Citrus

she/her ✧˚ · . 19

[citrusxbees]

Citrus | 19 | she/her 

I’m a pastry student that loves all things Love and  Deepspace. Cat mom to 4 kitties :) I dont post regularly unfortunately, just whenever I get a burst of inspiration inbetweeen my busy schedule!

 I write for Sylus and Zayne, but I’m always expanding.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟMasterlist ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ

[citrusxbees]

In The Light

Clark Kent x Reader

Giving birth to Clark's baby was one of the happiest moments of your life. Sometimes even you and Clark forget that your baby isn't all human. 2.5k words⟡brief pregnancy⟡fluff⟡husband Clark⟡no use of y/n⟡having a kryptonian baby is hard

Pt 2 to Everything That is Important but can be read independently

The last two months of your pregnancy had been mostly uneventful, much to Clark's relief. You sat at home, sunbathed for at least an hour a day, ate balanced meals Clark made you, and watched so much TV that it became boring. 

Of course, the peace of your final months did not do much to quell Clark’s worry. He was a predictable man. You could make even the slightest groan, and in an instant he would be by your side, cradling the sides of your face and imploring you to tell him what was wrong. 

He was hovering over you every minute he was home. Testing your patience to a degree never before seen in your marriage. 

You swear his heart would give out on him one day.

These days, having to act as Superman brought him little joy. In fact, he dreaded it. Not because he disliked the job, no! He loved it! It was simply the fact that he didn’t know when he would be home. 

Minutes? Hours? God forbid a whole day! He never knew when or where he would be needed. Leaving you for the daily planet was hard enough already, but he knew when he would get off work and when he would be home to you. 

You tried not to be clingy, to insist that it was fine. That duty called. 

But these hormones of yours, oh these hormones. They made you ache for him. Long for the heat of his body in yours and the cool of his breath on your neck all hours of the day. Miss him even more when he was gone. Getting Clark to make love to you (he would never use another term while referring to sex, as he found it much too vulgar) was a bit of a feat. He was much too concerned with harming you to act on his own desires. He was holding back. 

But when you finally could get him in bed (after at least thirty minutes of trying to find a comfortable enough position), it was bliss. Your whole body was satiated in the most primal way. 

—

When you finally did go into labor, it…wasn’t what you expected. It began as a dull ache, a lingering pain in your lower pack that you passed off as your strange sleeping position. 

As time passed, the pain became more insistent, coming and going. Signaling that it was time. Urging you to prepare. 

You told Clark as soon as you fully understood what was happening. You were going into labor. The baby was coming. 

Clark immediately started to panic, running around the house as if he were trying to catch a mouse. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom—he was everywhere. Desperately trying to collect everything you two could possibly need. To be the utmost prepared. Even if there were a hospital bag prepared weeks ago, sitting patiently at the bottom of your closet. 

Through the chaos of it all, you were silent. A statue in his tornado of movement. You were beginning to panic a bit too, you admit. How was this thing supposed to come out of there? 

Your daughter was already measuring above average, a shock to just about no one. 

When Clark finally deemed the hospital bag acceptable, he rushed the two of you off to the hospital. Well, "rushed" was a bit of a stretch; the man never went over the speed limit. 

As soon as you arrived at the hospital, you were promptly sent back home. Your contractions were much too far apart, and you were only 2 centimeters dilated—far from active labor. Perhaps you two jumped the gun a bit. New parent panic and all. 

You returned home a bit disappointed. You were ready to get this baby out of you, and your contractions didn't seem to be getting any closer together. 

You were so, so uncomfortable, squirming around on the couch as Clark rubbed your feet gently. You were trying to will your contractions to come, just to speed up the process. 

But no, the universe was not that kind. You spent 12 dreadful hours in early labor, your contractions moving at a snail's pace. You swear Clark was starting to develop wrinkles from the stress of your labor alone. 

"Let's just go back to the hospital, honey," he said, massaging your shoulders as you sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Just for them to send us back home?” You sighed, becoming irritated at the whole situation. “5 minutes apart, remember?” you questioned. 

“Yes, I know, but geez—it couldn't hurt, right? I think I'm getting gray hairs," he said, rubbing your shoulders more profusely. You think he’s doing it to soothe himself more than you at this point. 

You shook your head, pushing your legs onto the bed as Clark rushed to help you, slowly lowering you down onto the bed. You stared at him silently for a moment before speaking, "Just keep timing them, okay? I want to rest.”

He nodded his head, tucking the sheets under your chin. 

Eventually you found yourself back at the hospital, your contractions mere moments apart. 

—

Hours later you are lying on a hospital bed, exhausted and happy. Your little girl is here. Nearly ten pounds. She came into the world calm and collected, and she nearly gave you and Clark a heart attack when she took her time to cry. 

Clark is a mess, little drops of snot escaping from his nose as he watches your daughter squirm on your chest. Time slows to a standstill as you and Clark watch your daughter just…live. Nurses come and go, but you cannot rip your eyes from her. 

You are in pain, yes, but your body already seems to be forgetting the pain. Clark is sniffling as he wraps his body around you two, whispering quiet “thank you”s and praises into your necks. 

“She is just…wow. She is perfect,” Clark murmurs, tracing the outline of her nose with his fingertip. He could hold her whole body in his two hands. 

You look up at him, sweat lingering at your hairline. “She is. She really just came out of me.” Clark nodded at you, laughing gently, "Yes, she really did." 

You cock your head at her for a moment, taking in the rolls on her arms and those cheeks of hers. “She’s a bit chubby though, huh?” You say, giggling to yourself. 

Clark looks mildly offended as he pinches her cheeks. "She's not chubby, hun. You just did a good job at nourishing her, that’s all." 

He leaned down to your little girl tucked in your arms, gently rubbing his nose against hers and reassuring her that no, she was not chubby, and yes, she was a strong girl. 

You roll your eyes at him halfheartedly. You are so in love. There is no one more deserving of this than Clark—of this quiet happiness. You watch him as he stares at his daughter, starstruck. 

She is still quiet in your arms, eyes pinched together and breaths gentle. You start to drift, her breaths seeming almost melodic. Clark gently lifts her from your arms without a word, tucking you deeper into the blanket. 

Now was the time for much-needed rest. Rest came easy knowing that Clark was right here, beside you, cradling the little life you created together like she was made out of the most delicate glass in the world. 

—

The newborn phase was not as easy as it was chalked up to be. Your coworkers, family, and even just random moms at the park all told tales of the exhausting cycle of waking up, feeding, changing diapers, soothing, changing diapers again, taking all the sleep you can get, and repeating. 

This little alien had different plans, though. She would 

Not. 

Stop. 

Crying. 

You are at your wits end, running on just a few hours of sleep. Clark urged you to stay down, to ignore her crying because he would handle it. You tried your very best, but your instincts just would not let you. 

The moment you heard that little shrill cry break through the air, your body sprung awake, all your nerves on high alert as you frantically searched the room for your baby. 

Clark had taken her to the doctor, concerned there was something gravely wrong that her little body couldn’t voice. But no. She’s in perfect health. Colic most likely. 

She likes to cry at night. 

During the day, she is a picture-perfect baby. Calm but clingy. Drooling on Clark’s shirt as he paces around the living room with her.

At night, her little face becomes so scrunched and teary that it pains you to look at. She’s starting to rub off on you. You burst into tears almost every time she does. 

You feel utterly helpless; this little baby that cannot do anything for herself is upset, and there’s nothing you can do to help her. 

You like to take her out on the balcony during the day. Sit in a comfy rocking chair and feel the warm rays of sun on your skin as you nurse her. The sun always makes you feel better, a little less tired—a side effect of pregnancy that you think will probably always follow you. 

Clark stands on the threshold of the sliding glass door behind you, pondering. When you look up at him, he’s rubbing his chin, glasses slightly askew and eyebrows tense. 

“What is it?” You ask, rocking your daughter gently in the chair.

He taps on his chin a few times before flicking his gaze down at you two. “She never cries during the day. At least not how she does during the night.” 

"Yeah, I’ve noticed,” you scoff 

He walks toward you, crouching down to eye level with you. He strokes his daughter's head gently, still looking like he is trying to solve an impossible math equation. 

“What is it, Clark?” 

"Well, this is… I mean, it’s just an idea. Geez, I don’t know how any of this stuff works. I-I could be totally wrong, who knows?" he rambles on, never looking you in the eye. 

“What are you getting at, honey?” You ask, lifting your brow at him. 

Well, remember when you were pregnant and you would get weak? It’s because you weren’t getting enough sun, right?” 

“Go on…” 

"Well, what if she is that same way, y’know? If she doesn’t get enough sunlight during the day, she’s uncomfortable at night.”

“Oh…that actually kinda makes sense…" 

“Right? Maybe we just need to take her out more during the day,” he says as he stands, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too proud of himself.

You sigh and look down at your girl, completely content on your chest. "Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you say, standing with her. 

You hand Clark his daughter gently, adjusting your tank top. “Let’s start now. You sit out here with her while I get some sleep, k?” You are already walking away before you finish the sentence. 

Clark gives a flimsy salute, tapping his feet together. "Yes, ma’am!” 

You collapse into your bed, ever grateful for how quiet Metropolis has sounded lately. No sirens, no cars honking or people yelling on the street below. You start to wonder if Clark has anything to do with that, but you succumb to sleep before you can finish the thought. 

Much to your and Clark's pleasure, she slept well, like a baby, that night. You got up to feed her twice, and that was it. 

You can't believe it. You could have saved yourself so much agony by just…going outside. Clark did not seem surprised by the whole situation at all. "Kryptonians are weird” and all. 

You are sitting up in bed next to Clark. His legs are raised, and your daughter rests comfortably against them.  

He isn't human. You know that. You know that you fell in love with an extraterrestrial, but Clark never let the fact affect your relationship. For all intents and purposes, you had a completely normal relationship, save for the fact that your husband could literally lift a building with one hand.

Clark looks at you, a soft smile gracing his lips. You smile back.

“This is just the beginning,” you croak. “Before we know it, she's going to be floating out of her crib.”

You both look down at your daughter, studying her features. 

“I know. She's going to be a lot to handle," he says, lovingly. 

"Mmh," you hum.

The morning is slow and sleepy, early rays of sunlight breaking through your curtains. You snuggle yourself closer to him. He welcomes you easily, securing an arm around you as you watch your baby. She is cooing softly, enamored with the dust floating in the air.  

Clark cranes his head down slightly, his nose meeting your scalp. He kisses your head once, then twice, breathing in your scent in between.

“I wouldn't worry, honey. Whatever she throws at us, we can take it. Together," he whispers. 

