,” And you do know that to be true. When you first started working at the Daily Planet, one of your first assignments was to take updated profile photos for the Daily Planet website. It had made you roll your eyes at first, but in hindsight, you were grateful for it. It was a good way to introduce yourself to everybody.
Lois’ picture came out perfect the first time you took it, her skin practically glowing as you photographed her, asking about your career so far, politely answering questions about hers. You had become fast friends over the ten minutes it took you to capture how beautiful she is. Jimmy used his in his Tinder profile, that is how good you are.
And Clark.
You had immediately been smitten by handsome he was, but you wanted to focus on getting these portraits done. It took you ages to get him to smile in a way that didn’t make him look awkward. Finally, something you had said made him genuinely laugh—
“I guess being that pretty doesn’t mean much when you can’t smile for a picture,” Your voice wasn’t mean, it was actually very warm, and even a bit flirty, “I knew there had to be some kind of catch.”
You two were fast friends, and then you were fast lovers. Why wait when you know something is good?
And after you started dating, you took plenty of pictures of him; Some with your actual camera, some with your phone, and a couple with your polaroid camera. Clark looked good on vintage film.
But he still hadn’t mastered the concept of smiling on command. Maybe it wasn’t really a thing on Krypton, not second nature like it is for you, but you know it’s a weak excuse. You’re pretty sure your handsome boyfriend is just that awkward and humble.
“But you’re so pretty,” You whine, and you see Clark’s lips tug up a bit. “C’mon, think about something you like. Something that makes you happy.” You request, and you watch as Clark’s eyes shut for a moment, as he takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes.
When his eyes land on you, a natural, handsome smile falls onto his face. You act quickly then, kneeling next to him and taking a few shots of him where he looks.. heavenly. The sunshine of the photo highlights how super he really is, and you can just tell that you got it.
Clark can tell too, because you watch as he releases the pose he was in and rests his feet on the ground.
“Got what you need, Miss?” The Superman voice makes you smile, and you walk over to him.
“Need just one more thing,” You hum, your arms wrapping around his neck just as his wide hands rest on your sides. He is inhumanly warm. When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway, and suddenly you’re kissing Superman, and he is so good at it—like he is with everything else he does. Except smiling for pictures.
You don’t even mind when you feel your feet being lifted off the ground, too caught up in the way he grips you tighter to distract you.
Wednesday
Not much had changed in the day that you and Clark were out.
Lois and Jimmy bicker, Steve makes fun of your boyfriend (you threaten to kill him), and Cat asks how your day off was. You don’t bother to try to hide your smile as you tell her you got some good pictures.
“I can’t believe on the day you’re supposed to be resting after a concussion; you decide to take pictures.” Lois says, and you shrug, leaning against her desk.
“They’re really good pictures.” You smile, “I got lucky.” And you had, in so many ways. Besides, Lois would do the same thing in your shoes. You glance over to Clark’s desk and see him absent, so you check your watch. He’s twenty minutes late.
There’s a shot he got caught up doing hero things, but there’s just as good of a shot that he got distracted or something, and you’re really not sure when he’ll be here.
“Where’s boy wonder?” Lois asks, following your longing gaze. You shrug with an adoring smile.
“Probably washing his cape, or something.” You say affectionately, and Lois shakes her head. Whipped, the both of you. “Anyways, I’m gonna go to the darkroom to get some good physical versions of these pictures. Need anything before I go?”
It’s a habit of yours to ask—Sometimes you feel like all you do is take and process pictures, like your job is easier than everyone else’s but your coworkers know that’s only because you love your job so much.
Lois shakes her head and tells you she’ll let Clark know where you are when she sees him. You thank her and take your leave, setting up camp in the darkroom, knowing you’d have to take your time to process each photo. Sure, you could just send Perry digital copies, but the presentation of these physical prints would be too good to miss out on.
You’d have people begging to buy these photos, and it thrilled you. You’d have to give Krypto a big treat next time you see him.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the darkroom, but you were about three quarters of the way through your process when there’s a gentle knock on the door. You don’t even look up, you know who it is, and it’s only confirmed when warm, strong arms wrap around your torso from behind as you hang a photo to dry.
“Hi,” he says, watching you as you work.
“Hey,” You hum, leaning against him with a soft smile. “Late again, huh?”
“Had to help a little kid repair his solar system project after he dropped it on the way to school.” Your heart melts.
“Well, no wonder you’re late.” You say softly, but before you can say anything else, he turns you around with his hands on your hips before his lips are on yours. He tastes like mints and coffee, and you think you could die and go to heaven right now. Your hands rest on the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely brush against his hair.
His hands lift you with ease and sit you on an empty space next to your equipment. He stands between your legs, his glasses pressed against your face, and in between kisses, you push his glasses up to rest in his hair, not wanting the teasing that would come with the mark that they would leave.
He deepens the kiss a bit, but before he can stop himself, he’s mumbling, “Gosh, you’re so pretty,” as he continues to kiss you, and you find yourself smiling against his lips. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.
Your hands travel up a bit, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers within his dark curls. He lets out a content sigh against your mouth and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue through his parted lips, and it seems to egg him on more.
After a moment, you realize you need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Clark’s. Your hands squeeze his biceps, trying to get his attention, but his hands begin to travel up and down your sides, until you eventually pull away, but his mouth chases yours,
“Clark,” You say breathlessly, “Baby, I gotta breathe,” you say, and he just nods,
“Sorry,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, and then to your cheek, “I’m sorry,” and then a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. He forgets that you can’t hold your breath for an hour like he can.
You just smile and lean your forehead against his as you try to catch your breath.
“I’m okay,” You promise, and Clark nods, his lips plump and pink. He looks pretty. After a moment, Clark’s eyebrows furrow when your stomach growls loudly.
“When was the last time you ate?” He wonders, and all you do is shrug. You have that bad habit of forgetting to eat when you get focused on work, and Clark has noticed. Oh, how Clark has noticed.
“Uh,” You shrug, “I had a cup of coffee this morning,”
“That doesn’t count,” He reminds, and then sighs. “Well, I’m starving. Thai or Chinese?” He wonders, and you shrug in response.
“Indian?”
Clark’s lips catch yours in a long, soft kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Perfect.” But the way he looks at you, you’re not sure he’s talking about the suggestion.
Thursday
You can’t contain the grin on your face as you bounce from Perry’s office back to Clark’s desk. You hold today’s issue of the newspaper, and Clark’s article sits on the front page, with your photograph printed above it. His name and yours sit next to each other on the page and Clark is seriously considering getting it framed.
“It’s a great photo,” Lois compliments, looking at her own copy. You grin to her,
“Thanks,” And that’s when Jimmy sighs as he sits back in his chair. You lean against Clark’s desk, who cannot stop staring at you.
“Alright, I give up.” Jimmy sighs, “You’re the better photographer. I mean, you were able to get Superman to what? Pose for you? How’d you do it?” He wonders, and all you can do is shrug, the way you’re smiling has Clark whipped.
“I know a guy,” You grin, and you don’t even look at Clark. He’s so in love with you.
Lois and Jimmy go back to their work, and you finally turn your attention to your adoring boyfriend.
“We should celebrate.” He grins, “Dinner tonight?” He wonders. Admittedly, the two of you would have dinner either way, whether there was something to celebrate or not.
“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You ask, and he smiles.
“Sushi?”
“Sushi.”
Friday
Sushi does not wind up going as planned. In fact, you don’t make it to dinner at all—You get stuck at work after someone spilt coffee on half your prints, so you resign to the darkroom while Superman fights off some big alien robot—
Clark promises to make it up to you, and you just smile affectionately and tell him to go save lives.
It’s technically Friday when you make your way home, Superman is still fighting that robot, but you were spent. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones ache. You daydream about a relaxing weekend with your boyfriend, not knowing that the next few hours would be some of the worst of your life.
You listen to the sounds of Superman punching robots while you walk home and you have this goofy smile on your face. You’ve never been so in love, and it makes it hard to focus on much else—
Including the sound of footsteps approaching.
Later, you would kick yourself for your stupidity, for your carelessness. How could you not hear the heavy footsteps of a man with ill intent?
But you’re knocked out by the butt of a gun before you can hear anything other than the sound of your boyfriend’s laser vision from almost a mile away, marking your second head injury of the week.
When you wake up, your head is killing you, and when you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes you find that your arms are tied to the chair you sit in. You blink away exhaustion and realize you have no idea where you are. This warehouse—You assume it’s a warehouse—is dark and smells like the sea. When you look down, you see dried blood on the floor.
Your heart rate begins to increase, pounding against your chest—but you’re comforted, if only briefly, by the fact that you know as soon as he can, Clark will be here to get you. Then, you remember the robot infestation, and his preoccupation. You might be here for a while, and you have no idea who’s taken you.
Your head hurts.
You begin to wiggle your hands and arms, trying to figure any weak spots in the binds, trying to get out of here before Clark even realizes what has happened.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice pierces through the darkness, and you freeze. You try to remember what Clark said to do in this situation, but your brain is fuzzy and full of fear.
“Whatever it is you think I have,” You force your voice to be stern, unshaken, “You’re wrong.” You say, and the voice laughs. From the darkness comes a small group of people, three or four of them, all dressed in black. On their necks, you see a tattoo—No, not a tattoo. A brand.. A large ‘L’ encased in a circle is branded on each of their necks.
“We’re going to make this very clear for you.” Another one of them talks, “Answer our questions, and we’ll let you go. Give us bullshit, and well..” She gestures to the biggest of them. He’s as tall as Clark, looks as big as him too. “Our friend here has an anger problem. Would be a shame if he had to take it out on you.”
A shiver runs down your spine.
Where is Clark?
“What do you want from me?” You ask, and one holds up Thursday’s Issue of The Daily Planet. The one with your picture of Superman, his heroic smile as bright as the sun behind him.
“You took this picture, right?”
“That’s my name under it, isn’t it?” You ask, your answer dripping with sarcasm—you can’t help it. Under your fear, you’re angry. What right do these assholes have to torture you? But your sarcasm is met with a sharp slap across your face by the big man you were threatened by. Your ears are starting to ring, and your vision unfocuses for a second, but then you nod, “Yes! Yes, I took that picture, Jesus—” You huff.
Of course this is about the picture. No one else in Metropolis has been able to get Superman to pose for pictures.
“How’d you get Superman to pose for you?” One asks, and you shake your head.
“I-I don’t..” Your throat is dry. How could you tell them that his dog gave you a concussion, so he owed you one, on top of the fact that he was the love of your life?
You don’t get the chance to finish, because the big man’s hand comes down in a powerful fist, and hits you in the stomach. You groan in pain, leaning over as you try to catch your breath. Someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back up so he can land another punch to your stomach—and you’re gasping for air, trying to catch your breath after hearing a sharp crack! of your ribs.
This is bad.
Where is Clark?
