gutter;

pick me up from the ashes to burn. 18+ minors/ageless blogs DNI - main: flatsodasociety icon created by muni_luny on Twitter/X

[cryptictongues]

◖who are we? what are the dominants?◗

about: jordy. 27. she/her. white. nsfw.

⤞ This is a NSFW blog. Minors and ageless blogs, do not interact. If I can’t confirm that you are over 18, you will be blocked. ⤞ I currently am writing about characters from Final Fantasy (XVI, VII, and XV) and X-Men

These are my other platforms:

⤞ Main Tumblr is at flatsodasociety. ⤞ AO3: another place I post my writing. I only post my writing on this account and on AO3. Anywhere else is NOT me!

writing:

FINAL FANTASY XVI

Clive Rosfield: ⤞ follow the morgenbeards (explicit) ⤞ good girl (explicit) ⤞ 184 days (mature; angst)

Joshua Rosfield: ⤞ remedy (teen) ⤞ dawns in dalimil (mature) ⤞ to kiss is to hunger (mature) ⤞ purrfect medicine (general)

Barnabas Tharmr: ⤞ cruel (explicit) ⤞ beyond our vessels (feat. sleipnir harbard) (explicit) ⤞ garnet kisses (explicit)

FINAL FANTASY VII: REMAKE

Vincent Valentine: ⤞ the sun lives in his eyes (explicit)

Rufus Shinra: ⤞ lonely punity (mature)

X-MEN

Logan Howlett: ⤞ the thrill of the chase (explicit) ⤞ tiny dots on an endless timeline (explicit) ⤞ manifesting a valentine (teen; fluff)

SUPERMAN (2025)

Clark Kent: ⤞ goosebumps (explicit)

all writings belong to © cryptictongues - do not repost, translate, claim as your own, use for AI, or anything that would imply my work is yours.

[cryptictongues]

HANA VU SONG IN SUPERGIRL??? WE FUCKING WON

[cryptictongues]

goosebumps

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader rating: explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 19.7k warnings: movie spoilers, fluff, angst, smut, switched pov's in second person, miscommunication, caretaking, disabled side character, banter, making out, public displays of affection, oral (fem. receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, riding, intimacy maxing, unprotected sex (BC mentioned, no condom), nipple play, Clark curses once, arguments, panic attack, dry humping summary: after ending things over a year ago, you and clark are back in each other's lives due to unforeseen circumstances. things are discovered. author's note: this was heavily based off the song "Cutting My Fingers Off" by Turnover and their record Peripheral Vision. There is also a caretaking aspect that I used that is based closely to my life right now, so if you are a caretaker for a loved one, this is for you. [AO3 Link] Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

There is a sense of delirium in the way Clark’s body weakens.

Like a fly at the precipice of a zap trap, Clark can feel the poison seep under his skin, bubbling to the surface as it slowly courses through his system. Unlike a fly, however, he is all too aware how this ends if this continues. 

He can’t fault Rex as his eyes linger on the baby across his glass cell. Even with his defenses shut down, he hears the baby’s fear; his tiny heart beating so hard and fast that Clark can’t believe it hasn’t overworked itself. Rex’s fear is also quite loud as it pulses through Clark’s ears, and he knows because it sounds the same as his own: the fear for others he can’t protect the longer the Kryptonite soaks up his energy. 

It’s devastating and things look bleak. He shouldn’t think this way, he knows this, but the longer he lays here, the more his mind travels to better times: before being viewed as some sort of fearful God, before knowing his birth parents true intentions, before his responsibilities got in the way of the people he loves. It’s too much for his sickened brain to comprehend. He should be stronger than this, but even though he isn’t from Earth, he is as human as a human can get, which means falling into the past when things become too much.

His left hand, dark veins curling under his skin, goes to his right arm sleeve to gently roll it back. He hears the crinkle of the object he is desperate for, needing some kind of reminder of what the good things are, even if it comes with an aftermath of hurt. He drags it out from dampened skin, a shine glossing over the already glossy coat. His thumb smears the sweat away, his skin lingering a little too long on the smile that welcomes him every time this memory enters his psyche. 

It was such an in the moment photo. You, in your cocktail dress meant for warmer days, deep in his arms as you smile from laughing. He remembers working to bury you under his coat to join his body heat, remembering how cold you kept saying you were. The picture is weathered from the treatment his suit gives it, so much so that he can no longer see the goosebumps on your skin, but he dares to never part with it. You are the heart on his sleeve; a reminder that love doesn’t fade. 

He wishes things could’ve played out differently. He wishes he could’ve been more honest about who he was, but as he looks at the contrast of that moment during New Years to where he is at now, he is comforted knowing you are somewhere safe.

He hears about you from time to time from Lois, who still keeps in touch. She insists that he should reach out, that it would be good for him, but every time he goes to write a message, every time he is only a touch away from making himself known to you once more, he retreats. It is unlike him to back down from something he has already begun, but it goes to show that cowardice is a convincing master. So he just listens. He lets Lois tell him whatever she finds relevant, even when he doesn’t ask.

“Remember that book she’s been wanting to write? Well, she finally got a publishing company to back her! She said she would send us all personal copies. Maybe we can finally have a review for a book worth a damn.”

“I’m hungry. Did you want to get lunch? Weirdly I’ve been craving a tomato sandwich. I think it’s because of these heirloom tomatoes she grew. Look at this picture she sent me!”

“Clark, you have got to listen to this playlist she made. One because it is phenomenal and two it doesn’t have The Mighty Crabjoys on it.”

“You should message her. She asks about you. Boy, if only she knew.”

He wishes he would have told you he is Superman. He wishes you knew everything. He wishes he still had that choice. 

He hears the platform before he sees it, so he weakly puts the polaroid, his heart, back under his sleeve. He brings his arm across this chest, hoping the mere closeness will slow the Kryptonite from making his veins darker and skin less bubbled.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Words, words, words. Oh, how you would like some. Who knew writer's block would be such a pain. 

Writer’s block wasn’t something you found yourself dealing with often. Writing is your passion; your brain a fire pit that burns information to grow brighter. As the fire strengthens in heat and ember, the crisper your fingers move to type clever words and phrases. It can be overwhelming, but it is your utmost strength as a writer. That is, until the information thrown into the pit is nothing but icy, cold water, fraying your mind until you can’t think about anything but the smoke.

You can’t pinpoint the distraction to one thing. Being a caretaker for a loved one is never an easy feat, especially when it’s just you and that person is bed bound. Your grandma’s mobility stems from yours in how you adjust her, whether it be shifting her to a more comfortable position or getting her into her wheelchair. It’s been close to a year of this, and while you never minded taking care of her, you are aware of the pressure it brings. Your body is tired, therefore your mind is starting to receive the after effects. 

But you can’t help but think there is more, especially with the state of the world; full of meaningless greed and apathy. The more you watch the news, a mistake every time you decide to turn on the TV, the more you feel hollowness. It makes matters worse when it seems the epicenter of so much destruction is happening in a place you used to call home, and knowing you have people there you worry for every day. Lois, God bless her, always keeps you in the loop to ensure you know everyone is safe, always making sure to add that Clark is okay too. 

But you have eyes, and you saw what happened on TV a few days ago. Sometimes, it’s a little hard to believe unless you are there yourself, and at one point you had been.

The mouse blinks condescending, laughing at your struggle to create and it makes you roll your eyes with an annoyed sigh, leaning back into your chair with fingers digging into your eyes. You’ve been sitting here for hours in this limbo, and it’s now eleven at night. You used to be up for late night writing and research sessions when you worked at the Daily Planet. Not anymore, it seems.

Your phone starts ringing, the twinkling sound of your ringtone shimmering in the dim light of your room. You don’t need to see a name to see who it is; it’s become a common occurrence for Lois to call late at night for inspiration or casual chatter. She’s lucky you don’t sleep early with the birds.

You pick up your phone, sliding the screen open and bringing it up to your ear, a witty remark on your tongue. “Lois, I fear if you are calling for something inspiring, you are out of luck.”

“I need a favor.” She’s quick to respond. “Like an insanely big favor.”

There is a sense of urgency in her tone, yet there is a firm, calm collectiveness to it. Lois is usually pretty laid back, and while you have seen her have a presence strong enough to shut the whole bullpen up, you’ve never heard her like this. It makes your stomach twist. 

“Lois, what’s wrong?”

“Are you still in Louisa?” 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. “What’s happening, Lois? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I’m going to be there soon.” She overrides, ignoring your unsettled tone. “I’ll explain then. Just prepare yourself and I apologize in advance.”

“Lois! Wait-“ 

The line goes dead, and you sit there frozen, your mind going in all sorts of directions. ‘What is she doing coming to Virginia?’ You think. ‘How is she getting here? By car? No, I didn’t hear other cars. Plane? No, she can’t talk over the phone unless they hadn’t taken off. A train? Maybe? Did something happen in Metropolis? Is she in trouble?’ 

The rapidness of your thoughts freezes time, your eyes staring firmly at your screen. It isn’t until your peripherals catch a bright light through your window that you are thawing into action. You stand from your seat, a cluttering sound shaking your desk from the movement, and walk briskly out your bedroom to the back door of the house. The Virginia autumn breeze hits your skin, goosebumps making themselves known, and as you walk to the bright light, you see a figure coming out of some spherical apparatus. You see the dark hair, immediately knowing it’s Lois as she waves you down. You squint as you get closer, the light growing harsher on your eyes, but Lois’s features become more visible. To anyone else, she looks calm, but you know her too well: she’s worried.

“What is all this?” You ask, now in front of her. “Where did you even get this?”

“That’s not important,” Lois says eerily calm. “What’s important is what I’m about to ask of you.” 

“Okay,” you draw in a breath, releasing as your next words fall. “Out with it then. You are making me anxious.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m going to need some help. Help me lift him.”

Him?

“What?” You mutter under your breath, low enough for Lois not to hear. She’s in the pod by the time you enter, and instantly your heart stops, your eyes deceiving you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”

Emotions are circling your head like ghosts, whispering the past in your ear to relive them in present time. It’s like a slideshow of every moment, the good, the bad, the sad, the best of times, flying behind your retinas. You hadn’t seen him in so long that seeing him like this, skin marred and almost sickly, has ingrained into your mind forever. 

You sense Lois staring at you, but the tension from the reveal had lifted, confirmed by a sigh of relief heard from your side. “So, you knew. Clark never told me.”

“He doesn’t know I know,” you respond immediately, eyes not leaving him. You’re afraid he will disappear if you do. “What’s happened to him?”

“He has Kryptonite poisoning. He needs a place to lay low so he can recover. I was going to take him to his parents but this thing is quite… intuitive.” 

You don’t respond. How can you respond? It has been so long. 

Lois has moved in front of you, hands on your shoulders rubbing up and down. Her eyes are apologetic, lips rolling in like she is thinking. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but he’s in bad shape and your place is secluded. I know you still care about him, so I’m asking you to please look after him.” 

You bite your lip, trying to calm the nerves firing in your body. You nod, looking past her back onto Clark. Your Clark.

But not really. Not anymore.

“I’m guessing the feds are after him?” You say with a shudder as you think about how bad things must’ve gotten.

“A lot has happened over the last few days. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.” 

Oh, you have. It’s a way to keep tabs on him: to see him flourish as he lets his good intentions fly. It’s a way to see that what he is doing is for the betterment of Metropolis and maybe even the world. That’s the kind of guy Clark is to the core. To see how fast the media turned on him has you whiplashed but you can’t blame them. They fear what they don’t understand, but not you. You’ve always understood him, even when he thought you didn’t. 

You wish he knew how much you understood his heart.

“So, what do we do with him? I think we can lug him out of here together.” Lois says, already rolling back her sleeves.

You sigh, moving up to where his legs end. “You can take the heavier half.”

You both manage to carry him out of the pod and into your home, huffing and puffing as you two basically throw him into your bed, the bed spring groaning loudly. ‘God, he is fucking heavy.’

Lois takes her leave, asking you to keep her updated as she continues to dig into Lex Luthor. You don’t ask questions, accepting that you will find out in due time. Besides, you have your work cut out for you.

You assess him. The dim light hides his condition slightly, the yellow toned shadows giving him cover. You crouch beside him, your hand grabbing his right hand lightly, not wanting to wake him. He still feels so warm; truly the embodiment of the sun. 

God, you missed him so much, and yet you feel selfish for feeling as much. You ended things, yet your heart has never stopped longing for him. Lois would always keep tabs on him for you, and you were grateful. You wonder if he ever asked about you. You’ve considered reaching out but it felt wrong to do so. Why hurt him more? All you know is that in the morning, you both will have to confront each other: something you aren’t sure your heart is ready for.

You play with his sleeve, wondering if you have anything that would fit him, when you feel something beneath. Confused, you gently pull at what feels like plastic, only to be met with a photo that has seen better days. Your breath trembles, eyes glazing over as you look at the moment from a little less than two years ago. A moment where nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect. 

It was the moment you two birthed Spring in the cold Delaware Winter.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark always enjoyed the New Years Eve festivities. It was always a time to celebrate the upcoming year, and this year he is attending a party the Daily Planet hosts. From what he’s been told, the catering is always a hit, the conversations flow, and it’s a time where being a journalist isn’t a main priority. 

He was running late though: running towards the party as he fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt and his coat falling off his shoulders in his haste. He couldn’t have predicted that there would be a celestial entity trying to swallow up electricity from the Metropolis Energy Plant on New Years Eve, making him arrive only an hour before the New Year. He didn’t have to be a journalist tonight, but he will always be Superman. That is forever a 24/7 job. 

He looks at his phone, seeing the texts he got from you, teasing in nature due to his tardiness.

New Message 9:30pm: You must be allergic to fun to run late to a NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY!! Haha! Hope to see you soon?

New Message 10:12pm: You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you? Wakey, wakey, Clark!

New Message 10:30pm: Don’t make me kiss Jimmy for New Years. I won’t survive his fangirls :’)

That last message had Clark rushing. He knew you were joking, but the thought of your lips anywhere but on his own gives him the urgency to move fast. He sent you a text instantly to tell you he was on his way.

The two of you have been seeing each other for a few months. You and him had been circling around each other for a while until a late night research session led to him walking you home. A kiss on the cheek, a physiological response he had before realizing, leading to you kissing him as an answer. It was an unspoken thing, never fully confirmed to be official, even though he was exclusively with you. With the amount of time you two spend together, he can only assume the same applies to you. 

Sometimes he can’t get over how someone as smart and beautiful as you wanted someone like him. He is a bit scatter brained, always going from one thing to the next without realizing, causing him to get clumsy and disoriented. You always told him it was endearing and charming, which he supposes is a win for tall, clumsy giants like him.

The building was in sight and he could see people outside mingling in the cold. They acknowledge him, telling him ‘Happy New Year’ as he responds in kind, walking through the doors. The party is lively: there is dancing, people socializing at the bar, people eating at the small standing tables. It makes him smile, seeing everyone enjoying one another.

His eyes scan the main lobby, looking for you amongst the sea of people, only to land on the dance floor to see you dancing with Lois. And good golly, he can feel his pupils grow bigger and his heart skip a few times as he takes you in. 

You are glowing. As cliche as it sounds, the twinkly lights strung up around the room don't compare to how bright you are. Seeing you smiling, dancing without a care in the world, black cocktail dress riding up slightly with every twirl. Pretty black pumps accentuating your calves. You are a sight to behold, and the more he watches you, the more he wants to join you.

Like a moth to a flame, he draws closer, taking long strides to get into your vicinity. He sees you’ve caught sight of him, smiling fully with your teeth as you wave him over. He can’t help but walk faster, almost tripping in the process. Lucky for him, he made it just in time for you to grab his arm to steady him.

“You made it!” You exclaim. “With an hour to spare too!”

“What happened, Clark? Alarm didn’t go off again?” Lois jokes, nudging your shoulder with a laugh.

He feels the red creep up his neck, hand subconsciously going to rub the back of it. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he hears you start, arms wrapping around the arm at his side. “I’m glad you are here regardless, especially now that I don’t have to kiss Jimmy.”

“You know I would never put you through that.” He reassured, a smile tugging on his lips. “Besides, only I’m allowed to do that.”

“Is that right?” You tease. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

“Not jealous,” Clark hums, pulling you into him. “Just know no one else can compare.”

“Oh God, you’ve turned him into a sick puppy,” Lois gags. “Cute but I’m going to go get a drink.”

You giggle into Clark’s chest, and gosh he loves the way you sound and feel against him. He tugs you a little closer, lips brushing against the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth. The music shifts, party music slowing down to something a little more laid back, and perfect for a slow dance.

You look up at him, and his hand goes up to your cheek, which is hot to the touch. He smirks, leaning down till his face is inches from yours. “You look so beautiful tonight. I can hardly handle it.”

You are rocking with him now, you two dancing under the yellow lights, a Jeff Buckley song playing in the background that Clark can’t name off the top of his head. It was romantic, and he loved that he could stay in this moment with you: admiring, adoring, longing. 

“Yeah? I wore this just for you.” You say, biting your lip as your gaze settles on his.

“Did you now? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sight.” 

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be getting a lot more than just a look.” 

Gosh, you are going to kill him.

“That’ll keep me on my toes,” he says, his hand grasping yours as his other settles on your lower back to keep him grounded.

“Well, someone needs to save you from your clumsiness.” You lean up, and place a kiss along his jaw. He swears he could collapse.

“Keep doing that and you’ll make me fall to my knees.”

“Is that a promise?” You hum against his throat, teeth nipping slightly at the skin.

Clark’s self-control is waning, and before he can react, you are already three steps ahead. You are pulling away from his body, hand staying secure in his as you drag him towards the doors leading outside. A laugh escapes his lips, exhilaration coursing through his veins as you pull him out into the cold, winter air. He knows it is getting close to midnight because a lot of people have migrated inside to toast.

He is pressed against the brick wall of the building, your body fitting against his with hands gripping his jaw. Your thumbs draw circles on the edges, lips close to his as you perch yourself on your tip toes. He is overwhelmed, breaths coming out in huffs with fingers digging into your hips. He knows it isn’t twelve, but he wants nothing more to pull you in and kiss the lipgloss off your lips and taste the vanilla perfume lingering on your skin. 

“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs, forehead falling onto your own.

“You can’t wait till twelve?” Your hands travel until they are behind his neck. “Someone is impatient.”

“It’s hard to be patient when I have a gorgeous woman in my arms.” He hums, eyes becoming lidded. 

“Ah, stop!” You laugh flushed, face burying itself into his chest. “Where did this confidence come from? You are making me dizzy.”

“Must be the festivities,” he says with a low chuckle rumbling from his lips, hands pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. “Also, I must be having a real affect with all these goosebumps on your arms.” 

“It’s cold out here!”

“And you didn’t bring a coat.” He teases.

“No pain, no gain, Kent. The coats I own didn’t look right with this dress. Besides,” you place kisses up to his jaw, hot breath dancing along his ear. “I’ve got you to keep me warm.”

“Geez,” he laughs. “You really are trying to kill me.”

You are laughing with him, but then he hears the cheers from inside the building, ‘Happy New Year’ being chanted by the hundreds of people inside. 

“Looks like you can kiss me now, baby.” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice, bending down to meet your glossed lips, being soft in his movements to reacquaint himself after only a few hours of not kissing you. The taste of cherry seeps into his mouth, the artificial flavor melting on his tongue. Something about the combined taste of the gloss and you is addicting, so much so that he doesn’t care who sees the slightly lewd public display of affection. The fireworks in the distance are nothing compared to the fireworks setting off in his brain.

He can’t contain himself with how your fingers brush up into his hair, fisting the strands to draw him closer, like you want to melt into him. It makes him surge, arms wrapping around your middle to lift you, getting you leveled to him. His grip stays strong with one arm, letting one go free to hold the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he continues his ministrations on your lips. You squeal, legs kicking gently with arms grounding themselves into his back. He groans softly, adoring the way you react to him. 

It isn’t until a bright flash goes off that you both simultaneously stop, heavy breaths creating cold smoke in the air. Clark turns his head to see Jimmy, smirking as he quickly airs out what looks to be a polaroid photo. 

“I’m doing a story on New Year's traditions, and I think you two fit the New Year’s Kiss tradition quite well.”

Clark is stunned, setting you down gently and holding you until you have your balance. He hears you hum, curling into his side as you look at Jimmy. “I’m sure Perry will love seeing two of his best journalists making out for your column piece.”

Jimmy throws his head back, laughter filling the area as he shakes his head. “That would give me another story to cover. Two birds with one stone. Even though right now, I think I’m witnessing the beginning of the Birds and the Bees.”

“Jimmy!” You gawked.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” His hands go up in surrender, walking over. “I actually just took this for you both. I thought a memory of tonight would be nice.”

Jimmy hands you the photo, and Clark glances down at it. It is still producing, but what he sees makes him smile. Seeing how you look in his arms, seeing the ease on your face when you kiss him. He is in awe at how you two look together, like everything is in its right place. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to thank you for being a perv, but thanks for being a perv, Jimmy,” you say with eyes glued to the photo. 

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Jimmy says sarcastically. “Well, I’m going to go back in. You two coming inside?”

Clark feels you shiver beside him, and in an instant he opens his jacket and pulls you into it, wrapping it until most of your body is covered. You hum, pressing into him to soak up his warmth. Your eyes lift up to meet him, and immediately he reads what you are wanting. You want to go home. With him.

“I think we are going to head out. It’s a little cold out for this one.”

Another snap goes off, and Clark looks to see that Jimmy snapped another photo, repeating the motions of activating the picture. 

“Here is a parting gift. Thought both of you would like one each so you don’t have to switch it off every week,” he shrugs, handing the photo to Clark. “You two get home safe. Happy New Year!”

Jimmy goes back inside, and the minute the door closes, you speak.

“Take me home, Clark” 

The walk home blurs together. It is full of kisses, not so subtle touches, and silly banter that sends Clark into the stratosphere. Every time he is with you, it feels natural. He doesn’t necessarily have to hide himself, not like he usually does. He always worries his mannerisms will lead others to discover his identity, but with you it's different. He can let his guard down, and not worry that he is putting you in any kind of danger. Because he can be himself with you, you feel like home to him, even in the short amount of time you’ve been seeing each other.

You both arrived at your apartment building, heading up the stairs hand in hand. He can’t help himself when you go to unlock the door, hands resting on your hips rubbing circles with his thumbs. He hears your heart rate quicken, your breath becoming shallow as your hands twist the key and push the door open. 

You both walk in, and once the door shuts, all of Clark’s inhibitions go out the window. He is on you in seconds, hoisting you up in his arms and landing you against the back of your front door. His mouth claims yours, a new found hunger in the way he moves against you. You suck on his tongue, coaxing deep noises from his chest, and then he feels you trying to push his coat off his broad shoulders. 

He uses his hips to keep you up, his hard on pressing into your core, and teasingly takes his coat off. You groan at his pace, hands running down his arms to help push the material off before fisting his shirt and pulling him back in. His hands go to your thighs, moving up to push the black dress up until it scrunches up above your butt. His hands decide to rest there, moulding the flesh until his grip is firm enough to help you grind into him. 

His lips move from your lips to your skin, eager to taste the delicious vanilla perfume that has mixed so well with your pheromones. He kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh one spot at a time. It has you releasing sounds he’s only heard in his wildest dreams, and it makes his pants grow tighter. He can’t believe he is the one causing you to act like this. He can’t get drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: your noises becoming the alcohol that runs through his system. 

“You taste so good, honey,” Clark moans into your neck. “Need to taste every inch of you. Need to suffocate in it.”

“Clark,” you gasp out, causing him to bite down a little harder to hear your voice go higher. 

“Someone’s needy,” he murmurs, tongue soothing the love bite he has granted you. Something inside him hopes it still lingers there in the morning. 

“If you don’t take me to bed right now, I swear to God,” you whine, head thudding against the door. 

“Easy there,” he chuckles, hand going to the back of your head, clutching you so he can carry you to your room. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” 

It takes seconds to get to your bed, laying you down carefully before standing at the edge. He goes to take his shirt off, only to stop when you push yourself up until you are on your knees for him. 

“Let me take it off.”

So he lets you, watching your fingers remove each button diligently. The tone of the night has shifted into something more tender, the hunger simmering down. It’s agonizing but with how you are looking at him, like he is your whole world, makes him want to take care of you like you deserve.

The buttons are undone, and he takes it off, muscles flexing as he does. Your mouth is on his chest, kissing his pectorals while your hands run up and down his sides. He takes the opportunity to take your dress fully off, getting you to release him before reattaching as he flings it away. 

He is becoming overwhelmed with how you touch him, sweet kisses laced with splendor landing all over his chest. Your hands are at his belt, unbuckling it along with the button and zipper of his black pants. It isn’t until you push the trousers down that his hands go to yours, his knee settling between your legs as he pushes you down onto the bed.

“I’m not done tasting you, sweetheart.” He kisses your sternum, smirking when he hears you huff.

“Well, maybe I wanna taste you too.”

“Not tonight, baby. With this being our first time together, I’m going to take care of you tonight.” He trails lower, nipping at your hipbones as he lifts your hips to remove your pretty black panties. “You can taste me another time.”

“Do you promise?” You ask innocently, and it makes his insides churn.

“Mhmm,” he hums, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and settling his free hand at your waist. “Now, let me enjoy this.”

He takes his time, his lips and tongue going everywhere except for where you need him. He wants to savor every last second of him pleasing you, getting you ready for him. He wants to prove to you he is a man that can satisfy his woman, read her wants and needs, and get her to the finish line. You’ve told him about previous lovers, how they never amounted to anything and never took you into consideration. But he was determined to show you how good you can feel with him, and he isn’t going to fail. He will never fail you. 

You smell intoxicating, his mouth watering as he anticipates his own moves. He sees how your slit leaks, like it’s also waiting and craving for him to do something. The sight alone makes him cave, tongue rolling out to lick your clit slowly, causing your hips to bounce up with a shaky moan.

His hand holds your hip down, mouth getting his fill. His tongue alternates with his lips against your clit, sucking to bring you closer and licking to edge you on. He feels you twitch against him, hips shifting in a struggle to keep still. It makes him smile knowing you are feeling good.

The hand by your stomach trails up, reaching your bra only to yank the cups down until your breasts spill out. He grasps at your right one, squeezing it while giving a particularly hard suck to your clit, leading to a visceral reaction.

“Oh— fuck,” you cry out, back arching. 

He pinches your nipple, a thrash of your hips as your answer, and it makes him grunt heavy into your cunt. He steadies your thigh so it stays on him before bringing his other hand to your entrance. He lets both his spit and your wetness coat his fingers before he slides one into you, rubbing against your walls to work you open.

“Clark—,” you draw out, sounding delirious. 

“Mmm you look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” Clark adds another finger in, curling his fingers each time they enter your tight heat. He can tell you are close, seeing how your nerve endings are sparking up, ready for the dopamine release he is about to grant you. However, he doesn’t need to use his x-ray vision to tell with the way you are dripping down his fingers.

“I want you to look at me, honey,” Clark says against your slit. “I want to see you when you release on my fingers.”

He watches you nod, attempting to prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back when he adds a third finger. Something deep releases from you, a mix of frustration and pleasur. “Fuck— I can’t.”

Clark is fast to help you both out, hand releasing your breast to wrap his arm under your body, yanking you up until you're elevated from the pillows on your bed. His fingers are still going strong, working you to tears as he moves up to watch you with his forehead pressed against yours. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing kisses against the apples of your cheeks. 

“I’m so close, Clark— oh God,” you sob, releasing a louder one once he places his thumb on your clit. 

“Let go for me, beautiful.” He steadies your head, fingers in your hair to keep your eyes on him. “Give it to me.”

Your body reacts to his command, your orgasm rushing against his fingers. He feels you spasming, and glancing down he sees the white fluid coating his fingers. His mouth waters, both from how you look falling apart for him and how much you are spilling onto his hand. An urge arises, and he can’t help but go back down between your legs, latching to your clit with vigor and lifting your hips off the bed. 

A shrill wail bounces around the room. Your hands grab at his head, pushing and pulling like you can’t decide if the overstimulation is good for you. But Clark knows it is good; he knows by the way you only grow wetter at his ministrations. Hearing your cries and your babbling as he eats you alive is music to his hypertensive ears, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

He lifts himself from you, easing his fingers out that glisten under the moonlight shining into your room. He slides them into his mouth, relishing in it as he watches you breathe heavy, eye lids lazy. With his fingers clean, he crawls back up to you, hands on your cheeks to draw you back into him. 