You look up at him. His eyes are so, so sincere. That's what made you fall in love with him in the first place. He could never hide anything behind those eyes. 

You lean up to him, meeting his lips softly. He kisses you almost reverently, his hand coming to meet your jaw, stroking your cheek slowly. You don't know how long it goes on for. You are lost in the moment, just happy to be here. With him.

Your daughter seems to sense that she is being ignored, whining loudly. You pull away, switching your attention to your pouty baby and leaning over to pick her up. 

"Oh, how dare we?!” you gasp, feigning shock. “How dare we forget you for even a moment?” 

You kiss the soft skin on the side of her head repeatedly, trying to be forgiven for your sins. 

Clark is silent. 

He is almost brought to tears; his blues begin to shine. Yes, he thinks this is worth it.

All the worry, all the pain, everything was worth it just to see this. In this moment, he isn't ashamed of himself, of his nature. 

How could he be when it created something so beautiful? In every life he would choose this. He would choose you. 

 He would do it over and over again, and so would you. 

Note: i read fics all the time where reader has a baby and i think "thats a stupid fucking name i would never name my baby that" i didn't want to subject anyone to that with this fic so baby girl remains un-named lol🙂‍↕️

[citrusxbees]

Everything That is Important

Clark Kent x Reader

Pt 2

You are pregnant with Clark's baby and it is weighing on you. He tries his best not to worry, but everyone has a breaking point. Even Superman. 2.5k words⟡pregnancy⟡slight angst⟡no use of Y/N⟡pregnancy complication⟡husband clark⟡ serious clark

You knew within the first few months of knowing Clark that you wanted to have children with him. 

His gentle disposition, his intelligence, his regard for human life, and, not to mention, those genes of his. 

But that was before you knew about his less-than-human origins. After discovering his true identity, the question of whether or not you could even carry his children was eating away at you for months. You didn’t want to ask, no. Your relationship was too new, too tender, and you didn’t want to overwhelm him. 

When you finally worked up the courage to ask him about your… compatibility months later, his answer was unclear at best. 

Sitting next to you on your couch, Clark scratched the back of his neck, eyes downcast. “I uh—I'm not completely sure. There are no recorded cases of a Kryptonian and a human procreating. I know it’s not impossible, but I’m just not sure how easy it is.” 

His eyes refused to meet yours, his voice quiet and unstable. A simple “oh” was all you could mutter while you picked at your nails. 

He peeled his eyes away from the floor, placing a hand on your knee, giving it a soothing rub. "B-but we’ll cross that bridge if we get to it, right?” 

His dimples popped out, his smile lopsided and sweet. What you wouldn’t give for a little version of him with your hair and that same smile. 

“Of course. No need to worry about it now.” You said, the corners of your lips twitching into a smile.

The conversation has eventually been filed into the back of your mind. Lingering, yes, but rarely at the front of your thoughts. 

Years later, that conversation was all you could think about. 

You shouldn’t be as nervous as you are. You’re married and financially stable after all. But still, your hands are shaking as you open a little blue box. 

You’re late. Very late. And you can’t exactly say you and Clark have been careful. Every moment of passion you manage to steal in between Superman’s busy schedule is done in a lust-infused daze. 

You can’t even remember if you did or did not use a condom—or when.

Omitting this information from Clark was a deliberate choice. He would have been a sputtering mess. Too nervous and excited to look at the situation with a clear mind. 

You took out the test with a bit of struggle from your shaking hands, peed on it, and waited. 

Your thoughts wandered as you waited a much too long five minutes. 

Should you have told Clark? It would have certainly made this whole process a lot easier for you. A shoulder for you to lean (or cry) on. 

But his responsibilities were so vast. Natural disaster after terrorist attack after robbery, then an article to write to top it off. This was one less thing he had to worry about. At least for now. 

Plus, you didn’t want him to worry if it was nothing! Maybe you’ve just been overworking yourself. Maybe you weren't eating enough.  

You pull yourself out of your own head when your phone chimes. The test is ready. You just had to dive in headfirst. Don’t think about it too hard, or you wouldn’t flip over the test for days. 

You flip the test and…two lines. 

Positive. 

Pregnant. 

—

Telling Clark actually ended up being much easier than you had initially thought. 

You kept it to yourself for a few hours after he got home. But eventually you just couldn’t do it anymore. Clark could tell something was on your mind. 

“Honey.” He said, voice low and light. You looked up at him from across the dinner table, your eyes trying desperately not to look into his for a moment too long. 

You hummed at him, flicking your eyes back to your plate, and you poked needlessly at your food. 

He stared at you for a moment, then finally sighed deeply. ”Please just tell me what’s wrong. You've been like this all day. Did I do something?”

“What do you mean? I’m fine.” You said, entirely too fast.

He set his fork down, reaching across the table for your hand. His other hand tilted your chin up to make you look at him. All he had to do was whisper “please” with those big blue eyes, and you broke.

“I’m pregnant.” You said as your eyes began to boil over with tears. 

He froze, eyes blown wide. He stood up abruptly, and for a split second, you thought he would walk out. Leave.

But no. Of course not. Clark rounded the table, falling to his knees next to you

He clasped both of his hands over yours and nuzzled his face against them. "That—that is… you’ve just made me the happiest man on earth,” he said, his voice broken and watery. 

Your smile broke, and you let out a barely-there laugh. You leaned down and pressed your forehead against his. “I'm sorry for not telling you.” You whispered. “It’s just all so much.” 

“No. Don’t apologize. I understand, baby. Our lives certainly aren’t typical.” He shook his head against yours.

 “But this is just…I can’t even begin. I didn’t know if it would ever happen.” His voice was airy and surprised, and his eyes were locked onto your low abdomen. 

You curled yourself over his kneeling form, comfortable in your silence. You basked in the moment, content to just listen to the gentle whistle of Clark's breath. 

Eventually, you pulled away from Clark. 

"We're going to be parents, Clark. We're actually doing it.”

His eyes brimmed with tears as he looked up at you, nodding his head.

—

It seemed like the bigger your belly grew, the less your body was your own. 

Over the last 7 months you've been feeling strange. Lethargic and fragile, but stronger all at the same time. This baby was doing something inhuman to you; you could not deny it. If you spent even 48 hours without sunlight, your body all but shut down—your head ached, and you could barely keep your eyes open. 

This baby was solar-powered just like their father. 

Even with the sun, your body felt weak. A half-alien parasite feeding off all the energy you had to grow. 

But still, your body was strengthening in a way. You could hear a pin drop from across the house. Smell the neighbors' food delivery from down the hall. It was overwhelming. You couldn't silence your mind. 

You could feel the city bustling like never before.

To say Clark was worried was an astronomical understatement. He didn't want to impede on your freedom or autonomy, but he urged you to take your maternity leave early and stay home. He didn't want you out there in the world if something bad happened. He could never forgive himself. 

He cursed himself for doing this to you. He should've been more responsible. He should've gone to greater lengths to discover if carrying his child was truly safe for you. He shouldn't have even allowed himself to dream of a family with you.

The guilt and worry were eating away at him. All hours of the day, his hearing was tuned to you. Were you eating enough? Did you feel weak? Did you need his help? 

Still, you powered on. You went to work every day as if nothing was wrong, as if you were having a totally normal, totally human pregnancy, and tried to assure Clark that you were completely fine the best you could.

Still, you could only keep that up for so long. 

We all have a breaking point. 

You fainted at work. Nothing serious in your opinion. You had just overworked yourself a bit, cramming to meet deadlines before your pre-planned maternity leave. You had not eaten or ventured outside all day, and your body protested. 

All you could remember was waking up next to your desk, your arm aching. Your coworkers surrounded you, one of them on the phone with Clark. 

He arrived at your office before your coworker could even sputter out the full story on the phone. He didn't bother to greet your coworkers or pay attention to their inquiries about how he got there so quickly other than muttering, "I was close by."

Very few words were exchanged between you two as he picked you up off the floor and whisked you home. You must’ve insisted you were fine about fifty times. He never responded, his jaw tight. 

You walked into your apartment together silently. He guided you to the shower and laid out pajamas for you, departing to the kitchen while you showered. Your arm was pretty badly bruised from hitting your desk on the way down.

Eventually you found yourself tucked into bed, the air tense as Clark brought you a plate of food. He watched you eat silently and brought your plate back to the kitchen when you were done. Then he just broke. 

Now, you are sitting next to a heartbroken Clark. His hands are shaking as he holds one of yours. He is ashamed of himself. Of his existence. His very nature is bringing you harm. 

“Clark, I'm sorry. Truly—" you mutter, but he cuts you off. 

“Stop. Just stop," he says as he runs his thumb across your knuckles, voice shaky.  

Seeing your strong, hopeful husband so downtrodden and devoid of joy sets off an ache deep in your heart. 

"You're telling your work you are leaving tomorrow," he asserts, clearing his voice and lifting his head to you. 

“What?” you exclaim, sitting yourself up in bed. “You can’t just decide that! People are relying on me!” 

He grips your hand tighter, looking straight into your eyes, gaze never wavering, then he starts, “You know I would never try to dictate what you do, but this is different. It's not safe.” 

"It's fine, Clark. I promise you. This was a one-time thing. I just didn’t get enough sleep last night," you respond. You have never seen Clark this serious with you. 

“No. You are injured. This is affecting you more than you want to admit, but I see it. I see that you're tired; I see that you are weak. I see that it's my fault, and I cannot allow you to keep working like this.” He maintained. 

Does he not think you could understand your own limits? "It's just a little bruise, Clark. I have responsibilities at work!”

“And I have a responsibility to you!” he yelled. 

He raised his voice at you. Actually raised his voice at you. Never in all your years of dating and marriage had he ever raised his voice at you.

Your eyes water as you shrink down into yourself, pulling your hand away from his. 

"I—I'm sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn't mean to yell… I just can't… I just can't take it anymore.” His voice breaks as you reach for his hand once again. You feel dread deep in your heart. Your poor husband was breaking. 

"It's okay, baby. This whole thing is just crazy, isn't it?” you say, taking his hand in yours. It truly was mind boggling—the fact that you had to live every day as if you weren't carrying an extraterrestrial being. “I promise you that I am fine, Clark. My life cannot pause because of one little fall.” 

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he sputtered, his jaw clenched and eyes teary.  

“This isn't just a fall. It isn't just a one-time mistake. You are going to get weaker and weaker. You’re going to resent me. Your body wasn't made for this. I should’ve known.” You were shocked at his admittance. Sure, you knew he was worried, but you never thought that it went this deep. You never thought that he regretted creating a life with you. 

Full-blown tears now fall from your eyes as you scooch yourself closer to him on the bed. “Please do not say that. I wanted this. More than anything.” 