“How’d you get him to pose for you?” They ask, because of your pain, your vision is blurred, so they all blend together as one—except for this big guy, who stands looming over you.
“He.. He saw me.. taking photos on the roof.. asked me.. if I was okay.” The lie comes out between panted, labored breathes, “I asked.. I swear that’s all..” You say, because you feel tears coming on, and you don’t want them to see you cry.
This goes on for a long time—or maybe it’s not long, you really can’t tell, not between the pain and the fear—the fear of dying, the fear of not being able to see Clark again, the fear of accidentally slipping up and telling them exactly what you know—time becomes a blur.
By the time they ask their last question, you feel like you really might die. You spit blood onto the floor, your vision is unfocused, and your entire body is shaking—from the pain or the fear, you do not know.
But the last question really fucking scares you.
“What’s Superman’s secret identity?” They ask, “Who is he?”
Your face is swollen, bruised, and bloody.
“His name… is Kal-El,” You say, because it’s true, it’s what everyone knows, “He comes from the planet Krypton—” You cry out in pain when you’re hit again, and all you can do is cry, because you just cannot help it. You have nothing left.
Where is Clark?
“He has to be someone in his day-to-day life! Who is he?” They ask again, and you shake your head even if it hurts.
“I don’t know!” You cry out, “I don’t fucking know!” And it’s a lie. Of course you know who he is. You know every detail you can possibly maintain about who Superman is when he’s not saving the world. You know how he loves mandarin oranges and how they look so small in his hands, you know how he ‘doesn’t care for’ pickles because he cannot bring himself to really hate anything, you know how one day, he wants to have two kids, a boy and a girl, you know how eye contact turns him on, and you know how gentle he is despite his size. But you can’t tell them any of that.
You’re about to pass out. You can’t take much more of this, and they know it. Your chest is heaving, up and down with labored breaths. It hurts to breathe. You can barely make out the image of someone pulling out a gun, probably the same gun that had knocked you out earlier.
And then it all happens in an instant.
To your right, you hear the smashing of glass as something—no, someone, someone flies through the window, and before you can even turn your head, strong, warm arms wrap around you, snapping the ropes around your arms and flying off, out of this warehouse and into the sky, filled with the warm yellows and oranges of dawn.
There he is.
Wind whips through your hair, and you relish the idea that you’re alive. You know your injuries are not life threatening, you’ll be okay.
Through the sounds of the wind and the ringing in your ears, you can hear him talking, gently, as if he’s afraid that speaking louder might hurt you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” and despite how badly you want to reassure him that you’re okay, all you can do is curl into him as your vision fades, and you’re plunged into darkness.
Clark pushes himself to fly faster when he feels you go limp in his arms.
When you wake up, you’re in a hospital.
You hate hospitals.
You’re not strapped down or anything, not hooked up to anything.. but your wounds are cared for, and instead of pain, you feel kind of.. floaty. Whatever they gave you for the pain is working wonders. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you think—
Where is Clark?
As if he can read your thoughts, and in your high on pain killers state, you think maybe he can, he walks back in. He moves quickly to sit by your side, his hands clasping around yours. If he owed you one for Krypto giving you a concussion, he owes you a million for this. He’s sick to his stomach at the sight of you, and all you want to do is pull his stupid glasses off his face.
“Hey,” You smile, and somehow, Clark’s frown only deepens.
“Hi.. How are you feeling?” He asks, and you shrug.
“Mm.. Floaty.” You confess, and it seems to take him off guard.
“Floaty?”
“Yeah, whatever they gave me for the pain is really working.” You confess, and you see him smile just a bit. You think about his awkward forced smile when he’s asked to take a picture, and you begin to giggle, even if it hurts your ribs.
“What’s so funny?” He asks, his chin rests on his hands that encompass yours, and his voice just a murmur, because nothing about this is funny to him.
You just shake your head, and ask,
“Can we go home?” His blue eyes stare into yours, and he sighs,
“The doctors say—”
“Clark, I don’t care.” And the slight break in your voice makes him stop, “Please, just.. take me home. I want to shower, and eat something, and—” he nods.
“Okay, yeah. Let’s go home.” He says gently, helping you sit up. He can tell you’re exhausted and even though you’re feeling no pain right now, you’d be much more comfortable at home. Besides, Clark had taken every single word the doctor said to heart, so he knows how to take care of you from here, he could probably recite it in his sleep.
On the way home, Clark fills you in on everything—The people who took and tortured you were Luthorcorp Followers, devoted to find out everything they could about Superman in the name of their old boss. Having taken the only good photos of Superman currently in the press, you had become an immediate target for them. Clark had spent a long time feeling guilty about these facts as he waited for you to wake up.
If your head wasn’t cloudy, you’d notice the longing stare of your boyfriend, who’s fingers twitched to scoop you up and fly you home, keep you there forever, and never give the world the chance to hurt you again. You got hurt because he was Superman, and he’s not sure if he can forgive himself for the position he put you in.
What would have happened if you were more seriously hurt? …What would have happened if he got to you a moment too late?
It’s all Clark can think about as he watches you down the sandwich he made you, hungrier than you had been in ages. And you’re so tired. But you frown when you watch Clark across the table, looking.. sad. But he had saved you, what was there to be sad about?
Wordlessly, you push the plate in front of you with half a sandwich towards him. Immediately, he shakes his head and nudges it back towards you.
“You’re starving,” He reminds, “And besides, I’m not hungry.”
You give him a look.
“You’re always hungry, baby,” You remind, pushing the plate back to him. He shakes his head,
“Not tonight.” He says, and you sigh.
“Denying yourself food won’t change what happened. I’m fine, Clark—”
“But you aren’t.” He says, and his voice is tight like he’s terrified of the reality of it, “You got kidnapped, and.. and really hurt, because I’m Superman, and I can’t.. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt worse, or..” He trails off, because even saying it is too real for him. He’s looking at you, cut up and bruised, holding half a grilled cheese, and he wishes he could take this entire week back.
“But I’m okay.” You remind. “And I love you. I know what the risks are, okay? But I love you too much to stay away from you, and I love you too much to ask you to stop fulfilling your life’s purpose. This might have happened anyways.” You say, and nudge the plate towards him. “Here. Eat. For me, please?”
And because Clark can’t deny you anything, he reaches forward and takes the second half of the sandwich, and the two of you eat quietly, tears brimming both of your eyes, the day finally catching up to you.
Saturday
You wake up gasping for air. You can’t remember what your nightmare was about, but Clark’s arms are around you before you even turn your head to look at him.
He holds you close, petting your hair.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you.. It was just a nightmare, sweetheart. You’re alright.” He says gently, and he listens to the sound of your heartrate slow. Tears are running down your face, and you attempt to mumble out something—an apology or maybe an explanation—but he just shushes you softly. “It’s okay.” He assures, and it is.
Because Superman protects people—It’s what he does. And you’re his favorite person. He’ll always come to find you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.
The thought alone is enough to drag you both back to sleep, with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.
a stressful day has you running to clark, and he knows just how to set you straight.
a/n: more superman hehe i have so much motivation all of a sudden
cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, comforting, thigh riding, praise, pronebone <3, finger sucking, putting r in a headlock, he's soooo nice and soooo horny
wc: 2.3k
mlist
(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )
Bang.
The door shuts harder than you intended, but you can barely bring yourself to wince. Feet aching, you kick off your heels, shoving them haphazardly into the shoe rack by the door. Roughly hanging up your coat and bag, you shuffle into the living room in socked feet.
Your head’s killing you, a hand drifting up to rub at your temple. It’s like you have no awareness of anything around you, exhaustion narrowing your focus until all you can think about is this no-good, shitty day.
Clark looks up from his spot on the sofa, and the weight on your chest lifts for a moment, but everything still suffocates. He can tell immediately, of course he does, lifting an arm to beckon you over as he puts away his book.
You pad over without preamble, collapsing like a pile of limbs in his lap. A soft sigh leaves him, chest rumbling against yours as he rearranges you, biceps bulging as he lifts you into straddling his thighs, pulling your arms over his shoulders.
There’s silence for a few seconds, Clark gazing into your eyes as you look off into the middle distance, mind stuck on everything but this moment.
He squeezes your waist lightly.
“What is it, baby?”
It takes a beat, but the words slowly come.
“I don’t— I don’t know why I’m all… like this, but…”
He rubs an encouraging hand up your back, bringing stinging to your eyes.
“I just had a shitty day. That presentation to the board was all messed up, the projector didn’t work and then I think they all got an email because they weren’t paying attention, then my manager gave me so much to do in like, less than a week, and—”
The all-consuming pressure starts up again, and the words dry up.
Clark’s hands have migrated up, cupping either side of your face with a tenderness that makes you want to melt into him, if you could. His large thumbs swipe away the tears that drop to the apples of your cheeks, bringing a soothing heat with them.
“Oh, honey…”
He’s more than experienced with all of your moods, but this one has only come up a couple of times in your relationship. When you get like this, stuck too far in your brain to be able to crawl out alone, you can be coaxed in different ways.
“What do you need? I’ll give it to you, anything.”
He lowers his forehead to press it against yours.
You might need slow comfort, a bath with his searing-hot chest against your back. Or you could want to stay still, listen to his breathing until your quickened breaths slow to match his. Otherwise…
“Can you… Can you fuck me? Please?”
The plaintive request is followed by a heartbreaking sniffle, and he all but liquefies for you.
Right. Sometimes you need to be overwhelmed by him, so much so that no other thought can even penetrate your mind. You need him to take the reins for once, to let you ride it out until even the notion of stress evaporates.
He can’t lie, he relishes when you let him take care of you like this.
“Yeah, baby. Of course I will.”
Just the assent seems to relax you a little, your shoulders dropping just a little from where they were nearly touching your ears.
A rush of pride runs through him. Knowing that he can have such an effect on you is a heady, intoxicating feeling.
With a kiss to your temple, you feel his hands slip down to your thighs, wrapping your legs securely around his middle. With a soft grunt, he maneuvers up off the sofa, fingers tightening indulgently on the plush of your ass over your slacks as he guides you both into the bedroom.
For a moment, all you feel is the warmth of his hands on your body, his hips against your pelvis. Once he lays you back on the sheets, you’re yearning for him, for him to get you better.
“Please, Clark, want you to fix it.”
He nods down at you, laying his body over yours with careful precision. You love the feeling of his weight pressing against the length of your body, but you know he’s being cautious, making sure enough of him is braced on his elbow and knee so he won’t crush you.
“I will, just gotta be patient. Can you do that for me?”
His words have slowed, the enunciation much more pronounced. It causes your back to straighten subconsciously, your body reacting to his implicit command without a thought.
The room quiets until all you can hear is the drone of downtown Metropolis outside, and Clark’s slow, measured breaths. His hands have started to wander, broad, sweeping strokes up and down your side until his deft fingers meet your waistband.
“Taking off your pants, sweetheart.”
You nod automatically, hips raising so he can pull off your slacks and panties in one go. His mouth has lowered to your jaw, lips brushing over the sensitive skin, making you shudder.