“How are you holding up, sweet girl?”

“You are– wow,” you sigh with a laugh. Your hands mirror his, thumbs rubbing into the stubble of his jaw where there is a dampness. It is tender and he leans into the softness of your hand, turning his head to kiss the inside of it. 

“Looks like I’ve taken the words right from your mouth,” Clark teases, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. 

Your fingertips brush up towards his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just can’t believe you ate me out with your glasses on. Thought they would get in the way.”

“O-oh, right,” Clark stutters, brain finally recognizing his glasses are still on. “I guess I like to make sure my world is crystal clear.”

“Oh, are you saying I’m your world?” You jest.

“Now you’re making me seem corny.”

“No,” you draw out, kissing the spot right above the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s very sweet, especially the way you talk me through it.”

He groans, loving the way you are praising him. “What can I say? You look so gorgeous when you fall apart by my hand.”

“Mmm, I bet I’d look even better above you.” 

“Yeah?” He pulls back, thumbs rubbing against your lips, enamored with how pink and swollen they’ve gotten. “You want to ride me, sweetheart?”

“You’d let me?” 

“I’d do anything you want, especially if it makes you more comfortable for our first time together.” And especially if it helps keep his glasses on.

“Oh-okay, then can you take your underwear off so I can see all of you? Please?”

Clark chuckles, moving off the bed. “Somebody’s impatient.” He stands up straight, thumbs hooked under the elastic to relinquish himself of his boxer briefs. His dick smacks heavy against his stomach, hard and drooling.

“Oh God…” he watches you turn on your side with hands on your face.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, snapping out of his horny haze to examine everything.

“You are fucking huge, Clark.” 

“I mean, I guess I’m about average—”

“And you’re uncut!”

Clark gawks. “Is that a turn on for you?”

You turn back to him, patting the bed beside you. “How about you lay down and I’ll show you.”

Clark could pounce on you for how cute you’re being, but he restrains himself. He crawls back into bed to lay flat down, not before grabbing you to have you on top. You adjust on top of him as he kisses you, tongue swiping against your lower lip, begging for you to deepen the kiss. The moment your mouth opens for him, he feels your slit sit firmly on his cock. He groans into your mouth, hands holding the back of your head to keep himself together, your lips grounding him as you rock your hips back and forth.

Your bra is still on you, and Clark can’t have that. His hands go to the middle of your back where the clasp lays, and with ease unclasps it. His fingers trail up your arms, pushing the straps down until you are forced to release him to tear it off. 

Your tongue is hot in his mouth, every grind of your hips sends a pulse through his cock. With every pulse, a moan is fed down his throat, and he swallows every one you grant him. When you pull away from his mouth, he can’t help but whine.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s my turn to make you feel good.” Your fingers brush his lips, slick with spit. 

He loves watching you like this. You are a determined person: always having a sense of control. He sees it in your work ethic, in the way you hold yourself. He loves that he gets the best of both worlds with you: one where you are shaking beneath him and one where you turn him into a complete mess. He doesn’t know what you’ll do, but he knows you will be his ruin. 

He cannot wait to fall apart under your hand.

“I have a condom in my coat pocket.” He says in between kisses he places on your finger tips. “Did you want me to get it?”

“Oh wow, someone knew they were getting lucky tonight.”

“Well, I mean… I didn’t think, um, I mean not exactly—”

Your head is thrown back, laughing fully with your chest. “I’m just messing with you, you goof. Besides,” your hand wraps around his cock, stroking him enough to get him covered with your slick and his pre. “I’m on birth control, so you can cum inside me as much as you want.”

His face is so red. He feels the heat burning his skin at your words. “You cannot just say stuff like that.”

“Awe and why’s that?” You coo, lining him up to your entrance.

“You know exactly why— ah!”

His tip is engulfed, his cock slowly making its way into you. Your hands lay flat on his chest, steadying yourself so you can take the time you need to adjust. His head is thrown back into the pillows, where he smells you so clearly, and it’s driving him insane. He wants to watch you, but shoot, you feel too good. He knows he’s a goner.

“Clark…” He feels your fingertips on his chin, pushing down so he is made to look at you. “I looked at you when I came. You’re gonna do the same for me.”

You ease down a little bit more, and Clark is already losing it. Your walls hug him so well, a perfect fit between two people. He doesn’t know if it’s his abnormal origin or what but the way he is having to hold back is through sheer willpower. He’s had rendezvous affairs before but he has always felt in control: like he’s not going to slip up.

But this? You on top of him, basically sitting on him pelvis to pelvis now, oh he could break. It makes him sweat knowing he could rock into you at such a pace that it would catch you off guard. It would create suspicion and that scares him. His fear nags at him, but his adoration and love are stronger, reminding him that this is you. You trust him, and he’s grateful. 

“What’s wrong, Clark? Why are you crying?” 

“What?” His hand shoots to his face, a wetness under his eyes he didn’t suspect.

“We don’t have to do this, Clark. We can stop—“

“Don’t you dare stop,” he responds immediately. “You’re just incredible. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone like you with me.”

He loves you. He hopes somewhere in there, you understand what he’s saying.

“Oh Clark,” you purr, leaning down until your face is over his. “Trust me when I say this: I’m the lucky one. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

More tears fall, a smile growing big on his face when he feels the kisses on his lips: quick and full of little laughs. His laughs die in his throat, however, because when you start to rock your hips, up and down, they turn into prolonged groans. 

You’re sitting back up, hands pressing down on his chest as you bounce on him, eyes never leaving his. It’s intense the way you look at him, causing him to look down between your legs to see his shaft entering you. 

“You look so pretty, Clark.” You cooed at him, and he watched as you dropped harder into his lap. “I love how needy you are for me.”

“Please, baby— fuck!” Clark throws his head back, hands shooting to your hips like holding you to him will calm him down. Like it will hold him back from slamming into you. 

You gasped. “Wow! What an honor that I can get certified gentleman Clark Kent to curse for me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t— hmph! I couldn’t help it. You feel too good around me, honey.” He knows he’s babbling, his senses consuming him with everything that is you.

“It’s okay, my darling. It’s very hot when you lose yourself like this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Clark can only nod, your pace growing faster. He’s throbbing, and he wonders if you can feel it. You answer his question when a particular drop of your hips has you moaning out into the air, hips stilling for a second. He seizes this opportunity, using his elbows to push himself up until his back is pressed against the headboard. He yanks you back into him until you are sitting in his lap, and he makes it so your legs are wrapped around his waist. 

“Come on, honey. You wanted to watch me fall apart, right? Let’s keep it going.”

He leans you back just a little, enough for his left hand to stay on the mattress to support you under his arm. His feet plant into it, and he rolls his hips back and forth slow and hard. Your hands are tugging hard at his hair, and he grunts low with every pull. Your tits are bouncing with every push, and they tempt him. Saliva produces intensely and giving into temptation, he ducks to latch onto your right nipple. He feels it pebble on his tongue as it curls and lathers it, only sucking harder when he wants to hear you more.

“Music to my ears,” he says with a pop, already going to the other to give it attention as he continues to make love to you.

“Jesus Christ,” you choke. “You are a menace.”

“And you are an enabler,” he laughs, lifting his head back to look at you.

“An enabler?!”

“Yeah with the way you got me cursing. You are a bad influence.”

“You said fuck once, Clark.”

He thrusts in harder at that, shaking a gasp from your lungs. “One too many.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but next thing he knows he is back up against the headboard. Your knees are back beside his thighs, and you are going full force on him. The way you start to ride him, back arched in with hips slamming down on his cock, has his jaw slacked. He sees your hand grab at the headboard and the other goes to his throat. There is no pressure, but feeling it there makes Clark lightheaded. 

“You know what I think, Clark?” You breathe against his ear. “I think you like that I’m a bad influence.”

His head falls forward on your shoulder, shuddering at how you are reading him. 

“You love not being restrained, right? That sweet, gentleman from Kansas persona must be exhausting, yeah?”

His breathing is getting erratic, which isn’t commonplace for him. Granted, the way you make him feel isn’t.

“You know you can be however you need to be with me because I accept every part of you. I accept that you are Superman because I love you.”

His eyes shoot open, head shooting up. “Superman? What?”

He is freaking out. There is no way you know. He had been so good at hiding it, or at least he thought he did. What gave it away? Oh no, this is not how he wanted you to find out. He wanted to tell you personally. He wanted to have a moment of honesty when the time is right. 

“Shhhh,” you hush softly, hands going to his face to soothe. “It’s okay, Clark. I’ve always known.”

“You,” he swallows. “You did?” 

“Yes, and I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”

The sentimental moment should not bring him closer to releasing, but it is. He is so close. So freaking close. 

“You are mine, Clark. You’re my Clark no matter what. And I want you to let go for me.” He feels you place a kiss under his ear. “Let go for me, my darling. Please.”

He is so fucking gone. His ears are ringing. Static is running through his veins as he shakes. His mind is no longer in his control, not with the way he is pounding into you from below. It’s almost an out of body experience, except he is experiencing everything. His senses are blank, yet they are receiving every pleasurable shockwave. He has never felt anything like this, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

But the strange thing is: it does end. The minute his eyes open, he isn’t in your apartment anymore. And the euphoric pleasure he was in is gone and replaced with an incredible ache that covers his entire body. 

‘What was that?’ He thinks. He has dreamed that memory so many times, yet it has never ended that way before. It scared him, but that relief he had felt was still there. Even if it wasn’t real.

He doesn’t move for a second; just takes in everything he sees. There is a brown ceiling fan spinning slowly. There are two windows, one beside the dresser and the other to his direct left, blinds cracked to reveal shimmering sunlight. There is a dark wooden dresser in front of him with little knick knacks on top. There is a table beside it full of perfume bottles, a jewelry box, and a lamp. To his right, he sees a desk with papers and a laptop on it, weirdly familiar in the way it reminds him of his own desk at the Daily Planet. There is art on the walls, paintings mostly aside from a few posters and pictures. It isn’t until his eyes focus in on one of the picture frames that his heart stops, anxiety spiking. 

He gets up slowly, the bed creaking with every movement. He walks over to the picture hung beside the bed, and what he sees shocks him. What he sees is you.

You are in your cap and gown, holding your diploma with that beautiful smile on your face. He looks at another one, and it is of you and Lois from Halloween last year. You two were dressed as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. It had been a month since the break up. It was three months before you moved away.

He walks over to the desk, and even with the clutter he sees two picture frames. One was you when you were younger with your grandma on a bench swing. You were laughing, twisted around in her arms: a beautiful memory. He had met your grandma once when she came to visit Metropolis. It was apparent you two were very close, being the only family you had left, and she was so kind-hearted. It made sense she had been the one to raise you.

He moves on to the other photo and it isn’t until his eyes land on it that he feels a wave nausea course through him.

You had kept the other New Years Eve photo. 

His shaking hand picks it up, eyes scanning it to ingrain it. He hadn’t seen this version of that night in so long, and he was sure you would have thrown it out. Why would you keep it?

Nothing makes sense. Why is he here and where is here exactly?

He hears footsteps coming from across the house and he panics. Does he lay back down and act asleep? Does he apologize for intruding? Does he sneak out the stupid window like some kind of teenager? He isn’t Clark Kent right now. He’s Superman. What can he even say?

It’s too late to act though because before he knows it the door opens and time stops all together. He feels like a deer caught inbetween the headlights, frozen in place because everything about this situation doesn’t feel real. Holding your picture in his Superman attire, staring back at the one person who always brought him back to earth. He’s surprised he hasn’t passed out from the weight.

You closed the door gently, eyes not leaving his. You look nervous and guarded, hands holding some clothes that he recognizes as his own. Some he probably let you borrow a while back. Clothes you didn’t throw away.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah, well I-” he starts before swallowing his own saliva. “Ma’am I’m sorry to intrude. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I got here. Forgive my—”

“It’s okay, Clark. I know it’s you.”

That shuts him up, eyes bulging out of his eye sockets. “What…”

“I’ve always known, so you don’t need to act weird.” You look away from him, walking towards the bed to set the clothes down. “You probably have questions, and I have some too. However, I’m sure you want to shower and change into something more comfortable.”

He’s speechless. What does he even say to that?

“I’m about to cook breakfast, so come to the kitchen when you’re ready. And one more thing.” You are looking back at him again, and he notices how tired you are. It worries him. “My grandma is here. Don’t worry about her as her eye sight isn’t the greatest. She won’t notice anything different.” 

With that you shut the door with a soft click. He hears you patter down the hallway, and he doesn’t dare move. His thoughts are running a million miles per minute. He’s paralyzed because of you and your confession.

You are back in his orbit.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

“Here you go, Grammie.”

“Oh…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like boiled eggs.”

“You liked the boiled eggs I made you last week.”

“Did I?”

“Sure did.”

“What about oatmeal? Do we have any oatmeal?” 

“Um, yeah we do.”

“Can I have some oatmeal, darling? Please?”

“Yeah, no problem.” 

You sigh as you walk into the kitchen, breakfast meant for your grandma now meant for you. You hate when she does that. You should expect it by now, but it still drives you crazy how she will switch up. In reality, it’s not that much of a problem; making oatmeal is super quick. But you also know she needs protein and other nutrients that aren’t just steel cut oats. On the other hand, eating is better than not eating at all 

You grab the Quaker Oats box, prepping a bowl for the microwave before getting out some other products for flavor. You hear the door from the hallway open, the heavy patting of feet hitting the floor, and soon enough Clark is in your line of sight. 

He looks good. You luckily had a couple of his flannels and gym shorts, having packed them by mistake when you moved. He had on the dark blue and brown flannel with light grey shorts. Not a perfect match, but better than him walking around in his boxers or whatever he wears under his suit.

Oh God, if he even wears any.

“Smells good,” he says, voice a little rough. “Oatmeal?”

“The oatmeal is for my grandma, but I made some, um, boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits. There is also some yogurt and berries. I hope that’s okay?” You don’t know why you ask it like a question. 

“Of course it is okay. I appreciate it.” 

“Great, well, plates are up in that cabinet. Please take what you like.” As you finish your sentence, the microwave goes off, taking your attention away from him.

There is a silence between you two. You expected as such, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. The air was tense and uncertain. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him, and a lot has happened. However, a small part of you wish it felt like it used to. Now, it feels like you two are strangers and it kills you inside.

You bring the apple brown cinnamon oatmeal to your grandma, making sure she is sat all the way up in her bed before eating. You tell her you’ll check in on her soon before shutting her door. You walk into the dining room where Clark is, seeing him looking out the window. You see he hasn’t touched his food, and see another plate set up with the food you cooked in the seat across from him. A small smile creeps onto your face. Still ever the gentleman. 

“Thank you for making me a plate. That’s very kind of you.”

Clark looks at you and you see his eyes light up. “It is no trouble. You cooked.”

You nod before taking your seat, taking the time to enjoy your meal. It is quiet again, but it is a silence that is begging to be broken. Lucky for you, Clark has no problem with that.

“So, is this your house or is it your grandma’s?”

“It’s my grandma’s, but I did grow up here. The room you were in was my old room that I kinda made new when I moved back here.”

Clark hums. “So I’m guessing we are in Louisa right now?”

“We sure are,” you confirm. “It’s no Smallville, but there is a charm here I guess.”

“I’m sure it is nice,” Clark suggests. “I am curious as to how I got here though.”

“Hmm…” You lean back in your chair, arms folded. “What do you remember last?”

Clark swallows his food, setting his fork down to clasp his hands in front of him. You can tell he remembers, but doesn’t want to indulge. It makes you think he must’ve seen some horrific things. 

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” you reassure. “All I can say is Lois brought you here. I’m guessing she didn’t really know where to locate your parents, and she didn’t feel like she had the time to figure it out. So, she brought you here.”

“I must have been in pretty rough shape.”

“You had Kryptonite poisoning.” 

He stays silent for a moment, eyes staring at the middle of the table. His jaw works like he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t open for the words to come out. There is conflict in his brow, and you wish you could get up and hug him. But you don’t. You stay glued in your seat patiently.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing through his mouth. His eyes open, and what you see is a vulnerable boy staring right back at you; a side of Clark you rarely ever saw.

“When did you find out I was Superman?”

“I’ve known for a while,” you start, taking a sip of your orange juice before continuing. “I found out on the morning of New Years.”

“How?” 

“I had woken up, and when I went to get up I had noticed you still had your glasses on.” You look down at your hands, uneasy in how you were going to say this next part. “I didn’t want them to break, so I took them off while you were sleeping. I didn’t think much of it but then I saw your face without them and I felt like I had gone crazy because it wasn’t you, but it also was.”

There it is again: silence. God, you hate the fucking silence. 

Clark’s voice chokes, and you wish it was because he had choked on his food but no. It’s from disbelief. You hate the sound of that more. “You’ve known for that long? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like you told me,” you try to reason. “I thought it would be better for me to wait until you were ready to tell me, but as time went on, it seemed less likely.”

Clark’s food remains untouched at this point, plate pushed to the side so there is a place to put his elbows. His face is in his hands, breath staggered like he’s having a hard time keeping oxygen down. You’ve never seen him like this before. Not even when you ended things.

“Clark, I—”

“Is that why you left?” 

You are stunned. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, you didn’t expect him to ask that. Honestly, it kind of pissed you off.

“What? No, Clark. I didn’t leave because of your little secret.” You cringe at how harsh you sounded, but it couldn’t be helped. “I apologize if I never fully explained why I left, but not everything revolves around you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” He raises his voice. Not quite yelling, but emotions are running high. “It has everything to do with me when you end things with no explanation. ‘I have a lot going on’ is not a good answer.” He’s looking at you dead on, and the look on his face is so unlike him. It’s Clark, but it’s a side of him he never let you see: frustration, anguish, distress.

You want to tell him why. He’s going to see for himself soon enough, but there is a pettiness in your heart you can’t seem to get rid of. There is a stubbornness that knows he is right, yet refuses to accept it. You can admit you are at fault, but he isn’t innocent. This isn’t all on you.

“You say all this yet it’s not like you fought for me to stay in your life.” Your words are cold. “I didn’t ask you to, so I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I had my reasons, Clark. Also, by the way, just goes to show how much you trust me with how you told Lois and not me!”

“You think I would tell Lois?” He scoffs. “She confronted me because she connected the dots! I didn’t see a point in lying!”

“But you felt so comfortable hiding it from me? Isn’t that considered lying?” You shouldn’t be this heated but something in you is screaming. “When you cancel plans because ‘stuff’ came up? When you leave in the middle of the night? How dare you ask for an explanation from me when you never gave me one?”

Clark is getting up from the table, aggravation clear on his face. You’ve never had an argument like this. Even when this is not a screaming match, it feels worse: two emotionally constipated adults trying to one up each other rather than saying the silent part out loud. You thought things would be different after a year's time, but you were kidding yourself. How could things be different when nothing was solved to begin with?

Your phone rings, and you look to see your grandma is calling. You don’t answer, looking to the kitchen to see Clark doing the dishes. You couldn’t tell if he was doing them to relieve himself of the irritation, to be polite, or both. Knowing him, it’s probably the ladder.

You walk to your grandma’s room, opening to see her on the phone until she sees you. “What’s the commotion? Who’s here?”

“Oh, um,” you start, scratching your head. “Well, do you remember Clark?”

“Oh that handsome young man? Of course! I didn’t know you two were still together.”

Thanks for bringing it up, Grammie. Twist the knife a little deeper.

You shake your head. “He’s just visiting. He won’t be here long. Now, let's get you into your wheelchair for a little bit, yeah?”

She groans, causing you to roll your eyes. “I know you hate it but you need to get your back stronger so I can take you to appointments.”

“Who needs to go anywhere?” She sighs. “I’m quite content staying here.”

“I know you are, but since specialists won’t come here, we gotta get to them. You may think it’s ridiculous but I promise you’ll thank me later.” 

She doesn’t respond and you are thankful. It’s exhausting having to explain her health to her, and you hate that it exhausts you. It aggravates you that her health coverage won’t cover certain home visits, and the ones they do cover are unreliable, cancelling appointment after appointment. You’ve tried going to see health professionals before but the transport costs an arm and a leg, plus your grandma couldn’t withstand the far drive into town. You wish you could do more for her. You wish you were stronger for her. You wish you had the mental capacity to have more patience. 

You help her sit up, steadying her before grabbing the wheelchair, the gait belt, and the transfer board. You click the belt around her waist, lock the wheelchair breaks and double check that they are secure, and then place the transfer board under her bottom. You set your position, grabbing the belt and making sure you weren’t in the way of her feet.

“Okay, remember to just slide your hand along the board until it reaches the armrest. Once you grab it, pull yourself.” 

She nods and on the count of three, you hold onto her as she slowly moves. You are holding a lot of her weight up, a constant fear that she will slip and you won’t have a good grip. It’s a lot on your body; one wrong move and your back goes out. It’s tiresome but it’s needed. The more you help her with this, the less you’ll have to do in time.

“Alright, good job. Almost there,” you say encouragingly.

“I’m slipping,” she huffs. “I’m going to fall.”

“I got you. I’m going to count to three and I want you to hold on to me, okay? I’m going to pull you the rest of the way.” 

You count to three, and with a deep breath you heave her over into the wheelchair. You adjust her, moving her legs more in and then moving back to pull her more into the wheelchair. 

“You okay? See that wasn’t so bad.” You try to sound convincing, but the elevated breathing didn’t help.

“Y-yeah, I guess.” Your grandma knows you are lying. She always does. “I just don’t like that you have to do this by yourself. I have the money to get a caretaker, darling. We should get one so you can have a break.”

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Maybe once you stop buying stuff from HSN”

“Okay, but what else am I supposed to do? I just lay here all day!” She exclaims, hands in the air.

“You do not. You just don’t want to do anything else, even if it’s good for you,” you say, trying to not get irritated. You take a deep breath, reigning yourself in. ‘Do not take it out on her,’ you think. 

“Listen,” you sigh, hands on your hips. “Maybe once I get my book published, we can look into it. I understand what you’re saying, but finding a good caretaker takes time and the rates add up. I am making very little right now, so all we have is your income from retirement and social security to pay bills. Also, if we need to send you to the hospital again, heaven forbid, you need money for that. I am trying.”

“I know, darling,” she says, looking at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Grammie,” you say, feeling bad because you see how much it bothers her that her independence was stripped away. Now you both live in this dance of highs and lows, which you wish you had better control over. Because at the end of the day, this is your grandma and this isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s.

“Now,” you clap your hands, grabbing the remote off the rolling tray by the bed. “Did you want to watch some TV? We can go into the living room or if you want, you can stay and watch in here.”

Before she can answer, there is a soft knock from the door. You look to see Clark’s head slowly peaking in, hesitantly to assure no intrusion.

“Hey,” he clears his throat. “The dishes are washed and they are drying on the rack. I wrapped your food up too in case you want it later.”

Your heart speeds up at that. The thoughtfulness that is Clark Kent.

Clark steps in, walking towards your grandma with eyes wide and smile quirked. “And look at this young lady here.”

“Oh hi, Clark!” She says excitedly. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

You think back to when your grandma met Clark for the first time. She had come to visit for the holidays, and you introduced her to him. And they just talked, and talked, and talked. It warmed you so, seeing the two people you cared deeply for talking and laughing together. You recall the time Christmas music was playing in your living room, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! playing in the background, and Clark had started dancing with her around the living room. He was good to her, bringing so much life and light that it made your heart spin. It was the moment you knew he was the one, and that you loved him; that no man could ever compare to Clark Kent. 

God, you’re gonna be sick.

“Darling?”

“Huh?” Shaken out of your daze, your eyes refocus. You see Clark has a chair pulled up, hands cradling your grandma’s. 

“You should go lay down, darling. Rest a little bit. Clark and I have some catching up to do,” she chirps happily.

“Grammie, I know you are excited to see him, but he needs to—”

“I’ll be okay. Just leave the windows up. The sunlight is enough.”

Any frustration that Clark had earlier is gone, and a completely new face is there before you. One of understanding and tenderness that leaves you breathless. The one you’d see after a long day of work. The one you’d see when you close your eyes. 

It’s love. It’s the look of love.

“Please,” he begs. “Get some rest.” 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, okay. Can you wake me up in a little bit?” 

“I got you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You don’t know how much more you can take of him.

You make your retreat, walking into your room only to crash onto the bed. Your head feels fuzzy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting lately, but the pillows that welcome you feel divine. But what makes you at ease, body responding as it relaxes, is how Clark’s scent trails up your nose. His scent has infused into your bedding, and it calms you until there is a lull. Sleep consumes you and he infiltrates your dreams.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark feels like a jerk. A big, buttheaded jerk.

He’s not a mind reader by any means, but he has instincts. When he is Superman, he is making decisions based on instinct: what will cause the least amount of damage? What will save the most people? It is second nature to him, so why couldn’t he use that to shut up and listen? Why did he have to jump to conclusions like a freaking idiot?

He felt the hurt the second he stood up to leave the conversation. He saw the way your shoulders slacked, how your heart rate thumped like crazy. He should’ve apologized at that moment, for making rash judgements, for raising his voice, but no. He had to double down. 

He did the dishes, trying to take his mind off of things, but how could he? He is in your vicinity disrupting your life. It didn’t matter how focused he was on scrubbing the plates and putting the cups into the dishwasher. His mind would snap back to how you looked just then: discouraged, upset, sad. It makes him nauseous. And as he wraps your food up, seeing the barely touched plate sitting at the table, he can’t help but know you are right. 

He did lie to you, even if it was to ensure your safety. After seeing what happened to Mali, someone who had simply offered his kindness, only reaffirms he was in the right to hide it from you. If someone like Lex knew of your existence and did something to harm you, he would never recover. Half of his heart would be gone forever. He never meant to make you feel like he strung you along with his vague excuses.

However, the devil’s advocate in him tells him he’d be able to save you, that he can protect you. He would die before he let anything happen to you. Clark doesn’t believe in killing, but if someone dared lay a finger on you, they’d regret it. If there is one thing he is selfish about, it is you. He loves you too much to let go.

So, why did he? Why didn’t he fight harder?

‘Oh, yeah. Because I’m a freaking idiot and a jerk.’

He closed the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel when he heard it: heartbeats, rapid in succession. He knew one was yours, but there was another. It was more elevated, panicky even. It threw Clark for a loop, not hearing any other commotion. So, like the journalist he is, he investigates. 

The door in the hallway is cracked, and the pulses get stronger. He peaks, feeling slightly intrusive without trying to be, and the sight before him makes him sigh sadly. 

He had only met your grandma once, and she is a lovely woman. Full of love, cheer, not a care in the world. It was something he saw in you, and it made sense you were cut from the same cloth. A wonderful woman raising another wonderful woman. It wasn’t that long ago, so seeing her now, legs contracted at the knees and struggling to get in the wheelchair with your help, shattered him. 

It only worsens when he looks at you, struggling to help her. He sees what it is doing to your body, how it is creating tension in your muscles. It is no surprise you are tired, caretaking for another person. It makes him want to burst in there and help, but he stays in place. He can already hear the scolding he’d get if he interferes. For now, he watches, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

Did you leave because your grandma became ill? Have you been taking care of her this whole time?

For the most part, your grandma seemed relatively healthy. Even without X-Ray vision, he sees she’s alert, knows what’s going on, and has some upper arm strength. He wonders what possibly could’ve brought her to this point? Was she worse off at one point? Has she improved any? All these questions run through Clark’s head, and while it is none of his business, he wants to understand. 

So with that, he knocks on the door to let himself in and from then on it’s the start of a world of information. After talking with your grandma, he feels even more like a jerk than before. 

After you’d gone to lay down, they didn’t get too much into anything. She had asked him how work was, if anything was new, why he was visiting, how long he was visiting for. White lies, of course, are what he had to lean on. 

“Work has been great! They got me handling a lot of the press regarding Superman. They seem to think I understand him fairly well.” ‘Who knows Superman better than Superman himself?’

“I wasn’t feeling too well recently, but being away from Metropolis has helped!” ‘I had Kryptonite poisoning because some psycho doesn’t like me.’

“I came to see your granddaughter.” ‘Not on purpose, but I’m glad to see her again. I love her.’

“Probably not for long.” That’s the only thing that’s completely truthful because he’s Superman. The world needs him, and he can’t stay here forever. Even if he wants to.

Then, they got into her circumstances, which are your circumstances. All in all, it’s unfair. He hates how unfair life is to some people.