“I know you do. Please don’t misunderstand me; I want this child too. Golly, you don't even know how long I've dreamed of this.” He chuckles lightly and pauses, looking out the bedroom window in contemplation.

“Still, it is my job to protect you. Always has been. Now it's my job to protect both of you, and you working is dangerous. It's not just a bruise. Gosh, tomorrow it will be another bruise, then a broken bone, and then what?” He was crying now, light sniffles escaping his nose as he gripped your hand almost to the point of pain. 

You pull yourself into his chest, guiding his unused hand onto your pregnant belly. “I understand," you murmured. 

He gently rubs your belly, almost reverently, and nuzzles his face into your hair. This man loves you more than anything. "I'll take my leave now, Clark. I don't want you worried sick over me.” 

“Thank you. Thank you so much," he sighs, embracing you fully. Almost on cue, your baby kicks hard, leaving you breathless. 

“I think your daughter agrees with you," you say, trying to soothe the little alien by rubbing the side of your belly. 

He pulls away from you suddenly. “Daughter? "I thought it was going to be a surprise?” he questions, covering your hand with his larger one. “What makes you say that?” 

“Motherly intuition, I guess..." As soon as you utter it, you find his eyes locked intensely on your middle. He was trying to use his x-ray vision again!  

“Hey! No peeking!” you exclaim, covering his eyes with both of your hands.

"Sorry, sorry! I just can't resist sometimes!” he squeaks, throwing his hand up in surrender. 

“If I don't get to see our baby, neither will you!” You say as you remove his hands from his eyes. A futile effort you realize. He could see right through them if he really wanted to. But the meaning was still there. 

He sighs, looking defeated. "Yes, I know. Ultrasounds only.”

"Exactly. Now cuddle me.” You lay back in bed and reach your arms up towards him. 

“How could I ever resist such a request?” he says as he crawls next to you. He pulls himself close to you, placing your head on his chest. 

You lay there for hours, everything important and nothing important at the same time. Baby names, paint colors, boring office politics, a cute cat you saw in a window. 

In that moment you feel…normal. No super hearing, no super strength, just a husband and wife cuddling and arguing about baby names.

You would do anything to make Clark happy, and sometimes, it's as easy as just staying home.

Read Part 2

[citrusxbees]

Hey everyone I just wanted to pop in and ensure y’all that I am in fact alive! I am now not just a student but also employed (unfortunately)😒 I’m so sorry haven’t had enough time to write lately but I will be back! I have so many idea but just haven’t had the time to sit down and commit to writing :(

[glitch-but-ya]

“Sylus!” 

You let out a squeal as all six-foots of your behemoth of a husband sank his weight onto you, dragging you down onto the bed and smushing your face between the mattress and his chest. 

And then, you smelled it—the stench of liquor radiating from his shirt. 

Sylus was drunk. 

You stared up at him with wide eyes. Your gaze swept over his flushed cheeks, the lopsided smirk plastered on his lips, the warm breath that fanned over your neck.  

He was actually drunk. 

With eyes carelessly shut, he wrapped his arms firmly about you before nuzzling into your neck. You giggled as wet lips peppered kisses down the column, and your hands worked to try and pry the man away. After a minute of his stubborn reluctance, your chest bloomed with triumph as you finally got him to pull back. 

Sylus lifted his head, opened his eyes, and within moments, a small frown graced his lips. 

“You wound me, m’beloved...” Soft eyes stared back into yours. You were unsure whether to laugh or melt. 

So, you raised your hand up to his face instead, caressing the skin with gentle strokes. “It’s not like you to overindulge,” you hummed, “Rough day?” 

Sylus nuzzled into the warmth of your palm. “I missed you.” 

You smiled in response, tugging the burden off his back. The coat hit the floor with a soft thump, crinkled, before he pushed it aside with his foot and climbed onto you entirely. 

“Sy—oof!”  

Two arms wrapped tightly about your waist before rolling you onto your side. 

“Don’t go.” 

“I won’t, but—” 

“Please...” Warm, liquor-stenched breaths caressed your face. By the time you gathered enough words to retaliate, his eyes had already shut close, and his chest rose and fell in tandem, the rhythm steadying as it persisted. 

Wrapped in his arms, caught in his embrace; it was as if time itself had slowed, and all matter in the universe halted for you both.  

Smiling, you drew the covers over him and then tucked yourself in. “Goodnight, my love,” you whispered into his ear. The sleeping giant did not move. 

That night, you had learned that your husband, the ever-so stoic-faced man, was a clingy, helplessly devoted drunk.

Oh, you would never let that go. 

[sc3ptre]

a request for mr. clark kent! Slight angst but ends fluffy! Reader and Clark are dating, but you don’t know that he’s Superman. The two of them are trying to be intimate, but it’s reader’s first time and Clark is super patient and respectful about it. But right when you’re about to get going, something happens and Superman is needed! Reader thinks she did something wrong and “ruined their first time” and starts to pull away. And it’s ends with Clark revealing is alter ego

Distant lover

Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

Classification: A bit of smut and angst but there's still a whole lot of fluff !! | Smut +18 Explicit sexual content

Word count: 4,3k

Divider by me ;)

Being loved by him felt like ascending into a higher, clearer version of yourself, as though something weightless and luminous had always been waiting just above you and all Clark ever did was place his hands at your waist and lift you there without effort. It had always felt that way in some quiet sense, the safety of him and the steadiness, but when intimacy came into the picture you realized how literal that feeling could be, how being with him didn’t just ground you, it elevated you, set you somewhere reverent, soft and entirely seen.

He treated you like something precious, like something meant to be admired rather than claimed, as if you belonged on an altar he could kneel before, not out of obligation but out of devotion, reverence written into every careful touch and lingering look.

You had worried before all of this, about how unnatural it might feel to be so exposed, so unguarded with another person, any person, even one who made your heart race the way Clark did. Vulnerability had always felt like a language you only half-spoke and so despite the pull you felt toward him, despite the way your body seemed to lean toward his without permission, you had decided to wait, to trust that if it was right the moment would come on its own and drag you gently into it rather than demand you leap.

The night began the way it always did on weekends spent at your place, familiar and easy in a way that made time blur at the edges. You ate dinner together, talked your way through the week between bites and laughter, plates pushed aside as the evening stretched on but tonight there was something different, something charged, that kept pulling your gaze back to him no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else. Even from his place at the dining table, he noticed it, noticed the way your attention snagged and lingered as you stood a few feet away by the television, carefully putting away the board game you’d been playing as if you needed the task to steady yourself.

His eyes never left yours when you finally turned and walked toward him, your steps slower than usual, more tentative, like you were approaching a threshold rather than a chair. When you leaned down, the kiss you pressed to his lips felt inevitable, instinctive and just as naturally, he smiled into it, warm and unmistakably fond.

“What are you smiling about?” you murmured against his mouth, your words half-lost as you kissed him again and again, soft and unhurried, like you were savoring something you’d waited a long time for.

As if afraid you might overthink it, might pull back before he could anchor you there, he set his hands on your thighs, grounding you instantly.

“I can’t smile at my girlfriend?” he murmured in return. He wished that were the full truth, because it was simple and sweet but the reality was bigger. He was smiling at you, yes but also at the way your body spoke so clearly, at every subtle sign that told him you were ready, that you were choosing him just as intentionally as he had chosen you.

You weren’t entirely sure what came over you when you shifted and settled onto his lap but once you did, it felt like the only place you were meant to be. Your arms slid around his shoulders, your kisses drifting from his lips to their corners, then to his cheek, his jaw and finally his neck, where your breath lingered warmly against his skin.

Clark’s hands moved with care, finding your waist and resting there through the fabric of your shirt, thumbs brushing slow, soothing arcs as if to remind you that you were safe, that he was listening. A quiet hum left him, his body alive and hardening beneath you with the simple act of being close.

“How sure are you about this?” he asked softly, shifting his head just enough to give you more space, not to pull away but to make room for your choice.

“Undeniably… sure,” you replied between kisses, the words steady even if your pulse wasn’t.

At that, his hands slid lower, just enough to rest at your hips as you drew closer, chest to chest, until one hand lifted again, thumb and forefinger gently cradling your ear to tilt your head and draw you into a deeper kiss, one that stole your breath and his in equal measure, stretching until neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away.

Your fingers brushed his glasses, instinctively moving to slip them off but he caught your wrist lightly, stopping you with a touch that was firm but tender.

“I want to see you clearly,” he said quietly, the words landing with more weight than you expected.

And there it was…the moment you’d read about but never fully believed in, when hesitation didn’t fade so much as disappear entirely, when there was no crossing of lines because the lines simply weren’t there anymore.

It felt as though the heat beneath your skin kept rising with every kiss and breath shared between you, overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, like loving the heat of summer while standing barefoot in hot sand, eyes fixed on the promise of cooler water just ahead, knowing you were already halfway there.

Your nipples hardened under your shirt with every hitch of Clark's breath against your lips, the sensation sending a shiver through you that arched your back, seeking the friction the soft cotton denied. Those desperate movements caused your hips to roll over his lap involuntarily, your clothed clit rubbing against the rough tent in his jeans, drawing a soft whimper from your mouth.

Clark nearly gasped against your lips, his hands moving to your hips and closing softly around your body before sliding up and under your shirt, where only a few fingers brushed your bare skin.

He then pulled away from the kiss just enough to speak. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pressing a ghostly kiss to your lips. “I can stop,” he added under his breath, almost as if reassuring himself more than you.

You shook your head, a faint 'no' escaping alongside a whine as you reached down to grasp the hem of your shirt, pulling it halfway up and letting Clark's hands follow before tugging it off the rest of the way.

His eyes traced the newly revealed expanse of skin, dotted with freckles from your belly button to the exquisite swell of your breasts, the peaks of your hardened nipples and the elegant dip of your clavicles, until your shirt lay forgotten on the floor.

This moment felt like diving into a cool body of water, finally quenching the fire spreading within you and allowing you to breathe.

“Can I… Can I touch you?” he asked, gazing directly into your eyes and nearly shuddering at your nod.

His hands traced a delicate path up your sides, his knuckles grazing your breasts in a way that made you suck in a quiet breath, until his fingers reached your neck, gently pushing your hair aside to caress your skin. His fingertips lingered at your pulse point while his other hand cradled the back of your neck.

He seemed entranced by the sight of it. The more he looked, the louder your heartbeat thrummed in his ears, drawing him to lean in and press kisses to it as if it were the very source of your essence. You couldn't help but moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you tilted your head to give him more space, hoping he'd mark the area with gentle, loving bites.