“Want your shirt on or off?”
It’s muttered against your jaw, teeth scraping softly against you after his question. You need a few seconds to process it, but your answer comes quickly.
“Off, please.”
He nods his assent, fingers slipping under your shirt and pushing the fabric up your chest. Raising your arms before he can ask, you allow him to shuck off both the shirt and bra, leaving you bare below him.
His hands get to work immediately, greedily grabbing handfuls of flesh wherever he can. Groping at your chest, your stomach, your thighs, your thoughts follow him, reacquainting yourself with your body.
His mouth has returned to your jaw, travelling the expanse of your neck to settle on your collarbone.
“My smart girl, aren’t you? Always working so hard.”
He bites your skin softly, as if punctuating his statement. It prompts you to arch your back, pressing your body to him as hard as you can. You want him to get to it.
“I know, I know. Be good, I’ll give you what you want.”
You’re expecting him to shift so his hand can snake down to the apex of your thighs, but he grips your waist firmly instead. In a sudden movement, he flips your positions on the bed, rearranging you so he’s the one settled against the many pillows, your legs spread to accommodate the bulk of his thighs under you.
“Clark?”
Without responding to your question, he shifts you again, so your bare cunt is angled over one mouthwateringly wide thigh.
“I want you to get yourself there like this, baby. Can you do that for me?”
You’re a bit caught off guard, having expected him to lay you down and do the work for you, like he always does. But you can’t lie, his thigh does feel good pressed up against you, and you trust him.
“I… Yeah. Yeah, I can.”
He shows his appreciation with a firm squeeze to your ass, lips curling up into a smile against your neck.
You begin slowly, dragging your hips against the rough texture of denim over muscle. You’d expect it to be harsh, but every shift sends sparks up your spine, pleasure tinged with pain slowly bringing you back down to Earth.
Clark doesn’t part from you, his large hands helping you move along his leg, mouth practically glued to any inch of skin he can access.
It’s like you’ve fallen into a trance, tunnelvision until all you can think about is his thigh under you and his hands on you.
“Clark, Clark, I—”
He soothes you with a soft cooing sound, lips travelling up to your forehead.
“I know, baby. Feels good, huh? That’s good!”
His hands spur you on further, hips bucking wildly against him. There must be a wet patch on his jeans by now, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“You deserve to feel good, deserve— You deserve everything.”
His voice is ragged, as if he’s the one getting off right now. Judging by the size of the tent in his pants, you suppose he is.
You’re single-minded now, your only goal being getting yourself there. That just-out-of-reach, intangible climax that you’ll do anything to get. Clark seems to understand, his hands forcing you down further in his lap, grinding his thigh up until you cry out.
He’s hit a perfect angle, pressing deliciously against your clit while giving you enough friction to want to hump him like a bunny. You’re damn near doing that anyway, hips moving incessantly against him.
You’re cresting, getting higher and higher until, all at once, the wave comes rushing towards you, and you crash. Pleasure continues to arc up your spine, and you realise Clark was right.
Your mind’s returned to you, and you feel more yourself than you did half an hour ago. It’s frankly overwhelming, and you choose to bury your face in his chest.
Clark laughs breathlessly, a hand coming up to pet your hair affectionately.
“Yeah? Feeling better?”
It takes some time before you’re recovered enough to come out, peering up at him with your chin pillowed on his chest.
“Yeah…”
Your thought’s unfinished, though, and he knows it. He waits patiently for you to pipe up again.
“But Clark?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Can we still fuck?”
He can’t help but laugh, chuckles vibrating his chest until you join him in his mirth. It takes him a moment until he can sober up, but you know he won’t deny you.
“Of course, baby. I’m never going to say no to that.”
With that, he surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing, filthy kiss that puts you in a haze.
Even within that haze, you’re eagerly moving, knowing exactly what you want.
He watches you get off his lap, watches as you stretch your legs out with a languid moan, and watches as you settle on your stomach on the sheets next to him, looking up with a cheeky grin.
“This okay?”
Your Cheshire-cat grin only widens when you see him scramble to tear off his clothes, feeling him settle on his knees between your parted legs.
You know he loves to have you like this, lying prone under him as he gets to overwhelm you with everything he’s got. But this is also for you. The feeling of him laying all his weight on you from behind never fails to ground you, and this will do wonders for bringing that last bit of you out from the cold.
He lays his body over yours gingerly, pelvis pressing to your ass as he makes sure his weight is distributed evenly over you. It pushes a satisfied sigh from your lips, feeling rooted to the spot in the most wonderful way.
It doesn’t hurt that you can feel the fervent heat of his cock, nestled between your thighs. You can feel that one vein of his pressed up against your slit, shuddering with anticipation as you recall how it feels inside you.
One arm is laid on the bed next to your head, forearm so close that you could bite it. His other arm moves down, down, until he can grab himself, lining him up with your dripping entrance.
With a tender kiss to the nape of your neck, Clark pushes forward.
The burning stretch is blissful, the weight of his body on top of yours even more so. The gasps and moans leave your mouth unbidden by you, unable to resist the allure of his slow, solid thrusts.
The vein is nudging perfectly against your walls, and the near-suffocating feeling gets your head right.
“Good— God, you feel good. You good, baby?”
“Y-yeah, feels so good, Clark,”
You can’t finish your sentence, a particularly dirty grind of his hips against yours robbing you of the ability to speak. Each knock of his pelvis against you leaves you openmouthed, craving just a little more.
His hand is right there, by your face, if you could just…
It’s like he can hear your thoughts, moving his left hand so he can cup your jaw a little.
“What is it, babe? Y’want something… Oh.”
You don’t bother asking, craning your neck so you can envelop two fingers with your lips.
The rough pads of his fingers brush against your tongue, and you feel sated, finally. He smells exactly like he should, soap, sweat, and something uniquely him that has you humming around his digits.
A deep, guttural groan looses itself from his throat as he feels you suck on his fingers, sending yet another shiver down your spine. As if possessed, his free hand moves up to your neck, the length of his arm carefully wrapping around your most vulnerable area.
He’s put you in a headlock, and you’ve been sent to heaven.
Crowding you even further into the sheets, Clark lets loose, drunk on the sight of you. Gone are the slow, soft movements. Instead, he’s rutting feverishly into you, chasing the high that you’re approaching as well.
With the cumulative pressure of his fingers on your tongue, his bicep digging into your throat, and the sounds of his moans, it’s no surprise that you’re falling apart nearly immediately. Tremors run through the length of your body, and you know your leg would be shaking if he didn’t have you pinned down.
Clark, ever the giver, reaches his peak at the first sight of yours. His hips stutter once, twice, against you, until he pushes in as deep as possible, as if to ensure you’ll stay right there.
You have no reason to leave, not when the stress that weighed you down has been lifted off your shoulders with his careful hands.
jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love / 6.8k
tags. coworkers with history + the junleb trinity of stolen glances/pretend apathy/nosy friends. daily planet silliness
— i've been wanting to write a fic like this and david's sweet kind face said yes…. kisses 2 oomfs irl for beta <33
Jimmy watches as Lois throws her hands up, exhausted. “I'm killing someone after this.”
“Please don't,” Clark pipes up from the coffee machine. Darkness has set in over Metropolis, decorated with the year-round Christmas lights of traffic and skyscraper displays. It’s late enough that the graveyard janitors are starting their shift.
Clark scoots back over, gingerly balancing three steaming Styrofoam cups, sure to join the hundred others stacked up in the corner Lois’ desk. Jeez, she’s a great writer, but Jimmy’s kind of worried about her coffee addiction.
“You know who we need?” Lois asks, accepting the cup. She leans back in her chair, takes a sip and peers over the rim with her eyes narrowed down. Then she jerks her finger toward a desk, empty, but piled high with camera bags.
Oh. You.
Clark must be tuned into the same wavelength that Jimmy’s on, because they’re both sharing a look and adamantly shaking their heads.
It’s not that Jimmy hates you. In fact, you’re admirable, even though he doesn’t get the chance to talk with you much. He doesn’t know about Clark, but since you transferred from the Gotham Gazette, the office has been...weird.
You make a point to move if Clark sits a chair too close during meetings. And yeah, Clark can be clumsy, but accidentally hip-checking your desk on the daily is too suspicious.
Hell, when Cat Grant is making theories, it’s serious—I bet the lore is deep, she said at Mr. White’s surprise, in-office birthday party, like, plagiarism and CIA assassination deep.
Even if you and Clark weren’t mortal co-worker nemeses, the two of you are on opposite—no, completely different spectrums. For Superman’s sake, you’re a World Press nominee, one of the highest recognitions in photography. And Clark is...well.
Clark is just himself with all his slouched, ‘I’ve got a really weird intuition thing’ glory.
And he’s also Jimmy's best work friend, minus the fact that he’s MIA for what seems like half the work day.
“You know we need her,” Lois mutters bitterly, taking another slow sip. Clark looks anywhere but at her, shifty. “Come on, just for one photo. It’ll really help the exposé.”
She says it in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way, the subtle singsong tone she takes when she knows no one would ever think about disagreeing with her. It’d be great ifs and could you help withs, that’s Lois Lane. She’s used it plenty of times, mostly during interviews to get a quote she wanted.
Jimmy, an unwilling victim, has learned that Lois is very persuasive when she wants to be.
Eyes crinkled with mirth, she smiles at the two of them, close-mouthed. Jimmy doesn’t know how she does it, spending days hammering away at an article and still having the energy to throw her weight around.
“Just this once?”
He looks at Clark, who looks back at him. A kind of silent pact forges in their sidelong eye contact, trying to see how long they can go resisting Lois. Her smile widens by a fraction, knowing that it’s just a matter of time.
Clark breaks first, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair.
“Okay,” he sighs out, collapsing in the nearest chair. It creaks under his weight, threatening. Speaking of which, Jimmy doesn’t really get how the biggest guy on the block can still be a loser dork (affectionate). A mystery for the greats, he supposes.
“But,” Clark says, scanning Lois over the rims of his thick glasses. He tugs his collar by a smidge, faintly displeased, or uneasy, “I’m doing it tomorrow.”
“Fine by me,” she grins, reaching over to shut down her monitor. It goes dark, sapping the blue glow that Jimmy’s gotten so used to. He blinks a few times to get rid of the spots that dance in his vision, then stretches. “Take Jimmy with you. Some people just need a face like his for some convincing.”
Jimmy perks up at the mention of his name, arms still raised up. The idea of him being attractive to you is slightly scary. Even more so than the unanswered girls in his DMs, because you're like, the greatest of the greats.
...Okay, subjectively speaking. But he’s been subscribed to your photo collection for years when you were still with the Gazette. You’re the camera Superman of the modern generation to him.
So excuse him when he jumps for the chance, eager.
“Yeah, Clark,” he blurts. “I’ll help!”