Your grandma has been bedbound for over a year. She got the flu, and was stuck in the hospital for two months. In that span of time, she lost her ability to walk. It was rehab to rehab after that until Medicare wouldn’t cover it anymore and she has been back home ever since. You’ve been taking care of her ever since.

“She works so hard, but I hate that she has to do this. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I could just get up and walk but I have a hard time sitting up on my own. I wish she would get some help. I have the money.”

Conversation streamed away after that, going into something more light hearted. She talked about the house, what your room used to look like, all the places you liked to hide when playing hide and seek. She talked about how you loved helping her in the garden, and cooking the veggies she would harvest for supper. She said one of her favorite memories was when you were four or five, you would beg for her to sing old nursery rhymes or tell old folk tales. It made him laugh, these stories. 

“It’s strange because she is very much like my mom. The way she takes care of me, is stern yet patient. I took care of her, and now she takes care of me. I feel like her child. It’s funny how these things turn out.”

All he can think is how in love he is with you. An absolute heart of gold.

After what felt like hours of talking, he gets her into bed with ease. He insists on helping her anyway she needs, wanting you to rest more. So he does: he changes her, fixes her a tomato sandwich with the heirloom tomatoes you grew (Lois was right; they are stunning), adjusts her so she is sitting up properly. He gave the works.

It is late in the afternoon by the time he leaves your grandma’s room, the sun pouring through the windows warm and glowing. He walks to your room, and it is ajar. He peeks in and the sight of you asleep makes him soften. The sun is hitting you sweetly, basking you in a light that puts the Angels to shame. You look at ease, peaceful. He is sure you don’t get the sleep you need, so he is glad he gave you the chance to catch up. 

He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep a little longer before he wakes you up. He takes you in, and he can’t help but bring his fingers to your hairline to smooth the baby hairs. He hasn’t touched you in so long, and it is electric the way your skin sends shockwaves through him. He takes a deep breath, following how you inhale and exhale, breathing along with you like it connects him to you somehow.

He sighs. “I’m sorry for not understanding before. For not telling you.” 

You shift, eyes still closed and breathing regular. Your head draws closer to his touch, now cradled in the palm of his hand. He smiles warmly.

“I just hope you know that our time together wasn’t a waste for me, and that if I could rewind time, I would make sure you knew everything. I pushed you away without realizing, even with my good intentions, and in that I failed at showing how much I love you.” He is pouring his heart out, relief flowing from his body.

“You are the one that got away, but I hope you know I still love you. I will always love you.”

You shift again, but this time your eyes slowly start to open. You blink slowly, stretching like a house cat as you yawn deeply. You push yourself up on your elbows, glancing around until your eyes land on him. 

You are so cute when you are sleepy. God help him.

“Hm, what time is it? How long have I been asleep?” You yawn again, rubbing your eyes in the process.

“It is almost five I believe.”

“What?!” You jolt. “Oh God! I need to check on Grammie I–”

“Hey, hey,” he holds you down with the weight of his hand on your thigh. “It’s okay. She is resting right now. She’s been changed and ate lunch.”

You are staring at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You what? I– Clark you didn’t have to do that. You should've woken me up.”

“I wanted you to rest,” he says, squeezing your thigh reassuringly. “Being a caretaker for a loved one is a lot. You deserve a break.”

He can tell you are at a loss for words, eyes looking at where his hand is placed. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t need to say anything. I got you, always.” 

You look up at him and he sees your eyes are glossy, lip wobbling. It devastates him.

“It’s been a lot. When she first went into the hospital, I thought she wasn’t going to make it. They made it seem like she would need hospice care, and that scared me so bad. I wasn’t ready to let her go.” 

“I know that must’ve been scary, especially going through it alone. But sweetheart, I need you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m around.”

Tears are streaming down your face, hands coming up to your face. You were hanging on the edge, teetering on pulling yourself up or letting go. It is when your shoulders start to shake that he gets closer, pulling you into him as you cry. He wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing you carefully to add some pressure. Sobs wreck your body, arms wrapped around his neck gripping on like a lifeline. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, more tears falling. “I– I didn’t want to add more stress. You were so bu– busy I didn’t want to bother you w– with it.”

His jaw locks, teeth grinding to keep himself together. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not being honest. For making you think you couldn’t tell me anything. That was unfair of me.”

You are shaking your head violently against his shoulder, gasping for air like you couldn’t breathe. 

You two stay like that for a while, him rubbing your back and rocking you back and forth to calm you down. Your sobs eventually turn to whimpers, small gasps coming out periodically that shutter your chest. He waits for you to speak, not wanting to break your concentration of peace. 

“I’m okay,” you mutter into his flannel. “I think I needed that.”

“It’s always good to get a cry out,” he says in agreement, still rubbing your back.

“Yeah,” you sniffle, a chuckle coming right behind it. “I kinda feel like I’m floating.”

He laughs, pulling you away enough so he can see your face. His thumbs go to wipe under your eyes, soaking the salty residue into his skin. It’s the way you look vulnerable, cheeks stained from crying, eyes dry yet wet at the edges. It’s a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from you, and he’s happy it’s happening. It signifies change, the start of something new.

“I meant what I said,” he says earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“You know you can’t stay here forever though, Clark.”

He knows you’re right. He will have to leave. He doesn’t know what Lex’s next move is going to be or when Boravia’s next attack on Jarhanpur will happen, but he knows it’ll be soon. But for now, he can enjoy the time he gets with you. Enjoy it until the world decides to implode on itself once more. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

There is a domesticity in the air for the rest of the day. 

After the moment you and Clark shared, you had things to do. You told Clark he should continue to rest, but the man is stubborn like you, so there was no denying him.

Currently, you two are tending to the garden. The first frost has yet to come, and you wanted to prune and harvest some things for dinner. Clark was more than eager, and even though growing up he tended more to animals, he has a pretty good green thumb. 

“I think it’s great you kept up with her garden,” Clark says joyously.

“Well, it beats driving over thirty minutes to the nearest grocery store. Besides, I have found it to be very therapeutic. I like watching things grow."

“Ma always told me gardening brings community.”

“Hmm, guess that’s why you are such a people person.”

You both laugh, and you turn to put some yellow squash in the weaved basket when you see Clark taking off his flannel. The squash falls from your hands, mouth ajar as you see his sun-kissed muscles flex. Golden hour is at its peak, and you watch how the sun makes him shimmer. You’re in awe of how beautiful he looks. An Angel sent to the Earth. 

Which isn’t totally wrong.

“Your gawking is cute.”

You snap out of your haze, looking up to see him smirking down at you. 

“It’s,” you pause. “It’s not even hot out.”

“I’m a thermos. I get hot. Gardening is very hard work you know,” he shrugs, but you can tell he is enjoying the act of making you squirm.

The fucker knows what he’s doing.

“You are a big meanie,” you moan. “You are using your gifts against me.”

He tosses in some regular tomatoes, leaning in close. “It’s not my fault your heart is telling me everything I need to know. She’s very loud.”

He stands up with a brush of his knees, eyes crinkling in success because Lord knows your heart is in overdrive. You know he is fistpumping in his head right now, yelling a ‘mission accomplished. 

“We should pick some Zucchini. Very versatile.” 

Smug bastard.

Once dusk starts to come in with its waves of dark blue in the sky, you both head inside. You let Clark shower, needing him to clear his sweaty model image so your brain can rest. Last thing you need is to feign over him in front of your own grandmother, and be teased about it later.

You cut the veggies, slicing and dicing as you set them all in their proper places. As you finish up, you hear the bathroom door open and the minute you turn around out of instinct, you wish you hadn’t.

Because while he isn’t sweaty anymore, he’s now glistening with water, the steam surrounding him in an aura. He had on the black sweats you luckily found in the back of your dresser, but the green and blue flannel you handed him was absent. The only thing covering his upper half is the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

At least he has some decency.

You turn back around, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the weird pulsing happening in between your legs. “You better put that flannel on before I get my grandma out here. The last thing I need is for her to see you practically naked.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Ma raised me to be a gentleman. I need to at least take her out to dinner first.”

You burst out laughing, stopping what you’re doing to clutch your chest. “Oh, so does this count as taking her out to dinner?”

“Well…” He is right behind you, somehow getting closer without you realizing. “It could, but that would be far from appropriate. Not when there is another lady I’ve set my eyes on.”

You stop cutting again, your breathing coming in deep. You turn around, hands resting behind you on the edge of the counter. You get a good look at him, and see his hair is getting curly as it starts to dry, giving him that boyish look that charms people. His mouth is parted only a little with those pretty blue eyes half lidded. You see them shift down and up a couple times, undecided on where to stay before sticking with your own. Any comeback you had dies in your throat, never to return.

“O-oh!” You cough, covering any sort of effect he has on you. You know it’s a lost cause.

“You seem surprised,” Clark grins.

“I mean no,” you shake your head. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like…”

“Like it used to?”

It’s like you are in sync with each other’s feelings because he is right. The banter, the pull. It feels like old times, where there wasn’t a single care in the world. It was electric, and that feeling is coursing through your body. It is taking everything in you not to grab him by his neck and kiss him right then and there. With the way he is looking at you, you believe it is taking everything in him too.

“What are you thinking right now?” He whispers.

“What do you think I’m thinking?” You reply in rapid succession.

Clark cages you in with his arms, bracing them against the counter. “I’m afraid telepathy isn’t one of my abilities.”

“That’s a shame,” you huff.

“Tell me about it. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

You wonder how different things would be if you told him everything: your grandma getting sick, knowing his secret, the uncorking of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with. If you had opened up about your fears, would you two still be together? If you were honest with yourself, would you have ended things in the first place?

You go to say something, words on the tip of your tongue, until your phone rings. Your shoulders become lax, and you pull your phone from your pocket only to see it is your grandma. 

“She’s calling me.”

“Would you like me to check on her? I can get her into the wheelchair and get her in here,” Clark offers, his eyes having not left you once.

“You really don’t have to do that, Clark.” 

“What did I tell you?” He asks rhetorically. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

You nod, speechless at how straightforward he’s being. “Okay, thank you.”

He smiles at that, leaning down till his face is a breath away from yours. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” Then he places a brief, light kiss on your cheek.

He pushes off the counter, walking back towards the hallway, leaving you stunned with your hand pressing into your cheek. 

“You better put a shirt on before you pick her up!” He laughs. Your chest flutters like crazy.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Dinner goes off without a hitch. 

Everything is lively at the dinner table. Full of conversation, laughter, incredible amounts of joy. It gives  you the same feeling of when you see photos or home movies of families eating together during the holidays. It gives you the same feeling of when you, Clark, and your grandma ate dinner together in your old Metropolis apartment. The atmosphere is light, warm, and extremely comforting. 

While dinner was in the oven, Clark had brought your grandma out in her wheelchair, spinning her around with her squealing with laughter. He had put on the radio, an old-timey station playing Chuck Berry. 

“Oh, I love Chuck Berry!” She had chimed, hand over her chest like she was reliving a different time in her life. “I met my husband dancing! We would go out on the weekends and dance and dance. Ugh, those were the days.”

“Sounds like this young lady wants to dance!” Clark had said, overexaggerating his midwestern draw, before spinning her around slowly, reenacting dances from the fifties.

“Oh gosh! You know that one?” Your grandma had asked, shocked. 

“Ma and Pa raised me on this.”

“Well, they raised you right!”

When dinner was ready, he had lifted her into a dining room chair, helping her adjust. “How does this feel?”

“I haven’t sat in this chair in over a year. Kinda uncomfy though. Not used to the lack of cushioning these days.”

Clark had put a seat cushion under her.

Clark had brought a whole new vibe to the house, and it took everything in you not to get emotional. You often wished you had more energy to do things with her, get her to do something other than watch TV. Clark made it look so easy, the way he’s able to entertain, the way he’s able to get so personal. The thing is though, that’s just who Clark is: sweet, kind, and unabashedly selfless. Nothing can hold him down, even if people tried. He smiles, pushes through it knowing this too shall pass. He makes you want to be better. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

Maybe that’s why you still love him.

You are currently showering, Clark having offered to do the dishes and get your grandma into bed. You let the steam soak into your skin, sighing as you relax under the hot stream. Your mind is in a strange state of peace, something you haven’t felt fully in a long time. ‘It’s nice to have some help’, you think. ‘Even if I don’t need it, it’s nice.’

It’s nice to have Clark back in your life. 

But that’s the thing: he isn’t, not technically. Words have yet to be said, even though you feel them. You can’t get your hopes up because he is him and you are you. His life is dedicated to the world, while yours is dedicated to this chapter of your life. He says you’re not alone, but part of you knows that there will be times where you have to be. He will be off saving the world, and you will be here worrying if he’s okay like you’ve been for the last year.

It’s almost like today doesn’t change things, not definitively. You must accept that.

You get out of the shower, throwing on a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. You do the normal nightly regiment, and then you head to your grandma’s room to finish getting her ready for bed. You knock on the door lightly, entering and beelining for the latex gloves. 

“Oh, darling! It’s okay! Clark changed me!”

“Oh, okay,” you shrug, putting the gloves down. “I’m surprised you let a man you barely know change you.”

“Plenty of men have seen my butt from changing me.”

“Touché.”

“I do need my medicine though. He didn’t want to give me the wrong ones.”

“Smart of him,” you joke, grabbing a pill cup to put the pills in. You hand her the pills, watching her take them before downing them with water.

“Ah!” She exclaims. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course, Grammie,” you smile. “Can I get you anything else before I head to bed?”

“I think I’m good…” she draws out, eyes steady on you, like she is reading you quietly.

“Is something on my face?” You joke, hands touching random spots.

“No, but… I guess I’m just happy. Tonight was just wonderful,” she smiles tiredly.

“I’m glad you had a good night with Clark, Grammie.” You meant it.

“Yes, I did, but it’s more than that. You didn’t just look happy, you were happy. I love when I get to see you like that.”

That makes you pause. “Wow, I must be very transparent.” 

“I raised you, darling,” she reminds you. “It’s not hard to see when you are truly happy.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into yours, squeezing tight. “But I am happy. I am happy here with you. I get tired, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

“It’s a different kind of happiness I see when you are with Clark,” she smiles, so bright it hurts. “You’re in love. It reminds me of how your papa would look at me. Clark looks at you the same way too. It’s clear to see.”

You look at your conjoined hands, glancing at the wedding band she still wears to this day, refusing to ever take it off. She would always tell you it was her promise to him that they will meet again. Love for her is everlasting, meaning even once she’s six feet under the ground, her love has no end. You always wanted a love like that, and the fact she is telling you this makes you wonder if that’s what you had with Clark. Have you always known, but have been too scared to see it?

“There’s no point in running from it,” she says, squeezing your hand to get the point across. “Love like that is rare, and it rarely comes back once you let it go. This is your chance.”

“How could things possibly work out, Grammie? He’s going to have to go back home to Metropolis. He has a life there.” You already know the answer, but you desire her wisdom.

“It’s simple.” One hand releases from your grasp, finger pointing to where your heart is. “Home is where the heart is.”

And she’s right. Clark’s always felt like home. He is home.

You tuck her in, kissing her forehead before making your exit. You go back into the kitchen to see if Clark was there, then the living room, but you don’t find him. You ponder for a moment, only to see the soft yellow light coming from your room, the door opened all the way. You head there, like he is calling to you, begging you to find him. You look in and there he is, holding up the same New Years’ photo you found in his sleeve, as well as the one protected in the picture frame. 

“I still can’t believe you kept the photo,” he whispers, knowing you are present. 

You step in, shutting the door behind you for a privacy you had regardless, and walk until you are a foot away. “Of course, I kept it. I love everything about that night.”

“Even Jimmy Olsen?”

“Especially Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark chuckles under his breath, eyes not leaving the photos, though you see his eyes twitching. “I think about it all the time, you know. How I got to show you how much I love you, how I got to take care of you. I dream about it and I relive the laughter and everything.”

You see his lips quiver, his grip get a little tighter. There is a battle raging inside him, and you aren’t sure who’s fighting who: him vs. him? Him vs. instinct? You aren’t sure, but you wish to calm it. You wish to calm him.

Your hand goes to his shoulder, squeezing him like it’s a comfort. “Clark…”

“I shouldn’t have given up on us so easily,” he grimaces. “I should’ve fought harder but like an idiot I let you go.”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up on this. I ended things,” you say, trying to dispel his fear, but he shakes his head.

“You did, but I just accepted it. That’s the problem.”

“You were giving me space, Clark. You did what you thought was best.”

“Do you wish I fought though? Do you wish that I had fought for us?” 

That stuns you, leaving you speechless. You never considered it a wish, a hope that Clark would’ve called your bluff. However, you think back to the times you’d stare at his back in the bullpen, hoping, praying, he would turn around to look at you. You think back to when you’d stare at your messages with him, wondering if you’ll see the thinking text bubbles appear. You think back to late nights on your balcony, looking out to see if he’d walk by, even if it wasn’t reasonable to. 

You never remember being upset that he didn’t fight. You do remember being upset that he had moved on so quickly. 

“I think…” you start, not sure where to go without striking a nerve. “I think I hated feeling invisible to you after that, which is selfish of me, I know. But there were times where I would look at you, hoping you’d notice, but you never did. It’s like you moved on so fast.”

He finally turns to look at you, eyes glassy, hands twitching. “You thought I had moved on?”

His expression is killing you, consuming you with a guilt that eats away at you. The vulnerability he is displaying makes him look so small, even with him towering over you. It’s the look of a child whose feelings are hurt, lip wobbly and face heated. It’s the face of a man who is heartbroken.

“I was miserable for months,” he whispers, eyes shutting so tight you see tears make their way out. “Being in the same room as you and not being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. It was too much for me to take.”

His eyes open back up, baby blues bright and weeping. “I was distracted for months because I noticed every little thing you did and I didn’t feel like I could congratulate your articles, comfort you when Perry was on you with due dates, just simply enjoy your presence. I was hurting.”

You hated seeing him this way. This is all your fault.

“I thought overtime we would start talking again, maybe get back to a place where I at least had you in my life. But then you moved away…” he chokes up, eyes shutting again with gritted teeth, like he was in physical pain.

“I understand now why you did, and I would never fault you for it. But it all happened so fast, and for the longest time I thought you couldn’t stand being near me.”

You were crying now. He’s the love of your life, and you’ve destroyed him. All because you didn’t want to face the music that things would change on their own, so you forced the change yourself.

“I— I…” he starts stuttering, breath coming in heaves. “I let you go and I shouldn’t have. I never wanted to let you go, and yet I did, like a coward.”

His hands are in his hair, the tight grip creating messy strands through his fingers. You could tell he was trying to bring himself down, but he was losing. You weren’t fairing any better, but he was pouring every ounce of what he’s been feeling for over a year. The more he went into panic mode, the closer you got to him. You were toe to toe.

“Losing you was like cutting my fingers off,” he says with a whimper, hand covering his mouth to try and hold it in.

The second those words fall from his lips, you are on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to your chest. He breaks down, sobbing into your chest, his arms wrapping around you so tight it hurts but you don’t care. You’ll bear the pain for him. You love him. You will comfort him for as long as he lets you. 

“I’m so sorry, Clark.” You kiss the top of his head, hands rubbing circles into his hunched over back. “You didn’t lose me, I promise.”

He only sobs harder, so hard you think his back will snap from the convulsions. It makes you rub circles with more pressure, kiss his head in multiples, your own tears melting into his hair. You want to say something, anything to let him know that the past is behind you two, but you stay silent. You just move to the side, dragging him with you slowly until you both are at your bed.

You both tumble down, your leg wrapping around his hip as you lay down. Clark’s head is buried in your chest, his sobs still coming in waves. Your hands lace into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. Your breaths turn into hiccups, the tears slowly fading away. You use the opportunity to close your eyes, focusing on your breathing, giving you the opportunity to speak.

To tell him you’re sorry. To tell him this isn’t his fault. To tell him how much you love him.

“None of this is your fault, Clark,” you murmur. “You reacted like a normal person would. Even if I was upset then, I’m not upset now.”

His breathing gets shallower, a whimper here and there as he comes down. His hand is rubbing up and down your side with a pressure that makes you feel him through your shirt. He’s so warm, and it feels good to have him pressed against you, even with his tears soaking your shirt.

“You know, when Lois called me asking for a big favor, I didn’t expect this. Not one bit,” you chuckle softly. “There I was writing for my book, well trying to, and suddenly she called me late into the night. I thought she was going to talk my head off about an idea or rant about how Perry has been hounding her ass. But no, she called me to take care of you.”

“Did you really ask about me?” He says, muffled into your shirt. “Lois would tell me you would ask about me.”

You smile. “Of course I did. I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you either.”

“Really?” he sniffles.

“Really, really.”

The hand rubbing your side slows, and you take the opportunity to take it in your own, interlacing the fingers until his big hand engulfs yours. He hums, bringing the conjoined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of yours. He lets them linger for a moment before he pulls both hands close to his chest, curling into you slightly.

“Tell me about the book you're writing,” he murmurs. “I want to know. Please.”

“It’s just a book on how journalism shapes history,” you sigh, looking at your desk full of notes and papers… ideas. “Nothing that fascinating.”

“You’re writing it.” He kisses your hand again. “Everything you write is fascinating.”

Your heart flutters, so much that you can’t help but place a kiss on his temple.

For the rest of the night, you tell him about your book, your thought process. Kisses littered on skin here and there until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept this good.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The emotional turmoil that roared through his body took a lot of his energy, making it impossible to stay awake. However, it was enough, and it’s because he is with you.

You lulled him to sleep, your voice soothing to his ears. There were times where he felt like he was dreaming, but was brought back to reality when he felt your kisses on his head or your hand rubbing his back underneath his flannel. It made his heart pulse, remembering where he was, and eventually it made him sleep easy. He hasn’t had difficulty sleeping for a long time but now that he remembers what it’s like to sleep with you, he doesn’t know if he can go through sleeping alone again.

He slowly comes to, the sunlight twinkling into the room. He’s guessing it’s still early in the morning with the way the sky looks outside your window. His eyes blink open, letting his senses pick up his surroundings. It all comes forward like an avalanche, his senses picking up your scent, your breathing, your skin. He peaks down, seeing you both adjusted during the night, and sees you lying in the crevice of his arm, snoring the morning away with your face squished against his chest. 

It’s crazy how perfect you look against him, how comfortable you look. It’s strange how over 24 hours ago, he wasn’t in your world and now he is here with you cuddled into him. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like how he wants things to stay. It feels like home.

He is so proud of you. Even though he was emotionally exhausted last night, he remembers every word when you talked about your book: how excited you sounded as you continued. He’s glad you are pursuing something you’ve always wanted to try; something you want to flourish in. He knows you will because you are brilliant. You know how to draw people in with every word, no matter the content. It’s why you were so highly beloved as a Daily Planet writer. It’s obvious it will translate to the publishing world too.

He watches you wake up, a stretch running throughout your body that pushes you further into him. A sound akin to a cat vibrates from your throat, a Cheshire smile curling on your lips. All he can think about is how beautiful you look.

“Mmm, good morning,” you yawn, blinking tiredly at him with a lazy grin.

“Good morning,” he mirrors back. “Looks like someone got real cozy last night.”

“Oh hush,” you groan, settling back in. “You’re warm. I can’t help it.”

“You always did get cold very easily. Goosebumps always seem to make a name for themselves on your skin,” he teases, stroking your arm. “You even have goosebumps right now!”

“I don’t think the cold is what’s giving me the goosebumps,” you murmur, sleepy eyes looking up at him in crescents.

“Oh really?” He teases, not being able to help himself. “What could be causing them I wonder.”

“Well…” You push up on your elbow, head leaning into your hand. “Do you have any leads, Mr. Kent?”

“Hmm, I do have one lead,” he says, playing along. “Opposite of the cold.”

“Oh wow!” You chuckle. “You should tell me. I mean, it does involve me. I should be kept in the loop on these kinda things, right?”

There has always been a push and pull between the two of you, and it drives him mad. Especially now, when he has craved you for so long, it’s making him want to pounce. But he keeps his cool, wanting to savor the moment; wanting to savor the lightness.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But…” he smirks, his hand tilting your head to the side, his lips nearing your ear. “I can show you.”

He starts to place light kisses underneath your ear. They are subtle, gentle, restraining himself from being anything but, and it’s worth it in how you just sink into him. Your body chases it, making him pull you up against him until your face is leveled with his. He makes his way down your neck, mouth laving the scent of your body wash. His hand travels to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he makes his way to your throat. He feels the way your vocal chords vibrate against his tongue, making sounds that would drive him to his knees if he were to stand. 

His free hand rubs up and down your side, fingers slipping under your shirt to feel your skin. The tips trail lightly, feeling the bumps raise from under your skin. He grins against your throat. “I think my theory is correct.”

“Yeah? I'm going to have to start calling you R.L. Stine with the way you're giving me goosebumps.”

That draws a laugh out of you both, Clark simmering it down as he nips at your jaw. Your laugh transforms, a high pitched whimper leaving your mouth.

“Gosh, I missed you like this,” Clark whispers low. “I’ve yearned for you for so long.”

“I missed you too,” you sigh breathlessly. “You have no idea.”

His ears perk, nipping more up your jaw until he’s back to your ear. “Tell me.” He nips at your ear lobe, causing your back to arch. “Tell me how you missed me.”

“I’m afraid…” you hum. “I can’t tell you.”

He feels your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up until he is face to face with yours. He grunts at the pressure, looking at you as your face contorts into something cunning that makes his pupils dilate.

Your lips ghost his, your breathing passing through him like oxygen, eyes not leaving his. “But I can show you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your lips are on his and he groans the minute they touch. It’s desperate, ruthless; leaves no room for doubt. There is a hunger that’s consuming him, leaving him raw and opened at the seams. He can already tell he won’t ever get enough.

“Clark, baby…” you moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”

Your words make him needy, tongue playing with your lips before you grant him the pleasure. His hand under your shirt is up to where your chest is, gently cupping your breast and massaging the flesh. Your hips start to roll against his, rubbing against his cock, making him harden. It makes him feel wanted and needed.

“I love you so much, pretty girl,” he moans into your mouth. “I’m never letting you go again. Not for anything.”

“I don’t want you to,” you whine, thanks to a particularly hard thrust of Clark’s hips. It makes him smile. 

“Good because I’m gonna take care of you.” His head moves back to your neck, settling there. “I will come home to you every day. Mark my words.”

“Clark…” Your hands pull his head back up, eyes looking at him dazed. “This life is comfortable, but far from glamorous. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I could care less.” He kisses your lips fiercely, hoping it sticks to your brain before releasing again. “I would move the world for you. Coming home to you is nothing. Coming home to you is easy.”

“You mean that?” You say, the vulnerability lacking. You asked with sureness, like you know he is good for his word. 

“I am never lying to you again. No secrets, so yes. I mean it with everything.”

You beam, a wetness welling in your eyes. A laugh bubbles from your throat, a tear falling with it. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”

He kisses your tears away, humming against your skin. “You’re it for me, honey.”

He continues, until he feels your hips roll again, making his eyes follow suit. He situates you fast, laying you out fully on your back. His hands move to pin yours above your head, keeping you in place so he can finish what you started. His hips roll hard into your clothed center, a gasp leaving you in response. He goes down to swallow your sounds, hands trailing away to his flannel to rip it off, until he hears your phone going off. You both groan simultaneously, with him falling to the side with his head in the pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I need to get her ready for the day anyways.”

He nods, working to calm down all the chemicals and blood that’s rushed to his cock. He sits up, shrugging the flannel back on fully as he watches you pick up your phone. There is a crease in your brow, confusion on your face.

“What?” 

You look up at him, moving to show your phone. “It’s Lois.”

You moved to get up, answering the phone. “Lois?”

Clark watches you listen, watches your face get progressively more anxious.

“Are you sure?” You say, looking at him worried.

More talking ensues, with you nodding your head, saying “uh huh”, “okay I’ll tell him”, etc..

“He’ll be there soon. Yeah. Be safe, okay? Later.” 

You hang up, eyes staring at your phone screen. Clark sees your heart beating a tad faster, physiological responses taking over that represent only one emotion: fear.

“You have to go, Clark.”

“What’s going on?” He moves to stand. “What did Lois say?”

“She said something about a riff,” you say, unsure. “I don’t know what she means, but she says you’d understand what I’m saying. She said Metropolis is in trouble because of it.”

Clark is shell-shocked, but your next words send him spiraling. 

“Also, I got a notification from the Daily Planet news. Boravia is invading Janhanpur.”