As he lavished attention on your sensitive skin, one hand stayed at your hip, holding you close, while the other slipped between you both. Deft fingers found your hardened nipple, rolling it gently between them and tugging lightly, pulling a gasp from your lips as he tried to steady his overwhelmed senses and gauge your reactions.

“This okay?” he breathed against your shaky lips as you hummed in pleasure, your hips rolling slightly in search of more.

It felt as natural as breathing, your body moving to the rhythm of your shared breaths, unknowingly coaxing more small, needy gasps from Clark's lips. He rarely felt breathless for any reason but this was the first time it happened, his skin tingling and tensing under the grind of your body against his. It wasn't even about what you gave him, it was about how desperately he wanted to give you everything, holding back only for your signals.

The second you pressed closer to him, your arms circling tighter around his shoulders to maintain the connection, Clark felt as though he might explode. He suddenly stood up, holding you close and setting you gently on the table, his unabashed hands prodding and caressing every inch of your exposed skin as he leaned into you desperately, his mouth pressing kisses anywhere he could reach while your thighs closed around his hips and his clothed cock grazed the sensitive insides of your thighs.

“Clark…” you breathed, “Do something, please.”

He obeyed immediately, lifting you with one arm around your waist as his other hand fumbled with your pants, sliding them down and leaving only your underwear behind before setting you down on the table again. You didn't complain, though it crossed your mind, the rational part of you that still clung to a sense of morality recognized it as the sweetest proof of his respect and patience.

He pressed kisses onto your skin, slowly coaxing you to lay back on the cool wood. Once your back was flat against it, his palms wrapped around the apex of your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the table with your legs spread so he could fit squarely between them. He leaned down, pressing kisses to your sternum, his eyes locked on yours as he moved slowly to your breasts, planting kisses on them, his tongue tasting the saltiness of your skin until he wrapped his lips around one nipple. His other hand attended to the neglected peak, pinching and rolling it between his fingers while his mouth sucked and licked the other.

You moaned, your back arching into his mouth as your thighs tightened around his hips. Eventually, he granted the same treatment to the other nipple, repeating the motions as his ears filled with the rapid beat of your heart and your moans. Once both peaks were exquisitely sensitive, he released them with a soft pop of his mouth, leaving them shiny with saliva. 

"Can I please kiss you?" he murmured into your skin as his hands traced your sides and he kissed down your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you replied, nearly breathless. “Since when do you ask to kiss me?”

“I'm not talking about your mouth, sweetheart,” he said, stopping right at the hem of your panties as he dropped to his knees in utter defeat.

You lifted yourself enough to meet his eyes, yours widening slightly in surprise but inevitably nodding before laying back down. He began pressing kisses over your panties, slowly making his way down and pushing your thighs up to rest on his shoulders. He started carefully, pressing tentative kisses to the inside of your thighs, his lips soon ghosting over your clothed clit, making you shudder.

Just as they neared, a shiver crawled up his spine, making his whole body tense and nearly forcing his senses to snap his mind back into place, blowing away the haze the moment had reduced it to.

In his ears, your heavy breathing was abruptly swallowed by the sound of screams and twisting metal colliding somewhere far too close, the violence of it cutting through him so sharply that it took him half a second longer than it ever should have to fully register what was happening, both of his lives pulling at him at once, stretching his needs and wants thin until something had to give. 

He stilled, breath caught in his chest, eyes lifting to yours as if he could somehow pour every apology he had into a single look and when he rose to his feet his legs felt unsteady, like he was standing on fault lines instead of hardwood floors.

“I’m so sorry,” he started, the words barely more than air under his breath at first, before he forced them louder as he stepped away from you, each inch of distance feeling wrong, “I’m–I’m terribly sorry.”

“What?” you blinked, confusion flickering as you sat up and watched him scramble for his jacket and shoes, the suddenness of it all knocking the air from your lungs. “Clark?” you called, sharper now, more alarmed, hopping off the table and quickly grabbing your discarded shirt to cover yourself, the sight of you doing that, of you even needing to, nearly broke him where he stood.

“I–I have to go. I’ll explain, I swear,” he said, fighting the way his body betrayed him, the tight pull of his pants over his hard cock was nothing but a cruel reminder of what he was leaving unfinished. He almost crumbled at the way your face twisted, pain and confusion folding in on themselves. “Please don’t…I’m so sorry. It’s an emergency.”

Your brows lifted, the hurt threatening to turn into something louder, something sharper but you swallowed it back, clutching your shirt tighter around yourself as you looked away for just a second to steady your breathing. In that moment, your eyes glossed over, tears threatening. “Just go,” you said quietly, moving past him toward your bedroom.

“Baby–” he started, reaching out without thinking.

“I said, go,” you repeated from the doorway, your voice firmer now and then the door slammed shut between you, the sound echoing far too loudly in the space you’d just shared.

Clark stood there longer than he should have, staring at the door as if it might open again on its own, as if he could rewind the moment if he looked hard enough but he didn’t dare peer inside, afraid of seeing more of your devastation than the quiet sniffles already slipping through the wood. He took a few hesitant steps forward and rested his forehead against the cool surface, eyes closing. “There’s a…a reasonable explanation for this,” he murmured, his hearing split painfully between the catastrophe unfolding in the city and the one he’d caused in your apartment. “I wish I could tell you right now.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Clark,” you said from the other side, voice breaking as you slid down to sit against the door, knees pulled in, “please, leave.”

It took several long seconds for him to will his body to move, to turn away and walk with heavy steps toward the door, forcing himself to honor your words and his obligation alike, even though every part of him wanted to stay.

When Clark came back later that night, ribs aching from the fight and his heart hollowed out by your pain, he found the apartment empty, too quiet in a way that confirmed what he’d already feared. It was obvious you’d fled on instinct, running from the way he’d made you feel, from the disappointment that now lived in the walls and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t expected it, because the closer he’d gotten to your place, the less of you he could hear, could feel, until there was nothing at all. 

That night he called you again and again, leaving messages you wouldn’t listen to until three days later, when you were sitting alone in a deserted beach under a sky thick with clouds, your sweater useless against the wind biting at your skin.

You lifted your phone to your ear. “You have six new voice messages. First message, received Friday, 10:03 p.m., from Clark,” the automated voice said before fading into his.

“Hi…” Clark began, the pause that followed heavy enough to make your chest ache anew. “I–I came back and you were gone. I know you’re angry and upset, baby, and you have every right to be–”

You tapped the screen. “Message deleted. New voice message, received Sunday, 4:16 a.m., from Clark.”

“It’s Clark again,” his voice continued, softer but edged with worry. “I know it’s early and you’re probably sleeping, but–”

Another tap. “Message deleted. New voice message, received Sunday, 10:45 a.m., from Clark.”

“I just need a sign…something,” he said, desperation bleeding through now. “Yell at the sky if you want, call me names but I just…baby, I can’t hear you–”

You turned the phone off and let yourself fall back into the sand, pressing the device to your chest as if it could somehow listen to the rest for you, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. “Loving someone is never a waste,” you whispered to yourself, the words trembling. “Loving someone is never a waste,” you repeated, like a mantra, like a promise. “It’s okay…you’re okay,” you told yourself again, breath shaking as your hand rose to cover your eyes, trying not to think about the way you’d avoided your reflection these past few days, afraid you’d see exactly what you believed he had seen when he walked away.

Mere minutes later, there was a sudden whoosh of air, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs, followed immediately by the crashing rhythm of the waves against the shore, the sound breaking clean through the chant you’d been repeating in your head like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” you heard, not as the echo of a memory or the imagined voice you’d been carrying around with you these past days but Clark’s actual voice, real, strained and far too close. Your eyes flew open as you fumbled for your phone, convinced for half a heartbeat that another voicemail had somehow started playing on its own but the screen remained dark save for the unread text messages you’d left untouched.

“I know I’m the last person you want to hear from and I’m–” he began, breathless in a way that could only mean he’d flown to you the second he heard your voice amongst millions, it had pulled him here faster than thought.

You turned your head sharply to the side and were met with the sight of familiar shoes planted in the sand, your gaze lifting slowly until it collided with his.

“What the fuck?!” you yelped, scrambling upright and looking around wildly as if the world itself must have shifted while you weren’t paying attention. You stood, one hand flying to your chest as your heart pounded far harder than you remembered it doing moments ago, bending to grab your shoes without really knowing why. “How did you…what are you doing here?” you demanded, breath uneven.

“I messed up and I know that,” he said, stepping toward you with a desperation he wasn’t bothering to hide, forcing you to step back instinctively, your head shaking even as your chest ached at his words. “But I can’t lose you.”

“There’s no need for this,” you pleaded, lifting a hand between you to stop him from coming any closer, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be.

“There is,” he said firmly, almost gently. “There is.”

“There isn’t,” you insisted, the words tumbling over one another as you tried to make them stick. “This isn’t a show or a book. There’s no redemption arc, no big speech that fixes everything. It just…it wasn’t meant to happen and maybe it was too soon and too fast and–” You trailed off, trying to convince yourself just as much as him.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he interrupted, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch, “and I regret it every single day but especially now. I don’t know if I was trying to protect you or myself but if keeping this secret means losing you, I can’t do it anymore.” He hesitated only briefly before reaching up and removing his glasses, exposing himself fully to you, his truth laid bare. He watched your reaction closely, waiting…bracing. “I didn’t want to leave,” he continued softly, “and I hated that it happened like that, especially then, and especially with you.”

“You’re…” you started, lips parting before the word dissolved.

“Seeing you cover yourself up from me,” he went on, voice thick, “…it shattered me. I almost ignored everything I’m supposed to be for the chance to fix it but I couldn’t. I can’t sacrifice this world for us…but I also won’t sacrifice us for it. I’m both, I know I can be but you are…you are everything.”

“How…how didn’t I see it?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Clark stepped forward again and this time you retreated only half a step, your feet sinking into the sand as if the earth itself wanted to keep you there. “You didn’t see it because I couldn’t let you,” he said quietly, swallowing hard. “And it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you…Golly, it was the opposite. I trust you with my life, the same way you trust me with your heart and I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes dropping to the sand beneath your feet, shoulders slumping. “I understand your obligations,” you said hoarsely, your voice rough from days of silence. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me. We’re just…we’re on different paths and I’m sorry for getting in yours, Clark, I–”

Before you could finish, he lifted off the ground, rising effortlessly and surging into the sky with such speed that the clouds scattered in his wake, the darkness breaking apart until light spilled through. You shielded your eyes, tracking his movement until he vanished again, your heart hammering painfully in your chest.

“Did you get my messages?” his voice asked from behind you.

You froze, eyes still fixed on the sky where he’d written something for you, your heart thudding at the cloudlike letters left behind. “What…what messages?” you asked, not turning.