Lois grins, smug. Aw, shit. Jimmy’s fallen into the trap for Clark—hook, line and sinker.
—
“So, what's the deal with him and…”
Hint-hint, nudge-nudge.
Jimmy doesn’t want to say your name too loud, lest Clark’s weird hearing picks it up. Even though said man is halfway down the street in the opposite direction, he’s heard stranger things from farther and louder places before.
A little bird told me, and all that.
On late nights like this, it’s customary for Lois to walk Jimmy to the station downtown since she lives there. It’s the nearest part of the central city to Bakerline, where the island and mainland are connected by bridge and underground train.
They worked out this routine months ago, and it’s well-oiled enough for Clark—the Midtown Man—to know that Jimmy is in safe-ish hands, if he doesn’t get baited into an impromptu investigation.
Lois exhales through her nose, amused. “You really haven’t seen it?”
“I mean,” Jimmy stutters, dragging the scuffed soles of his sneakers along the downhill sidewalk. A loose pebble of concrete skitters away, landing in a patch of weeds sprouting from between the pavement cracks. “I know they’ve got some weird thing. Cat thinks it’s gotta do with the CIA.”
She laughs, fuller and louder. Jimmy checks over his shoulder—safe. Clark, silhouette now smaller, is still walking straight on, probably whistling a tune to himself.
“Kind of. Not really. Cat thinks a lot of things,” Lois decides. Objectively correct: Cat drinks rumors for breakfast. Not enough for the front page, but enough that Steve has a crazy long browser history trail because he actually believes her.
She squints and tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Clark never really said much about it, but I did find a polaroid of them in his wallet. Captioned cider and cowboy, whatever that means.”
Ah, the perks of being an award-winning journalist. Clark probably forgot that ratty leather thing on his chair again, leaving Lois to stake her claim on the prime real estate of other people’s business. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if his own wallet had been in her hands. She probably knows more about him than even Clark does.
Jimmy whistles, “So, bitter exes?”
“Maybe from a long time ago,” she agrees, nodding lightly. “They looked pretty young, like high school.”
“Oh, bitter sweethearts.” That’s a hundred times worse. No wonder you both act like you’ll catch the plague being around each other.
Weirdly, he can imagine it. Clark, skinnier and in the threadbare red flannel from Smallville that Jimmy spotted one winter, layered under Clark’s suit jacket for warmth. You, probably with your arms around each other, in the same Midwest, buttfuck nowhere fashion.
“Mhm, that’s what I was thinking.”
Jimmy’s still trudging forward when he notices the weird silence. He glances back to see that Lois stopped ten feet away, a curious glimmer in her eyes, jaw shifting. She looks at Jimmy, that mastermind smirk already blooming on her face. Jimmy stares, questioning, and kind of worried.
She catches up with a full-blown grin and her hands in her pockets, posture too wound up to be casual.
“Why are you—oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not good bait!”
“How do you feel about a little case on the side?”
—
When Clark Kent enters the office, it isn’t without a wall of apologies as he squeezes between his coworkers. Almost six and a half feet, so he sticks out painfully, like Superman in a sea of civilians—except there’s no way he’s Superman, of course.
(It’s kind of ironic once you think about it, how big Clark is. You don’t really realize it until you’re turning away from a conversation and bumping those thick glasses right off his nose. How long has he been standing there? No one knows.)
Jimmy chases him into the revolving door, the lemonade he picked up from the bodega across the intersection sloshing around in its waxed, paper-plastic cup. Skidding to a stop, he catches his breath as Clark apologizes in a low voice for taking up space in the doorway.
They scoot forward, shoes squeaking against the marble tiles of the entryway. Foot traffic is slower than usual today, aggravated by the door. Jimmy thinks to tell the Chief that the rotator mechanism needs oiling, but he knows it’ll only get done six months after he brings it up.
“You’re not late this time,” Jimmy quips, inching along. The wings of the door finally open, washing a fresh wave of air over him. Thank god, he was about to start sweating through his shirt.
Clark lets out a breathy little laugh, not quite believing it himself. “Yeah.”
He looks kind of…excited? Kiddish, if that’s the right word. Posture finally having an effort put into it and head held high, like he’s searching for something.
Oh.
Did Clark get up extra early—or rush through his morning routine, or run instead of walk to work, et cetera et cetera—just ‘cause he finally has an excuse to talk to you? Jimmy can’t quite believe it either.
Clark Kent, the supposed bitter high school ex of yours doesn’t seem so bitter anymore, grinning wider than he has this entire week.
They squeeze into the elevator together, pushed against the back wall where the speakers croon corporate, scrubbed jazz into Jimmy’s ears. He grimaces at the artificial saxophone riff, too clean without the surrounding chaotic raff that he loves in improvised jazz.
“It’s just for five minutes,” Clark mutters, craned weirdly with his satchel clutched to his chest, shoulders titled at an absurd angle as to make sure Jimmy can hear. “Small talk, right?”
“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Jimmy replies, sloshing his lemonade around to see how much he has left. Half a cup, which will last him thirty minutes before he needs to run for the nearest vending machine. Maybe he could ask an intern instead—they like him a lot.
The mental plan to get hopped up on soft drinks for the whole day doesn’t deter Jimmy’s pondering about your and Clark’s relationship for long, though.
“...Do you hate her?”
Clark goes silent for a moment, pondering as a plucked bass melody joins into the sax’s fray. Quiet, “I don’t hate her. We just…haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Bitter breakup or something?” Jimmy tests.
Clark doesn’t scowl or push his hand up under his glasses for an eye rub. He just sighs, a heavy and burdened kind of exhale. Forlorn, gaze unfocused and directed at something on another plane entirely.
“Not really. I don’t know, maybe?” A defeated sigh. “I guess you could say that.”
The elevator lets out a pleasant ding when they get to their floor, and Jimmy dogs behind a slumped Clark.
Just a minute ago, he was all sunshine and smiles about you. Flipped the script and shot the plot, and now he’s moping his way into the office at the slightest suggestion of feeling hatred. Fuck, this guy’s a total sap.
“Come on,” Jimmy says. He slaps a hand onto Clark’s back, urging him along toward your desk. “Just think about it this way: if you start talking again, maybe you’ll be on better terms.”
Clark picks up speed, just a little. Still hiding the pep he wants to put in his step, but Jimmy can tell all the same.
Your desk hasn’t changed in the ten or so hours since he left last night. Still a whirlwind of organized chaos, every corner still stuffed with camera equipment.
Except, you’re there now, computer screen painting your face in bright blue light instead of the empty chair Lois had pointed at earlier. And the stupid thing is, Clark starts lagging behind Jimmy, suddenly enthused to stay the reserved man everyone thinks he is.
He stutters in his gait, runs his fingers through messy hair once, then twice, and then gingerly—so slow and delicate—unwinds his arms from around that old satchel. The leather bag peels off the front of Clark’s chest comically, like a poster slowly falling off a wall.
Jimmy almost snorts.
Lois is right. Once you start looking, you can’t unsee it.
(“I’m just saying,” she said last night, boots clicking against the pavement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, too restrained to really be casual conversation. Jimmy knows that look on her—she’s hooked on a story, and trying to sell it at the same time. “They look at each other like they’re still in love.”
He scoffed. “No way.”
“Just see for yourself,” Lois shrugged, pulling ahead. Then, like nothing had ever happened, like the notion of you and Clark together despite it all had never existed, “Come on, you’re gonna miss the last train.”)
Jimmy is pulled out of his flashback by a cough. Back to present.
You’re turned around in your chair, monitor displaying a default login screen. Vaguely, he remembers you tapping the lock button on your keyboard the moment he stepped within five feet of your desk.
Jesus, insanely private people these Gazetteers are. Jimmy’s heard stories of coworkers sniping each other's scoops in Gotham, but he didn’t think it’d translate into borderline supersenses. Good thing you’ve moved to Metropolis, where the only journalists you’ll be afraid of are Lois or Cat trying to worm a confession out of you.
“Hi, Olsen. Need something?” You give him a mild, porcelain-polite smile—typical Gothamite manners. Doesn’t quite reach your eyes, which are low lidded in the daylight and rimmed with a faint red.
You look exhausted. As if you haven’t really gotten used to the light in Metropolis, squinting because not being in the dark of Gotham is hurting your eyes and circadian rhythm.
He lets out an embarrassing ‘uhhh’ before his thoughts can catch up. Then, he does as Lois does, and jerks Clark forward by the elbow. The man’s body protests more than Jimmy thought it would, shoes super-glued to the floor.
What the hell is this guy made of?
Jimmy tugs again, and Clark finally snaps into it, stumbling forward like a thrown ragdoll. His glasses sit lopsided on his face as he stares.
You give him a look, one that seems almost telepathic, and the words just start pouring out.
It’s like Jimmy never existed. He watches as Clark mumbles out his words, little fragments of ‘Lois wanted’ and ‘sent me’ and ‘it would be…appreciated,’ said in the way questions are reluctantly asked.
You look at Clark, and only Clark. Head tilted, elbow propped on the edge of your desk and temple cradled by your fingers. Eyes never leaving, like his voice is the only sound in the world. Like you’re trying to cling onto every single one of his words so you can commit them to paper later.
And Clark doesn’t even look at Jimmy for help, eyes naturally attracted to yours. He can’t pull away, it almost seems like.
Launching into a soft-spoken spiel about the background of Lois’ exposé, he details sources and photo-ops and how he ‘really shouldn’t be telling you this because it might be dangerous, but I wanted you to know that—’
Now Jimmy’s sold on Lois’ side-quest, or whatever she called it.
If there are any other explanations in the entire universe for two people looking at each other like it’s the last time, speak now. No? Going once, going twice? Alright: it’s love.
Let's put aside the mysterious estrangement and the tense incidents that have everyone convinced of your mutual hatred. Despite it all, you’re still looking at Clark with the sweetest face Jimmy has ever seen on you, and Clark is standing up taller, chest almost puffed out.
"We’re talking about it over dinner on Saturday, if you wanna come,” Clark says, a soft sort of grin lighting up his face. It’s not the awkward, left side of the face scrunched smile that usually comes when someone cracks a bad joke. This one is kinder, shredded wide-open.
Yearning.
“You sure?”
“Lois won’t mind,” he shrugs, and holy shit—Jimmy did not know Clark’s pupils could dilate like that. Like dinner-plate wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around an uncanny pool of tar. Kind of alien, if he really had to put a word to it. “It’ll be like the old days.”
Your hand falls slowly to rest on your desk. You sit up straight, posture conditioned. Just like that, you’ve hardened back up again, porcelain-polite mask sitting over your face. Cracked over the mouth, just a little, clay falling apart in the way your lips curve sadly down.
“I just saw Lois,” you breathe out with a half-hearted head tilt. Jimmy follows it, and sure enough, a familiar dark-haired troublemaker is squeezing out of the elevator. “I’ll talk to her about it.”
“Great,” Clark says, morphing back to his usual posture. “That’s great.”