“What?!” 

You hand him the phone and he looks at the article, seeing that the Boravian military is at the Jarhanpur border, ready for a full scale invasion. How is this all happening so quickly, and at once? He needs to move fast, he knows he does.

And yet he is frozen.

For a day, he wasn’t Superman. He was Clark Kent, with the woman he is deeply in love with. For a day, he got to rekindle something that was lost. For a day, he got a glimpse of what life could be like. For a day, he forgot what it was like to bear the state of the world on his shoulders. He chose this life, believing that is his purpose, yet he stands here like a statue. Why didn’t he have more time?

He is brought out of his thoughts, feeling a warmth around his waist. He looks down to see you hugging him, the side of your face pressed against his chest. “You have to go, Clark.”

“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you. “Just unfortunate timing.”

You lift your head, a hand coming up to his cheek before lifting on your tip toes to kiss him gently. “We have plenty of time. Just keep your promise. Come back home to me.”

He kisses you back with the same tenderness, softness. “I will.”

“Now, go put on your stinky suit and do some good.”

He groans. “It hasn’t been washed, so it probably does stink.”

“Maybe that will ward any bad guys off,” you jest.

He grins, kissing you one last time before letting go. He rids himself of his clothes etched in your scent, putting on the suit until he is in full form. You both walk out together, hand in hand, the sun no longer golden but a bright yellow. The grass blows, the birds chirp, the wind howls. It truly feels like a perfect day. He hopes to have more days like this.

He flies off, saying final goodbyes with kisses on the face. He glances back, and for a brief moment he sees you waving at him, disappearing amongst the clouds. He looks forward, preparing for the worst as he makes his way to the city. He is ready to fight. He is ready to save. He is ready to defeat.

He is ready to have more perfect days under Virginia skies.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

all writings belong to © cryptictongues - do not repost, translate, claim as your own, use for AI, or anything that would imply my work is yours.

[cryptictongues]

Reblogging my own fic to feel something LMFAO

[theworstwolvie]

love potion

summary: in which you're ready to end things with clark, but he doesn't let you. how were you supposed to know kryptonian saliva is an aphrodisiac?

CWs: 18+ MDNI! DUBCON AT THE VERY LEAST! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!, explicit sexual content (oral - f!receiving, some brief nipple play), fem!reader x clark kent, super manipulative & icky clark bc he needed some dark!representation and im here to provide for that gap, very VERY messy kisses, spitplay? i guess that's a term for it? idk man he spits in your mouth, HE SPITS IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!

wc: juuuust under 4k!

author's note: alright. listen. LISTEN. this is a labor of love for me. it took me a very long time and i am very proud of it. however, i will not be writing dark!clarkie in a long time, because he is exhausting. i hope you all enjoy him. let's be depraved together <3

this is dedicated to my beloved @thceseus and @tw1sters !! thank you two for being the best depraved perverts who Also want to be manipulated by clark kent. i love you more than words can express.

Clark Kent is a good man. That’s why he never kisses you. 

It’s something he saves for certain occasions. Anniversaries. When you have a really hard day at work. Nights when you’re struggling to sleep.

Fights. 

Especially the fights where a particularly rough grit in your voice is present, telling him when he’ll have to break his own rather shaky moral code. It always comes after a night spent yelling at each other, of going back and forth about some issue in your relationship that he’d rather avoid. 

A night like the one you’re both being strangled by right now.

You’ve been screaming back and forth at each other for over 20 minutes; nothing but barbarous insults hurled at each other that neither of you will be able to forget but will refuse to discuss when your tempers have regulated. Not to mention that he heard that tell-tale grit in your voice from the very first second that you opened your mouth. Hell, it almost weighed heavier on him than the horrible things you were telling him. 

Now, though, you’re both silent. Everything that needed to be said was said. 

Eyes wide and unflinchingly locked together, unwavering connection stemming from the vicious battle you just went through in this bedroom. The one that was never going to produce a victor, because neither of you can take back what you told each other. You’re still red in the face. You’ve still got veins popping out of your neck. Hot, angry tears are silently pouring down your cheeks—no doubt from the high emotions, the unbearable pain. 

Or maybe from the realization you’re arriving at for the millionth time this month: This relationship isn’t working. Hasn’t been working for weeks, and he knows you’ve been in that state of mind for a while. 

Clark, though? Not so much. He’s given you so much of himself, so much of his time, so much of his life and love…how could he ever let you go?

So when you finally break that eye contact, when you look down at the floor separating the two of you, he knows what he has to do. Does he want to do it? No, because Clark is a good man. 

But he’ll do anything to keep you with him.

It starts when you let out one of those wistful little sighs—the exact type of sigh that precedes the line he knows you’ll forget you even said to him in a few minutes: 

“I think we need to take a break.” 

Your voice is much softer now. Broken, in a way. Broken from how hard you were yelling. Broken from how upset you are. Broken from your own suggestion, because Clark knows that, deep down in your heart, you never mean that. You’ve never gone through with it, so how could you possibly mean it? You don’t want that. 

He knows what you want. 

Clark clears his throat. Takes a few slow, long strides across your bedroom until he reaches you. You’re so tired from the fight that you don’t even move away from him. Not like you’d want to, anyway. Clark knew you wouldn’t. He knows this fight—and the way you react to it—better than anything else. 

You might have said you can’t stand him, that you want to take a break, that you’re tired of it all…but your body doesn’t agree. Your body leans into him. Your body presses your hands against his chest and lets your forehead fall on his shoulder. Your body rests on his so that you don’t have to carry the weight of your shared dysfunction on your own anymore.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t say that.” he whispers. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Clark, don’t—” 

That tiny beginner’s protest doesn’t really ring true while you’re sliding your arms around his shoulders and pulling yourself into his chest, so he cuts you off.

“No. No, we don’t need a break. We can work through this. We always work through it, don’t we?” he purrs at you. Tilts your head up with one hand while his other arm stays wrapped around your waist. Glues you to him and doesn’t give you any space to unstick yourself from him. His fingers curl around your jaw and a quick scan of your face in the pale blue moonlight streaming into your room gives him what he was hoping to see. 

You have a certain habit that he uses to his advantage when you fight with him. You gnaw at your bottom lip when you’re trying to keep certain insults in. Sometimes, it’s so harsh of a bite that you cut the skin. Make yourself bleed. 

Give him an opening to change your mind. 

“Goodness, honey. You gotta stop doing this,” he sweetly coos. Runs his thumb over your bottom lip to make it seem like he’s only concerned about the cut. To be fair, he is concerned about how it’s probably hurting you—but that’s not taking precedence right now. 

“Gonna hurt yourself. I know this doesn’t feel good.”

He pushes out a sigh through his nose. He has to look frustrated and sympathetic if he wants to act like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

“You gonna let me clean you up?”  

You whine and lean into his touch; a confirmation without the words to accompany it. He knows you can’t resist him. He puts on his sweetest smile and mumbles, “Good. Gotta take care of my girl,” while he gives you a soft squeeze.

Getting you this close is just step one. 

Step two, though, is where the last remaining dregs of his own guilt start to creep in. He hesitates for a moment when he pulls his thumb off of your lip and brings it up to his own mouth. He could pull away from you and get a wet rag to clean it instead. He could be the good man Ma raised him to be. 

Then you lean into him a little more. Get so close to him that he can smell the shampoo in your hair, the perfume on your skin, the adrenaline pumping through your blood. Your bottom lip is still subtly trembling. A shockwave from your crying that just refuses to leave you, much like how you can’t leave his arms right now.

How could you blame him for what he’s about to do? Your body is begging him to do it. Begging him for some release from this pain. Craving relief that only he can provide you.

Isn’t the whole point of his being here on Earth protecting and caring for its inhabitants, anyway?

So he ditches the guilt. Swallows it down and acts like he’s just trying to clean you up when he licks his thumb to wet it and swipes it over the gently oozing blood on your lip. Drags it back and forth over the still-open cut once, twice, three times. Soft and sweet, like Ma would do when he had a stain on his cheek from playing outside when he was a kid. As though there’s no ulterior motive here. 

And to you, there probably isn’t. To you, he probably seems like he’s just caring for you. Trying to make you feel better. 

Clark knows that’s not the case. 

He keeps his thumb pressed against your lip. Keeps it over that cut. Keeps pressing his saliva into the little wound. Rubbing it back and forth. Licking his thumb again. Repeating the whole process when some more blood wells from your self-inflicted bite. Feeding more and more of himself to you. 

Part of him wishes Kara never told him about this little trick.

“All I know is that it’s like…a fuckin’ love potion, or something. If you kiss a human, they’ll go crazy for you. I think it’s in our spit. I know it sounds crazy, Kal, but trust me. That shit works.” 

He thought she was lying. Didn’t believe her at first, because how outrageous would that be? Sure, his parents wanted him to repopulate Earth, but isn’t aphrodisiac-laced spit a little far fetched? 

Two years later, he knows she wasn’t lying. Especially right now, as he’s watching you fall into the effects of it. He’s watching your pupils dilate with every gentle brush of his thumb over your lip, watching your breathing quicken in your still-heaving chest. 

This trick’s worked on you every time. And every time he does it, he feels bad about it, but he’s sure not stopping any time soon. Not when he gets to see you like this. 

Your eyes keep locking onto his mouth. You keep squirming in his grasp, body warm, skin dampening, and much more pliable than you were only a few seconds earlier. When your fingers dig into his shirt, he finds that they’re trembling. Whether it’s from the rage of your fight or the lack of his attention toward the mess you’re already making between your thighs, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both. 

“Clark,” you whine. Pitchy, breathy, irresistible. He ticks his jaw, annoyed with himself for being so turned on by this. By being able to control you this easily. He’s supposed to be a good man. He’s not supposed to get hard when you’re upset with him. 

“I’m here. I’ve got you, baby.” 

Your lidded eyes trace every single word that leaves his mouth. You moan at the pet name. His fingers, still curled around your jaw while his others grasp at your waist, pick up on the heat radiating from you. 

“Don’t like it when we fight.”

“I don’t like it either, honey.” 

Your knees buckle at the saccharine nickname he knows is your favorite—a slight jolt that makes him tighten his hold on you—and you start panting, start gripping him a little harder. 

Are your hips rolling against his? He pays no mind to it. Forces himself to take his thumb away from your lip, because you’re good and moldable for him already. Three rounds of feeding himself to you through an open wound’ll do it. He doesn’t need to take this any further.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to, though. 

“I love you,” you whisper to him. The inky blackness of your pupils eats up your irises. You’re soaking through your panties, making such a big mess that he can smell it. He should be excited—and part of him is—but his heart aches instead. When was the last time he had you this wet, this compliant, this soft and needy for him, without using his saliva to get you there? Must have been before everything started going downhill a few months ago. 

Oh well. At least you’re there now, right?

So he smiles at you. Sweet and crooked, the smile you’ve told him you love a thousand times before. Makes you whimper and has you bucking your hips up against his. You’re so hot that your skin is burning. Warm to the touch and a little bit damp. Just how he likes you. His trick worked like a charm.

“There’s my sweet girl. Was starting to think I’d never see you again, baby. I love you so much.” 

When his lower-octave purr hits your ears, you almost collapse. He felt it all. The way your knees gave out, the way you grabbed onto him a little harder, the way your heart started slamming so roughly behind your ribcage that it almost burst out of your chest. 

“Can I have a kiss?” you mercilessly, pathetically beg. Voice so soft and needy and whiney that he couldn’t possibly dream of resisting you. “I know—I know you don’t like to do it, but…I need one. Please?”

“Is a kiss gonna make you feel better?”

You hum and nod so hard that your head looks like it’s about to fall off. He finds himself laughing. Not mean, not teasing, just…laughing. Because he’s in awe. How has this trick worked for this long? How haven’t you built up an immunity by now?

Thank God you haven’t built up an immunity by now. 

“My needy girl always gets what she wants.” 

He licks his lips—getting them wet so he can keep you pliant—and leans down to press them against yours. His tongue gently glides against your bottom lip, making sure to take a little extra time on that cut there and causing you to suck in a brief wince. He pushes his way into your mouth without even a hint of resistance from you. Does its work. Keeps you easy. 

20 minutes ago, you’d have had his head on a pike if he kissed you when you were that mad. If he had so much as suggested a kiss 20 minutes ago, you would have walked out of that door and never came back. 

You break away not even 10 seconds later. Clearly woozy from the kiss, like he knew you’d be. Everything is so heightened for you that he’s surprised you even lasted that long. You press your forehead against his jaw. 

“Better?” Clark asks. Your answer is some sort of jumbled little confirmation. 

Your sticky, warm skin clings to his when you catch your breath, pull back, and try to reconnect the kiss. He lets you. You’re the one parting his lips to press your tongue against his, you’re the one licking into his mouth so you can get as close to him as possible, you’re the one tangling your hands in his hair and yanking on it so you can part for air after a pathetic 10 more seconds. And yet, after you gulp in a few deep breaths, you kiss him again. Surprise engulfs him when, this time, you suck on his tongue. 

Couldn’t hold the moan that burst from his chest back if he tried. 

It’s the first time in a couple weeks that you’ve paid any sort of positive attention to him at all, and he loves it. He loves you. If his girl wants a kiss—or two, or three—she’ll get one. Matter of fact, he’d let you do anything if it meant he got to keep you forever. He just might be able to do that if you keep sticking your tongue down his throat and sucking on his like you just did. 

He pulls away when he senses that you’re losing yourself in him. That realization comes through your landing a particularly rough bite on his bottom lip before you start kissing his chin, his jaw, and his neck, leaving a trail of tiny wet patches in your wake. 

Clark cradles your face in his hands to stop you from diving in for another kiss. Gives you a chance to breathe and gives him a moment to drink you in when you’re not mad at him. Your precious, soft, absolutely lovedrunk face. His poor baby. So far gone—eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen and glistening from your messy litany of kisses, skin hot to the touch and chest heaving as you claw at his shirt and stumble over your own two feet while you drag him backwards toward your bed. 

You’re more than pliable enough, now. 

Clark swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, thumb dampening from the filthy kisses you’ve shared with him, a mix of your saliva and his. You chase after the contact and tilt your head into his palm when he slips his thumb down toward your jaw. 

He puts on his best soft, deep voice and asks, “Gonna let me take care of you, now, baby? Let me apologize?” before you can yank him down onto your bed.

He gets a soft hum from you. A nod. Of course he does. You’d never say no to him when you’ve got this much of his “love potion”—as Kara would call it— coursing its way through your veins. So he takes your confirmation that he knew he’d get, lifts you up, and lets you indulge in your forced desires.  

Clark’s form of an apology isn’t an actual apology. He doesn’t say sorry to you anymore. When has it ever soothed your anger, anyway? 

Instead, he apologizes by burying his face between your legs. He never has to give you much after you’ve kissed. A gentle circling of his tongue around your clit for a handful of seconds is enough to get you to come undone for the first time. The next is a little harder to work for, but if being between your legs and humping the mattress to get his own relief could be a full time job, he’d apply for it immediately. 

“Clark!” you groan while arching off the bed. While you’re being thrown off the proverbial cliff, falling into your third climax in an obscenely short time frame.  

Your body is a gorgeous symphony to him when you’re like this. Everything you do is music to his ears when you’re in this bed. The roughness of your breathing, the sheets rubbing against your heated, sticky skin, the lewd squelch of your wetness as he drives two fingers in and out of you, the moans you sing out when he curls those fingers up to hit the soft, spongy spot that he loves to abuse until you’re boneless beneath him. 

“Coming! Fuck, I’m coming! Don’t—ah! Don’t stop!” you babble. There’s a string of curse words attached to the end of that jumbled declaration. Clark just hums and continues eating. Slips his fingers out of you to replace them with his tongue. The rough push of his nose against your clit forces a full-body jolt out of you. 

You keep screaming for him to continue, to go deeper, to not stop, and he gives it all to you until you’re falling apart. It’s not like it was his intention to stop. Wouldn’t dream of stopping now. Wouldn’t deprive himself of the pleasure of being glued to your pretty pussy like this. 

He’s not sure when he became so selfish. Maybe it was the first time he kissed you to manipulate you. Well, it’s not manipulation. Not if you were the one who asked for a kiss. That’s what he tells himself, at least. 

“Shit!” you hiss while you collapse back down on the bed with a heavy thump. Your body’s starting to give out. Mind’s been gone for a while, now; there’s no way you remember what that fight earlier was about. Perfect. Just where he wants you. Should be enough to buy him at least a couple days of peace. A couple days of not having to worry about you wanting to break up with him and him losing all his motivation to live. 

Clark smiles. Pulls back just enough to speak to you. When he pushes his thumbs against each of your folds and spreads you open, your whimpered response is telling him you’ve got tears in your eyes. You cant your hips up, bucking and squirming for him to give you more. 

How are you still begging for more when you’ve had so much already? Maybe he’s not the only selfish one here. 

“Look at the mess you made. Love it when she’s cryin’ for me like this, baby. Can’t believe I get to call this perfect little pussy all mine. How’d I get so lucky?” 

He pushes his filthy words into your thighs between kisses as though he’s praying to you. He is, in a way. Praying that you won’t leave him. Praying that he’ll get to keep you if he’s good enough at worshipping the altar of your body.

Those kisses slowly trail up your hips, your waist, your stomach. Each time he makes contact with you, he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Feels the way you shiver, the way you’re still weak for him even though he hasn’t kissed you in what feels like an eternity. 

He wants to kiss you. Wants to push you a little further. Wants you to go completely dumb so that you don’t have to think about how mad you are at him. So that, if he’s lucky, you’ll forget about everything altogether and just love him the way he loves you. Without hesitation. Without regret. 

For now, he refrains. Kisses up to your chest and sucks one peaked, sensitive nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other. A gentle back and forth swipe, one that he drew on your bottom lip just a little while earlier. 

He stops his kisses when he reaches your jaw. Tilts his head away from you when you try to kiss him. Nearly dies from the tiny, sad noise you push out when he doesn’t give you what you want. Clears his throat and gently spreads your legs with one knee. Somewhere along the way, he slipped his hand down to your overstimulated clit, and he earns a cute little moan from you when he starts tracing soft circles on it. 

“Gonna let me use her one more time, honey?”

“Last time,” you confirm while spreading your legs wider for him. You nod. “One last time.” 

Clark stills. Lifts his head so he can actually meet your eyes for the first time since this has all started. It’s a miracle that they’re still open. What’s not a miracle, though, is how your irises have started to return.

His blood chills. Threatens to freeze in his veins and render him useless. How long has it been since that aphrodisiac wore off? 

“Last time? You don’t mean that,” he mutters. The way his voice went up an octave is embarrassing. How could five words make him panic so quickly? 

“I told you I wanted to take a break,” you counter. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck. Clark’s face starts to burn. Whether it’s from embarrassment, panic, or anger, he doesn’t exactly know. 

“You didn’t mean it when you said that, either.” 

He sighs. He knows what he has to do. He didn’t think it’d ever get this far, but if it means keeping you, it’s getting done. 

He steels himself and sends you a fake smile. You probably clocked it. He’s never been good at faking them with you. He brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and lowers his face towards yours. His voice is a whisper when he finds it again. 

“We’ll talk about it later.” 

You huff at him. Press your lips into a thin line but turn toward his palm when it slides down your cheek. Soon enough, his thumb is gliding over your lip again. He always seems to find it. This time, though, he’s got a reason. 

He swipes it back and forth. Gentle. Unassuming. Considers it a win when you tilt your chin up for him to continue the tiny, comforting movement. He regains some confidence in his voice now that he’s accepted his fate and knows what he has to do here. 

“Be a good girl and open up for me, baby,” he commands while he drags his thumb down your chin. For someone who wants a break so badly, you comply immediately. The smile he sends you is genuine, this time. 

“That’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.” 

As soon as you’ve got your mouth open, chin tilted up, he does it. He stares into your eyes as he lets a single, heavy dribble of his saliva fall onto your tongue. Just enough of it to bump up the concentration of the aphrodisiac without knocking you out completely. 

“Swallow,” he coos when he closes your mouth for you. Smiles when you do as he says without skipping a beat. 

“Atta girl.”

When he finally tears his focus away from your mouth to look at your entire face, he sees everything he wants:

Blown out pupils and utter devotion. 

taglist: @clarkscolumn @unificsation @luvekent @tooloudarts @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @neeeed-y @sparklingsin @anon-188 @avgdestitute @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

[cryptictongues]

I felt a lot of things reading this and I’m not proud but ultimately I should’ve known that this would unlock a can of worms in my brain. OP, your brain is unmatched.

[thceseus]

neighborly favors. ⨾ Clark Kent ¹⁸⁺

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.

wc: 3.4k words.

a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3

KENT masterlist | masterlist

You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.

Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.

It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.

You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.

Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.

And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.

“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.

“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.

So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.

You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”

He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”

Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.

You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.

Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.

Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.

“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.

“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”

You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”

His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”

You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.

The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.

His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.

“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”

He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.

Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.

You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).

Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.

Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.

You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.

“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.

“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”

“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.

You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”

“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”

Whatever, huh?

You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.

“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.

He smiled again before he continued with his day.

“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.

More happened.

You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.

“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.

Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?

“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.

“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.

“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”

He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.

You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.

Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.

Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.

The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.

Oh, both of you were falling deep.

The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.

It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.

At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.

You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.

So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.

Until one day.

You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.

It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.

He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.

You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.

The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.

Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.

And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.

His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.

Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.

Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”

He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.

Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–

Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.

He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.

His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.

You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”

He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”

You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.

You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.

Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.

His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.

He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.

Then– Click.

The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.

“You’re done?” you asked.

He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.

He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.

“It feels solid…” he murmured.

You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”

He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.

You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.

His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.

“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head profusely.

“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.

“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.

“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.

He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.

You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.

“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”

“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.

He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.

He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.

“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.

He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.

It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.

You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”

You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.

His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.

You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.

Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”

The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.

The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.

And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.

“Clark–”

“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”

He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.

You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.

“All ready?” he asked softly.

“Yeah…”

The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.

His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.

“More…” you moaned against his lips.

Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?

He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.

The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.

“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.

“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.

Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.

So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.

His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.

You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.

He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.

“Gonna come–!” you cried.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”

And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.

“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–

Craaack.

The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.

Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.

Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”

He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”

Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.

“Help me order another one?”

༘⋆ 🏷 clark’s : @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @theworstwolvie @anon-188

© thceseus, 2026 ༝ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank you for reading! ᢉ𐭩

[cryptictongues]

CLARK GIVE ME BACKSHOTS ON THIS BROKEN COUCH NEOOOOOOOW

[unificsation]

exposition, rising action, climax ✒

⋆.𐙚 ̊. an interrobang oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.

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

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

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

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

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

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

1

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

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

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

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

“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.

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

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

Someone clears their throat.

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

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

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

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

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

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

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re under his skin like an influence.

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

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

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

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

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

The latter part? He can only dream.

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

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

“I was being serious.”

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

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

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

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

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

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

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

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

A beat of silence. Then two.

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

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

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

Like right now.

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

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

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

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

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

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

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

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

He tries to make it sound casual.

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

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

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

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

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

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

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

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

The subject is dropped just like that.

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

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

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

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

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

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

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

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

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

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

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

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

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

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

He drifts off soon after.

2

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

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

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

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for the Advil.”

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

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

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

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

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

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

୨୧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something happened yesterday.”

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

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

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

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

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

“And so are you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

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

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

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

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

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

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

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

taglist: @ultimatewolverine @singulartoast @sparklingsin

[cryptictongues]

Genuinely could not believe the confidence and filth coming out of Clark’s mouth jfc.

Him reciting the lines and then predicting what she would right and he acts it out was CRAAAAZY

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Self shippers, this is your sign to get weirder. This is not optional. Now go.

[iguessweallcrazyithinktho]

Good morning

[house2ur]

i need david as ultraman so bad

[goatsghost]

pros and cons of writing fanfiction:

pro: personalized fic right there, exactly fit to your specific tastes and headcanons

con: you have to write it

[crucifem]

Sex Therapy

Summary: Clark and his girl have sex in "Prone-Bone" position and it results in some burried deep root emotions and bad experiences with sex in the past from reader to be brought to light as she experiences what is best described as...sex therapy.

Warnings: Sub!reader x Dom!Clark, Reader holds past sexual trauma/deep emotions in her hips which are triggered by sex position, heavy crying, angst if ya squint, hurt/comfort-ish, Clark is the sweetest softest man on earth, implication of past S/A towards reader, Reader grew up hypersexual and struggles to accept herself.

Notes: Hi. This is completely self indulgent to an experience i had with my fiancè the other night that really made me think of Clark :(.

It starts with the weight of him pressing you down, your cheek against the pillow, hips arched just enough for him to fit behind you. Clark’s hands are gentle, steady on your waist, but the moment he pushes in, you feel something unravel deep inside you. The stretch, the fullness—it’s more than physical. It scrapes against buried places in you, old memories your body has carried too long. Your breath shatters, a sob slipping free before you can choke it back.

“Hey,” Clark murmurs immediately, stilling, his chest warm against your back. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”

You nod, but it’s not neat or calm. Your shoulders shake, tears streaming hot into the sheets as you whisper, “Please, don’t stop. I need this. Just—please.”

And he understands. God, he always understands. His lips find the crown of your head, his voice steady even as you tremble beneath him. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” When he moves again, it’s slow, deliberate—his hips rocking into yours while his arms cage you close. The rhythm isn’t rough; it’s grounding, a steady thrum that lets the pain drain out with every sob you can’t hold back.

Your body breaks open around him, grief and pleasure spilling out tangled, and Clark holds it all. He doesn’t flinch when your cries turn raw. He whispers through them—“Good girl, let it out… you don’t have to hold it anymore… I’ve got you, always.” Every thrust works something loose in you, not just tension but grief, shame, fear. You sob through it, your whole body trembling, but Clark never wavers. His voice is a constant in your ear:

“You’re safe. You’re mine.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

“You’re so strong, sweetheart. So beautiful.”

The words wrap around you tighter than his arms, pulling you back every time your mind tries to spiral. You don’t feel used or broken—you feel seen, held through the storm. When your body finally breaks open around him, it’s raw, messy—your orgasm tangled in sobs and trembling release. Clark fucks you through it only long enough to ground you, then stills, staying inside you while wrapping both arms around your chest, pulling you flush to him.

After, he eases out of you with care, tugging the blanket up around your bare body before gathering you against his chest. He settles you in his lap, rocking gently as if you’re something fragile. You’re still crying softly, though it’s thinner now, quieter, and he presses kisses into your hair. “Talk to me,” he whispers, thumb brushing your wet cheek.

You shudder, hesitant, but the dam of silence is just as broken as the one in your hips. “Sometimes I feel like my body isn’t mine,” you admit, voice raw. “Like it remembers things I don’t want it to. Like it betrays me every time I try to be touched.” Clark’s eyes soften, but his arms only tighten. “Your body is yours,” he says firmly, conviction in every word. “No one can take that from you. Not anymore. And I’ll spend every day proving it to you, if that’s what you need.”

You sob again, but this time it’s not from pain. It’s release. Relief.

[cryptictongues]

Sometimes being self indulgent is incredibly healing. Thank you for sharing such a vulnerable fic!

[bonesofall]

lover, you should've come over | clark kent

cw. implied age gap, fem! body parts, apocalypse au, arguing, angst-smut, cunnilingus

synopsis. tired of feeling like dead weight for clark who's got enough to deal with on his own, you try to be a martyr and leave him in the middle of the night.

an. this is quite long. enjoy.

kinktober '25 masterlist | DC masterlist | masterlist | navigation

see the latest chapter of my clark kent series!

you thought your life was over the day a group of the infected surrounded you in what used to be a grocery store. you didn't think though, that the angel of death would be a tall, scruffy man with beefy muscle and a permanent scowl on his face.

he was not an angel, nothing of the sort. just clark. and got you safe without a scratch.

for some reason, you had a feeling he wasn't going to ask for something in return or try to raid your bag. you did not expect though, for him to offer for you to join him.

you’ve been with him for a good few months now. he’s shared your resources, saved your life time and time again, and does way too much for you. offers you most of his food even though a man his size and weight needs much more than you do. all of it is starting to eat at you.

you're walking ahead of him on the narrow trail, boots sinking into soft snow underneath you as trees close in overhead. you can hear clark behind you. his careful, steady footfalls, the low grunt he gives whenever he shifts his pack, the way he clears his throat as if he’s about to speak but then decides against it.

clark has been like this for a week now. hovering and watching you too closely. he lowers his voice around you and making every excuse in the world to touch your shoulder, adjust the strap on your bag, or walk beside you instead of ahead. you don’t let yourself think about why.

in fact, you shouldn't allow yourself to let your thoughts stray to him at all tonight. because its the night. the one you picked because your guilt had become too heavy to carry.

you can feel the elaborate letter you wrote - crumpled notebook paper folded up in your coat pocket, covered in smudged ink and crossed out words because you kept rewriting it and changing things. it took you a whole week to get it right.

you wanted to explain to him that he deserved someone stronger, someone who wouldn't take constantly from him without giving much in return. someone who wouldn't let him stand first watch every night and continue it through the night if they couldn't wake up for their turn. you were ashamed of yourself, but it's not your fault. letting him take care of you and make you his priority while he put his own safety at risk, on the other hand, was your fault.

he deserves someone who isn’t you.

you keep your steps even as he follows behind you. you know he's assumed this position so he can catch you if you fall backwards, saving you from rolling down the hill and breaking your neck.