He gestured toward the phone still clutched in your hand, then back toward the sky. “What comes before that.”

You finally turned to look at him, a breathless laugh slipping out despite yourself. “You ramble,” you said softly. “A lot…especially when you’re worried.”

He nodded, taking one cautious step closer, then another when you didn’t move away, your feet anchored in place. “I was trying to say that I love you,” he said simply, arms sliding around your waist like they belonged there, like they always had. “Because I love you, I do. And no offense but you’re wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes met his at this impossible closeness, the familiarity of him making your chest ache all over again.

“You’re wrong about us being on different paths,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re not on different paths. You’re my path,” he told you softly, certainty in every word. “And you’re always gonna be my path.”

“I thought there was something wrong with me,” you admitted at last, the fear you’d been carrying finally given shape.

“No,” he said immediately, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice warm and earnest. “Golly, far from it. You have no idea how hard it was to fight with a persistent erec–”

“Clark!” you cut in, laughing despite the tears.

He lifted his head quickly, grinning without shame. “What? I thought this was a safe space.”

“Okay, okay–just…fine,” you said at last, letting out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob, shoulders lifting in a small, helpless shrug. “Since we’re being honest, I guess I did think about that and daydream about…well, that…but only for a second, somewhere in between crying, being mad, hoping it hurt like a bitch and mourning what I thought I’d lost.”

Clark’s head dipped forward at your words, chin nearly touching his chest as if the weight of them had finally landed where it belonged. “I did, it really did…I’ll make it up to you,” he said quietly but firmly, every syllable intentional. “I swear I will. No interruptions.”

You shook your head, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt as if anchoring yourself there. “You don’t have to say that. I understand now,” you murmured, voice still fragile but no longer breaking.

“I mean it,” he insisted, lifting his head to look at you fully, eyes earnest and unguarded. “I wanted it just as much as you did, if not more and I loved every second we had together but I guess I’m greedy when it comes to you,” he admitted with a soft, self-aware huff of breath, one hand sliding to your back. “I want more, I need more, all of it…and I need you to tell me that you still do too. I just–” His voice wavered, emotion bleeding through despite his strength. “I need you…I love you and I’m so sorry I hurt you by not making it clear enough.”

You didn’t trust your voice right away, only nodding as tears slipped free, warm against your cheeks, your silence heavy but not uncertain. He waited, patience stretched thin by fear and hope in equal measure.

“Baby,” he said gently, almost pleading, “Sweet love of mine, I need an answer…”

You sniffled, blinking up at him. “To what?”

“Well…” he gestured vaguely upward, a sheepish edge creeping in as the tension finally loosened, “the…big sky message.”

“Oh, that,” you said, a soft chuckle slipping out as you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips, brief but sure. “I wouldn’t mind sharing a path.”

Clark exhaled shakily, relief flooding through him so visibly it was almost dizzying, his arms tightening around you as if to make sure you were real. 

Without even fully realizing it, he began to lift off the sand, the two of you rising together as easily as breathing. 

He had already made sure the world wouldn’t need Superman for a little while, because if there was one thing Clark didn’t do was leave things unfinished, especially when it came to you.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

[sugar-bugz]

the new home system is wonderful and all but when do i get to make a baby with him?

[citrusxbees]

REAL REAL REAL REAL REALLL

[citrusxbees]

So they’re calling me a whore now?

[tshyn]

every night is fanfic night if you're a whore like me

[yeovv-r]

I have so many doodles of him omg (I have more btw🤭🤭)

[honeypiehotchner]

the birds & the bees -- Superman x Fem!Reader (Kinktober 2025)

I don't care that it's November now it's still Kinktober to me!!! (this is what I get for trying to do a million things during one month but we carry on)

Summary: Clark Kent leaves work abruptly to cover a breaking Superman story, but he practically goes missing right after. You, being the caring friend and coworker that you are, decide to go to his apartment to see if he's okay. And he is, he's just...a little under the weather, and he really needs your help.

Warnings: 18+ only mdni!!!, baby's first sex pollen fic (i think?), needy + sort of subby!clark, blink n you miss it handjob, he gets a lil rough, pussy pronouns, unprotected sex, oral/facefucking (f + m rec), voyeurism if u squint, lots of manhandling, size kink ofc, clark cums...a lot, dirty dirty talk, pollen lowkey affects reader too, lots of petnames ('honey' 'sweetheart' 'baby'), he begs a lot whoops, improper use of his x-ray vision (naughty clark!!), he's still just a giant sweetie even w the pollen <33

WC: 7.7k (this ran the fuck away from me ok)

It’s Saturday, and you’re standing in front of the door to your coworker’s apartment. Uninvited, you might add.

This has to be a new low for you.

The truth is something a little more like this: It’s Saturday, and you’re standing outside your best-friend-slash-coworker-who-has-a-(mutual)-crush-on-you-slash-the-most-handsome-man-in-Metropolis’s door because you haven’t heard from him since Thursday night.

You’ve called, you’ve texted, you’ve sent emails, you’ve left who knows how many voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Jimmy has tried, Lois has tried, Cat has tried -- hell, even Perry tried, because when Clark didn’t show up for work by lunch time yesterday, Perry was even getting worried. It’s normal for Clark to be a little late from time to time. You think his problem is that he’s just too nice and he’ll talk to anyone, and he gets caught up with anything. You’ve witnessed it in real time. 

But not showing at all? That’s unheard of. He hardly ever has sick days, now that you think about it, so if he is sick, it must be lethal, and you have to at least make sure he’s okay.

At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to justify the fact that you’re showing up, uninvited, and debating letting yourself inside with the spare key under the plant in the corner (Clark is so predictable).

You try knocking again. “Clark?” you call out. “Are you in there?”

It’s just so unlike him, to not show at all, especially after such a big day for Superman on Thursday afternoon. Clark rushed out of the office to go see the action and to get his front-page interview like he always does, and you all were certain it would be plastered on Friday’s paper. But it wasn’t.

Instead, it was some piece Jimmy was working on -- congrats, Jimmy, really, but still -- and Superman saving the city from a creature no one has ever seen before was tucked away inside, and barely a full column. It was a quick write up, the quickest you’ve ever seen Lois do, and it works, but it’s not what everyone was expecting. Steve ended up fielding phone calls about why Clark Kent didn’t interview Superman and why he didn’t get an exclusive like always. 

Needless to say, yesterday was hectic at the Daily Planet, and you worried yourself sick over Clark’s whereabouts, so much so that you’re now staring down his front door before noon on a Saturday.

God. You shake your head at yourself. He’s probably-- Maybe there was a family emergency? Your heart clenches at the idea of anything happening to Ma or Pa Kent, but…it’s a real possibility. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to look at his phone because of it.

It’s one of the worst case scenarios, but it feels like that’s all you’re working with considering you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.

Your foot taps impatiently on the floor. The tote bag full of cold remedies and just general things to cheer up a sad Clark Kent weighs heavily on your shoulder. You had thought you’d find him here, maybe sick with an awful flu, or--

You hear movement. Your foot immediately stops its tapping, your breathing halts, you think your heart might even stop beating. You lean a little closer to the door. 

Definitely movement. Someone is inside.

“Clark?” you call out again. “It’s me,” you try instead. “I haven’t heard from you, I-I got worried.” You pause, listening for the same shuffling. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

The only response you get is a low groan. Groaning that you aren’t even sure is Clark, but it’s something, and it doesn’t sound good.

“Can I come in?” you ask. You’ll think later on how to apologize for coming over unannounced and for presumptively looking for the spare key and for letting yourself in. Right now you just need to see if he’s okay.

You hear more groaning, followed by the sound of something crashing -- you have no idea what -- and you decide that’s it.

You tip the plant and swipe the key, inserting it and twisting the knob all in one swoop. “I’m really sorry,” you say as you push the door open. “I’m so sorry, but it sounded like-- I just had to check--”

All words promptly die on your lips when you see the state of Clark’s apartment.

You’ve been here once. Only once. You were caught in a bad storm after drinks with Clark, Jimmy, and Lois, and Clark’s apartment was closer, so he offered you dry clothes and a warm shower while the storm waned. That night, every lamp was on, he had hot cocoa ready for you as soon as you got out of the shower, and the two of you talked and laughed while the rain beat the windows.

Today, the sun is out, but it looks stormy in Clark’s apartment. Not a single light is on, the couch is askew, the coffee table overturned. 

And Clark.

His back is pressed to the far window, hands splayed like he’s pinning himself to the glass with all his strength. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers that are tented, and that would normally be enough for you to avert your eyes, except he looks ill. He’s practically ashen, and he’s sweating so much that his shirt is sticking to his skin, to every muscle. His hair is curled to hell, bordering on messy in a way that is worrisome, like he’s been gripping and tugging at it and trying to rip it out.

“Clark?” you ask, shutting the door behind you. You place the spare key down on the little table by the door. “Are you… What’s going on?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he won’t look at you. He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him.

“Clark, please…” you pause, swallowing. You set your bag down by the door, walking closer to him, approaching him like he’s a skittish animal that might run away from you at any second. “Talk to me.”

“Stop,” he bites out. “Please.”

You stop moving, holding your hands up in surrender. What the hell is going on? His legs are shaking, he looks like he hasn’t eaten since Thursday’s lunch, and he still won’t lift his head.

“You should--” he pauses, sucks in a harsh, sharp breath. “You should leave.”

You scoff, not unkindly, just, confused and stressed and what has gotten into him? “Clark, I’m not leaving. We need to get you to a doct--”

“No!” he shouts, immediately shaking his head. “No, no, I’m…fine, I don’t need a doctor.”

“You are not fine,” you argue gently. “You look like you can barely hold yourself up. Are you sick with something?”

“No,” he whines, then adds, “yes, kind of.” One hand leaves the glass to press to his temple with a grimace.

“Is it a migraine?” you ask, wondering if maybe that’s why it’s so dark in here. But that doesn’t explain the fact that it looks like a tornado took off in here, too. “Don’t you get those if you don’t wear your glasses?” He’s not wearing them right now, which you’ve only just now noticed. “Where are they?”

You look around and spot them on the kitchen counter, as if they were ripped off and thrown down. Your eyebrows furrow.

“Clark,” you turn back to him. “Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help. You’ve had everyone worried sick, and we damn near called a wellness check for you, but I figured, let me just come knock on his door first-- But I can’t help if you won’t even let me near you.”

He whimpers this time, high in his throat, almost like he’s going to cry. “Please.”