You swallow, giving him a single, curt nod. “See you.”
Copying you, he draws his mouth into a terse line. Softly, with a sick gleam in his eyes that could make Jimmy almost throw up at, “Yeah.”
Clark moves faster than he can say ‘Daily Planet.’ Jimmy looks back, incredulous, at how fast the man skitters back to his own desk without bumping into a single person.
He has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on.
Instead, he scoots on over to Cat’s desk, weaving through a group of interns who smile and wave and offer him a coffee. The gossip writer is already staring at him, eyes wide behind her huge cat-eye glasses as she fiddles with her golden earrings—a habit when she knows she has a story.
“I rescind my CIA theory,” she whispers, twirling a strand of hair around her painted finger. Cat nods as if she’s trying to convince herself of it. “They’re definitely dating.”
“Nah,” Jimmy says, leaning an elbow on the wall of her cubicle. “Hear this: bitter exes.”
She gasps. Actually looking concerned, she hides her mouth behind the back of her hand. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
He nods, glancing back for a moment. Clark is trying to hide it, but he’s never been the subtle type—answering a phone call, he leans back in his seat, and Jimmy can trace his gaze right back to you talking with Lois.
Jimmy kind of wants to hit the two of you over the head for being so stupid.
Cat hums, clearly seeing it too. Grimacing, she taps her index finger against her chin. “Oh, yeah, definitely.”
—
This must be karma with a side of cosmic comedy.
Jimmy supposes that while it’s one thing to speculate that his co-workers are in love with each other, it’s an entirely different thing to spy on them. But it isn’t his fault. Scout’s Honor!
If anyone should receive fury from the gods, it’s Cat. She made him do it.
…And he complied. Just one picture, though. Nothing more, nothing less, but it was enough to capture evidence of you and Clark, frozen in surprise on the six-inch display of Jimmy’s phone.
(“Take it!” Cat hisses, nudging him below the ribs. Ouch—sharp elbows.
“I don’t have my camera!” Jimmy panics, patting himself down like a swarm of ants are crawling all over his body. Where is that damn phone?
The photo-op before them: Clark, hunched over his keyboard, picking out the words in his article one by one; you, giving him a hard sidelong stare over the lip of your coffee cup. This has happened multiple times in one way or the other.
Clark looks at you, and you look at him—never at the same time, though. It’s always with some wounded, twisted kind of longing in both of your eyes, one that reminds him of an animal trapped in the bushes. Scared of stepping out but needing it so badly at the same time.
“Hurry,” Cat urges, gesturing her arms in your direction. She's like an animated Italian grandpa, Jimmy thinks, fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He can see Clark shaking his head to himself, not quite happy with his article, and you smother a smug grin into your coffee. “She’s looking!”
Clark spins around immediately—as if he heard the gossip columnist’s urgently whispered cries from across the damn newsroom and needed to see it for himself—and freezes when he makes eye contact with you. You nearly choke, eyes wide, brows furrowed.
Jimmy’s thumb finds the shutter button.
End of story.)
What he doesn’t get is why the hell it isn’t his phone, but his cameras that are cursed. He almost cried handing over his two beloved Nikons to the repairman and sobbed for real into his pillow when he found out both their mirrors were jammed and needed to stay in the shop for a business week.
“But it only took a few hours last time!” he protested. The repairman just shook his head sadly and stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the rack of repairs, nearly buckling under the weight of fifty-something cameras.
Now, back at the office with zero equipment and a hundred photo-ops, Jimmy feels peeved, and kind of crazy.
Lois frowns, leaning back in her rolling chair. Clark is out of the office for lunch again, an occurrence that’s become too common. He’ll probably be back in ten minutes, saying that the foot traffic was terrible because Superman was doing loops in the sky.
“I did say that mirrorless cameras were better,” she says, giving him that I told you so look. “Less moving parts and a better sensor.”
Jimmy sulks with a soda in hand, sucking air through the straw and making the wheezing, burbling sound a finished drink always makes. He mutters, mostly to himself, "A mirrorless isn't as romantic as a DSLR.”
Lois’ face pulls in on itself—definitely judging. “You’re gonna say some shit like ‘a camera is like a woman,’ aren’t you?”
He nods, solemnly clutching his fist tight and placing it over his heart. “A camera is like a woman.”
“I have to say that I agree.”
Jimmy nearly shrieks and jumps in his chair, a shiver ripping along his spine.
You’re leaning your right elbow on the short, thick wall on the side of his desk with a small smile cracking over your lips. An old-looking camera bag is slung across your body, the dark strap stark against the washed-out maroon of the crew neck sweater you’re wearing.
(Smallville Giants?)
In the background, Lois chuckles and crosses one leg over the other, ankle on knee.
Embarrassment burns through him.
“Exactly,” he huffs out, flashing a full grin. His leg starts bouncing out of control, and he digs his fingers into the orange plush of his chair’s armrest. “God, I—you kind of scared me.”
You’ve warmed up since the day he and Clark stumbled around your desk like fools. Cracking a smile here and there, telling jokes steeped in dry Gothamite humor. Sometimes, Jimmy swears he can hear a tiny Midwestern twang fighting the polished city accent you have.
“Sorry,” you say, head tilting as your grin widens. “Heard you don’t have a camera.”
Jimmy nods, not trusting his mouth to say anything else. Lifting the strap over your head, you place the bag on his desk. By the sound, it’s heavier than it looks.
He gazes at you with stars in his eyes. “Seriously?”
“D5. You can borrow it for now,” you tell him. Casual, like you aren’t handing over a precious relic. He almost feels a prick of jealousy in his heart. Back in school, the wealthier kids were too stingy to even let him near theirs.
He still loves the D500 he managed to scrounge up the money for as a broke college kid. But this...he might start salivating and floating like a Looney Tunes character.
“For real?” Jimmy can’t believe it. Maybe this curse has a silver lining that’s too good to be true.
“I’m trialing a Sony mirrorless right now.” And then you lean a little closer as if this is just a secret shared between the two of you, blocking the side of your mouth with a palm, “Personally, not as sexy as a DSLR.”
The Kansas accent that he’s only ever heard from Clark bleeds into your words, just slightly.
Bingo!
Jimmy slaps his thigh with a wide grin and points at Lois, victorious. “Told you so!”
You laugh as you slip away.
—
The sands of time run quicker when he has a stellar camera in his hands.
He spent the entire day wandering around the city until his feet went sore, the camera strap tight to keep it as close to his chest as possible. There is no way in the entire universe that something is going to happen to the D5. He’d die before that happened.
Even from the tiny display window, which is smeared with permanent fingerprints—believe him, Jimmy already tried everything to wipe them off—he can tell the difference between your and his equipment. Especially for Superman photos, he notes.
Now, alone in his room, parents already put down to bed, Jimmy longingly runs a finger down the worn leather grip of the Nikon you passed to him. It’s a good model, one of the best. He’s yearned for something as good as this since high school.
Fighting sleep, he springs the hatch in the side of the camera’s body and pops out the memory card.
Wait. Blink three times. It isn’t his, and it’s older than the ones he uses by a lot. Hell, this is ancient.
Jimmy is rocketed out of his grogginess, back going ramrod straight.
If this is your SD, and it’s this old...what photos do you have?
It’s a natural thing for journalists to speculate, he justifies, knowing full well that he’s been infected with the investigative virus.
Invasion of privacy—invasion of—invasion—
His hesitance is interrupted by the faces of his two nosier co-workers. Cat, ever the devil on his shoulder, telling him that a peek doesn’t hurt. Lois, hands on her hips and head shaking left to right, saying, “Journalists dig deep.”
He boots up his computer, vision seared with the annoying flash of white that always precedes the login screen. Jimmy follows the motions: insert the card, scroll to find his files, select the—almost two-hundred shots—he took and move them to a local folder.
Meanwhile...
He almost sprains his wrist with how fast he scrolls back into the card’s history.
The first one he finds is approximately dated to when you and Clark were in high school. Far too early for a kid to own a D5, and the quality proves it, grainy enough to be from an amateur camera.
Clark is without his signature glasses in this one, the edges of his body burnished in white-gold. He’s still pretty big, but he leans more to the gangly side with the way his clothes aren’t as filled in. His hair is longer, not as curly, but his dimples are the same. Smile kind, bright blue eyes turned to crescents.
Handsome, in a way Jimmy never expected him to be.
He’s lying on his side in bed, surrounded by a gingham-flannel duvet and a striped pillowcase. Pale light streams in from a blurry window, thin beige curtains fluttering in the corner. His hand is buried in the long hair of a border collie as he looks up at the camera with a glint of tender fondness in his eyes.
Jimmy can tell you’re the one who took this, even though the composition is kind of clumsy. Explaining it is hard, but it’s just a feeling. You always take pictures that make people feel romantic about the world.
Next.
This one is around fifteen years from today, and it’s Clark who’s taking this one—he's talented with his words, but it seems that photography has never been his strongest suit.
Your face is rounder, younger, nose crinkled in displeasure about being half-buried in a pile of loose hay. Still, the corners of your mouth are angled up as if you’re happy to see Clark on the other side.
Dirt is smeared on the front of your shirt, and the rest of the details are hard to make out, but Jimmy thinks you’re on the floor of a barn. Someone else’s cut-off leg stretches from the side. The angle of the shot is tilted, like Clark had fumbled with the shutter and almost dropped the camera.
All the way to the bottom now.
Jimmy feels a strange wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spending his entire life as a born-and-raised Metropolitan sounded so perfect, but now he isn’t so sure. He’s almost envious of what you and Clark had.
The colors of everything are faded together, except for the sky, which is exceptionally blue and clear. You’re both about four, or five—kindergarten age, completely oblivious about your futures. Standing in a field of brown-green grass and dirt, you wear matching white Little League jerseys.
Smallville 1 and 2, emblazoned across your backs in red. A glove and bat are laid to the side. Clark’s neck-length curls spill out of his cap, and you’re just an inch taller than him. Your small hands are clasped together as you both watch the field, like if either of you let go, the other would disappear.
He ejects the memory card and wipes his eyes.
Fuck. What went wrong?
—
Apparently, further intruding on your and Clark’s personal life means rigging the Saturday work dinner, if hanging out at a bar could be considered that.
“It’s the perfect excuse,” Lois mutters to herself, hands stuffed into her pockets. She has that scheming expression on her face again; narrowed eyes, tongue caught in the pocket of her cheek. “They have to sit next to each other, so make sure you’re not late.”
She was ecstatic to hear about the pictures harbored in your SD. The ever-changing theory has now gone from co-workers with deep hatred to bitter exes to sad, estranged childhood friends who never had the time to fall in love.
Good thing he didn’t tell Cat, because she would have gone running to the nearest movie studio to pitch a romcom idea.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” Jimmy asks, falling in step next to her. Just to be safe, he checks over his shoulder. As per usual, Clark is already nowhere to be seen, having already turned the corner.