“alright up there?” clark calls softly to not startle you.

“mhm,” you hum, hoping the guilt in your heart doesn’t show. “just tired.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, he thinks you can’t hear. “you say that every night.”

because every night you think about leaving him. and every night you lose your nerve.

but tonight... tonight is going to be different.

the two of you finally reach the small clearing he'd selected earlier off the map, the one with a few fallen logs and just enough open space to pitch the tent. you drop your beside a stump and kneel to start gather kindling that looks relatively dry.

clark sets his down beside yours and performs his routine of circling around you, making sure you're not injured, bitten, or sick, and then starts checking the perimeter for any fresh tracks or signs of danger. he's infuriatingly careful. methodical. protecting you before he even sets the tent up.

and it guts you.

when he returns, he comes and kneels beside you, handing a few pieces of dry bark he must've found. he's closer than he usually lets himself be when he's trying to keep emotional distance. his knee brushes yours, but he makes no effort to move it away.

“you didn’t eat enough today,” he says softly. he’s not accusing you. just expressing concern.

“i ate what i needed to, clark. don't worry.” you say.

he just nods. he doesn’t want to spook you. then he reaches for his matchbox, starts up the fire, and sits back on the log.

he rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck with a soft, pained grunt, and it makes you think about all the ways he’s hurt. all the ways he hides it so you won’t feel bad.

you can’t stay. it’ll break him eventually.

you busy yourself with your pack before he can see your eyes well up. you pull out your worn bedroll, your canteen, the things he gave you; because almost everything you own now came from him. clark's generosity is stamped into your life like fingerprints you can’t scrub off.

you’re leaving all of it behind.

“you’ve been acting different today,” he says suddenly.

your stomach twists uncomfortably. “what do you mean?”

clark exhales slowly.

“its just been hard to get a read on you.” he lowers his voice, head tilted towards you. he doesn’t lift his gaze off you for a second. clark doesn’t look away when he wants something. he stares, studies. he memorizes without knowing he’s doing it. tonight… he hasn’t stopped looking at you since you left the trail.

you gnaw on your lower lip. it’s taking a lot out of you to remain neutral so he doesn’t have more reason to suspect that you're bullshitting, but the amount of questions he throws at you is making it difficult.

“just tired, clark.” you repeat. “it's freezing outside and my body's using all my energy to keep me warm. i've been craving sleep all day.”

you can tell he doesn't buy it. but he doesn't push you any more.

you stand so you can get away from his eyes and the guilt clawing up your ribs. you go to hang the perimeter bells, hands shaky, breath short. and behind you… you hear clark move around restlessly. he wants to follow you, but is giving you space because that’s what you seem to want.

when you return, he’s on one knee, unpacking more food than usual. he sets aside the bigger portion - of course - for you. “clark,” you say, walking up to him quickly, hoping to stop him before he gives you more food than you want and starts digging in to his smaller portion. “you don't have to- i can portion my own meals.”

he shakes his head without looking up. “not up for debate, hon.”

“it should be- clark stop, i don't need that much, i ate a lot for breakfast today, i just want to lay down.”

he stops and stares at you, frowning the second you raise your voice ever so slightly. the pitiful look in his eyes is more than you can take, and you mumble something, and start setting up the tent.

“hey, hey...” he calls softly, “sweetheart, come on. talk to me for a second.”

you keep working, narrowly missing your finger as you hammer a nail into the frozen dirt. there’s a stretch of silence long enough to feel like punishment. you hear him swallow and let out this little sigh.

“alright,” he murmurs. “i'll help you get this up, then you can sleep.”

you don’t answer, but your eyes follow him as he moves across from you to pitch the rear end of the tent. he doesn’t say anything else.

the two of you make quick work of it because you're so focused. when he's sure it's sturdy, he opens the flap for you to get in. you kick off your boots and unfurl your bedroll, planning to fake sleep immediately to avoid conversation. you won't let guilt change your mind tonight. he's outside, putting away the food you didn't eat. you know he won't eat either. he tends to base his actions and decisions off you.

curling tighter into your blanket, you pretend to sleep, breathing slow and even.

eventually, you hear clark shift. the soft scrape of his boots coming off. the long, aching sigh as he lowers himself into his bedroll just to the side of yours. not too close tonight.

you stare at the tent ceiling while he settles. his breathing is slow but not steady. every few minutes you hear him inhale too sharply, like something’s sitting on his chest.

as the time passes and the forest goes still, clark's breathing finally deepens and evens out. its time. your heartbeat is loud enough you’re sure it’ll wake him. you hold still until it slows, then you move. swift and efficient, like how he taught you. you gather your pack, leaving almost everything he gave you behind, because it’s his. it should stay with him. you don’t deserve to carry pieces of him when you’re about to walk away.

you pause at the tent door, look back at his sleeping form. he's on his side, body angled towards your sleeping bag with one hand outstretched. you place the letter by his boots and let yourself look at him one last time.

and you walk.

.

you barely make five steps before you hear your name sharply, awake. clark is already on his feet inside the tent. he pushes his way out, struggling to shove his boots on. his curls are tousled from sleep and his cheeks are already singed red from the wind nipping at his skin.

“what’re you doing?” his voice is low but it trembles. “where are you going, sweetheart?”

your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

clark looks at the bag on your shoulder, the things missing. and back at the empty space where your bedroll was. then his eyes drop to the letter on the ground, and you watch slowly as realization covers his face.

“a.... letter?” he says, voice cracking on the word. “you were gonna leave me with nothing but a letter?”

You wince. “clark-”

“no.” he steps toward you, slow but shaky. “no. don’t...don’t you dare try and explain this with a little piece of paper.”

tears fill your eyes. “i wasn’t trying to hurt you-! you don't understand, clark! i was holding you back, i was-”

“so then what d’you call this?” his voice rises. “sneaking off in the middle of the night? seriously? slipping away like i’m some stranger who hasn't earned the truth out of you?” your eyes burn. you shake your head, but he barrels on, voice roughening.

“do you really think so little of me? did you think that i wouldn’t want to hear from your mouth why you're leaving me?”

“clark stop it! it’s not like that!”

“what is it like, then?!”

“you're doing too much for me, clark! i can't keep taking from you and holding you back! i'm a risk to your safety!” you swallow hard. “you have enough on your plate without me. i'm not going to let myself be the reason you get killed!”

clark stares. confusion, disbelief, anger... all tangled together.

“you give me the best of everything you get. you patch me up, give me your portions of food, you take care of me like your life depends on it, clark. and it shouldn’t, okay? for fuck's sake, it shouldn’t be like that.”

clark's jaw clenches, and he finds himself stepping closer to you, his chest rising and falling hard. he opens his mouth, but you don’t let him.

“i can’t watch you die because of me,” you say, wiping your tears quickly. “i won’t. i won’t do that.”

“stop,” he says sharply.

“clark-”

“i said stop.”

his hand finds your arm, firm but not painful, guiding you back until your spine meets the rough bark of a tree. he cages you in place, breath hitting your cheek fast and uneven.

“you think i’m doin’ all that ’cause you’re weak?” his voice is low and shaky. “you think that’s why?” he shakes his head, jaw clenched. heavy, hands settle on your shoulders. “i do it,” he says, each word trembling with the force of it, “because i’m falling in love with you.”

you feel your whole body freeze up as his words register. he steps closer, but you can't process that the distance between you is closing or that your plans to leave him are quickly leaving your memory.

“i've been trying not to. i bit my tongue for weeks, sweetheart, but you-” he swallows hard. “you trying to leave like this... i can’t... can’t take it. i can’t pretend anymore.” he stares at you desperately, waiting for you to say something, or run. he doesn't know what to expect.

your lips part, but the words won’t come out. not the right ones, at least. not the ones he wants, that you've been feeling too all this time. “that's not fair,” you choke, “you-” your breath stutters. “you can’t say something like that. you can’t just drop that on me.”

clark's jaw tightens. “i said it because it’s the truth. and it might've been my only chance to tell you 'cause you're trying to run out on me.”

“it's not that simple!” you cry out, struggling against his hold. the wind is biting and you want to start your journey down the hill before the climate becomes too harsh and it's impossible to see two feet in front of you. “you say all this as if you're so sure about it! i'm just supposed to take your word for it?”

you look away. “i don’t trust that you actually know what you’re feeling.”

clark goes so still that you might've thought for a second that he saw an infected stumbling behind you and was trying to avoid being detected. but he didn't. your words had shocked him into silence. he finally responds with an, “excuse me?” and his voice is barely audible.

“you’re confused, clark,” you say, pushing the words out because you’re terrified. “you’ve been alone for so long, and I’m the only person around. you feel responsible for me, and you think that means you-”

“don’t,” he warns, voice low and vibrating.

“you think that means you love me, but-”

“stop it.” he steps forward, breath ragged. “don’t say that to me.” it's a warning, but by now, you're spiraling. everything comes out too fast.

“you don’t actually want me, clark. you want purpose. someone to keep alive so you can feed your savior complex!”

“that’s enough.” his voice is full of anger now, a tone you haven't heard before from him. his voice is always soft and patient with you. you've cracked past that layer with him now. he's full of emotion he’s trying and failing to control.

you push past him anyway, chest heaving. “i can’t stay here and pretend you’re not just projecting.”

that's when clark snaps. he grabs your wrist firm enough to stop you, to make you face him. when you keep trying to pull away, he follows, steps into your space, crowds you back until your spine hits the tree again.

your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“look at me,” he says.

you don’t. it's too hard to, right now. that's because the deep blue of his eyes boring into yours makes you feel pinned and vulnerable. you can't lie in his face when he looks at you so intensely. clark catches your jaw gently but firmly between his fingers, tilts your face up, makes you see him. “you don’t ever, ever, undermine my feelings again,” he says, voice gravel combining with vulnerability. “you hear me?”

clark grabs your hand and drags it to his sternum, pressing your palm flat against the spot above his heart. “feel that?” he says, “that’s what you do to me.”

it’s pounding. nothing about his current behavior is like the clark you know. he's not calm or collected.

you try to pull your hand back, overwhelmed, but he pushes it firmer against him, pressing your fingertips into his chest. “do you really think i'd get like this for anyone?” he demands. “you think i let people get to me like this? i don't lose sleep over someone just because they're with me all the time.”

you shake your head, but he keeps going. he says your name, pressing his body closer to yours.

“no one’s ever had this effect on me, or got me worked up like this.”

“clark—”

“and you...” his voice breaks off as his face twists into a look of disappointment and hurt as he remembers your words. “you stand there, telling me i'm confused? that i’m making it up because i’m lonely?”

his face is so close now you can feel the heat radiating off his flushed cheeks. his nose grazes yours. you feel his hands slide down to your waist, fingers squeezing to keep you with him. he's terrified you'll abandon him. “you scare the hell out of me,” he says, voice barely a breath. “but i care about you so much it-”

your lips meet yours as you cut him off midsentence. your body moves before your brain could catch up, like you'd been holding back your thoughts and feelings the whole time he was speaking but finally gave in.

you wanted to tell him the whole reason you felt you had to leave him was because you cared about him too much to watch him constantly jeopardize himself to keep you safe and well, that you've been falling in love too, but your body moved before you did.

the sound clark makes when you kiss him is wrecked. a soft, desperate moan coming straight from his gut. his hands fly to your waist, back, hair... he doesn't know where to hold first, he wants everything at once. clark's mouth moves against yours as if he's starving, lips molded perfectly against yours while he tilts his head to get a better angle.

it’s messy. breathless, months of tension and weeks of him trying not to touch you all detonating at once. you gasp into his mouth and he chases more, lips parting yours, while his tongue slips against sliding yours with a need that borders on frantic. he cups the back of your head, to move you where he wants you, his other hand gripping your hip tight.

he pants your name again against your lips. you pull him back in, and he groans loudly, hips pushing forward before he can stop himself. he's unmistakably hard. you moan into each other's mouths, and clark shudders. “been wanting you,” he mutters, voice shaking. “for so long-”

it's the last thing he says before he can't take anymore, lifting you by locking his hands under your thighs and dragging you up against him. he’s terrified you’ll slip out of his arms if he loosens his grip even a little. clark stumbles with you toward the tent with his mouth glued to yours. he can’t decide whether to lay you down somewhere soft or keep you pinned against his body when he finally takes you.

he chooses both.

clark carries you inside the tent without letting you go. his hands curl behind you to tug off your backpack without breaking the kiss, tossing it aside with a carelessness he never uses with anything else. you're pushed back against his bedroll right after, and clark clambers on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips.

“easy, sweetheart… s’okay… you’re alright,” he whispers in that low rasp that curls right into your chest. his hands return to your body, smoothing up your arms, tugging your jacket open even while he’s panting against your mouth.

impatience builds in you, your hips lifting when his fingers catch on your hem. still, he takes his time, pulling your shirt up slowly and carefully. he's waited too long for you to rush this.

clark kisses you the whole time he’s dragging the fabric over your ribs. you can hear him getting worked up as he does, the way his breathing has turned to heavy panting, the quiet grunts he swallows when your hands grab at his shoulders.

“you’re being so good f'me, sweetheart. little more now...” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth as he eases you out of another layer. “been waiting too… been wanting this so bad…”

your legs spread to make more space for him in between, and his hand slides behind your back, lifting you just enough to pull the last of your shirt off in one clean motion, and he lays you back down just as gently as he picked you up. then his kisses move lower, and lower, and lower.

clark stops right below your navel, kissing your womb while looking into your eyes. his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants and panties together, easing them down your hips inch by inch, kissing every bit of skin he reveals. your thighs, your stomach, that sensitive spot right above your pelvis, he kisses all of it.

“lift for me, sweetheart… that’s it…” and you do, and he takes your pants completely off, setting them carefully aside. his hands slide up the insides of your thighs and he spreads you slowly, gently. thumbs stroke the soft skin there, and his head dips, lips brushing the top of your knee before traveling inward, to where you're leaking for him.

his breath leaves him in a long, shaky rush. clark lowers himself, mouth brushing your clit first to make you shiver. then he sticks out his tongue and licks a broad stripe up your cunt. the quiet, helpless whine that escapes you makes him groan against your hole.

and then he starts kissing you there the way he kissed your mouth, worshipful. he sucks at your folds greedily, slurping them into his mouth and mixing your juices with his saliva.

his tongue draws one long, warm stroke firmly, lapping at you from top to bottom so fully that your back arches off the bedroll and pitched moans leave you.

clark responds with sounds of his own. your pleasure elicits involuntary, visceral reactions in his body, and your noises go straight to his cock. he attempts to relieve the throbbing by rutting his hips languidly against the soft fabric under him.

laving his tongue up and down your pussy, he's sure to get everywhere from your opening to your clit, but not giving you the speed you’re begging for in your head. his mouth is soft but his tongue is steady, patient, devoted. your hand fists in his hair, and he groans again, deeper.

“that’s it… go rough if you want, baby.” he breathes, closinf his mouth around your clit, enough for you to feel the warm pull of him sucking you in, tongue pushing gently under the hood before circling slow. “you’re so soft here. could... mmh. do this forever.”

clark flattens his tongue again and drags it upward in a slow, heavy stripe that makes your eyes roll back. “easy, baby… s’okay,” he murmurs, kissing you again slow and open-mouthed, letting his tongue slip into you in deep, lazy strokes. “let me take care of you.”

every slow, deliberate movement of his tongue sends another wave rolling up your spine. “c-clark- 's too... oh my gosh- m-more please-!” your thighs clamp around his head on instinct. he obliges, sucking languidly at your folds while thrusting his tongue in and out of you slow and sloppy. as you cry out with delight, he returns to teasing you, doing slow circles with the tip of his tongue.

“look at you,” he murmurs, moving his hand between your legs to tap lightly at your clit, before spitting on your hole and slapping your pussy lightly with the length of his fingers to mix it in with your arousal. “want more? you can barely handle this.”

his mouth drops back onto you before you can answer, tongue flattening again, sliding up in slow strokes. every movement of his mouth is slow enough to keep you right on the edge of falling apart too soon.

your hand flies up to cover your mouth when you moan too loud, toes curling in your socks “o-oh, fuck, right there! feels s'good clark, i'm c-close...” his big hands anchor you in place when you squirm too hard, and his tongue pushes in and out of you to coax more sounds from you.

his tongue keeps dipping deep between your folds, sliding inside you just enough to curl and press. hiw hands clutch your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you as his mouth works over you. you're trembling against him, and he responds to every little moan, arch of your hips, with his tongue and the subtle movement of his hips as his cock, now swollen and leaking, rubs against the bedroll through his pants.

“clark, i'm close!” you cry out, gripping his hair as tightly as you can. your legs shake and your stomach tightens, but he doesn’t let up for a second - slow, greedy flicks of his tongue dragging and curling in even when you're too sensitive for any more. when he groans into your pussy, fucking himself on the ground even as pre leaks steadily from his tip, the vibrations sent through you nearly undoes you completely. but you lose it when he spreads your legs as wide as they'll go, and laps and sucks at all of your pussy at once, pushing a finger into you while you're already overstimulated.

your orgasm hits you hard, wetness exploding from your center straight into his mouth. clark doesn’t pull back. he holds you there, sucks and laps. your thighs shake around his head as you come undone, but he doesn’t stop or give you a single second to recover.

finally, after what feels like hours pressed into seconds, he lifts his mouth just enough to inhale your scent, your cunt and his mouth connected by a sloppy string of spit. he croons at your fucked out expression and presses a kiss hard against your clit, making you twitch and moan.

you think maybe this is it. maybe he’s satisfied. but then he shifts, sitting up and then leaning down to meet your mouth with his. this time you can taste yourself on him. warm, sweet, sticky, and the way his lips press to yours, dragging it into the kiss, makes your stomach knot again. it makes the front of his pants more noticeably damp.

he drags your hand there, letting the heat from his clothed cock sear straight into your hand. then he leans to whisper huskily in your ear as your hand strokes his hard length. “ah, right there, sweet girl. rub me right there.... ngh- want this off me? hm?”

[cryptictongues]

SOMETHING ABOUT SURVIVAL MODE CLARK HAS ME AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!%%%####+]*{*{*{

[firingstars]

anatomy study

clark kent (2025) x female reader

summary: you’ve known clark kent your entire life. you know him better than you know yourself, if you’re being honest. and you are way too comfortable with him.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, unprotected sex, handjob(?) idk you’ll see, fingering, oral, praise, clark talks you through it, cum.. eating..?, finger licking/in mouth, cute n soft, BIG DICK!clark, size kink/difference, dacryphilia undertones, aftercare, clark gets exposed to a breeding kink, porn with little bit of plot), fluff, shy (at first) and soft!clark, teasing mainly from reader to annoy clark, lowk secondhand embarrassment, reader finally in her last year of university after taking a long fucking time to decide on what she wanted to do with her life, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), no use of y/n, NOT proofread // wc: 7k

yari yaps: i’m supposed to be writing my bwatober fic. but NOOOOO mr. kent has me in a chokehold and im a useless writer that can’t focus on deadlines (bwatober will be posted soon i promise i js cant work on it when this was on my mind) // divider credits

“So, I've been wondering— and you don’t have to answer— but is your dick different from humans?” 

You say the words without even looking up from your textbook and notebook. A pen continues to twirl between your fingers as you absentmindedly fidget. The choking noise that fills the air concerns you for half a second, forcing you to look over your shoulder and at the man who was quietly going through his articles on his laptop before you rudely interrupted him.

“You haven’t talked in hours,” he mutters, referring to how you crashed his apartment just to study. He removes his glasses off of his face– frames that he doesn’t even need to wear– to drag a hand down his face like it would wipe away the absurdity of your question. “And this is what you say?”

“My anatomy class finally moved on to sex,” you say, as if that was supposed to explain anything. 

“… Right.” Clark looks exhausted. He probably wishes he never opened his front door to you, but here you were. Well, even if he didn’t, you could always use the spare key that he gave you ages ago. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

You roll your eyes at his sass, “C’mon. You know why I'm asking this.”

Of course he does. You were the first person to know of his abilities— right after his Ma and Pa. You'd been there to watch him soar into the sky for the first time, finally unafraid. You watched him discover ice breath, and remembered how distraught he was as he looked at you. 

Clark sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically with the breath. “My… reproductive organs are similar, from what I can tell.”

“From what you can tell,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t exactly grow up with Kryptonian anatomy lessons,” he shoots back immediately. “I haven’t seen a spliced Kryptonian in a museum— a body donated for science and research.”

You pause, then shrug slightly. “I guess.”

He huffs. Actually huffs, like he’s throwing a mini tantrum over your lack of thought to your question. Despite it, he still settles back onto the couch. His muscles no longer feel locked in place, he can breathe normally—

“So you don’t have an alien dick?” 

“Sweet lord— what are you going on about?” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes. You ignore it in favor of expanding your knowledge on his biology. 

“You know,” you say, waving a hand in the air, “Some of the rifts— there’s documents on the corpses that come through. talking about how some male presenting aliens have both uterus and testicles, like they can impregnate and be pregnant, too—“

“I don’t have a womb,” he says, followed by your name falling from his lips in exasperation. 

“But are you sure?” 

“You know those released documents also included strong evidence that those aliens also had a menstrual cycle,” he quickly says. Clark moves his laptop off of his thighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s one second away from burying his face into his hands. “I haven’t— I think I would know if I was bleeding from my pen… from my thing.”

Clark's ears are red. Bright red. He can’t even hide it. 

Suddenly, your questions are no longer out of simple curiosity. Now, you want to poke the bear. Except the bear is too sweet and kind to tell you to knock it off, to get out of his apartment, and to leave him the hell alone.

“Your thing?” you tease, a smile spreading across your face. “Your cock, Clark.”

“Do you have to be so vulgar?”

“It’s basic anatomy.” You cross your arms over your chest. “One that you claim to have.”

“I don’t—!” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly stressed. You can’t help but giggle at the sight. “I don’t claim to have regular anatomy, whatever that means.”

“So you admit that your body is biologically built differently.”

“I mean, yes, but not like that!” 

“Like what?” 

“Please,” he groans, nearly desperate now. 

“Ooh, begging,” you say as your grin spreads even wider. “Are you trying to keep Kryptonian biology a secret?”

It doesn’t take much for him to break. You knew that. Always have, and always will. Clark was scarily easy to bait. 

“My dick is normal!” he finally shouts, face still flushed. You swear he’s sweating, too. 

“But how do you know that?” you ask. You’re not even trying to hide the lilt in your voice. “You compare lengths in the locker room in school?”

“Oh my— stop. please.”

“So guys don't do that? That’s just a myth said online?” 

“You’re not totally off,” he quickly says, only to pause a moment later. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

You pout at him, giving him your best pleading eyes you could muster. For someone made of steel and ice, this man melted at the sight of you. He always did. 

A deep sigh escapes his chest as he leans back into the couch. “My college ex said my… penis… was above average. I haven't seen other men’s… things, but i’m assuming since she didn’t have an issue with it then it has to be normal.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Do you not watch porn?”

Your name falls from his lips in utter shock, matching the look on face. “You do?”

“You don’t?” 

Clark stares at you, as if he’d been slapped with a bucket of freezing water. You can only stare back, waiting for his response. 

“… No,” he finally mutters. 

“Huh,” you say, taking in the sight of him. Even seated, he’s large. If you stood in front of him right now, you’d barely be taller than him. “Well, it makes sense that you’d be above average. with your height and all. Do you think that is also Kryptonian?”

“I don't know.” Clark shrugs, and it seems like the embarrassment of the topic is slowly melting off of him. “Probably?”

You hum, contemplative. “So, your dick doesn’t have ridges on it? Like spiky nubs along the shaft? Do you think your sperm count is higher than the average human male? Must be stronger, too. I wonder if a normal human woman would be able to carry your children to term without complications.”

A frown takes over his face at your rapid fire questions and commentary. Though he doesn’t look as bothered as he was earlier. It's as if he’s really thinking about it this time. 

“I would really hope that whoever carries my children won’t have any complications, but that’s another thing that I wouldn't know until the time came.” Clark's pointer finger taps thoughtfully on his knee as he continues to think, “All of your questions have to do with research that hasn’t been conducted on me.”

“You didn’t answer my question about the appearance of your cock, Clark.”

This time, a pretty red takes over his face. “Why are you so intrigued?” 

“Just answer, or I'm gonna demand you to just show me so I can find out,” you groan. 

“If I do show you, would you stop asking?” 

It’s your turn to freeze in place, blinking at him. He's still the shade of a tomato, but he’s not cringing at his words. If anything, he seems determined. like this would really shut you up. 

“Take your pants off then,” you dare. 

Clark, ever so obedient and kind, moves. his hands reach for the button of his jeans, so certain and sure. 

Suddenly, you realize how close the two of you really are. 

You grew up together with neighboring farms in Smallville. The two of you used to sleep in the same bed as children when your parents dropped you off at Kent's for a sleepover. 

As a child, the two of you used to change right in front of each other. Even as a budding teenager, you didn’t feel the need to hide away from him, though he was always a respectful kid and began to turn his head away on his own. 

Clark went off to college first to pursue journalism. It didn't stop your contact with each other, even when he went off to Metropolis first. You simply told him you’d follow him soon. And you did. 

You had your own place in the city, no longer dorming as it was your last year in university. Still, you spent more time in Clark's apartment than on your own. You had a key to his place, welcoming yourself and making yourself at home even when he was at work on the Daily Planet— especially when he was at work as superman. 

You’d fussed over wounds you knew would heal at the sight of first light, and he would let you take care of him. Clark knew it calmed you down. 

Clark always let you do what you wanted, and would always do as you asked. 

And now, he was unzipping his pants. 

“Wait,” you say quickly, as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his briefs. “Are you okay with this?”

Clark's eyebrows pull together, eyes flickering up to you. “You’re the one who asked, and now you’re the one backing out?”

“I just… I don't want to make you uncomfortable if you don’t actually wanna…” you murmur slowly. 

“It’s you.” His words are said like it’s normal— like being you was a good enough reason to do anything. In this case— take his pants off. “I don't mind.”

You swallow, a weird rush of sentimental feelings going through you. Then, you nod, steeling yourself. “Show me your weird alien cock.”

“It's not weird,” he grumbles, “You’re lucky I love you.” A moment later, he’s lifting his hips off the couch slightly as he pushes both underwear and pants down his thighs. 

Your jaw drops, and you suddenly can’t breathe. 

The sight before you— he was right. His cock isn’t weird. If anything, it’s the prettiest dick you’d ever seen. 

Maybe it was the mix of him being carefully groomed as well and the fact the man before you was already pretty everywhere else, but you don’t think you’d ever seen a dick as nice as his. 

Clark's soft, but he’s still big. His skin is smooth, resting against his pelvis, dormant and asleep. You wondered if he was a grower— if he got bigger than the estimated seven inches you were staring at. 

Even his balls were fucking nice to look at. The seam of it— oh my God. You were going insane. 

“So?” he questions, breaking the silence and your thoughts. He sounds nervous, “What’s the verdict?”

You lick your lips, taking a deep breath. “You're actually really beautiful, Clark."

He stares at you, and you’re certain it was the last thing he expected you to say. So, you clear your throat. 

“I mean,” you start, “I've seen a good amount of cock. Yours is, by far, the best.”

Clark blinks at you, still digesting your words. “… Thanks. I guess.”

“Is it as soft as it looks?” you ask, finally getting a grasp of yourself again. “It looks soft. Like— your skin.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at himself. Then, he reaches. 