“Please, what?” you cry. “What can I do? Let me help.” You take tentative steps toward him, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“I-I can’t,” he shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

“Hurt me?” You keep walking slowly. “Why would you hurt me?” Your mind is running wild with all kinds of possibilities right now, one namely being, is Clark on drugs or something?

“It-it’s not something I can control,” he says.

“What is?” you ask, taking more steps. You’re just past the coffee table now. You’ll be able to reach out to him any second.

“It’s--” he cuts himself off with another wince. “Please, you need to stay back, I--”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just stand over there and watch you like this,” you say sternly, taking more intentional steps now. You reach him quickly, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

He sighs when you touch him, knees buckling. “I-I know. H-Hurts.”

“Clark,” you whisper, placing your hands on his shoulders. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt when you went to interview Superman? Did you get caught in the fight or something?”

He chuckles, but it’s not his usual sound. “Or something,” he murmurs sheepishly, finally tipping his head back to look up at you and--

Your eyes go wide. The world sways. Suddenly you feel like you’re the one who is sick. 

“C-Clark?” you stutter in disbelief. “Superman?”

He groans again, head lolling forward. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”

You come back to yourself and remember he’s violently ill and you shake your head. Now is not the time to be starstruck. “Hey, no, no, it’s okay, it’s fine! So you’re Superman? It’s okay!” You know you sound ridiculous. “Do you-- Don’t you have healing-- Doesn’t the sun help you or something? Why are you still like this?”

“The sun can’t help this, it’s-- This is different. The Superman robots tried to help, but--”

You nod along, noting things to ask him about later, like Superman robots because what does that even mean? Who are they?

“Okay,” you say, like you’ve got it all figured out after what he’s told you. Like you have a plan. “Okay.” You don’t know what to do. “So we-- Did they-- Do the…robots know what it is that’s making you feel like this?”

He nods slowly, tipping his head back again to look at you, his blue eyes not at all tired like you expect them to be. They’re practically molten. “They have an idea.”

“Okay,” you lick your lips. You should not be thinking about how attractive he is up close like this when he’s practically on his death bed. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to spill it all out right then, but he snaps his jaw closed. “No, I-- I can’t tell you.”

You nearly scream out of sheer frustration. “What do you mean?” you try to have a gentle tone, but you’re not sure you succeed.

“It’s--” he hisses in pain again (you think?), hanging his head. “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t think anything can be more complicated than the fact that I just found out you’re Superman when you’re like this.”

He chuckles again, the sound growing warmer this time. “It’s-- Can you promise me something first?”

“Yeah, Clark,” your face softens. “Anything.”

He groans at that. “No…no, I mean it, I mean, if I tell you what this is, and you’re scared, or you-- You just don’t want to be around me, you have to tell me.”

Your eyes widen. “Clark--”

“I mean it, please,” he begs. “Because if you say you don’t want this, I promise, I will-- I’ll go and bury myself in the ice and I’ll wait it out and I won’t hurt you.”

“Clark, you’re not gonna hurt me.”

“I might,” he chokes out. “I could. I’ve-- It’s been two days of this, I don’t know my own strength, I might--”

“Clark, stop, stop,” you cut him off, both your hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

“I’m-- I think the creature on Thursday was released by Lex Luthor as a distraction.”

He stops, so you press gently, holding his face as you whisper, “Distraction for what?”

“When I was flying home after it -- back to the Fortress -- as I was leaving Metropolis I flew through a cloud but it wasn’t a cloud, it was-- I think Lex manufactured it because he knew I’d fly through it and he knew it would do this to me.”

You still don’t know what this is, other than the fact that he looks three steps from the grave.

“It’s…my body is--” He pauses again. “This is embarrassing.”

“Clark…” you sigh, pulling him into your arms despite everything. He’s much taller than you, yet right now he feels so small. His face finds your neck and he inhales deeply, holding his breath. “You can tell me.”

“It was a pollen cloud,” he murmurs into your skin, nosing your carotid artery. “And the pollen sets my hormones on fire.”

You rub circles onto his back. “So you’re…?”

“So turned on that I might die,” he whines, still mortified from having to admit this out loud. His hips move on their own accord, and you feel him grinding against your leg before he promptly stops himself. “S-Sorry.”

Your brain is spinning circles in your skull as you try to figure out exactly what he means. What this means.

“Will you actually die?” you ask instead of the other thousands of thoughts running through your head. You scratch his scalp gently, hoping this is somewhat helping, having your arms around him and his around your waist.

His breaths are shallower now, like he’s either afraid to inhale too much of you, or like he can’t get enough. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think I just have to wait it out.”

“But,” you lift your head and he does the same, “is there anything that will help?”

“I can’t ask that of you,” he says immediately, his throat working around a swallow. “I-It’s why I haven’t answered your calls-- I’m sorry that I haven’t, I just-- I flew all the way to the Fortress of Solitude and when the robots told me I needed to-- told me what would help, I flew to Ma and Pa’s, and then didn’t even go in and see them, I just came straight back here because you were--” He pauses, shutting his eyes, twisting them shut, his head thudding as it hits the window. “You were too far, I couldn’t hear you from there and I… I needed to hear you.”

“Hear me?” you gasp. “Clark, I don’t even live close to you, I--”

“I know!” he cries. “I know, but I swear I could hear you, or-- or maybe I really couldn’t, but I couldn’t stand being so far away from you, I had to be in the same city. And then I heard you when you got inside the building, and your heart was so loud outside my door, and gosh, you-- You smell like Heaven, sweetheart.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, banging around against your ribcage. Sweetheart.

“Clark,” you begin, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t. For the second time today, you decide, fuck it. You cup his jaw with one hand, not forceful, but not entirely gentle either. You know he’s embarrassed, but enough is enough. “Look at me.”

Clark’s eyes open instantly, glassy and red and full of fire. “Yes ma’am?”

“If what I’m gathering from this is correct, then…I want to help.”

“You do?”

You nod, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to?”

“Of course I want you to,” he whines, head threatening to tip back again. His smile is lazy, crooked, and so Clark. “I just-- I wanted to ask you out on a date first.”

You chuckle quietly. So your suspicions about your crush being requited weren’t all in your head, it seems. “We can go on a date once you feel better, okay?”

He nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing again, like his mouth is making far too much saliva. “Okay. Can we-- Can we go to that place on--”

You don’t know what else to do, so you kiss him. He’s embarrassed, he’s rambling, and he’s gotten so worked up in his head that he’s fighting it -- keeping you from helping him.

It’s a syrupy-sweet first kiss. You try to put every ounce of your nearly year-long crush into it, hoping he can feel all of it. You’d do anything for him, you’ve always felt that way, and you’ve shown it before too. Just in more normal, friendly ways than this. Than agreeing to have sex with Clark so he will feel better.

It sounds absurd, even just in your head, and if you think too much about it, you won’t be able to do anything because of how hard your mind will be reeling. Just this morning, just two hours ago, you thought Clark was sick with maybe the flu or had a family emergency or something else normal, and now. Now you know he’s Superman, now you’ve agreed to help him through whatever pollen-induced horny sickness this is, now you’re finally kissing Clark Kent.

He whimpers into your mouth, fingers wrapping around your wrist to tug your hand down to where he needs you.

“S-Sorry,” he cries, grinding into your palm.

You shush him, applying the pressure he needs. “That better?”

He nods furiously, lips mashing against yours as he chases the feeling of your hand on him, and you haven’t even really touched him. When you finally snake your hand under his waistband, his head falls into your neck, shoulders slumping.

His skin feels hot all over, but somehow even hotter here when you wrap your fingers around him, gently stroking. He kisses your neck, then licks, your eyes rolling from the feeling of him clinging to you, completely at your mercy.

Soon he’s rocking his hips into your hand, then wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body to his like he wants to meld you together. You thumb over his slit once, twice, and without warning, he’s shaking in your hold, spilling into his boxers.

He goes still against you, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Your free hand strokes his curls where he has his head buried in your neck, wondering if that was enough, or if it was too much.

“Clark?” you whisper. His skin doesn’t feel any cooler, but maybe it takes time.

The only warning you get -- though you don’t realize it’s a warning at all -- is a low groan, deep in his chest before he’s spun you around, pressing your back into the glass. 

When he kisses you this time, the sweetness from earlier is gone, replaced with a desperate, ravenous hunger. He’s still as hard as he was before when he fits his body against yours, hips grinding into you.

“Clark--” you try to get out in between kisses, but he’s ravenous now. Gone is the hesitant, shaking Clark from before. “Mmph-- Clark. Clark.”

He finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all, and doesn’t look it either, the way he’s not looking at your eyes at all but instead at your lips. “What did you--” He pauses again, out of breath. “What were you saying?”

It makes you giggle, seeing him like this, but there’s heat pooling in your lower belly, too. “No, I just-- That was a change.”

“Oh,” he grins, and it’s a bit wolfish, making your thighs clench. “I told you, I’m a little--”

“I know.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, pushing your hips out to grind into him. “Yeah, it’s great.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, hands squeezing your hips as he dives for another kiss, tongue immediately coaxing your mouth open. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me have you.”

“You have me,” you whisper. “Do whatever you need to-- Ah!”

His hands immediately split the seam of your shirt, exposing your breasts. He finds the clip to your bra and suddenly he’s thumbing over your nipples, massaging them, pinching them lightly, watching you squirm.

You grip his shirt, knowing you won’t be able to rip it, but after a few tugs, he gets the idea and does it for you, letting you shove it off his arms and to the floor with yours. His boxers go next, his previous release still sticky inside them, and then he’s dragging your pants down your legs, kneeling as he goes.

You’ve never been so grateful for him to have an apartment on one of the top floors as you are now, when he has you bare and pressed to the window.

“Look at how pretty…” he muses, kissing your inner thigh as he spreads your legs to accommodate his wide frame. He shoulders between them, then lifts one of your legs to rest over his body. “Already so wet for me,” he whispers, like he’s talking to your pussy, not you. “Gotta get her ready for me, though.” He looks up at you, so sweet despite the filth he’s speaking and how close he is to your clit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You pet his head, smiling as you stroke his curls. “You won’t hurt me, Clark.” Even though he’s not in his right mind, you don’t think he’d ever be able to hurt you.

He leans his cheek against your thigh, just gazing so lovingly at your core. “I won’t,” he promises with a little sigh. “S’too pretty.”

You think you might have to physically guide him to where you need him, but then he’s finally leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to your clit that makes you jump.

He grins again, wide and hungry. “Sensitive?”

“A little,” you admit. Because you won’t stop teasing me.

“I’ll be gentle,” he swears, and then proceeds to be anything but.

He wraps his lips around your clit, tonguing the hood back ever so slightly to focus directly on your most sensitive spot. Your hips buck involuntarily into his mouth and he moves closer, setting in.