Briefly, he wonders how long it takes for Clark to get home, if you live in Midtown too, and if you ever pass by each other on the way to the store or something. That would be awkward.
Lois hums, a hesitant sound. She tilts her head, suddenly interested in studying the non-existent stars. “Like, seventy...five percent sure.”
“Seventy-five?”
“Alright, eighty,” she decides. For real this time! is what goes unsaid.
Jimmy sighs and kicks a pebble down the smooth sidewalk.
—
“Sorry, am I late?” you ask, rushing over from the door.
Wow. The sunshine in Metropolis can really change a person. A time where you would sit straight-backed and stone-faced at your desk has been long forgotten. You look brighter now. The exhausted weight you used to carry around the office has disappeared, and you walk over with a pep in your step.
The heavy slab of glass and wood swings close behind you, dimming the light available in the bar. Jimmy notices that your shoes are more casual than the ones you take to work, and you’re wearing the same Smallville Giants sweater.
You weave past a group of college kids playing pool, the sound of your steps masked by the loud clack of an eight-ball being sunk and the cheers that follow.
“No, no, you’re great,” Lois says, sliding out of the booth. You wrap an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug without an ounce of hesitance.
Jimmy, stuck next to the wall, politely waves at you from behind Lois, to which you respond with a small grin. Placing your bag on the bench opposite from them, you slide into the booth and take in the warm light of the bar, how the air smells like alcohol and salt.
“How was the camera?”
“Amazing,” he blurts, palms glued to the tabletop, a little damp from the last wipe-down. The nerd in him is so psyched out right now. “Like, wow. I’m not betraying my D500s, but that’s a dream camera right there.”
There’s no indication that you know anything about the childhood photos you accidentally left in his hands. You laugh, a soft sound that comes whispering under the rock song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. “This your regular spot?”
Lois flags down a waiter, nodding with a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, this is an official invitation to join our long-running tab.”
“If this were Gotham, we’d be jumped in an alley two weeks ago,” you say, looking around the bar with a sort of wonder in your eyes. Jimmy supposes things aren’t like this in Jersey, but then again, the rent is cheap, the architecture is gorgeous, and the jazz is sexy.
Besides, it isn’t like Metropolis doesn’t have her own handful of nutjobs. They’re a lot more partial to obliterating Superman and ruling the world than gassing an entire city, but tomayto-tomahto.
Lois orders the sweet wine she always does—ever the sugar addict—and Jimmy gets himself a beer, much to your and the waiter’s surprise. He has to flash his ID to prove that he is indeed older than twenty-one.
“Is it mean if I thought you were a cub until last week?” you ask. Then you turn to the waiter. “Sparkling cider, but water if you don’t.”
The server nods and turns back to the main bar.
Jimmy gets the hint-hint, nudge-nudge look from Lois, her brows raising as she looks at him from the corner of her eye. She serves it with a sharp jab of her elbow into his side. Ouch—once a victim, always a victim. Good thing he has a thicker jacket on to soften the blow.
“Apple cider?” Lois frowns, inquisitive—extra verbal emphasis on cider. Jimmy runs back his mental film reel, trying to remember why the hell the association of you and the drink is so familiar. “I don’t suppose you’re abstaining.”
You rest your chin on your right hand, elbow propped on the tabletop. The moisture that Jimmy felt earlier has long dried up. You get a wistful glimmer about your face, eyes flicking up to the corner of the room where a baseball game is airing.
“I’m not,” you explain, tearing your attention off the screen like it’s hard. “I just like it. Reminds me of home, you know?”
“Right. Perry told me about your file,” Lois says, ever the confession-puller even though she acts like she isn’t doing anything. “The Planet has Smallville One and Two now.”
A frown pulls at your face, not quite sure if you heard her right, “Sorry?”
“You know, like Thing One and Two.”
“Oh. Yeah.” You smile, but it’s a little shakier. Miffed, Jimmy seriously considers bumping Lois’ foot with his own.
Luckily, she doesn’t press any further, letting the conversation flow naturally from your mysterious origins to current world events—the drinks come now, numb to the touch and beading on the glass, and your eyes are sparkling just like the cider before you—to the exposé.
The reason why the three of you are here in the first place, sharing anecdotes related to the scandal about to be thrust upon the world. It has something to do with widespread corruption in the precinct that patrols the ports, and in the three times Lois has almost gotten herself killed, she’s connected it to a Gotham cartel.
Jimmy tells a wild, borderline tall tale about being chased down Main Street by a gang of cops. He had to hide in the alley behind his favorite bodega for an hour before slinking back to the office. Mr. White wasn’t very happy about that.
(“Great Caesar’s ghost!” he exclaimed, acrid cigar smoke puffing everywhere.)
You pull up pictures on your phone of suspicious activity you’ve captured in the area, from police loitering for too long in corners to pristine vans driving through the city across the bay.
Perks of being connected, you say, keeping your voice low, Gotham isn’t as bad as most people think. Sources are basically endless.
The bell at the door rings, though it’s barely heard over the din and racket of pool-playing jocks and the jukebox, now playing some Beatles song that Jimmy can’t remember the name of. Lois slouches in her seat, slowly peeking out from the booth to check who just came in. It’s Clark.
He stumbles over in a pair of slacks that don’t look tailored enough and the knit sweater Lois called ‘sick of the laundry machine’ the last time she saw it on him. She gives him a curt once-over, disapproving.
“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding the floor exceedingly interesting. His glasses are askew, sliding down the bridge of his nose like he’d just shoved them on and his curly hair is whirlwind-messy. “Foot traffic. Superman.”
“It’s always him,” Jimmy drawls, knocking back a sip of his beer.
You look up at Clark. Eyes shining like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, you pinch your mouth into a tight line.
Clark, still in his typical daze, wonders out loud, “Cider?”
He says it in a feather-soft tone, quietly poking. As if he’s a kid again, Little League glove resting in the dry grass, tugging at your arm when a teammate steals a base and making sure you saw that too.
Your drink is half-finished on the table. There’s a ring of room-temp water around the base, sure to join the hundred others etched into the wood. A pearl of condensation rolls down the side, chasing the bubbles still fizzling in the ice.
The puzzle pieces in Jimmy’s head finally click together—the polaroid Clark allegedly keeps in his wallet. Cider and cowboy. You and your childhood best friend.
It could be considered a miracle in itself how fast you react. Jimmy notes the heavy way you swallow, throat bobbing as you reach for your bag, draw it toward you, and—
You let Clark in.
Apprehension hangs in his body as he slides into the booth. Clark sits board-stiff, unsure of his standing with you. You elbow him, harder than Lois would do to anybody, and the man doesn’t budge.
His face just keeps getting ruddier by the second. If this were a cartoon, his glasses would for sure be misted with the same steam pouring from his ears.
Lois coughs. “Right. Could we get to fact-checking the piece?”
“Yeah,” Clark squeaks. The leather of the booth’s cushion makes the same sound when he scoots a little closer to your side.
Your elbows end up bumping somewhere between the second round of drinks—Clark and the weird looks he gets for drinking fucking milk are hilarious—and Lois going on a tangent about how Central City is a great place at this time of year.
Clark stills, watching your reaction, but you don’t need words. You don’t jump back like you’ve been burned. You just settle into some kind of semi-normal truce area.
Relaxation finally melts into Clark’s bones, and he stumbles into the conversation with a banging opener about meeting a brilliant college kid there.
“I think his name was Allen?”
Lois laughs, fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “We should all cover the science fair they hold next year, then. Just to confirm your source.”
“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting to the space where your elbow meets Clark’s. “We should. It’s close to home too.”
Jimmy catches Lois' eye. Can you believe this?
He realizes that his investment isn’t so much about the mystery anymore. That’s something you two could keep to yourselves, because there’s no way in hell Jimmy would willingly learn the painful lore.
It’s more about the way you glance at each other. Held-back, ready to run full-tilt without hesitation if someone gave the green light. You’re clearly in love, and everyone can see it.
Now, the real mystery is how long it’ll take for you both to admit it.
—
notes. please lmk if u enjoyed my sweet childhood best friends who fold despite being estranged... if i do write a second part it'll prob be in his or reader's pov ⭐⭐
summary: The obsession of other interns had with him never made sense. Not until one night… drinks turned into something more. It’s so good that it makes all those promises to never be one of the girls giggling over Clark Kent feel ridiculous. But now it makes sense. God, now it does.
pairings: intern!clark kent x afab intern!reader
warnings: 3.5k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. intoxicated sex. (light) praise kink. size difference kink (light). internal ejaculation. clothed sex. cockwarming (implied). biting / marking. read responsibly.
note: i said i wasn’t gonna write bc i have too many wips and drafts piling up… haha god help me. but i literally couldn’t resist him. this was just a quick write. hope u guys enjoy it <3
You don’t get it, at first. The way the other interns practically light up when he walks in. They act like he’s the most handsome inside the building. Sure, maybe he is. But you hate the way they clutch their iced coffees, and giggle when he holds the door open with that shy, lopsided smile. It looks like they’re desperate for it. Or maybe you are just bitter. Or maybe you are trying to find red flags in him. Don’t also forget that when someone calls him “cute” and they think he can’t hear. But you think he does and just acts innocent and oblivious which made you shrug and roll your eyes every time that happens. Ignore, ignore, and ignore before going back to your drink and to scrolling on your phone. Because, yeah, he’s handsome, tall, shoulders a little too broad for the cheap shirts he wears, but he’s also corny as hell. Makes those terrible little jokes that hang in the air like a bad pun smell. And you notice how he glances around like he’s waiting for someone to laugh, and scratches the back of his neck when no one does. But that rarely happens because the girls always laugh at his jokes like they can let it pass since he’s handsome, cute, kind, tall, smart, and- whatever.
You don’t get it, because you’ve seen him spill coffee down the front of his shirt. The cheap button-down soaked with a stain he tries to clean it with crumpled napkins while his cheeks flushed pink like he’s waiting for the floor to swallow him up. You feel a little bad for him though especially when his glasses keep slipping down his nose as he leans over the counter before muttering under his breath, “It’s fine, happens all the time,” and just laughs it off but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You’ve watched him tug the fabric away from his chest before shaking it out a little and his hair falling across his forehead in that messy, boyish way, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the universe before it’s even eight in the morning. Okay, maybe that’s cute.
You don’t get it, until one Friday when everyone goes out for drinks. You don’t want to come but your office friend won’t take no for an answer so you just agreed to go to the cheap dive a block away with sticky floors and neon lights buzzing in the corner. You end up sitting next to him, not on purpose. It’s just the last open seat, and he offers to buy you a drink because he’s nice like that. Of course, it’s hard to deny free drinks especially after when you heard him blurt out something stupid about the weather. You find yourself laughing, actually laughing, and he looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s been waiting for all week.