You lied. You don’t have a grasp of yourself. Your sanity is gone, thrown out the window at the sight you were witnessing. 

Clark, sitting there on the couch, pants pulled down, with his hand wrapped around his cock. He's still flaccid, but he’s running his hand along his dick, trying to get the best answer for your question. 

“Just feels like… the rest of me,” he murmurs, frowning as he concentrates. “Nothing really different. You wanna feel?”

You’re a dead woman. 

You brought up this topic. At first, it was genuine curiosity. Upon seeing his reactions, you moved onto some lighthearted teasing. It wasn’t supposed to progress to whatever was happening now. In the back of your mind, you’re wondering if he’s doing all of this now just to mess with you like you did with him. 

The curious look on his face tells you he’s not even thinking about it. 

You should tell him it’s a bad idea. That there’s boundaries in friendships, and even though you’re so comfortable with him, maybe there’s things you shouldn’t be doing.

But your feet are moving, and you’re standing in front of him within a few steps. 

“You sure?” you ask, hoping your voice comes out steady. 

Clark releases himself, then nods. 

You’re leaning forward before you have the chance to allow more rational thoughts to invade your mind. It’s as if your hand wasn’t connected to the rest of your brain, moving before you could even stop yourself– and holy shit your hand is small compared to him. He's warm to the touch, skin smoother than you originally thought. 

His cock jumps in your hand, and Clark flinches. The gravity of the situation just dawned upon him, and blood was rushing throughout him, coloring his cheeks and hardening his dick. 

“Wait,” he whispers, breath catching in his throat. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I'm not meaning to—“

“You really are pretty, Clark,” you cut him off, a little mesmerized. 

You can feel his eyes on your face, but you’re not looking back at him. You still can’t tear your eyes off the annoyingly pretty sight of his cock. Then again, you should’ve expected it. The rest of him was just as gorgeous.

There's a vein popping on the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing against your palm. His skin is still smooth despite losing the soft feel of it. And you were shocked— he was a grower. Both length and girth filled out with the rush of blood, and your mind wandered. 

His ex was fucking wrong. This man wasn’t above average. He was far from it— this was off the scale. He was Godly. 

“I don’t think you’d be able to fit.”

The words slipped out of your mouth softly, mainly spoken to yourself more than him. 

Clark's breath hitches. “What are you…”

“Just, theoretically, if we had sex, I don't think you’d fit in with me. You'd probably rip me apart— my hand barely can hold all of you when you’re soft, let alone hard. I don't know if it would even feel good to have you inside of me.”

“Oh my… You really can’t be saying these kinds of things while you’re still holding me,” he groans, head dropping back against the cushions as he shut his eyes. 

“I’m not wrong,” you argue. “Logistically speaking, there’s no way this would feel pleasurable for me– you’d tear me in half before I even get to cum.”

He lifts his head, and you look up at him. He's still flushed, but now he looks offended. “If we had sex, I wouldn't just stick it in you. I know it’s bigger than average so I'd make sure you’re prepared first. I'd need to fit at least three fingers in you— comfortably— before either of us could imagine me inside you. Besides that, who says I wouldn’t make you cum at least twice before I even want my dick in you?”

You can’t help the warmth you feel in your nether regions— like a sudden zap that went between your legs to make you feel weak at the knees. 

Clark notices. He always does.

He swallows, visibly nervous as a whisper comes from his lips. “Did I make it weird?” 

You’re surprised you can even suck in a breath. You shouldn’t be able to breathe. Your autonomic nervous system should be failing, but here you are. 

“Only weird if you think it’s weird, Kent,” you murmur. 

“You smell different.”

Fuck him, and fuck those super senses of his. You should’ve known better— he could easily spot every single twitch in your body, the change of scent as pheromones exit your body, and the feel of the light tremble of your hand against him. 

But despite all of that, a smile comes to your lips.

“Now you’re making it weird,” you tease. 

A devastating grin spreads Clark Kent's face. “My apologies. Thought we passed weird when you didn’t take your hand off me,” he hums. 

“You want me to?” 

The smile falters, and his eyes meet yours. He's reading you. Your face. reactions. Anything he can use to figure out what’s going through your head. You're doing the exact same thing to him. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“No. Want you closer, actually.” 

You don’t fight him when his hands reach for you, landing on your hips. You don’t fight him as he guides you towards him, your knees resting naturally on either side of his thighs. 

You’ve released him now, but only in favor of your hands sliding up his chest before finding home on the broad expanse of his shoulders. He's looking up at you, blue eyes swimming with an emotion you see every day— love.

Only now you’re realizing that the simple love you!’s that you’ve been throwing at him meant something else entirely for him. 

“There you are,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing circles into your hipbones. “You only notice me when my dick is out and between us?”

“Thought you didn’t like that word,” you say, a little breathless. 

Clark smiles a bit wider, eyes sparkling. “I don’t mind it every once in a while.”

A laugh falls from your lips as you stare down at him, taking in every ounce of affection he was oozing out at you. You want to say something to acknowledge his feelings, but not yet. Not when you’re currently hovering over him, his cock still out and slowly, but surely getting more firm as the seconds pass. 

“You gonna show me how you’ll fit?” is what you say instead. 

You’re in his bedroom within a blink of your eyes— comfortably beneath him as he hovers over you. 

“Sorry. ‘m a little excited,” Clark confesses, breathless as if moving at the speed of light was difficult for him— of course not. It's you. You're the entire reason his heart rate picked up, that his hands were slowly turning clammy, and why he feels like he can’t breathe. 

“I can see that. feel it, too,” you grin at him, and a groan pulls from his lips as he shuts his eyes. Still, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he presses closer, slotting himself perfectly between your legs, dick pressed right against your aching core. 

“You're lucky I love you,” he sighs. 

Clark descends on you, lips meeting yours in what you can only explain as home. He’s warm, always is, but never in a suffocating way. He’s like the first warmth of spring after a long winter. 

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your lips, but is already moving to remove your shirt for you.

His hands slide under the fabric leaving goosebumps in his wake, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to pull it completely up and over your head. It’s discarded without another thought, tossed somewhere to the side. 

He cups both breasts through your bra, lips trailing from the corner of your lips, down to your jaw, and finding their place on your neck. 

“Gosh,” Clark sighs against you, peppering tickling kisses down to your collarbone, “I’ve dreamt about this moment before.”

“Do I live up to your expectations?” you ask, breathless. You arch, pushing your chest further into his palms. 

He groans, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say this entire situation causes him pain. Except you do know better, and he’s in heaven. 

“Better,” is all he says before his kisses move even lower. 

You’re certain he used his x-ray vision to locate your nipples over the thin padding on your chest. There’s no other way, you think, that he managed to be so precise. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s ever used this ability to feed some of his darkest desires. 

No, you decide. Your sweet, kind Clark wasn’t like that. Though you really wouldn’t have minded it. 

A soft moan slips out of you, cautious and shy. His response? To smile against your chest, and reach beneath you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a single manipulation of his fingers. 

“You practice that a lot in college?” you whisper as he tugs the fabric off your chest. 

“Mm… Not lots of practice, but enough,” he hums, eyes taking in the sight of you. He looks in awe, unable to believe this was truly happening to him. Soft hands run down your sides, just needing to feel you.  “So pretty, sweetheart.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you can feel your skin warming. Just one compliment, one silly little nickname, and you’re melting for him. Maybe he’s got you wrapped around his finger more than you realized it. 

“Want this gone,” you tell him, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in attempts to gain some form of control over the situation. 

Clark chuckles, and gives you a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t give you any time to appreciate the beauty of him— the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the slightly baggy clothes he wears in hopes it hides his superhuman physique. Usually, he keeps his shoulders pulled in, a slight slouch to his posture, but in this moment he’d never looked larger. Confident. Yours. 

Your sweatpants and panties were being removed from you, joining whatever corner your shirt was thrown into. 

Without hesitation, Clark fit himself right between your legs. His hands wrapped around your knees, moving you to hook over his shoulders comfortably. Of course, not without him pressing a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“You smell so good,” he whispers against your skin, lips trailing higher and higher up your leg until he was hovering right above where you needed him most. “Goodness… Already dripping for me and I haven’t even done anything.”

“You gonna hurry up and do something, Clark?” you ask, impatience pulling from you without realizing it. 

“Easy there.” His eyes lock onto yours from below, a sparkle on them. “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby.”

Before more whines of complaints can form in your head, his flattened tongue licks a slow strip between your folds, parting them and giving him perfect access to your aching clit. 

A moan vibrates through your core, unabashed and utterly delighted. 

“Tastes so good, too. Could stay here all day,” he mutters against you, breathing hot and heavy. 

“Clark—“

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he huffs. “One day.” 

Clark didn’t verbalize the rest of his disappointment. Honestly, with the way he thoroughly laps at your core, you might have to reconsider your decision. 

It’s as if he had been dying of thirst for his entire life. He dips his tongue in and out of your core, groaning in absolute joy, before moving to suck on the sensitive little nub that’s begging for his attention. You can’t help it when your legs start trembling around his head, threatening to close and trap him there. In the back of your mind, you realized that he wouldn’t care if you did. He’s able to hold his breath for over an hour, after all.

The sensations are all too much for you to handle, sparks flying behind your eyes as Clark seems to struggle to pull himself away from you. Eventually, he gives in. Tonight mercy is granted to you as you stop tugging on his hair to begin pushing him away instead. From the way his eyes are blown out, nearly every part of his eyes covered with black instead of blue, you know that you’ll find yourself back in this position another day.

But not right now.

Right now, you need him– all of him–

“Slow down,” he mutters to you as you yank him up your body. Clark rests beside you now, free hand helping him prop his head up to give himself a good view of your entire body. “Haven’t even started to stretch you out.”

You whine, heart still pounding from being brought to heaven and pulled back down to Earth. “Clark, you need to hurry up.”

“We have all the time in the world,” he coos at you in an attempt to try and soothe you. It doesn’t work. What does work is his fingers gliding up your thighs, reaching the warmth between your legs, and pushing in.

You always knew Clark’s hands were big. It matched the rest of him– long, slender fingers that seemed like they could whole the entire world with ease. If you verbalized any of this to him, he would tell you that he was doing exactly that– holding his world safely in his hands.

The introduction of a second finger has you squirming beneath him.

“You’re so soft,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead– a stark contrast from the filthy way his fingers were spreading you open with a scissoring motion. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Gosh… Can you hear yourself?”

Of course you can. The squelching noise coming from your lower half was hard to ignore, after all. 

You coated his fingers in your essence, and Clark was certain you were seeping into his skin, marking him as yours. You wouldn’t be able to smell yourself on him, but he would still be able to smell you on his skin for days to come. 

His digits curled slowly within you, rubbing against that extra soft, spongy part inside of you. His eyebrows shot up in amusement as you gasped out his name, hips lifting slightly off the bed. 

“Right here, honey?” The low baritone, gravely whisper of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine. He was invading your every being, just as you’d done to him for years on end. 

The stretch of his ring finger made the air in your throat catch. 

“Easy,” he orders, clicking his tongue softly in disapproval. 

“It’s— fuck, that’s… A lot,” you manage to stutter out, eyes screwing shut. 

“If you think this is a lot, how can you ever imagine taking me?” he asks, almost teasingly. 

A shaky breath exits your lips. “You’re— you’re enjoying this.” 

“And you’re not?” Clark shoots right back at you before plunging all of three digits into your fluttering hole— right down to his knuckles. 

Your best friend doesn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he begins to work into you, the length of his fingers slowly massaging in and out of you. You twitch beneath him, mouth falling open in a wordless moan. 

Try as he might, his actions were only making you clamp down tighter around him. You were trying to suck him in, keep him deeper within you. 

With one more slight curl, you were coming undone. Your fingernails digs crescent marks into his wrist, trembling as you attempt to keep your sanity intact. 

Slowly, his fingers exit you. 

“Mm… I don’t think you can take me tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. You nearly missed his words, all of your body paying attention to the way his fingers moved upwards to lazily circle at your clit. He presses a kiss to your temple, “Next time, hm?”

Your heart nearly stops in your chest as you look up at him, wide eyed and pleading. 

“What?” you ask, voice hoarse and dry from the moans you gave him. “Clark— No, need you—“

“I’ll just hurt you if we do it today.” He shakes his head. “Need to spend more time. One night of prep isn’t enough—“

“What if I want it to hurt?” you cut him off, head spinning. Clark looks at you, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Just need you in me— need you to stuff me full. Need it so bad, Clarkie.”

He’s not convinced yet. You know it for a fact. He’s still thinking too rationally for your liking. But he’s pulled his hand away from your legs, resting it on top of your stomach instead— if he was truly unaffected by your words, he would’ve continued his ministrations. No, he was trying to keep his control by limiting his touch. 

You couldn’t have that.

Your hand finds his cock again, eyes still locked with his. His lips part to suck in a tight breath of air as you slowly palm at him. You run your hand up and down his length slowly, then reach the tip. To your delight, he’s leaking. 

“Look, baby. He’s crying for me,” you whisper to him, swiping your finger across the head of his dick, picking up a bead of precum in the process. 

For the first time that night, Clark’s gaze breaks away from your eyes. His eyes drop down to your lips, watching as your fingers enter your mouth to lick off his arousal. His breathing picks up, ever so slightly. 

You release your fingers with a pop, then move to rest them on his lips. He opens his mouth without any instruction or order, tongue wrapping around your fingers and licking, sending a new wave of excitement crashing through your body. 

“So big, so hard for me,” you sigh, almost pouting at him, “And you’re not gonna fill me up?” 

Clark moans around your fingers like it pains him, like he’s trying his best to hold onto the restraint that you’re chipping away from him. 

“You know I’m on birth control,” you tell him, pulling your fingers from his lips. He moves forward slightly, as if trying to chase them. Once again, his eyes meet yours. “You wanna indulge me in some more research? This one would be an experiment, really.”

He swallows. “What kind of experiment?” His voice is broken.

You smile sweetly at him, resting your hand against his chest. You can feel his heart beating rapidly under your touch. He’s waiting, on the edge of whatever sanity he has left. 

Finally, you whisper, “I want to see if Kal-El’s sperm can beat the efficacy of my daily pill.”

Within a breath, Clark pulls you to the cusp of his bed. Your legs only dangle off the edge of the bed for a few seconds before he pulls you to rest them against his hips. He shadows you, cock resting on your tummy as he leans over and presses a hard kiss to your lips. His teeth catch and tug, demanding entrance that you happily give him. 

His hands rest on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him as he pulls back his hips slightly. The length of his cock drags against your skin, leaving a trail of burning desire and want. He coats himself in your slick, depositing a moan into your throat as he does. 

The tip of his cock is right at your entrance, parting your puffy folds, and stops. You’re about to whine against his mouth, grab at his shoulders or wrap your legs around him, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long.

Clark Kent is a fucking liar.

Three fingers and two orgasms was not enough to prepare you, prepare anyone, if you were being honest. Even with the fact you were quite literally dripping for him, it still wasn’t enough to ensure a smooth entry. Then again, he did warn you. This was partly your fault for egging him on until he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

Your lips still against his, eyebrows stitched together as you try to adjust to the foreign body entering you. Clark notices– of course he does– the way your muscles lock beneath him. Your lungs stop pulling in air, and you’re gripping his forearms so hard he actually registers a small nip of pain.

His voice cuts through the cloud in your mind. “Breathe, honey.” Clark showers you with kisses– your nose, cheeks, eyes, neck– anywhere he could reach. “I know it’s big, baby, I’m so sorry.”

With his words snapping you out of it, you suck in a greedy gulp of air as you open your eyes to look at him. “F… Fuck, Clark,” you gasp out.

“I know, I know,” he reiterates to you, patient and so understanding despite the fact you were the one that begged him for this. “Try to relax for me, okay?” Another kiss gets pressed to your eyes, his lips catching a stray, salty tear that slipped out. Your heart skips as you watch him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting your tears. 

“You’re so big– God,” you say, voice cracking. 

“Not God,” he corrects with a chuckle, “But yes.”

“Fuck you,” you whine, unsure how he can find this situation funny. Still, the way he lets out another small laugh above you does ease your body just a little bit– probably from the familiarity. 

You focus on Clark, deciding that he will be the best way to distract yourself from his cock, as ironic as it may sound.

The way there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes as he smiles at you. If you focus, you can see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. There you lay beneath him, skin flushed with a light layer of sweat all over you, hair touselled and mussed up, yet he still holds a love for you that you don’t think you’re worthy of carrying.

His skin is warm under your touch, always is, but goosebumps are left behind wherever you touch. His body is reacting to you, showing you that the littlest things you do leaves a mark on him both physically, emotionally, and mentally. 

How he touches you with extreme care, though you know it’s easy for him to break even the toughest of metals in his hand without even breaking a sweat. He’s always treated you delicately. Always a gentleman, opening every single door without complaint or annoyance, pulling out your chair whenever you have a meal together, and holding your hair back whenever you end up drinking a little too much. So kind, thoughtful, and nice. You wonder how much you’d have to push him to fully break you.

It’s only when your mind trails back into its sinful desires do you register his hips fully flushed against yours, his length sheathed within you. 

Clark’s pulling in shaky breaths, hands resting on your hips with his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His forehead rests against yours as he closes his eyes, trying to get a grasp on his bearings once more. 

“I… Sweetheart,” he grunts. “You’re still so tight around me.”

As if his words were to be a reminder of your situation, your walls flutter around him, sending pleasure through both of your bodies. 

“Move,” you tell him, breathy. “Please–”

“Hang on,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I’m not paused right now for you. I might–” Clark cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. For a moment, you thought he might curse aloud for the first time in years. Instead, he swallows thickly. “I might lose it right away if I don’t give myself a break right now.”

Pride swells in your chest. “Superman is a minuteman?” you tease softly. 

“Hey–”

A shared moan stops whatever rant he was about to go on, thanks to your hips rolling against his. And you can feel it, how his dick twitches deep inside of you, already so close to the edge even though he just got there. You can also feel him pressing up right against your cervix. 

His fingers dig into your hipbone– not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. Clark pulls back, looming over you as he takes in a deep breath.

“You’re playing dirty,” he accuses, voice as tight as how he holds his jaw.

“So what if you cum fast?” you grin at him, hands moving to rest on his abdomen. “Don’t tell me Superman can’t go a couple rounds.”

His eye twitches, and you know you’ve hit him somewhere personal. Then again, baiting Clark Kent was always your favorite pastime. 

“Of course I can,” Clark says with a tone you know all too well– one that lets you know he’s about to prove you wrong.

His hips pull back, cock dragging out of you so painfully slow until just the tip of him is left within you. You mistakenly believe that he’s going to slam back into you without any warning. He doesn’t.

Clark pushes back inside of you slowly, giving you the chance to properly feel the ridge of his tip as it meets the shaft of his dick. You can feel a pulsing vein on the underside, matching the rapid beat of his heart. You can feel him separating your gummy walls with each new inch of him, forcing you to accommodate his size. And you can feel the bulge in your lower abdomen– him– deep inside of you.

“Shit,” you gasp out, but you don’t have time for anymore words. He’s pulling out once again before thrusting back into you, setting an easy, comfortable pace. Despite it, you can’t even begin to form any thoughts. He’s splitting you apart, filling you in ways that you’ve never felt before. 

“That’s it,” Clark chuckles from above you. You catch a lazy, nearly fucked out smile paint his face as he watches you. “You know, I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

You whimper in response, unable to properly respond to him.

He hums, leaning back down to kiss you, his movements never stopping. “I got you, baby. Don’t worry– You’re so pretty like this.”

Clark swallows all your moans and whines like he’s desperate to have them. All you can feel is him– his hands running up and down your body to map you, the feel of his cock piercing in and out of you, his tongue brushing against yours, his muscles rippling and flexing whenever your hands find somewhere new to hold onto. 

“You look so good like this. So perfect, so beautiful— gosh, you look so pretty with me inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained ever so slightly. He moans out your name when your walls flutter around him again, giving him one brief warning. His hips snap harder into yours, efforts renewed as he urges you to your doom. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me– need you to make a mess all over me.”

As one final push, Clark presses a hand onto your stomach, snapping the last bit of pressure within you. “God– Clark!” you cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you begin to tremble beneath him. 

All the while, he never lets up. If anything, the pace is faster, chasing your high with everything he has– prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible. 

One more time, your name falls from his lips, this time strangled and needy before you feel a warmth deep inside of you. He’s coated you from the inside, both of your sticky juices mixing together into one substance as he lodges his cock deep inside of you, poking at your cervix.

Clark collapses over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. Still, his chest is pressed against yours, allowing you to feel the thumping beneath his skin. 

He collects himself faster than you, lips trailing all over your neck and collarbones as his cock jumps within you, hard once more. When you look at him with disbelief, he gives you a stupid grin that you nearly melt for. 

“What’s with that look?” he asks, nipping at your lips. “You only have yourself to blame for this.”

“I didn’t do anything just now.” You frown at him, though not entirely upset. 

“No,” he agreed, “But you did challenge me to put a baby in you. I’m feeling competitive tonight.”

You almost wish you never said those words out loud, never teased or poked him until he broke. Almost. 

Warm water sloshes around you as Clark lowers himself into the bath behind you. He instantly engulfs you with his size, his body granting you more heat than the tub you both sit in together. You lean back against his chest, closing your eyes. 

Exhaustion ran deep in your bones. You don’t fight against Clark as he begins to scrub your skin with soap, cleaning off the sweat and stickiness that accumulated during your time together. Still, you know he can’t get rid of the markings he left behind. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror when Clark carried you into his bathroom earlier. Purple, manmade flowers had grown across your skin, effectively ensuring you’d be wearing high neck clothing on days you didn’t feel like doing your makeup. 

You should be mad. You should scold him for losing control, but frankly… you don’t really care, especially not when he lowers his head slightly to press a delicate kiss to your shoulder. 

“How do you feel?” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Good,” you sigh, content. “Might be sore tomorrow, thanks to someone.”

“You asked for it,” he reminds you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismiss, but you’re smiling too. 

Tomorrow, you both will have a discussion. A long talk on where you both stand in each other's lives, and how to ensure your relationship with each other won’t end up in flames. But all of that is for your future self to deal with. 

Right now, you’ll revel in his touch, allow him to wrap his arms around you, and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

clark kent taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover ⤷ to be eligible for my taglist, you must have your age stated somewhere on your blog!

[cryptictongues]

Need this man like oxygen jfc

[mlarayoukai-archive]

(affirming myself in the mirror) if that fictional man was real he would fuck you. He would fuck you. You're his exact type. If he saw you he'd get a boner instantly. He would fuck you he would fu

[clarkkentluvr]

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖫𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖢𝗈𝗋𝗉 𝗅𝖺𝖻 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗉 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇. 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍!

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 6.9𝗄 (heh)

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 ;)

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝖨𝖬 𝖡𝖠𝖢𝖪!! 𝖣𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄. 𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒!!!

The key in the lock was a clumsy, fumbling sound. Clark looked up from the laptop that he was typing away with on the couch, a small smile touching his lips. He heard you before you could even make it to the door.

“You will not believe the day I've had,” you announce, dropping your bag by the door with a thud.

Clark was already on his feet, his super-senses, taking a quick involuntary check over your body. No blood, no injuries. Just the familiar, comforting scent that was uniquely you—and something else. Something faintly floral, almost like a honeysuckle.

That was new.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice a steady, grounding rumble that immediately began to calm your frayed nerves. He crossed the room in two easy strides.

You tried to think of the best way to tell him this without him freaking out immediately.

“Remember the new botanical hybridization project. The one I was really excited about? Well, we were extracting volatile compounds from a new species of orchid LuthorCorp imported. And there was a slight… containment breach. Just a tiny one. My vial shattered and released a compound all over me.”

Worry immediately seeped into Clark’s veins, cold and sharp. LuthorCorp and new, unknown botanicals were a combination that just couldn’t end well.

He already didn’t trust Lex, let alone you working for him. But you were happy with your new job, fulfilled in a way he’d never seen you before you landed the position. Being a scientist was your dream, and he would never try and take that from you, even if it meant biting his tongue every time you mentioned your bald and utterly sinister boss.

“Are you okay? Did you get checked out?” Clark pressed, his brow furrowing. His hands came up, hovering just inches from your arms, as if afraid to touch you before he had a full diagnostic.

“Of course,” you said, placing a soft, reassuring kiss on his cheek to ease him. “I’m fine, physically. Decontaminated thoroughly. The on-site medic gave me a full once-over. It's just… we have no long-term data on this compound. The initial bio-assays were inconclusive. It could be perfectly inert, or it could… I don't know. Make my hair fall out. Turn my skin blue. Any other side effects are still unknown.”

You looked at him directly, your expression turning serious, and a little vulnerable. “Thats why I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” he replied with no hesitation, his blue eyes utterly sincere.

“Watch me tonight. Just… be extra observant. If I do anything, say anything, that feels even a little bit off, you tell me. My own perception might be the first thing to go. You’re my baseline, Clark. You’re the one person who would know if I wasn’t… me.”

He moved to you, cupping your face in his large, warm hands. He felt your skin was fever-warm, a few degrees above your normal temperature. "I'll watch you. I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you on my watch.” His thumbs stroked gently over your cheekbones.

You leaned into his touch with a relieved sigh, then placed a soft kiss to his palm when you pulled away. “Thank you. Now, I'm going to take a shower and try and wash this day off of me. I still smell like the lab.”

Clark watched you retreat. He focused on the beat of your heart. It was faster than usual, but that could be attributed to the stress of the day. Still, he remained on the couch, his work forgotten, now replaced with a more important task.

Making sure the love of his life was okay.

When you finally emerged, half an hour later, wrapped in soft pajamas with your hair damp and smelling of your favorite body wash, you curled right into his side on the couch.

“Now tell me about your day,” you insisted, hoping for a distraction to take your mind off of the potential side effects that might hit at any time. You nestled into the crook of his arm, breathing in his scent.

Clark smiled softly, the worry in his eyes momentarily replaced with affection. “Well, nowhere near as interesting or potentially dangerous as yours. Just starting a new assignment with Lois. Jimmy and I tried that new sandwich spot by the office. The one I was telling you about. The sandwich was good, but mostly condiments.” He recalled. “Also, I helped a cat out of a tree today. A very stubborn, very ungrateful cat.”

At some point during his rundown of the day, you had started to zone out, not out of disinterest or boredom of course, but because you suddenly felt awfully… warm.

The comfortable weight of his arm around you, which usually felt like a shield, now felt like a furnace. A delicious, distracting furnace. You shifted, trying to create a little space, but the movement only pressed you more firmly against the solid muscle of his thigh.

Why was it so hot all of a sudden? You tugged at the collar of your pajama top.

“—and then Perry—” Clark stopped, his sentence cutting off abruptly. He looked down at you, his head tilted. “Your heart rate just spiked. Are you still feeling alright?”

His voice was laced with that specific brand of Clark Kent concern, the one that made your chest ache with affection. But right now, the ache was different. It was moving, coiling deep in your belly, a hot and heavy thrum that was growing more insistent by the second and pooling right at your core.

“It's… it's nothing. Just a little flushed from the shower, I think. And thinking about the side effects again.” It was a lie. The shower had been over an hour ago now. This was definitely way different.

Clark was unconvinced.

You tried to play it off but you began to feel it much more now. The throbbing ache that had taken control between your thighs. You squirmed restlessly and swallowed, your throat dry.

Oh gosh. Please don’t be what you think it is.

Clark’s eyes, usually so warm and open, were now narrowed in that focused, X-ray vision sort of way, though you knew he would never use it on you without permission. He was just looking, really looking.

“Your temperature has risen two full degrees since you sat down,” he stated, his voice low and clinical. "And your pupils are dilated. And gosh sweetheart, you're squirming a lot."

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a breathy, shaky thing. “See? This is why I need you. My own personal bio-scanner. My Superman." You meant it as a joke, but the words hung in the air.

His hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, moved to your forehead, checking for fever the old-fashioned way.

The contact sent a sharp, undeniable throb straight to your cunt, so intense you couldn't suppress a sharp, quiet gasp. You could feel every microscopic ridge of his fingerprints, the small calluses earned from saving the world, and all your brain could supply was a frantic, single-minded thought: How good would those hands feel somewhere else?

Clark froze. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

Your mind, usually a fortress of logic and reason, was being flooded with a primal, animalistic fog. Nothing Clark was saying seemed to matter anymore. The only thing that registered was the scent of him, the solid feel of him, and all the previous memories of his body moving over yours in the dark. 