His tongue darts lower, separating your folds, teasing your hole. You don’t think you’ve ever cum from someone eating you out without using their fingers too, but Clark just might get you there. And he seems determined too.

With his nose providing friction to your clit, his tongue presses into you, and he hums. A deep, guttural noise before he somehow moves closer, like he doesn’t even want to breathe while he’s going down on you. 

You’re gripping his curls like your life depends on it, because it sort of does, and you try to warn him before you cum, but he doesn’t slow down or make any indication that he hears you. He just dives deeper, licks faster, and starts mumbling nonsense into your pussy.

“I know you’re close,” he almost whines, like he’s desperate to feel it, to taste it. “Please, baby, please let me have it.”

Your head hits the window with a dull, quiet thud, your chest heaving. “Clark,” you gasp, and somehow he knows what you mean, what you’re trying to say in that one word because then he goes back to sucking on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly.

“Come on,” he says, somehow speaking while still fucking you.

“Clark,” your head lolls against the window, the pleasure making it impossible to hold any part of your body upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to stabilize you. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You finally tip over the edge and climax with a cry, body sinking down the window until it’s only Clark’s strength holding you up. He lets you ride his face through it, one hand in his curls, pushing and pulling exactly where you need him most until you’re trembling with the aftershocks.

He crawls up your body, littering kisses as he goes, pausing to focus on your nipples again, swirling his tongue around them. Your brain is in a haze as you drag his face back to you so you can kiss him, not caring -- and frankly, finding it a little hot -- that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

Clark gives no warning before picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you like you’re nothing back to his bedroom. He practically tosses you onto the bed, covering his body with yours, caging you underneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, almost like he can’t believe it as he covers your face in kisses. “Taste so good, every piece of you.”

While he speaks, his hips start to have a mind of their own, steadily rocking into yours, grinding his erection into your stomach. You felt him before, wrapping your hand around him, but feeling him like this, right there, is different.

It makes you gasp into his mouth when the head of his cock catches on your clit. He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip, doing it again just to see your reaction.

“That feel good?” he asks, just as out of breath as you are. You just nod pathetically as he does it over and over. “I’ve gotta stretch you, honey,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Feel how big I am?”

You nod again, feeling, from the outside, how deep he’ll be and God, you have no idea how he’ll fit, but you want it to. You want it so bad you might start crying.

One hand snakes its way downward while you continue kissing Clark. It’s hot and messy and there’s spit all over both of your chins, but you can’t bring yourself to care, especially not when he’s pushing a finger inside you and one already feels so big.

The whine you let out just tells him exactly how you feel, and he soothes you by putting pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand. 

“It’ll feel better in a second, honey,” he promises, already teasing another finger before pushing in, shushing you as you squirm and writhe against him. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Feels good,” you groan. 

“That’s my sweet girl.”

“Feels good but I want you.”

“You’ll get me, honey, don’t worry,” he whispers, kissing you gingerly. “Need you to cum again for me first. Can you do that?”

You don’t know, but then he spreads his fingers, pressing right into your G-spot, and that lights your body on fire.

“Knew I’d find it,” he says, mostly to himself. “Gonna add another, okay, baby?”

You nod frantically and you hear him chuckle, but he’s not laughing at you. He’s just mystified by how gorgeous you are like this. By how much you need him, like you might need him as much as he needs you.

The Superman robots didn’t mention anything about the pollen being contagious, but then again, they weren’t even entirely certain of what it is, so it could be possible. You’ve swapped enough spit with Clark by now that he wouldn’t be surprised if some of it has transferred.

The thought of it just makes him feel even more needy for you. But he won’t hurt you.

He inserts a third finger, gently prodding your G-spot until you’re clenching then relaxing around him. He thrusts slow at first, warming you up to all three before he gradually spreads them, working you open. 

Your hips grind against his palm with vigor, chasing your high while simultaneously rubbing against his cock. He ruts against your hipbone, giving you what you need and letting himself have just a little friction too.

He feels it when you start clenching around him erratically, hears it when the little whines you let out start stringing together. “Gonna cum, baby?” he coos. “Gonna let go for me again?”

You’re helpless against him as you nod, pulling his face toward yours to devour his mouth.

When you cum this time, his fingers slip in even deeper, and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You’re sucking them in and not letting go, and the noises you’re making are music to his ears. He spills against your stomach, but only a little, because he wants nothing more than to finish inside you.

“I’ve gotta be in you, honey, I-I can’t wait anymore,” he groans, dragging his fingers out of you and lining himself up, his head easily slipping in from how wet you are.

“Please,” you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Oh Clark, please, need to feel you--”

“I’m right here, my sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing in slowly. “Just let me in.”

Your legs widen in response and he sinks impossibly deep on the first thrust, his head nestled right against your cervix, just barely kissing it. The pain of it quickly blurs into pleasure with every movement until you’re rocking against him, your body somehow trying to take him deeper, even though that isn’t biologically possible.

“Oh, honey,” he groans, head falling forward and he mouths at your neck, nips at your sensitive spots there. “You’re so warm.”

You try to say something back, but it just comes out complete nonsense, except Clark catches some of the words.

“I’m so big, I know, honey, I know,” he coos, kissing your forehead. “But you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. Feel how deep I am?”

You nod against him, wailing when he lightly presses his palm down over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, right where he knows he’s nestled without even needing to use his X-ray vision. But after having that thought, he does use it, just for a moment, just to see.

The only problem is that seeing himself so deep inside you causes his orgasm to come barrelling toward him at a terrifying speed. He’s barely thrusting, more grinding deeper into you, once, twice, and then he’s falling over the edge, shuddering as he spills inside of you.

You gasp at the feeling, eyes going wide with how much there is. You guess it makes sense, given that he’s not exactly human, so things will be different. Like this.

And, you guess, like the fact that despite now cumming two times, he’s still just as hard as he was when you first got here. It doesn’t seem like his orgasms have given him any relief.

If anything, this last one has only spurred him on even more.

“Golly,” he hisses, leaning back onto his knees, hoisting your hips up onto his thighs without slipping out of you. “Are you okay? Still feeling good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, circling your hips against his. “Keep going.”

He grins, wide and wild. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he pulls out, working himself inside again, seemingly in awe at how easily he slides inside. “You’re so wet, baby,” he sounds like he’s praying. “Some of that’s me, though, yeah?”

You nod, not even caring what he’s talking about because he’s so deep and hard inside of you that you don’t know what you’re going to do without him inside you.

“Wanna feel you again,” he mumbles, thumbing over your clit. “Can you give me another?”

You don’t even need to nod; he feels you immediately clench around him. 

“Love that I get to have you like this,” he whispers. “All for me, yeah? All mine.”

“All yours,” you gasp, writhing again. “Fuck, Clark.”

“Yeah?” he says, moving again, thrusting inside you and pulling all the way out before slipping back in, because he loves the way you clench and the little whine you let out when he does it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You don’t need to say anything, sweet girl, I know it does. Show me how good it feels.”

You were already on the edge, but hearing him speak to you like this, when all you’ve known before is quiet, sweet, bumbling Clark in the office sends you right over. The stark contrast is doing something wild to your brain, short circuiting everything until you’re spasming around him uncontrollably.

“There we go, that’s my sweet girl,” he soothes you, letting you ride it out against him. “Can I move you, baby? Wan-Wanna try something else. Promise it’ll feel so good f’you.”

You nod and he slowly pulls out, shushing your whines at the feeling of emptiness. He gently turns you over, places a pillow underneath your hips. He palms at your ass, unable to help himself really, before moving you where he needs you with his hands on your waist.

And he just keeps talking to himself. “There we go, so pretty,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to caress your spine. “Laid out for me so pretty, so I can just-- O-Oh, honey.” 

Just the head slips inside and you squirm immediately, feeling a tiny spurt of cum enter you, and then he’s slamming forward in one devastating thrust, holding himself there. You can feel him shaking, feel him holding himself back.

“You feel too good, baby, I-I can’t,” he breaks off into another moan, hips pressing forward again, and a strangled cry leaves his lips before he’s cumming again, filling you up and spilling out around where he’s entered you. “N-No,” he whispers, sniffles. “Wanted to-- Wanted to last longer.”

But he’s still not going soft, so his early orgasm only seems to deter him for a brief moment. He catches his breath, leaning over you to kiss the back of your neck, blanketing your body with his.

And then he’s moving again, barely pulling out at all before pushing back inside, carving a space deep inside you just for him, as if he needs to, as if that space wasn’t already there. 

The little noises you make are his only indication that you haven’t passed out beneath him, and he takes them as his cue to continue moving, to keep slamming right into your G-spot. 

“Wanna cum together this time,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please, for me?”

You’ve never had this many orgasms with a partner, let alone in one night in such quick succession, but somehow it isn’t a question when Clark asks if you can give him another. It’s as if your body is perfectly attuned to him now, and if he wants you to give him another orgasm, then well, you will. Easily.

He keeps working your body perfectly, hitting all of the right spots, until he’s close and holding himself back just until he feels you right on the edge.

“Let go, honey,” he cries. “Let go with me, please, please, please.”

And you do, as if on command, your body lets go right as you feel his hips begin to stutter until he’s spilling another load in you, this one you can feel practically all of it leaking out of you and sticking to your inner thighs, and him.

Clark uses his X-ray vision almost by accident this time, just wanting to see if he can tell how full you are, and oh, he can. He tips his head back, holding onto your waist as he groans.

And then he hears you, and you’re asking for him.

“What is it, honey?” he asks, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. “Doing okay?”

You nod, a dopey smile on your face. “Can I--” you swallow, eyes hazy as you look at him. “Can I taste you?”

His hips involuntarily buck into you before he kisses your lips as best he can when you’re in this position. “You wanna taste me?”

You nod frantically. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Okay. Yeah, anything-- Anything you want.”

He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt or shock you as he does. 

You bounce back remarkably fast, already sitting up and sliding off the bed to sink down to your knees, hands reaching out for him. He moves willingly, stumbling around to you, cock bobbing as he goes, still impossibly hard. He wonders how long the pollen will affect him, because although he feels his mind clearing slightly, he’s definitely not feeling any less turned on. And you don’t seem to be, either.

You lick him eagerly, cleaning him off first. He hisses as you do, the sensitivity starting to reach him, but it isn’t so bad that he wants you to stop. He needs you to keep going.

You grab one of his hands and move it to your head, and he asks, “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Wanna feel you in my throat, Clark.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling so fondly down at you. “You tap me if it’s too much, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re not looking up at him, you’re too focused on getting your lips wrapped around his cock. And he decides to stop teasing and let you.