You don’t get it, until you’re tipsy, and cheeks warm. Until you’re leaning into the space between you and closing the distance. Until he’s looking at you with those soft eyes, lashes so stupidly long, and asking if you want to keep talking somewhere quieter. You say yes, before you can think too hard about it because he managed to work his charms on you. Let's bring you to his place and let him hold the door open for you one more time, let him smile at you like you’re the only person in the world.
You don’t get it, until you do because because now you’re here. You’re on his couch with your knees pulled up and shoes off. You don’t even know where you left them because you’re tipsy enough that your limbs feel warm and slow but not enough to forget the way he looked at you while he keeps talking and listens when you respond to him. His apartment is enough, it looks domestic and it’s very Clark.
He’s sitting across from you, elbow hooked over the back of the couch. His shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms that showing the muscles that had been hiding underneath fabric, glasses still on, and hair messy from running a hand through it too many times tonight. He’s talking about something he couldn’t forget. It’s a story about how he once missed a bus because he stopped to help an elderly woman to find her lost pet. You just stare at him when he’s talking and how he shakes his head before laughing at himself like it’s something to be embarrassed about. Like he overthinks you might think he’s stupid for it. You don’t. It’s kind. It’s heartwarming to hear. You don’t think what he did is stupid.
Eyes remain looking at you while he talks. Not just… performative. He’s really looking, eyes bright, leaning forward when he says your name. Like he can’t help it. Like he needs to see how you’ll react. Like it, he enjoys how it rolls off his tongue. You think about all the times you rolled your eyes when the other interns giggled over him. The times you swore you’d never be that person. Now? You feel it, something small and warm in your chest, and something you don’t want to name yet.
But it blooms in your system as your head falls back against the couch. You laugh and tell him he’s such a dork and stupid. You don’t mean it in an insulting way, but more on like just teasing him and you are glad he just smiles. It’s wide and a little crooked. It’s obvious he’s hiding how your words made him smile like that. Everything feels so good right now, there’s even a music playing from his phone speaker. You wonder what his playlists look like because what’s playing right now is soothing and calm. It makes the room feel better and softer. Your legs and his are almost touching. You don’t even notice how the space feels smaller from the moment you sit there earlier.
And he goes quiet for a moment after talking continuously ever since you entered his place. His eyes try not to stare at you when he also tries to memorize this moment. The way your mouth smirks when you tease him about his jokes. The way you look at him when you feel yourself getting more into the conversation. His mouth opened like he was going to ask you something but he just shut it because nothing came out. So he just swallows and your eyes watch how his Adam’s apple bobs. He doesn’t know it but you also notice how his hands twitch on his knee like he’s thinking about something.
You know what he wants to ask. It’s not hard to guess what it is. You are also not dumb not to see it. It’s already written across his face. He thinks he’s slick when he keeps flickering to look at your lips. Going back to look up at your eyes and back down to your lips. You know he’s the kind of guy who won’t just do something unless you tell him to do it or you will just have to initiate it.
So you initiate it. You lean in and close the distance between the two of you. Your hand latches to his cheek with your thumb caressing the shape and sharpness of his jaw before you kiss him. It’s soft and you can taste the cheap beer you both drank earlier. You could feel the warmth of his mouth and it’s something you’ve been trying to hate and deny since the first moment you saw him smiling and waving his hand at you.
Now you get it. You get it because he’s been gentle from the kiss to this moment. He’s soft and touching you like glass, letting you take what you want while still holding you steady. He keeps you close with those big, and warm hands like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. His hands are warm and firm, but not hurting you. It’s just enough to feel he’s here.
Your blouse is open and hanging off your shoulders. Bra pushed down so your tits are out as your nipples brush against the fabric as you move. He was so gentle when he opened you up, even though it’s not really completely naked, but that’s all what he could manage with the impatience he had to be inside you. His shirt is open too, same as you with how his buttons are undone, sleeves rolled, and exposing the slope of his chest. You can also see the way his stomach flexes every time you roll your hips down on him. You’re still wearing your skirt. It’s just bunched up around your waist, and his pants are still on, pulled down just enough so he can free his cock, thick and flushed where it’s buried inside your cunt. His size really stretched you open with every slow, needy rock of your hips.
Hands rest on his shoulders while nails dig in the fabric while you find the right pace and angle for the both of you. Each drag of your hips earns a slicked sound from your pussy and you swear he groans every time it gets so loud and it makes him drag you down deeper to take the whole of him. There’s the friction sending electricity through your every time the tip of his cock presses and kissing against the spot inside you that makes your lips taste like metal from biting it just to keep yourself from being so loud.
“Fuck- baby-” he breathes out. His voice is low and desperate. It sounds so fucking pretty falling from his lips. You love the way he sounds. The way it stutters and the way he’s vocal about it. His hands grip your hips, not forcing you, but guiding you. Soft thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he helps you lift up and sink back down. Helps you ride him like you’ve both been craving this since the first moment you kissed. He helps you because that’s what he always does. Be there for people and be soft to them. The difference is that what he’s doing right now is not because of some service or act of kindness, he’s doing it because he wants you to enjoy it.
Chest brushes against his with sweat sticking to skin both of your skins and you can feel the way his breath stutters when your nipples graze across his when you lean in closer. Forehead pressing to his, and noses bumping before your lips brush against just but not quite kissing. “Clark-” you whisper just to see how he reacts. It’s so hot when he moans after you say his name. It’s soft and broken that makes your pussy clench around him and makes him jerk up into you without meaning to. His cock is twitching inside your cunt as he tries to hold back.
“God, you feel- you feel so good,” he pants, eyes fluttering shut, lashes dark and damp against his cheeks. “So fucking tight around me, goddamn-” Hips just rocking and bouncing down harder when you hear his words, it’s like a compliment hearing that so you grind against him. Your movements made his mouth fall open before a ragged sound snatched out of his throat. His head tips back against the backrest of the couch and the sight below you is so hot. Him being pussy whipped, hands on your sides, and the way his cock disappears when you sink your body into him.
Your hands slide up into his hair to tug lightly, and his eyes snap open. It’s glassy and blown wide, looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. His hands flex on your hips, and you feel it when he bucks up into you, the angle hitting that spot that makes you gasp, makes your thighs tremble around him. “Please- fuck, please, baby,” he mumbles, not even sure what he’s asking for, but you understand. You feel it too. The desperation. The heat builds between your bodies. The wet slap of your pussy taking him over and over as you ride him slow and deep. Letting him fill you up. Letting him feel how warm and wet you are around his cock.
And you don’t want to come yet. There’s something in you that doesn't want this to stop. Something that wants to stay here at this moment. You don’t know if that’s the sex making you feel that way but you think he wants that too. Especially with the way he twitches when your pussy clenches around you. The way he moans when you wrap your hands around his hair to tug it. How he gets closer to make sure your body pressed so close when the sweat drips down to your chest. Breath mingling as you fuck yourself down on him, slow and steady, over and over. You want to remember how it feels when his hands slide up your back. How does it feel when he’s holding you tighter. When he whimpers against your mouth before kissing you like he can’t help it. How his tongue slides against yours. How he swallows your moans as you move together.
Now you get it. Now you get why everyone looks at him like that. Because right now you’re looking at him like this. Like you are asking him why you don’t want to stop. But you already know the answer. You don’t want to. Not when it feels so good. Not when he’s hitting it so deep. Not when it’s so thick inside your pussy. It drags against your walls with every slow, desperate grind of your hips, and every bounce that has your thighs shaking. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in, wet and hot with slick dripping down onto his pelvis where your bodies meet.
He’s still wearing his glasses. God, he’s still wearing his fucking glasses, and you don’t know why it makes you moan, but it does. Something about how they’re slightly crooked on his nose, how they fog up when his breath stutters, how they press cold against your neck when he leans forward and kisses you there, mouth hot and open, tongue dragging over your skin before he bites down softly. “Clark,” you gasp. Nails raking down his chest, over the open edges of his shirt, as you try to ground yourself, try to hold on when his hips jerk up into you. It hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back, makes your cunt clench around him, and makes him let out a low, broken groan against your throat.
“Fuck, you feel- you feel so good, can’t- can’t believe how good you feel,” he babbles. His voice was wrecked. Kissing up your neck, sucking a mark just under your jaw before pulling back to look at you. His eyes are glassy behind those fogged lenses, lips pink and swollen. You whimper while your hips stutter. Your pussy tightens around him when you see how he looks at you, like he’s falling apart, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. “Take them off,” you whisper. Fingers sliding up, hooking around the arms of his glasses, pushing them off his face as he blinks up at you. His pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any blue left.
You toss them to the side, somewhere on the couch, and cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “There,” you breathe, “wanted to see you.” He moans a soft, choked sound. Hands gripping your hips tighter, and guiding you down onto his cock. Helping you grind deeper, slower, rolling his hips up to meet you. The wet sounds of your pussy swallowing him fill the room, until the head of his cock drags right against your cervix, over and over, until you can’t hold back the sounds spilling from your mouth.
You’re so close you almost can taste it. Heat feels so tight in your belly. Legs trembling and shiver shooting down your spine with every thrust, every grind, every time his cock hits that spot that makes your vision blur. That makes your body shake above him. Your thighs are burning. Your breath is coming out in broken moans. Your forehead pressed to his, sweat dripping down your temple as you keep moving, chasing the edge, chasing that high, and wanting to come so badly it hurts.
“Please- fuck, please,” he gasps, and you don’t even know what he’s begging for, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re begging too, whimpering against his lips, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop-” And he won’t. He won’t stop because he lets you control everything tonight. He won’t let you fall off his lap. He won’t let you slip away. He just won’t, not when your pussy is tighter than anyone he fucked before, not when your pussy is squeezing and sucking him so tight. He’s going crazy under you and his hips are thrusting up into you. His hands pull you more down before guiding you up.
You’re right there, right on the edge. Your teeth can feel your orgasm already high and it feels like it’s going to break you both. Body shaking, nails scratching his visible skin while your pussy gushes down in his cock. Doesn’t care even if both of you are soaking the fabric of your skirt and his pants which are pulled down to around his thighs. It makes everything so messy. Skin slapping and wetness fill the room. So fucking perfect.
Now you get it. You get it when it happens- when it finally happens- when the pressure building between your hips snaps, when the pleasure spills over, hot and blinding. Tearing a sob from your throat as your cunt clenches down around his cock, so tight and wet that his breath catches, that his eyes roll back as he moans your name like a prayer. You get it when you see the way he looks at you while you fall apart, the way his hands grip your hips so hard it borders on bruising. He’s pulling you down onto him, grinding you against him as he fucks up into you, chasing your high, helping you ride it out, helping you take everything you need.
“Fuck, Clark- shit, I’m coming-” you gasp, your head falling back, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, finding the fabric of his open shirt, finding the soft hair on his chest, clutching it as your body shudders, as your thighs clamp around his waist, as your pussy milks his cock in desperate, pulsing waves. “God- baby, I-” he stutters, his hips jerking up, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw going slack as he feels you coming around him, as he feels how wet you are, how warm you are, how perfect you are like this, taking him, taking all of him.