You needed him. Desperately.

You tried to swallow down the whimper rising in your throat. “It’s fine,” you managed. “I’m fine—” but your voice cracked, breathy and trembling.

The faint, floral scent you'd brought home with you seemed to be emanating from your own pores now, intensified by the heat of your body. It was clear now what the compound was that affected you. Sex pollen, lovely.

As a highly skilled scientist yourself, you knew all about sex pollen, including how rare it was, and most especially how strong the effects could be. You didn’t know the exact strain that you had been exposed to, but in general sex pollen’s effect could last for hours after exposure. Not to mention the seemingly insatiable need it could create. And left unresolved, could be potentially dangerous for your bodies nervous system that was being overwhelmed with foreign chemicals.

Your scientific mind, the part that was still clinging to reason, screamed in frustration. Of all the possible side effects—a rash, temporary paralysis, hallucinations—it had to be this.

Sex pollen. And of all the people to be with… it was Clark. Your sweet, kind, impossibly moral boyfriend Clark.

You didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

If you were alone, you could probably stick out the heat on your own with some toys and a locked door. You could ride out the humiliating, frantic need in private.

But here with Clark, he was about to see a completely desperate and horny side that even you hadn’t seen before. And he would want to help—of course he would—but, knowing him, he also wouldn't want to feel like he was taking advantage of you. He would see it as a violation of your consent, or an impairment of your judgment.

Hell, you two have only been dating for like six months, is that even enough time for your significant other to fuck you under the influence of heavy sex drugs?

God, you thought, you really don't want him to see how pathetic you were about to become.

And by your mental estimates of how long the pollen took to kick in after exposure, you likely only had about five minutes before you became full-blown, mindlessly needy. Your panties were already a soaking mess.

“It’s not fine,” Clark said, his voice strained.

He could hear the frantic, rabbit-quick pace of your heart. He could smell the intoxicating, sweet scent that was pouring off your skin, a scent that was now making his own head feel light.

And he could definitely smell the slick, unmistakable scent of your arousal building in between your legs. It was a scent he knew, one he loved, but now it was magnified. A potent, pheromonal broadcast that was scrambling his own higher brain functions.

“Sweetheart… why are you, your body is going into…” He paused, trying to think of a way to tell you that he could smell your arousal and recognized all the familiar signs of you being turned on. “You are very turned on right now.”

You whimpered hearing him vocalize the humiliating, undeniable truth. Your body, betraying you completely, pressed back against him, closer than before, your hips giving an involuntary, tiny roll against his thigh. The friction was a spark on gasoline, instantly satisfying and yet deepening the ache exponentially.

“Clark…” you breathed, your hand coming up to clutch at the soft cotton of his shirt, fisting the material. “I… I think I know what it is. What I got contaminated with earlier..”

Clark’s eyes met yours. He seemed to know too. 

Maybe not know exactly what, but he was smart enough to piece together the clues, especially since you can’t seem to stop trying to grind against him.

“A sex pollen,” you told him, the words feeling absurd and terrifying as they left your lips. “A… a powerful strain it seems, one with a delayed response, likely to have a long lasting effect.” You forced your voice to be clinical, to cling to the last vestiges of your professionalism and sanity. “Left unresolved, the neurological overload can cause… physiological damage.”

Your eyes raked over him as he took in the information, but you found yourself getting distracted.

The pollen’s influence seemed to have you zeroing in on every single detail you loved about Clark. One detail in particular: his size.

Clark Kent was a big man, tall and broad, 6'4, all solid muscle. But now, that awareness has become your current hyper-fixation. The width of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs. Your gaze dropped to the growing bulge in his jeans, and a fresh wave of desperate lust washed over you, so intense it made you dizzy.

You couldn’t help it anymore. The ache and desire for him was too much and you desperately needed relief.

“God, Clark,” you moaned, the words slipping out. “You’re so… big. Look at you. How are you so… much? I need you… I need to feel all of that. I need you inside of me, right now. Please Clark.”

The plea was raw and stripped of all your pride. Your hand left his shirt and slid down, palming the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans. He jerked at the contact, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.

“Whoa, easy there sweetheart,” he said, his voice gravelly, catching your wrist gently but firmly. His own control was fraying, the scent of you, the feel of your small hand on him, the sight of your dilated pupils and flushed skin was a test of willpower he’d never imagined. “We can’t. Not like this. You’re not in your right mind.”

The rejection was painful, your eyes welling up with tears immediately and a loud obnoxious whine coming out.

“You’re saying no to me?” Your lower lip trembled, “I’m your girlfriend, we’ve done this before, it’s no different.”

“It is different,” Clark ground out, his jaw so tight it looked like it might crack. The hand around your wrist was trembling. “It-it’s completely different. You're not you. This isn't your choice; it's just the pollen talking. Maybe I can take you to the doctor’s or-”

“It's my body!” you cried out interrupting his useless suggestions, surging forward, pressing your heated skin against his chest. The contact only made the deeper, gnawing emptiness worse. “And it's screaming for you. Clark, please. It hurts.” You ground your hips against his thigh again, a frantic, desperate motion. “You promised nothing bad would happen to me. This… this ache… it feels so bad. You have to make it stop.”

That seemed to strike a chord.

You could see the conflict ravaging him. His superheroic resolve, the very core of his morality, was crumbling under the assault of your desperate pleas and the intoxicating, pheromones you were producing in the air.

“I can't… I can't take advantage of you like this,” he whispered, but it was a weak protest.

“You're not Clark,” you begged, your voice breaking as you framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You're saving me. You're my hero, remember? So save me from this. Please, Clark. I need you inside me. I need to feel you, all of you, or I think I'm going to like…die.”

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic on your end, but truly it's what it felt like.

And Clark’s moral dilemma was being less than helpful at the moment. Why couldn’t he just not be a gentleman for once and fuck you into tomorrow like you needed.

“Sweetheart…”

You ignored him, and started placing kisses on his jaw and neck to try and satisfy your need. It helped, but nowhere near enough. You moved lower but Clark snapped out of it again and pushed you back softly.

There was not a single sane thought in your head anymore, you just needed to be filled, and Clark’s denial was making you angrier by the second.

“Clark!” you huffed at him, “Please don’t make me beg for this.”

“I’m not trying to make you beg… I just,” Clark starts shaking his head.

“You are though!” you whined back, “And I don’t want to, but I will, because that’s how badly I need this. Please Clark, I don't want to ask again, you have to make it stop.”

Clark swallowed heavily, and nodded hesitantly. He hated seeing you in pain like this.

“Okay, um alright, but if we do this, it’s on my terms. I need to know you’re still in there, sweetheart okay?”

You nod embarrassingly fast, “Okay, okay, your terms. Just... hurry, please.”

Clark didn't need to be told twice. He pulled you towards him, his fingers trailing up and down the sides of you and paused when he felt you shudder into him.

“Gosh, you’re… you’re so sensitive,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. His gaze was locked on his own thumb, which now rested motionless against the frantic pulse in your wrist.

Hesitantly, he moved one hand. Clark released your wrist, his fingers trailing up your arm, over the soft skin of your inner elbow. The touch was feather-light but you jolted as if electrocuted, a full-body shudder wracking your frame.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your head falling back. “Clark, please.”

Clark made a sound deep in his throat, a mix of sympathy and sheer, unadulterated want. He was cataloging your reactions, learning the map of your sensitivity without even meaning to.

His fingertips drifted higher, skating over the slope of your shoulder, and your back arched, pressing your breasts against the solid wall of his chest. The friction of your nipples, already hard and aching, against his shirt was equally satisfying and utterly insufficient.

“Does that…” he swallowed hard, his own breathing becoming labored. “Does it feel like this everywhere?”

You could only nod, desperate tears pricking your eyes again. He was touching you, but it wasn't where you needed it. It was like being given a single drop of water in a desert.

God why did he keep teasing you so much?

“Okay,” he whispered, the word a ragged breath against your temple. His hands, which had been wandering with curiosity, suddenly changed their intent.

The hesitant exploration was gone, replaced by a firm, deliberate purpose. He had to give you what you needed.

One large hand splayed against the small of your back, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down, over the desperate, aching curve of your hip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice thick with a restraint that was visibly fraying. He was giving you one last out, a final thread of chivalry to cling to.

“It won’t be enough,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. “It could never be too much.”

With a groan that seemed to be torn from the very core of him, Clark finally, finally closed the last remaining distance. His hand cupped your pussy through your clothes, a firm, perfect pressure that made you cry out.

“How does it feel here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your neck as he applied a slow, circular pressure.

“Yes! Clark, yes,” You almost buckled finally feeling the friction that your body has been begging for so long.

“I know, I know, sweetheart, I got you. Finally going to give you what you need okay?”

He shifted you both, lowering you back onto the soft cushions of the couch without ever breaking the contact. His knees nudged yours apart, settling between them, and the new, intimate proximity sent a fresh, violent shudder through you.

His thumb found the damp, heated center of you again, rubbing a relentless, rhythmic pattern that had you bucking against his hand. The pleasure was so sharp it bordered on pain.

“You’re so responsive like this,” he breathed, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide with awe and desire. “Every little touch… gosh, I can feel you everywhere.”

His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Look at me, sweetheart. I need to see you.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his. He descended, his mouth finally capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like his usual tender caresses. This was all-consuming, a desperate fusion of lips and tongue that stole the breath from your lungs. It was hot and wet and messy, and everything you needed.

The soft cotton of your pajamas was an intolerable barrier at this point. 

You heard a faint rip as he tore the top apart, buttons pinging against the wall. The sound should have shocked you, but it only sent another violent throb of need through you.

His large, warm hands covered your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples with a rough, delicious friction that made you cry out against his mouth.

“So beautiful. I can feel your heart beating against my lips.” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and lust as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the frantic pulse there.

Clark broke the kiss apart to slide your underwear aside and finally dipped his fingers into you, slow and gentle and so, so deep.

“There she is, that pretty pussy,” he cooed. “Gosh, you're so wet. So ready for me, hm?”

You clung even harder to him, nails curling against the back of his neck into his soft curls as you clenched onto his fingers. He groaned, obsessed with how desperate you were for him. You could barely breathe anymore, his slow pace was maddening and utterly torturous.

“Already a dripping mess and I’ve hardly even touched you.” Clark tsks, slipping in another finger and continuing to pump into you.

“Clark, please,” you sobbed, your hips trying to match his rhythm, to force a faster pace. “More. I need more. It’s not enough.”

“Shhh, I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothed, placing a hand on your hips to keep them where he wanted. “I just need to get you ready to take me. I’m a little bigger, remember?”

Those words seemed to remind you of all the times you were intimate before, and how long he would take prepping you for him because he wasn’t just ‘a little’ bigger than most.

He was fucking huge.

You nod pathetically and let him continue stretching him out. The familiar coil crept in your lower belly and signaled that your release was close. Clark felt it and pushed you to your edge.

The lewd sounds coming from his hand assaulting your wet cunt went straight to your pollen-hazed mind and pushed you right over that tipping point. Your legs were shaking, and you were a moaning mess as you came on his hand.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Clark encouraged, “I got you.”

You were breathless and still shaking slightly as you finished coming undone on his hand. Clark brushed away your damp front strands of hair and kissed the side of your head tenderly.

His eyes scanned yours, hoping to see if the orgasm was enough to stop the sex pollen haze. But you knew this was far from over. In fact the first orgasm had only cranked up the notch on the pain and worsened the ache. The momentary relief was a cruel trick, and the emptiness that followed was a thousand times more acute.

Clark’s hopeful expression shattered as fresh, frustrated tears spilled from your eyes.

You shook your head, a frantic, desperate motion urging him to continue. “No,” you choked out, your voice raw. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse now. Clark, please, I need you. I need your cock now. Please.”

He nodded and withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss, but he was already fumbling with his own pants. The sound of his zipper was the most promising thing you’d ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, but he wasn’t apologizing for what was about to happen. He was apologizing for what had already passed. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean with a dark, appreciative hum. “God, you taste perfect.”

He leaned over you, caging you in with his arms, his face inches from yours.

“I’m sorry for teasing you for so long,” he murmured, his voice husky. “That wasn’t really nice of me, was it? Letting you suffer like that.” He nudged your nose with his, a gesture that was somehow both tender and utterly dominant. “Gosh, I’ve been such a jerk to my girl, haven’t I? Making my sweetheart beg when all she needed was for me to take care of her.”

You whine loudly.

“Sh-shh, I’m going to give you everything you need, now. I’m going to make up for it. But you have to be a good girl for me and take it, okay? You have to take all of me.”

The words sent a jolt of pure lightning through your system. You nodded frantically, your eyes wide and pleading. “I will, I promise, I’ll be so good. Just fuck me already.”

In a swift, powerful motion, he freed himself, and your breath hitched. Even in your fevered state, the sight of him, thick and heavy and straining and big, sent a fresh wave of dizzying anticipation through you. He was magnificent and internally you screamed yes, yes, yes.

He settled between your thighs again, which fell open for him willingly and desperately. The broad head of his cock nudged against your soaked, aching entrance. You were slick and ready, your body having prepared itself for him with humiliating, eager efficiency.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his large cock nudging against your slick, heated flesh. He didn’t push in, just rested there, letting you feel the immense pressure, the promise of being filled.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commanded softly again, his gaze locking with yours, holding you captive. Then, with a single, devastatingly slow roll of his hips, he began to sink into you.

A choked, guttural cry of pleasure was torn from your throat. The stretch was a perfect, burning fullness that your pollen-addled body had been screaming for.

He was so big, so impossibly much, and he was filling you so completely it stole the air from your lungs.

“Oh, god… Clark… yes, thank you,” You panted, your head thrashing against the cushions. “Feels so good, ‘ngh so big.”

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. He stilled, buried to the hilt, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming sensation. “There you go. Taking me so perfectly. Look at you, sweetheart. So beautiful, so open for me. Just for me.”

He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that he knew would drive you insane. Each stroke dragged against that deep, frantic ache, feeding the fire higher.

“You feel that?” he breathed into your ear, his hips setting a relentless pace. “That’s me. All of me. Filling up that pretty, desperate little pussy of yours. Is this what you needed? Hm? This deep, aching fullness?”

“Yes! Yes, Clark, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” you babbled, your hands scrambling over his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper.

“I’m not going to stop,” he promised, a dark, possessive edge to his voice. “I’m going to get you through this heat, sweetheart. You’re gonna be alright, I got you.”

His words were as potent as his touch, filthy and sweet that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you see stars.

You screamed, your back arching violently. He only quickened his pace, his hips now snapping into you mercilessly.

You knew he was holding back, a tiny, rational part of his mind ensuring he didn't accidentally break you, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like he was trying to split you apart on his length.

And god did you love it.

This climax seized you with a violence that dwarfed the first. It was a raw, screaming release that left you boneless and gasping, your vision spotting at the edges. Clark followed you over, his own groan a deep, guttural sound as he spilled himself inside you, his hips stuttering against yours in a final thrust.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing mingling with his. He was heavy on top of you and he nuzzled into your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses against your damp skin.

“You feelin’ better?” he panted, his voice rough with exertion. “It’s over, sweetheart, you’re alright now.”

He started to pull away, to check your eyes, but a fresh, sharp throb of emptiness made you clutch at him, a broken whimper escaping your lips. The relief had been even more fleeting this time. The ache was back, deeper and more insistent than before, a hollow, gnawing pain that had you squeezing your eyes shut against a new wave of hot, frustrated tears.

Clark froze. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No?” he asked, his voice laced with dawning concern. “It’s not?”

You shook your head, the tears spilling over. “It’s… it’s worse,” you sobbed, the words hitching. “It just comes back faster. It hurts, Clark. It really hurts. I need more.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, his expression shifting. He withdrew from you gently, and you cried out at the sudden, aching emptiness. In one smooth, powerful motion, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. The world blurred as he carried you from the living room to the bedroom, laying you down on the cool sheets with infinite care.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, brushing the hair from your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll do this as many times as it takes. I promise.”

He wiped away the tears that had fallen and you nodded gratefully.

“How long is this supposed to last again?” Clark asked you.

“Really long,” you said.“Hours”

Clark simply nodded. He didn’t dare remind you that so far it had already been longer than any previous times you’ve been intimate before.

You could see the calculation in his eyes, the acceptance of the marathon ahead. He was Superman. He had the stamina. He would see this through.

You cried out again, the pain a sharp, twisting knot in your core. “Please, make it stop. Just for a minute. Please. One more time, Clark.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. He nodded, his gaze darkening with a new kind of determination. “Alright. Let me try something else.”

He moved down the bed, settling between your trembling thighs. His hands were firm on your hips, holding you still. Then he lowered his head.

The first swipe of his tongue was a bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure. You jolted, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. It was different from his fingers, different from his cock. It was an intimate assault on your senses, and he was ruthlessly efficient. He licked and sucked, already having the rhythm that made you shatter the fastest memorized.

Clark was relentless, holding you down as you thrashed, his name a broken mantra on your lips. The orgasm was swifter and brutal, and left you gasping once more.

As the last tremor faded, he was already moving up your body, his lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He tapped your cheek gently. “Hey, look at me, sweetheart. How you doin’? Are you with me?”

You blinked, trying to focus. The haze was still there, the ache already beginning to coil deep within. “It’s… still there,” you whispered, fresh new tears falling down your face.

He nodded, a grim set to his mouth. “Okay. Okay, that’s okay. I’ve still got you.”

He rolled you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until you were on your knees. He entered you from behind in one smooth, deep thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. This position was deeper, more animalistic, and secretly your fave.

Clark gripped your hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises, and set a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, punctuated by your sobbing pleas and his guttural groans.

He was chasing your release with a single-minded focus, driving into you as if he could physically exorcise the pollen from your body himself.

When you came this time, it was a silent, shuddering collapse, your body going limp beneath his.

He pulled out, turning you onto your back once more. He was breathing heavily, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He tapped your cheek again. “Talk to me sweetheart.”

You could only manage a weak, negative shake of your head. The desperate, achey feeling was returning. Again.

A low growl rumbled in Clark’s chest. It wasn’t one of frustration with you, but with the situation, with the pollen in your body. His eyes glowed with a faint, red ember of heat vision he quickly suppressed.

“Shh, that’s alright,” Clark reassured you, noticing your panicked expression. He smiled and leaned down to kiss you passionately, “You’re doing perfect, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Clark,” you whispered to him, “You’re too good to me. Fucking me so well.”

“I love you too,” Clark says back softly.

Gosh, he felt so bad for you. As much as tried, he couldn’t imagine how much pain you were in right now, especially because it seemed never-ending. So he did the only thing he could to help you.

He flipped you onto your back again, but this time he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The penetration was so deep it stole your breath. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms and stilled, letting your re-adjust to his size.

“Please, move,” you begged, your hips fucking up into his.

“I will, sweetheart, just relax. Let me help you out.”

Clark started to move in a merciless, piston-like rhythm, each thrust jolting through your entire body. He was no longer just making love to you or even just fucking you; he was waging a war against the pollen inside you.

He drove into you again and again, his pace never flagging, his strength infinite. He was pushing you, and himself, to the absolute limit, determined to fuck the pollen out of your system through sheer, relentless will.

Clark eventually lost track of time.

He lost track of how many times he brought you to a screaming, sobbing climax. The bedroom became a blur of tangled sheets and shifting positions.

He took you on your side, one of your legs hooked high over his hip, his mouth on your shoulder. He laid you on your stomach and draped himself over your back, whispering praises into your ear as he moved inside you. He sat back against the headboard and pulled you into his lap, your back to his chest, his hands roaming your body as you rode him, your head lolling against his shoulder.

Through it all, he never stopped talking.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take me. You’re taking all of me so well. God, you feel incredible.”

“Come on, baby, one more for me. I know you can do it. Squeeze that pretty pussy around my cock and let go. I’ve got you.”

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are falling apart on me. My good girl. My perfect, desperate girl.”

You were beyond words, reduced to a state of pure, sensation-driven need. Your legs felt like water, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. But the deep, gnawing ache, while muted by the constant onslaught of pleasure, never fully disappeared. It was a ghost that was waiting for the briefest respite to return with a vengeance.

During a brief lull, as he held you close, his slick skin pressed against yours, you felt him tense. He was looking down at you, his brow furrowed with a concern that cut through the sexual haze.

“Golly, sweetheart,” he breathed, his hand gently tracing the curve of your hip. “You’re going to be so sore tomorrow. I’m… I’m putting you through so much.” He sounded genuinely pained and remorseful, the protectiveness in him agonizing over the very remedy he was providing.

You managed to shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Worth it,” you slurred. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed your forehead, a long, tender press of his lips. “I won’t. I promise I won’t until you feel better. But you…” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes full of a fierce, awed pride. “You’re being so strong. You’re taking me so well, for so long. Even after all that begging, you’re just… enduring. You’re amazing.”

He was praising you for your stamina, for your ability to withstand the very storm he was unleashing upon you. It was absurd and utterly intoxicating.

He pulled you into his lap facing him. “Go on, I know you’re not done with me yet. Take what you need,” he commanded.

And you did.

You smiled, then sunk onto his length and rode him. 

You ignored the pain in your legs and chased the high that seemed to never be fulfilled. As you did, you kissed Clark. You kissed his lips, and his jaw, and his neck, each time whispering a soft thank you for letting you use him like this.

Clark’s eyes rolled back, pushing through his own overstimulation to help you satisfy yourself and the pain you were feeling. His hands flew to your hips and guided you as your body moved against his.

He didn’t stop, not even when his come filled you up for the seemingly millionth time and not even when you came on top of him and still begged for more.

He simply kissed you on the forehead and obliged, putting you in more positions. On his face, against the wall, even flying!

Finally, after what felt like an eternity—ten long, brutal hours—a shift occurred.

You were back laying on the bed, Clark moving in you with a rhythm that had now become as familiar as your own heartbeat. Another orgasm was building (you were unsure how you could even manage any more), the familiar tension coiling low in your belly. You braced for it, your fingers digging into his biceps and sheets underneath you, a silent moan building in your throat.

The climax that hit you was different. It wasn't the frantic, desperate, needy release that had characterized the last several hours. It was much slower and softer. As the last tremors faded, you didn't immediately feel the familiar, creeping return of the ache. There was only a deep, heavy, and thoroughly sated exhaustion.

Clark stilled inside you, his body rigid with attention. He searched your face, his eyes wide, hopeful that this time might be it. “Sweetheart?”

You blinked slowly, the frantic, glazed-over look finally gone from your eyes. The feverish heat had receded from your skin. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and it was the first full, clear breath you’d taken in half a day. The oppressive, maddening need was simply… gone.

“I think… I think it’s over,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from overuse.

A massive, relieved sigh escaped Clark. He collapsed as he pulled out of you. He buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thank goodness,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “Oh, thank gosh.”

You lay in silence for what felt like an eternity, simply breathing him in, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure twitch through your exhausted muscles.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a husky, wrecked version of its usual self. “Are you… are you okay? Did I hurt you… was I too rough…”

You tilted your head back to look at him. You reached up, cupping his cheek. “I'm perfect,” you whispered, and you meant it. “And you were... incredible. Thank you, and I’m sorry for putting you through that for so long."

A shudder ran through him, and he turned his head to press a soft, grateful kiss to your palm.

“I was so scared,” he admitted. “I hated seeing you like that. Out of your mind. I felt like I was... taking advantage, even when you were literally begging for it.”

“You weren't,” you insisted, stroking his hair. His dark curls were damp with sweat. You snuggled deeper into his embrace, the events of the evening replaying in your mind. A slow blush crept up your neck.

“Clark?” you said, your voice small.

“Yeah?”

“Did I, um, I don’t know… was I like too….”

“...needy? Desperate?” he finished for you, his tone joking.

He shook his head, a small, tired smile gracing his lips. “No, no, no. You were perfect. You were in pain, and you trusted me with your body to make it stop. That's... that's the highest compliment I think I've ever been given.”

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, his touch infinitely gentle. “And for the record,” he added, a hint of that earlier, possessive darkness flickering in his eyes, “seeing you like that... completely lost in what I was making you feel... It was the most beautifull thing I've ever seen. A little terrifying, but... incredible.”

You let out a shaky breath, the last of your insecurities melting away under his sincere gaze. “Even the flying part?” you mumbled, burying your burning face in his chest.

Clark's chest vibrated with a low, genuine laugh. “Especially the flying part.” He shifted, pulling the rumpled sheets over your cooling bodies. “Now, you need to rest. Your heart rate is finally normal, your temperature is stable... but you're exhausted and your muscles will definitely feel sore in the morning.” 

As if on cue, a massive, bone-deep weariness settled over you. Your limbs felt like lead, every muscle protesting the hours of relentless strain and god were you sore down there. “Clark?” you whispered again, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Thank you,” you breathed, the words slurring with exhaustion. “For... everything. For keeping me safe. I love you so much.”

He held you tighter, “Always," he whispered into your hair and placed a soft kiss. "Now sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

━━━━━━━

author's note:

KINKTOBER RAHHH!!!

lowk headcanon that reader takes notes of everything experienced under sex pollen to bring back as a report for the lab.

anyways, i tried my best y'all lmao, smut is not my strong suit (we all know i much prefer angst)

but either way i hope y'all liked it, and feel free to send me requests for kinktober and i'll try and get out as many as i can!! thanks for all the love and check out my other works <33

[cryptictongues]

Now THIS is a sex pollen fic !!!!!

[editfandom]

SUPERMAN, 2025

[clarknsun]

FOR REAL, THIS TIME — C.K.

WHEN CLARK KENT starts to babysit your son on a near-daily basis, you don't expect to fall for him—or for your son's wild theory how “Mr Clark is Superman” to finally make sense. 

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x single mum!neighbour!reader word count: ~21k (pls don't ask, i don't know how i managed this either) warnings: clark is in his 30s, reader is around 23-24 (having had her baby with her childhood “sweetheart”), drinking, swearing, light/implied smut—oral (fem!receiving), clark is a consent king, clark beats up your sleazy baby daddy, angst angst angst, calum is just a babyyy, not beta read we die like m*n, the kaiju is used as a plot device but has nothing to do with the movie's plotline author's note: first fic for the #whiteboyofthemonth + i also lost like 100 years off my lifespan writing this. it isn't my best work, admittedly, but i hope you enjoy <3

YOU SHOULDN’T BE KNOCKING ON HIS DOOR AGAIN FOR THE SIXTH TIME THIS WEEK.

Especially not when it’s only Wednesday. But here you are, dressed haphazardly in your work uniform—you’re half sure your sweater is on backwards—as you bang on your neighbour’s door with the palm of your hand. 

For a second, you consider calling him, just in case he’s in the shower. He’s always been terrible at answering the phone though, so you mutter—screw it—and continue to bang on the door.

“Clark!”

Clark Kent lives alone in apartment 5B with his dog named Krypto. He was raised on farmland in a town called Smallville, Kansas, and he works as a journalist at The Daily Planet.  He claims to like his coffee black, but actually adds in a buttload of sugar because he finds the taste of coffee too bitter and much prefers the “sweeter things in life”—you found this out about him the first time you offered to bring him coffee. He’d made sure that you had added at least four spoons of sugar. 

He’s also got a total of two friends: Lois Lane and Superman—okay, maybe that's a little mean when you say it like that, but Lois is the only person you’ve ever seen at his apartment and he interviews Superman so often that you're fairly sure they're best friends at this point. 

You’ve come to know all of this because, on occasion, he babysits your four-year-old son Calum when your boss decides to be an ass and calls you into work for an evening shift. (And, on occasion, you like to read his articles in the paper, even though you probably haven’t touched a real book since giving birth.)

That’s why you’re here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, asking—demanding, really—that you cover someone else’s 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but there’s an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clark’s. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.

“Claaark, you in there?” You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.

It doesn’t take much longer before he  finally answers the stupid door. He’s a little out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform —if he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Hey. Sorry, I was… on a work call.”

You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didn’t hear you once? 

Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. “My boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while I’m gone?”

Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clark’s arms with a screech. “Hi, Mr Clark!”

“Hi, buddy.” Clark laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs. 

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. You’re already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mind—Mrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though she’s been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.

“Stop.” Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. Go to work—I know the drill.” 

And he does. Clark’s been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If it’s late at night, Clark’s gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. He’s carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour. 

You’ve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time. 

“You need it more than I do,” he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, you’ve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know he’s been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. It’s nothing compared to the things he does for you—but if it’s all he’ll accept, then you’re willing to repay him a hundred times over.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clark’s arms, and kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?”