You surge forward, taking the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper. 

He lets you have your way with him first, and if anything, his grip on the back of your head is so he doesn’t lose control and thrust into your mouth too harshly, though it seems that’s what you want him to do. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s not entirely sure how much of this is you and how much of this is the possible added effects of the pollen.

His train of thought is promptly interrupted by you taking him into your throat with zero warning, pressing your nose to the neat little hairs that gather at his base. 

“O-Oh my gosh, honey, give a guy some warning,” he chokes out, hands cradling your head. 

You pull off of him with a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, shaking his head fondly at you. “Enjoying yourself?”

You nod frantically. “Are you?”

“I am, honey, I am.” 

“Are you feeling better?”

He nods. “I am, thank you. Still,” he pauses, rolls his shoulders. “Still turned on, less like I’m about to die.”

You hum. “That’s good.” Your hands explore idly while the two of you speak, ghosting over his inner thighs, close to his still-hard cock, but not actually touching him. “But you’re not done?”

You ask it so softly, like you don’t want to be done, either, and it almost breaks his heart. “No,” he says, petting your head a little. “We can keep going.”

“Good,” you mumble, starting to kiss him again, all along his length. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

His knees nearly buckle because you, once again, give him no warning before you’re taking him in your throat. And then you put both his hands on your head, and place your palms over his thighs, giving him full control.

He’s so glad his brain feels a little clearer now because if this had been earlier, he really might’ve hurt you. Now he can give you what you want without the guilt and worry.

You hum around him, causing his hips to buck on their own accord. He pulls himself back to then try an experimental thrust, his head slipping right into the back of your throat with ease. And instead of moving away, you press your head forward, taking him just a little more.

“Honey,” he gasps. “You’re being so good for me.”

Whatever you try to respond with comes out garbled nonsense around his cock, but he doesn’t mind. He holds your head gently, moving you back and forth just the way he needs, and you let him.

“You feel so good,” he groans, holding you down for just a moment before letting go, letting you breathe. “Don’t wanna-- Where do you-- Oh golly-- Where do you want me to--”

You answer by wrapping your arms around his legs, moving closer on your knees, practically trapping him against you. 

He whines, high in his throat. “O-Okay, okay, just for you, just this one, next one goes inside your pussy, though, yeah? Please?” You nod against him and he nearly cums right then, feeling the head of his cock moving in your throat. “Baby, I-I’m not going to last much longer like this--”

That only makes you move with more fervour, like you need to feel him cumming down your throat.

He can barely gasp out a warning before he’s spilling so deep into your throat that you barely taste it, and you don’t even move, you just swallow him down, humming happily to yourself.

Clark pulls you off of him after a moment, hauling you up to your feet so he can kiss you. He can feel himself softening now, just a little, but you--

The look in your eyes is wild.

“Shoot,” he hisses, hands cradling your face. “Sweetheart, look at me.” Your heart is racing, and maybe it has been this whole time, he’s only just now noticing because he’s finally starting to feel like himself again. “How are you feeling?”

“Hot,” you whine, arms looping around his neck. “Empty.”

“Okay,” he says, turning and laying you down. “Honey, I think…I think some of the pollen might be in your system now.”

You just blink up at him through bleary eyes, none of his words registering in your brain. But you’re still alert, for the most part, and able to move your body just fine because the next thing he knows, you’ve got your ankles locked around him.

“Okay, honey, okay,” he tries to soothe your disgruntled whines. “Hurts bad, doesn’t it?”

He can’t imagine how you’re feeling considering he felt bad and it was designed to affect him. You’re human.

What if it kills you?

Clark stops that train of thought before it even starts, letting your hand move down to stroke him until he’s fully hard again. He can make it better. He just needs to keep fucking you, and it’ll keep working through your system until (hopefully) it’s out of it, and everything will be okay. It’ll be okay.

“Clark,” you whine, lining him up with your entrance. “Feels empty.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he shushes you, kissing all over your face. “I’ll make it better, okay? Just let me make it better. Let me do all the work, okay?”

You nod, your hand leaving his cock to instead thread your fingers through his curls. “So handsome.”

He beams, slipping inside you just an inch, and it's so easy after the many rounds you've endured. “Thank you, darlin’.”

Your body is pliant beneath him, just barely holding onto consciousness as he slowly rocks into you. He keeps a steady pace, and listens intently to your heart rate and breathing, just in case. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he continues on -- as if you’d let him stop.

“Inside me this time?” you ask, but your voice is quiet, like you’re afraid he’s going to tell you no, but Clark could never. Not right now, not ever.

“Yeah, honey,” he promises, kissing your nose, then your forehead. “Is that what you need?”

Your head nods erratically against the pillow. “Need more. Not full enough.”

“Jesus,” Clark swears, hips stuttering at how desperate and certain you sound. He holds onto your waist, thumbs pressing over your stomach. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart, you just lay here for me, yeah? I’ll fill you up as much as you need. That sound good?”

You reach for his face and pull him down into a kiss, immediately licking into his mouth. You are ravenous, and he’s not sure how he’s going to satisfy you. He just hopes he can, because he doesn’t know what this pollen is doing to your body.

Worst case scenario, he guesses, he can fly you to the Fortress and see if the Superman robots can check you over. He might do that anyway, just to be safe.

Clark keeps the same steady pace, hitting your spot over and over and over, fussing over your every whimper and whine. Tears slip from your cheeks but you aren’t in any pain, just clinging to him and telling him to keep going.

You finally quiet when he spills inside you, sniffling into his neck as he holds you.

“Honey?” he asks, but he doesn’t move, just stays inside you, pressing just a little of his weight into you. “You okay?”

You nod against him but you don’t speak.

Clark can feel himself going soft inside you but he doesn’t dare move, not sure what you need right now and if moving might set you off.

But he doesn’t want to crush you beneath him, either.

“I’m gonna move over, okay?” 

You immediately cling to him even tighter, even clenching around him, worried he’s going to pull out.

“Just so we can lay down,” he rushes to explain, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

He rolls the two of you easily, putting him on his back with you on his chest, holding onto him like a little koala. It’s endearing, really, though it worries him. You’re just so quiet.

Clark fumbles for a blanket and spreads it over your back, his arms caging you against him. He feels your entire body relax, a content sigh leaving your lips as you snuggle even closer.

Your heart is finally slowing down, too, so he takes that as a good sign. You must just be worn out -- who wouldn’t be, after all of that?

He hears your breathing even out and he smiles, trying to crane his neck to get a look at your face, but it’s hard when you have it buried in his neck.

“Are you asleep?” he whispers, though he knows the answer. He rubs slow circles on your back and you shiver just a little, inching closer to him, as if you can get any closer. “Just sleep, honey. I’m right here.”

When you wake up, he’ll have to make sure you rehydrate and eat something. He’ll probably run you a bath, too, just so you can relax your muscles even more.

And then, the two of you can talk. Because he has things he needs to confess, things he really should’ve said to you a long time ago. Then he can plan your first date -- actually plan it out because you deserve the best, especially after today.

He hugs you close, nuzzling his cheek against your head, three words already on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them in. He wants you to be awake when he finally tells you.

[wetforsylus]

sylus cleaning the house is killing me. IM BEATING HIS ASS IF HE LEAVES A SPECK OF DUST!!!

[citrusxbees]

heyyy! i'm searching for a roomate sylus fic i read on here a while ago and cannot find a trace of.

Sylus was basically living with reader as a cover and was pretending to be a real estate agent or something. it was an adorable slow burn with multiple chapters

i can't remember too many details unfortunately 😕

lmk if you have an idea of what it is!

[painfullypatientsecret]

Houseband sylus

[wetforsylus]

one day my wish will come true

[mwphisto]

The concept of saving up a ton of money to buy Sylus a really expensive present. Like I’m talking saving up all year to drop like $18,000 on a custom designed watch or something priced absolutely crazy to a normal human.

You give it to him, all giddy and wide eyed as he opens it. Watch him study it, pick it up and admire every little detail about it. Telling you how much he loves it, going on and on about how sweet and thoughtful you are. Until…

“I saved up all year to have it made for you!”

You saved up? You spent your money? Your money?

Sylus tries to hide his expression, immediately horrified by the idea that you spent your hard earned money on him. Someone who has more money than he’ll ever know what to do with. Who practically begs you to be self indulgent on his card… “Sy… do you not like it?”

“I love it, very much. It just may be one of my most prized possessions now.” And he means, truly he does.

But mentally he’s planning on wiring you $100,000.

[fxckmarrykill]

Zayne is such a girl dad.

Your daughter looks just like him— that same raven-black hair, her rosy, chubby cheeks just like Zayne's when he was a baby— but she has your personality: bubbly, sweet, expressive in a way that wrecks his heart every time she seeks him out.

Zayne is overprotective around your baby girl in a subtle way— he always has an extra water bottle with him, an extra pair of socks, her tiny sweater folded over his arm.

"Don't go too far, honey," he'll tell her before letting her run off to the slides, but his eyes will still be on her the whole time, carefully seeing if she trips or cries or needs him in any way. He lifts her away from sharp corners before she sees them, brushing away dust from her little dress, making sure she drinks her water.

"She's just like you," he tells you once when you're frisky and can't sleep. He kisses your forehead before adding, "I have to remind our baby to take care of herself. "

You laugh when you see him crouched on the hallway floor buttoning up her jacket, your baby girl's cheeks puffed up in protest She's the second point of chaos in his life (the first being you, of course), and he secretly loves it. You take twenty million pictures, and one of them ends up being your new lock screen.

He kisses her hair every time he picks her up, then her chubby cheeks, almost as if he can't stop himself. He tells you it's to make her laugh, but you notice how wide he smiles when she runs to him first in a crowd, how he laughs when she tries to climb him like a tree, how she wriggles in your arms to get to him.

She grabs at his stethoscope like it's a toy and babbles silly little phrases she picks up from you, and he lets her even though he'd never let an adult patient touch it, nodding seriously and responding to her as if it's an actual conversation.

Before you, before her, he'd come home from a long shift, eat something with no nutrients whatsoever, and collapse on his bed for the meagre time until his next shift. Now he gets to come home to his wife and his daughter, your baby mirroring your posture, listening to her babbles as you kiss him giddy and sit him down for dinner.

He never thought he'd have something this precious, this perfect, but here he is. Here you are. And there your baby girl is, mumbling the new words she learned from mommy today.

Late one night, he's lying in bed with you, finger tracing reverent circles on your abdomen as your daughter sleeps in the next room. He leans over and kisses you slowly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in contemplation. He's thinking about something, something serious, something that must be sweet because it's making him smile like that without him realising it.

"Can we talk about having another baby?"