“Want you to come,” you whimper, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you breathe him in, as you move your hips in slow, rolling circles that make your overstimulated pussy spasm around him, that make him choke on a groan. “Want you to come inside me, please-” That’s what breaks him.
Mouth finds its way to yours and he starts swallowing the sounds you are making. Kissing you hard that it became messy with both of your teeth grinding together and tongues sliding while his hips stutter because his cock twitches inside your wet cunt. And then he spills and cum inside of you with a guttural and desperate moan that you feel vibrates against your lips.
You love the feeling of the warm cum that released and flooded deep inside your pussy and you absolutely love that he keeps thrusting to stuff it more inside. He’s fucking you through it. He chases every wave of pressure and drags out your orgasm until it’s almost too much. Until you’re shaking in his lap, and whimpering into his mouth with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels.
You’re so full and pussy is so wet because of his cum leaking out around his cock. It drips down to his pelvis and stomach which makes everything so slick and messy. It feels sticky and the sight is obscene. The room is filled with mixed sounds from both of your breaths, the wet and slick slide of your bodies, and the soft and broken whimpers the two of you let out when you slowly come down from the high.
And you just stay in the same place with your forehead resting against his and your lips brushing against his at the same time. Chests heaving when you try to catch your breath and you feel the aftershocks from the orgasm still pulsing through your pussy. You feel it still fluttering and clenching around his softening cock inside you.
Now you get it. You get why he’s worth the giggles, the stares, the soft smiles in hallways, the stupid little crushes. Because he’s gentle. Because he’s kind. Because he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world, even now, when you’re messy and fucked-out in his lap, your skirt bunched around your waist, his cum dripping out of your cunt, your hair sticking to your sweaty skin, your mouth swollen from kissing him too hard.
summary: tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.
content warnings: contains light spoilers from superman (2025), some spoilers but like one-off mention style so you should be ok, established (?) relationship, semi-proofread writing, not the biggest fan of the ending but writer’s block hit
authors note: bear with me i’m only on my first watch 💔 this is also technically my first fic. will be going back to see it again tho dare i say peak superhero film in recent years???
wc: 1.4k
The Kent family farm feels isolating in the best way.
It’s something you’d come to notice instantly. You’ve never been too deep into the country; Metropolis, as it stands, was all you’d ever really known and probably ever will know—a place with its downs and ups, sure, but nevertheless the big city in which all your dreams had flourished since before you could even really see them.
And yet, even despite the circumstance—that is, hauling the 6’4 brick wall that was a mostly immobilized Clark Kent up the path to his parents’ front door—you could take even the briefest of moments to appreciate the silence, the tranquility of the farm. There wasn’t the whisper of crowded noise for miles upon miles, and you liked it. Stillness was something hard to come by in your life back home, whether that be due to the demands of heralding upcoming events back to back at the Daily Planet, or even trying to wrap your head around this not-quite-relationship between you and Clark for the last few months, you were kept on your toes. Being raised here, though, you thought, how wasn’t Clark supposed to become the humble, honest person he was today? It wasn’t all about being metahuman.
You introduced yourself briefly to his parents upon exiting the shuttle, explained as best as you could the situation from which you both crash landed from without giving them too much more to worry about. Johnathan and Martha were quick, unraveling Clark’s form from your caving shoulders as you all walked to the front door. They ushered you both with gentle words that reassured your own ears as the four of you made your way down the hall towards his childhood bedroom.
God, his room. Sometimes you had trouble imagining what life was like before for Clark. You knew some of what he told you about his adoptive parents, about what life was like here on the farm. He’d even mentioned taking you to visit someday. You were certain it was something he’d shrug off, but he’d insisted he meant it. And though the circumstances could’ve been better, sure, as you walked around slowly observing the figurines, posters, and books that made him him, you couldn’t help but smile thinking about how similar you both were.
You watched on as the Kent’s continued to comfort their son, replying with all the calm reassurance you could offer when Johnathan asked if their boy would be okay, until both of them stood, Martha with the intention to bring you back a cup of tea. You thanked her with a smile, watching as she left until the room grew silent.
Then you heard a rumble.
“Geez, don’t act so shy”.
The words almost made you jump a bit, regardless of how strained they sounded. You looked over at the previously presumed to be knocked out Clark making the effort to stare back at you, and the sight brought an awkwardly breathy laugh past your lips. “Sorry,” you apologized quietly, straightening from your position beside a bookshelf. “I wasn’t expecting you to wake back up”.
“Neither was I,” Clark’s grin is a mere raise of one corner of his mouth, but it’s enough to warm you just like it always does. “You don’t have to stand so far, y’know. Come sit down”.
He tries to pat the (little to nothing) space beside him on his childhood bed, and you grin at the effort. You make your way over, the bed dipping beneath your weight as you settle against his side. You fold your hands in your lap, then unfold them, pacing in your mind over what to say, if you should even say something more to begin with—he’s barely conscious after all.
You find some words finally when you feel his eyes burning into your skin. “I really like your parents,” you offer, turning to him slightly. “You can just…feel how much they really care about you. That’s really special”.
Clark gives something between a grunt and a hum of agreement, tilting his head on the pillow to look at you better and offering you a real smile. “Yeah. They’re incredible”.
And though his words are kind, certain, you feel like you can sense a sadness behind his eyes as he looks away from you. You think you know why, but you won’t pry on it, not now. You’d heard his heartbroken whisper to Martha about his birth parents, more resigned than how he’d spoken to you about the same thing before leaving to turn himself in. About how their message wasn’t what it seemed—how he wasn’t who he thought he was. And then Clark looks at you again and says your name softly, forcing your thoughts away from all of that. “I’ll be alright”.
“I know,” you nod swiftly, “I heard Terrific—“
“No,” Clark shakes his head in a definitive whisper. Then, he extends one of his hands to take yours where it rests on your side, his palm swallowing the back of your hand, encouraging you to really look at him and not speaking again until you do. “I don’t mean just my body. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you now. I’ll be alright. All of me”.
You blink at him for a moment, your brows softening, but you don’t try to pull your hand away. It’s like the simple enough words are all it takes to ease that nagging in your brain, not just about this and all that had happened not even an hour before, but all that’s to come when he recovers and faces the world again.
“I know that it might not be much comfort at this point,” you start suddenly, “but I believe you. I meant to say it back at the apartment, before you left, but I—“
You pause, trying to find the words to explain your way of going about all of this but coming up short. If you were being honest you thought you took it all really well, but maybe you hadn’t. You knew Clark wasn’t a monster, but what did your word matter in a pool of hundreds of thousands?
It meant everything.
Clark is silent for enough time after you’ve spoken that you start thinking that he might’ve fallen back asleep. Then he asks, “That’s all you meant to say back then?”
You know what he’s referring to instantly, you just hadn’t thought that despite how battered up and drained of practically all of his energy sources he’d still manage to bring something like that up. His confession (confession? It didn’t feel very confession-like. It felt like a statement, the most normal thing in the world. Clark Kent somehow managed to make “I love you” feel like the least conditional thing in the universe). You could groan about now, but you don’t. You keep holding his hand.
“You know it’s not,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He can’t tell whether or not you meant for him to hear it, but Clark does. He squeezes your hand once. “Ok. That’s good. I won’t make you say anything, but…that’s good to know”.
You hum, nodding softly. You think that finally might be the end of it.
“Give me a sign?”
You raise a brow. “A what?”
“A sign,” he repeats casually. “ Don’t say the words until you’re ready, but give me a sign that you reciprocate, maybe. If you want. If you do”.
You’re not really sure how to respond at first. And then you feel your heart flutter. Here he was, as he’d always been. Letting you do things at your own pace. Letting you know that superheroes needed reassurance, too.
Your lips curve up into a faint smile as you look down at him to see he’s already smiling lazily as well. You’ve had your sign since the second he asked, and now Clark knows for sure.
“The Mighty Killjoys,” you say finally, lifting your opposite hand to brush a stray curl away. “They’re not trash”.
In the dim light it’s like Clark’s eyes begin to glimmer before they flutter shut, full of content. “Yeah. That’s a good one”.
You manage a small laugh, shaking your head at him. Then you lean forward, just enough to plant a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, Clark,” you say against his skin, not leaving any room for further discussion or debate. “I’ll be here”.
Clark’s eyes remain closed when you pull away, and he obliges you. With another squeeze to your hand, the gentle swipe of his thumb, he takes an exhale that signals that he’s finally succumbed to the weight of slumber.
It’s then that you really get it. The fortress that is this home, this whole farm. The kind of place that could only nourish good and wholeness. Could nourish a hero.
—Fans go crazy. The modelling industry's sexiest Patrick Zweig is dating the new hottest VS angel?! Every pop culture and fashion magazine falls at your feet, and your schedules soon become filled with photoshoots, shows, and galas. The both of you bathe in the glory. One photo together of you even making eye contact can cover the cost of an apartment, which is exactly what you spend the money on. The space was soon filled with little bits of you and Patrick—cheers to unifying your home and careers!
—Patrick comes to every one of your shows no matter what. He has a shoot booked for that day? Reschedule. Nothing makes him happier than seeing his girl receive the looks of awe she always gets when she's performing. Patrick could be seated next to some a-list celebrity and he'd still lean over and whisper with a grin on his face, "That's my girlfriend."
—His audience is madly in love with him for a reason. Patrick always delivers a sense of nonchalance to his style, making the outfits bend to his attitude which sometimes makes them look completely different to how they were meant to. Whether it's a jacket thrown over his shoulder or a hand tucked into his pocket, the move enhances his confidence, making it far more tempting to drag him backstage and tug those clothes off him.
—Patrick isn't possessive, he's protective. Wearing a skimpy dress at a party and someone's commenting on it? Not your fault baby, go wait outside and I'll handle it. He'll buy you an even shorter one the next day.
—Loves to tag along to your photoshoots even if he isn't in them. He'll hold your coffee and pastry, trailing behind you as you talk to your manager just to be rewarded later by the sight of you slipping on the clothes in your dressing room. He watches with a hungry smirk on his face, leaning back into the couch while you do a little spin for him.
—You're the definition of a power couple. There's no short and tall dynamic, you both wear the pants in the relationship. Paparazzi would not be able to capture a bad photo for the life of them due to how well you present yourselves in public—both well dressed with a playful and flirtatious attitude towards each other which leaves the fans swooning.
𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. THIS SONG WITH THIS PAIRING PLEASE GUYS I ACTUALLY REALLY LIKE THIS ONE. gwen stefani is underrated in my opinion, her style and lyrics are so sexy like omg...
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. @cinnamongmm @faiztheap @charmedntruer @sweetestfaiszts @aemondsbbgx @1sab4lla @jellyfishyy @severe-mental-illness @purpleplumpudding @vampmatic @sunsetray @1975iliwysf @stopsbeatiingg
𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.
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