He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.

The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him. 

“You promised we’d play superheroes today,” he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what he’ll be like when he’s older. 

“Did I?” Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. “I don’t remember promising that.”

“Yes, you did!” Calum insists. “You said you’ll take me around like Superman again—!”

 “Hm, maybe you’re thinking about another Superman, buddy.”

“No!” The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress. 

“I’m serious, bud,” Clark says, feigning innocence. “I think you’re thinking about another Superman.”

Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”

Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. “Me? Silly?” 

“Yes, you! You can’t lie—Mama says it’s bad.” 

“Ah,” Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. “You’ve caught me—thought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you won’t tell your mum that I lied?”

Truth be told, Clark hadn’t meant for his neighbour’s kid to find out his real identity. It’d happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the clouds—ones like Calum. 

He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.

It was one of the first times he’d ever taken care of Calum for you—probably the third or fourth time—and he’d had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. He’d been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping away—something about his day at the park—and, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps or—

“Superman.” 

The kid’s voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach—shit.

“Calum, no—” Clark had started to protest, but Calum’s shouts only grew louder. 

“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!” 

Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calum’s mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clark’s but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older man’s hold.

“Yes,” Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. “Yeah, bud. I’m Superman—”

After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kid’s mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.

Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, “You’re my hero.”

Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, he’s still shocked he hadn’t become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And he’s never been much for sentiment, but there’s something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a hero—to him—that warmed his heart more than anything else.

Since then, it’s become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calum’s silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flying—he even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calum’s behest. (Never again.)

“Tell you what, bud,” Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. “You eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?”

He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise. 

Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. “Deal!”

— 

It’s 11:30PM when you knock on Clark’s door for the second time that night. 

When he opens the door, he’s changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like he’s been rolling around—and judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clark—he probably has been. 

“Mama!” Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly. 

You rake your fingers through his hair gently. “You boys roughhousing again?” 

Clark only laughs, nodding his head. “You know it.”

“Thank you so much for looking after him again,” you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but there’s no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short notice—and for free as well. “It means a lot to me.”

“Seriously, it’s no worries,” he responds with a smile just as kind. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve seen all day.. “Calum’s a great kid and he’s great company. I love having him around.”

“Are you sure—?” 

He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. “I’m sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.I’ll clear my schedule up—just ask.”

A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, it’s been hard for you to make friends on top of making a living—being a young, single mum in the city isn’t easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. You’d had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them weren’t even your fault, and you’d traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, “Oh, but you’re so much better at dealing with the bad customers”. 

But you can’t tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, “You’re the best.”

Clark shrugs modestly, softening like he’s used to the praise. “Well, someone’s got to keep that troublemaker in check.”

“I’m not a troublemaker! I’m the boss!” Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clark’s tee. “You said so!”

“Sure, boss.” Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calum’s hair. “Whatever you say, buddy.”

You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like it’s dragging you down. 

“Well, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,” you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye. 

“Bye, buddy,” Clark says. And then, easy as anything—

“See you next time, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

The word rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing. He says it so normally, like he’s always called you that.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but he’s the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A casual term of endearment.

Except it isn’t. Not when he says it like that. 

That’s when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze. 

He’s still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away. 

All you say is, “See you, Clark,” and you start to make your way home.

Clark’s door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. He’s holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that it’s getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while he’s sleeping.

“Mama! Mama! Mam—” 

His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.

“Yes, baby?” you hum when you stop in front of your door. “What’s wrong?”

Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, “Mr Clark is Superman!”

You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. “That’s nice, honey.”

“No, but actually,” Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. “He showed me his suit! It’s got the ‘S’ and everything!”

“Right,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. “And I’m Batman.”

He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. “But… you’re a girl.”

“And Mr Clark is a journalist, Cal—I promise you, the closest he’s gotten to Superman is like… interviewing him or something,” you say with a shrug.

Cal’s always been the imaginative type—god knows how many trees you’ve had to coax him out of when he’s played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual. 

Even then, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see it—not that you’ve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole ‘friendly neighbourhood hero’ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they could—

You’re drawn back to the moment he called you ‘sweetheart’, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. You’ve been called it before—by flirty waiters, by creepy customers who don’t understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest. 

Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. He’s waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. “But he flew me around his apartment, Mama!”

“Mhm,” you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he can’t escape. “And did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?”

“Superman can’t time travel, Mama.” It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest. 

You frown down at him. “He can’t? Oh. I didn’t know that. Well… was it just… regular flying, then?” That’s when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realise—“Hey, Mr Clark’s got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?”

Calum just gasps, as if you’ve caught him out on a lie. “He did! He floated me around!”

Maybe you’re just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you don’t believe him. And, for a split second—

Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and you’re just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes. 

“You’re funny, baby.”

“Mama—!” He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. “Go get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or I’ll get Mr Clark to…” Shit, I don’t know. “... I’ll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and you’ll never see it again.”

You know how much that toy means to him—it’s his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calum’s face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, “Don’t call Mr Clark!”  

As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you can’t shake away the warmth in your chest. Clark’s voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mind—

See you next time, sweetheart.

He’d said it like a promise, like he was so sure that you’d be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calum—even if for a moment. 

Yeah. You’re so fucked.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clark’s place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.

And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son. 

Some nights, you bring over dinner—plates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap. 

You don’t stay. 

Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that there’s something between you and there isn’t. He’s just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though you’re still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name. 

Clark Kent is just your neighbour. 

You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual “How are you?”.

So it’s a… surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and you’d heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. You’re sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesn’t even seem phased. 

He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. “You’re  welcome to come in.”

You freeze. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your head—every potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at once—that could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection. 

But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clark’s apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you. 

“You’re staying?” Calum’s voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Krypto’s fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like he’s been waiting for this day to come—his two worlds, colliding. 

“No, not today, baby. I…” You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face. 

Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, “You don’t have work. You’re not in uniform.”

Dammit. “Uh… I was… planning on spending the night watching TV—”

“I have a TV.” He says it like it’s enough to immediately convince you. 

“I know you have a TV,” you throw back. “But I… am watching Netflix.”

You’ve got him now, you’re sure. There’s no way he—

“I also have Netflix,” he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. “So you should come in, sweetheart.” 

There’s that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on. 

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips. 

“Yay!” 

Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clark’s apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity. 

Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you. 

You don’t really know where to go from here. 

Clark’s place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like he’s comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, that’s the most attractive part of him—most men wouldn’t even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.

So he’s a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference. 

“Calum gets his hands into them,” Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at. 

“That’s why I don’t keep anything potted in my house.”

“I was like that when I was younger.” There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. “I loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, ‘Clark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me God—!”

That gets a laugh out of you. “She sounds like my kinda girl.”

He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, “Oh, she’d love you, that’s for sure.” And then, after a second, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”

“No—” you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isn’t an answer at all. “Soda, it is.”

Clark doesn’t wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice. 

His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you. 

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.

You don’t drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. It’s then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.

“Well, colour me surprised,” you say sarcastically, “Clark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.”

That’s a lie. You’ve always known he was capable—you’d never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reaction—a mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himself—sends a thrill down your spine.

Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.

“Unless you count pouring a drink as being a chef—” he shrugs, taking a sip—“Then yeah, I’m a chef.”

After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder that’s already set out perfectly. “My mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning… it was her way or the highway.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. You’re only neighbours after all—acquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.

And though it’s sweet, the way he’s accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.

So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, “Your dog is weird,” as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.

He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you can’t help but find it strange—you’d never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though you’ve always known he’s worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.

Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what they’re up to. “Krypto, no—!”

The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.

“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.

“So,” you echo.

“How’ve you been?” 

But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, “And don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’m not here to judge you.”

You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. “Work’s been good, like normal—”

“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”

“I… have been tired,” you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. It’s your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. “You know, work has been a lot… Cal’s been a lot and there’s only so much I can handle, y’know—”

“I know,” he reassures. He pauses before saying, “Calum’s great company. Most of the time.”

Your brows quirk up. “Most of the time?” 

“He makes a mess more often than not,” he says with a shrug, “but he’s good company. A smart kid.” 

“Ah, he’s always been like that,” you murmur. “Too… everything… for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. He’s a handful, to say the least. But you’ve been a lot of help, you know that, right?”

A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. You’ve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and you’re sure he’s sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.

“I know,” he says simply. 

“And… I’m really thankful for it,” you continue, and the weight of your gratitude—a debt unpaid—weighs down heavy on your shoulders.

“I know,” he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel. 

“And if there’s any way to make it up to you—”

“Sweetheart.” Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catches—between every sweetheart, every lingering look… he hasn’t dared touch you so closely. So familiar.

“Parenthood takes time, that’s what my Pa always tells me,” he rumbles. “The offer always stands—if you ever need help… you know where to find me.”

— 

Clark holds onto his end of the promise. 

The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands. 

He’d made a beeline for the kitchen the second you’d opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needs—and he does. He’s watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.

Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that “it’s a pitstop before I get home”, but a small part of you thinks that he’s just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that he’s not alone. 

You’ve heard bits and pieces of his story since he’s come to Metropolis—his job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl he’s been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because he’s “the handsomest thing they’d ever seen”. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him. You met her once, Lois Lane, when 

And on quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. You’ve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges he’s ever faced. 

Every time he talks about home, there’s always a faraway look in his eyes. Like he’s dreaming about a place he can’t quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. You’re tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parents’ barn. But you don’t pry. It’s a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right over—no matter how close you two get, you’ve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him he’s not yet ready to show. 

You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and you’re a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning. 

In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights it’s particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if he’s noticed you’re running low on something you have yet to replenish—fresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves. 

“You didn’t have to come over,” you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea he’d made you. 

“I don’t mind helping,” he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps that’s the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. He’s willing to give and give and give. You still don’t know how to pay him back. 

Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, “And you don’t need to wash my dishes—”

“I don’t mind helping,” he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. “You’ve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.”

All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that he’s right. 

Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousin’s house. She has kids his age and you’re just glad that he’s connecting with family when you aren’t able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isn’t here, you don’t mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, that’s when you enjoy his company the most. When there’s no Calum or Krypto running amok, and it’s just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence. 

Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search ‘apartment inspo’ on Pinterest—it smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. It’s perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way that’s perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that there’s a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front door—a small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself. 

And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you.  

Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. He’d left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it home—you’ve stopped reminding him too. “In case I need it one day,” he’d told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clark’s presence, and, even though you’re hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.

You’re even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. You’ve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought.  

Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didn’t even realise it. 

“You know… My Ma would love it if I had kids.” 

Clark’s words shatter the silence you’ve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but you’re just glad that he’s willing to open up to you. 

 Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. “What’s the holdup?”

“Work,” he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, you’ve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. It’s endearing, you think. There’s something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered. 

After a moment’s pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Just looking for the right girl, really.”  

“What about Lois—?” 

The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe it’s offense. Or maybe he’s just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind. 

“God, no,” Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, “Lois is… just a friend.”

“Just a friend,” you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. “Sure. Whatever you say, Clark.”

“I swear!” His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate he’d dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. “She—Lois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy my company.”

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. 

The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaper—it’s only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. You’d gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and it’s been your son’s favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.

And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin. 

Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon

Says he misses you, mama xx

A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.

“Hey, Clark?” 

Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.

Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, “I’m sure you’ll find her one day. The ‘right girl’, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.”

“I hope so,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, like he’s been waiting too long for a future that doesn’t seem eager to arrive. 

“Thank you.” Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesn’t shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while it’s there. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies, and you know he means it. 

— 

Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as ‘friends’, you’ve begun to frequent each other’s apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it. 

But nowadays, it’s more about seeing each other than anything else. 

On the days that you’re not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that it’s because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, he’ll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, you’ve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things.  

Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the other’s couch, soda in hand—since neither of you drink much—as you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, it’s—

“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”

The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. There’s a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath. 

Clark has never pried before. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t blame his curiosity, not really. Not when he’s been so patient with you, never going beyond what you need—a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.  

“Not really,” you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. “It’s just been me and him since before he was born, I don’t think he realises someone is… missing from our family.”

“Is there?” He asks softly, but you hear the weight in it—like he’s asking something bigger than you’re ready to answer. 

You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like you’re trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality you’re not willing to face. “I don’t know.”

Maybe.

“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, you’d always looked up to your parents. 

They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple. 

Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in college—you’ve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your mother’s bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place. 

You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your mother’s leisurely pace. Trips to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every night—even though it’s been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.

And ever since you were a young girl, you’d always imagined that the perfect family—your perfect family—would be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way you’d love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes. 

You’d thought you’d get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father don’t exist. 

“I’m… waiting, I guess,” you mumble. “Just looking for the right guy.”

The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. It’s a faint memory, one he can’t quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, “And, this ‘right guy’. What’s he like?”

“He has to love Calum,” you say immediately, certainly. “His love for me means nothing if he doesn’t love Calum.”

Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the moment—something so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotions—a storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentine’s Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets. 

“He’d be kind,” you say wistfully, “the kind of man who loves me because I’m someone worth loving. He’d know what I want before I even say it, and if I’m ever mad, he’ll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And… he should think that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I need to be important to him—he’d bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like I’m his world.”

“Ah, so you want to be spoiled?” He grins down at you. “That’s pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.”

You just roll your eyes. “I prefer the term ‘princess treatment’.”

“And… does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?” He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember. 

Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, “Tall.”

Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”

“Tall,” you repeat with a shrug. “‘Six foot four’ kind of tall. He’d be… ideally, he’d be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just… completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy too—”

He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. “Could you be any more specific?”

You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. “Light eyes… a strong jaw… big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skin—but not too dark to the point where it looks fake, y’know? There’s nothing more unattractive than a fake t—”

But then Clark’s fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.”

It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.

Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and you’re tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun. 

Everything you’d described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want. 

His nose brushes against yours. “Sweetheart… you’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?” 

“Like you want me.” 

You don’t answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth you’re tempted to deny. And then finally, “I don’t look at you like that.”

Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. “Sure, you don’t.”

“I don’t—” you start to protest, but your voice is weak and you’re putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t look at you like I…”

You can’t finish that sentence. 

“Yes,” he says, the smile never fading. “You do. When you think I’m not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.”

There’s a scratch in your throat, one that doesn’t disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. “You’re just… weirdly observant.”

He doesn’t respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. There’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.

“Give me the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide. 

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would end—like it never existed to begin with.

His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. “Sweetheart, are you sure?” 

All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but he notices. He’s right. He always notices.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like he’s holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss. 

And it’s as if something just clicks into place.

One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.

Clark kisses you like he’s memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone aren’t enough.

By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting. 

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base nature—but then you’re kissing again, and this time it’s messier, hungrier.

A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soul—the dam between you has finally broken and you’re both helpless to stop what’s spilling out. 

— 

Somehow, you find yourself on Clark’s couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knows—can already read you better than anyone—that you’re not ready. And he’s the last person to pressure you. So, he’s been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that you’re eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer you’re alone—parted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like it’s the only language you both understand.

Despite it all—the endless passion and desire—there’s a permanent hunger you can’t seem to satiate. 

“We shouldn’t,” you pant out, breaking away from the kiss. 

You’re lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been ‘friends’ for months, and you’re only now telling me ‘we shouldn’t’?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively. 

Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. There’s lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess he’s made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips. 

He’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though he’s enjoying the banter, he wants more. He’s ready for more. 

The idea alone terrifies you. 

It’s been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy you’ve come to know so well. It’s been longer since you were actually invested in one. 

Clark is a good man, there’s no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calum’s father. That’s exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isn’t easy. Every guy you’ve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.

And now you’re laid back on his couch where he’s holding you like he’s already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands. 

That’s what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of you—of Calum, and raising your son by your side—isn’t worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?

“I just—”

He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m sorry.”

A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you can’t help but look away—his stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.

“I don’t know who hurt you,” he murmurs, searching your eyes, “but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say quietly. 

It’s a bold promise after all, one you’re sure he won’t be able to keep. 

“Do you, though?”

“Yes,” but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. 

Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”

This time, you don’t respond. There’s something about the look in his eyes that tells you he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sigh—while unwarranted—is like a church choir, an angel’s chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in it—allowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that he’s ready to savour. 

Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want. 

It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours. 

“Can I show you?” he murmurs, slowly shifting until he’s lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart. 

When you don’t respond, he glances up at you. 

“Can I, sweetheart?” 

A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. It’s slightly forced, but you can’t find your voice—because you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.

“I need words, angel,” Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.

“Clark…” you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on you—there’s a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that you’re ready to throw it all to the wind and say ‘Yes’ to whatever he wants. 

“Say it,” he urges, voice husky but gentle, like you’re porcelain he needs to handle with care. 

You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. “Yes,” you breathe out. “You can.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When it’s clear that you’re not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly. 

“Beautiful,” he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he pleads. “I wanna see. Please, let me see you—”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He immediately goes to tug your panties off. It’s just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, “So pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.”

Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until you’re left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.

“Please, Clark…” 

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slit— 

And the first taste is fucking heaven. 

— 

Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine. 

It’s a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. He’d flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. He’s certain you can’t tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. You’re not a drinker, after all—he’s made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that.  

But he remembers you once mentioning that you haven’t had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you. 

Surprise you, more like, because you technically don’t know he’s coming for a ‘date night’ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousin’s again to spend the night, he’d instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.

The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours. 

“‘Hey, sweetheart’,” he recites to himself, “‘I’m here to… surprise you.’ No, that’s weird. ‘Surprise’? Boring. ‘Clear up your schedule, tonight it’s just me, you and Netflix’—?”

That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that it’s worth, he’s not the flashy type, and he’s terribly uncorny. He’s not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, he’s willing to try.

Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the words—two people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they drive 

Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fear—and repulsion—in your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly who’s at the door.

Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father. 

“You gonna invite me in or what?” The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. He’s tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for days.

 Clark instantly clocks what–or rather, who—he’s looking for. But he knows that Calum’s with your cousin, and he can’t help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.

You don’t seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.

Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, and—

“Clark,” you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.

Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clark’s towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clark’s tall—always has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clark’s stare dead-on. 

Clark’s gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesn’t exist. “Hey,” Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. “I didn’t know you had company.”

You blink. “Dylan was just… stopping by—”

“Dylan?” Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of ‘Dylan’s’ visit .

“I’m Calum’s father.” Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. There’s an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himself—and an arrogance that makes Clark’s blood simmer. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylan’s hand, but it’s brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.

“Clark Kent,” he says, taking Dylan’s hand gingerly. “I’m her upstairs neighbour.”

“He takes care of Calum when I’m at work sometimes—” you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, “So, what brings you around?”

“I was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didn’t realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.”

Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylan’s smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so stressed—Clark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex. 

“Funny.” Clark’s tone is flat, unamused. “Because last I checked, fathers who actually show up don’t need to justify it.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, “I don’t need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone else’s kid.”

Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way you’ve hurt her. “I take care of your son when she’s working. That’s hardly playing house.”

“You telling me you haven’t fucked her yet? Haven’t even wanted to?”

The venom—and truth—in his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesn’t seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark. 

“Pretty boy’s all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like he’s on a date, and you’re seriously trying to tell me he hasn’t been in your pants.” Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. “C’mon, babe.” 

“Get your dirty hands off her,” Clark growls, wrenching Dylan’s arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clark’s fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other man’s body. “Don’t touch her.”

“Or what?” 

“Stop it, you two,” you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. “This isn’t a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.”

It’s clear, by just your voice alone, that you’re not putting up with their childish argument. “Dylan—” you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your son’s father isn’t about to back off. 

“Don’t.” Clark cuts in to hold you back.

“So you’re telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, he’s your daddy or something too—?” 

Clark’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylan’s shirt. Dragging him forward until they’re face to face, Clark growls, “You disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time… and I won’t be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.”

He leans in closer, his grip on Dylan’s shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isn’t violent—or at least, the Clark you know isn’t violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night. 

Dylan opens his mouth to protest. 

Wrong choice. 

Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like he’s about to piss himself out of fear.

“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.

“But—”

“Get inside.”

You’ve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyone—let alone you—the way he’s looking at Dylan now. Like there’s something about Dylan’s presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, don’t even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment. 

The moment it closes, you hear it. 

Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.

Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, no—you hear. 

You wait one… two… three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know it’s Clark speaking but you can’t tell what he’s saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, “Okay, yes, I will—”.

Then a thud as—you’re safe to assume—Clark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, before—

“Open the door.”

Clark’s voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way in—though at this point, he’d be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument. 

“What the hell was that, Clark?” 

You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like you’re scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. You’ve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quickly—a moment ago, you didn’t even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.

“He was an ass.”

Clark says it like it’s explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie you’d put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where you’d been sitting and it’s clear you hadn’t been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movie—some dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. It’s background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop. 

That’s when you notice it.

“You brought wine.”

He doesn’t respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. “I wanted to treat you.”

You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like it’s getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You don’t know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for. 

“I wanted to,” he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. It’s clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, “I didn’t hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.”

“He’s harmless—” you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when it’s clear that he’s not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.

Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadn’t even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stutters—not because he’s right, but because he’s him. 

When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. “I wanted to.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t push you. Simply waits in silence until you’re ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if you’re not keen to talk but, for him, you’ll open up. 

“Dylan… he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didn’t even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.” You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together forever—that’s just how it is when you’re young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he just—he left, Clark.”

A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. “It’s not as if I’m still in love with him or anything—he’s a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but I—”

You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. “It’s just—honestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?”

He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freely—anything to distract you. 

Clark doesn’t say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear he’s willing to get yapped off. 

“I was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,” you murmur. “I ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasn’t ideal but we made it work.”

“Jesus,” Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. “You were a baby—”

“I was old enough to know how to use protection,” you correct, “and I paid the price for not using it. But… I don’t regret it.”

Your gaze flicks to Calum’s bedroom door, carefully painted blue and red—Superman’s colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldn’t change any of the interior, you’d still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow ‘S’ painted with the brushstroke of a mother’s dedicated hand. 

Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, he’d been obsessed. 

Truthfully, you haven’t taken much to your son’s interests—god only knows where you could find the time to. But that’s not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happy—Superman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. He’s dressed up as Metropolis’s hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume. 

“He’s my blessing. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

“You’re a good mother.” His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that he’s here—always has been. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you concede, and before he can protest, you say, “Calum loves you. You’re… more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.”

It’s a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Cal’s whole life. 

Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.

“It’s been hard,” you say quietly. 

He just nods. “I know.”

“And… at first, the…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.

I’m here, it says, it’s okay.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. “After giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like me; I didn’t feel like a mother. I just… felt like a fraud. But you… Clark, you’re the first person who’s made me feel normal in the last four years. Like I’m not alone in this, and I—I couldn’t be more grateful.” 

“You’re worth it,” he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. “You and Calum, both.”

For the first time in a long time, you believe him. 

—

It’s a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. You’d given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and it’s safe to say that he’s enjoying the privilege. Very much so. 

The smell of raisin toast—your favourite go-to breakfast—drifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. You’re sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, “In here!” the moment you hear the doorknob turn. 

He doesn’t announce himself, but you immediately know it’s him. Not just because you’ve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this point—every curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. It’s engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever he’s unimpressed with something. “You made your own tea.”

“You took ages to get here,” you say. 

He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourself—he much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know it’s really just princess treatment. “How’d you sleep?”

“The bed was cold,” you tease. “I was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and he’s like, super sexy—have you seen him?”

He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clark’s mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. It’s far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, but if he’s realised, he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls away—albeit a little reluctantly.

“I do not hog all the blankets,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.

He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, “Brat.”

The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with ease—he finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the act—even though it’s just fucking toast and butter—warms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.

—

“He thinks you’re Superman,” you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where you’d already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. It’s become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each other’s apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when you’ve got work, but lately, you’ve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else. 

Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You don’t notice—of course you don’t. He’s too good at masking his emotions and you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto. 

So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. “What? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?” 

You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. “Honestly, I don’t know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasn’t as imaginative as him at this age—” That’s when you turn to him with a smirk. “Are you brainwashing my son or something?”

He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “The only thing I’m teaching him are some manners.” He frowns jokingly. “Haven’t you realised, sweetheart? I’ve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.”

“Ah,” you play along, “of course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.”

Clark’s pretend-frown deepens. “He only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.”

You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clark’s living room floor. “God, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.”

“Hey,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re real good with my kid, Superman.”

It’s only a joke, but Clark’s heart clenches at the truth behind the name. “He makes it easy.” He pauses, before murmuring, “You both do.”

You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s weighing what not to say. 

“Okay, but… seriously,” you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. “Are you like… friends with Superman, or something?” 

He doesn’t say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.

Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clark’s still silent so you continue speaking. “I know you interview him a lot, right? For work.”

“Mhm.”

There’s something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bit— “So do you, like… bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?”

“He does!” Calum giggles, but the older man doesn’t answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.

“I suppose that Superman is…. my friend,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. “Started calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”

That’s the thing: it is. It’s the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew. 

“Does he visit often?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s on an… availability basis.”

“That’s nice of him,” you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. “You should introduce me to him one day.”

“Absolutely not,” Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calum—the little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams ‘Don’t you dare say a word’, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal ‘shut your mouth and throw away the key’  motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping  back in his chair. 

“Why?” Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. “Is someone jealous?”

Clark’s neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. “I… that’s not why—”

You don’t think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed “jealousy” endearing. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. “Superman’s just a guy in spandex. I already have you.”

—

Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet. 

A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you haven’t had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isn’t flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day. 

Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky. 

It’s not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble you’ve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet. 

“Shit,” you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.

But it’s then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards you—and in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square. 

A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.

“What are you doing?” Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. “Run!”

You don’t hesitate.

The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction time—you’re fast now, faster than you’ve ever been, at responding to threats like it’s second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything else—the quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.

It takes a short while, but eventually, there’s a whoosh in the sky—a telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attention—the ‘S’ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.

Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you can’t bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way that—

Oddly enough, it seems like he’s getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like he’s heading straight for you.

Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that you’re frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, you’re flying.

A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits you—Superman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... it’s gonna be okay. I’m getting you to safety.

Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesn’t pay it much attention.

It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like you’re precious cargo—there’s a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.

Home. He’s taken you home.

You turn to face him where he’s still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, you’re sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyes—his stare doesn’t put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, that’s the most unsettling part of it all.

“How…” There’s a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. “How do you know where I live?” 

His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and there’s a tiny, knowing smile on his face—one you’ve seen aimed at you for months now.

That’s when it all clicks. 

“Clark.”

His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, you’re going to say something you’ll regret.

That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up close—at his place, when he’d answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. “A work call,” he’d said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, you’re sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now. 

Superman—Clark, you correct yourself mentally—floats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. “Sweetheart…”

He doesn’t deny it.

“You should’ve told me,” you say quietly, almost accusatorily. 

“I wanted to—” he tries to defend himself, but he doesn’t look all that remorseful for lying.

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt. “You made the choice to…” ‘Lie’ feels wrong. Too strong a word. “You made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your ‘friend’. “You let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just… you lied to me.”

“That wasn’t my intention, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret. 

“I think your friends are looking for you,” you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lantern’s got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monster’s eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, they’re not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.

Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.

“They’re not my friends—” He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. “I mean, they are, but they’re not…”

Important? Special?

You?

You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, “They need you, Clark. Go… save the city, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Please—” Clark’s face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like you’re not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.

“Okay,” he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay, but this isn’t over. We’re talking about this later.”

All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, you’re not quite sure if it’s a conversation you’re looking forward to. 

—

That night, you find yourself sitting at Clark’s dining table. 

The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you would’ve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He’d turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful face—half fondness, half amused—and pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.

Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him. 

Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you. 

It hits you then, the weight of it. 

Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie. 

Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance that’s settled between you.  

Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.

“You look different,” you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and you’re finally seeing him.

The real Clark.

Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. You’d once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Superman—himself. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact once—sky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little. 

Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me you’re sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasn’t just a lie.

“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” 

He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. “No, I’m not.”

Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. “I just… I just wanted to protect you.”

“I let you around my son—” I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything that’s happened—the danger he’s put Calum in, time and time again—you still love him.

You’ve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be true—possible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldn’t have to come with this kind of cost.

“I would never do anything to harm him,” he pleads. “I care about Calum, I swear I do.”

“It’s not about harming him, Clark,” you snap, “it’s about the fact that you lied to me! It’s about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Superman—regardless of if it was a joke or not—you told me ‘no’.”

“Sweetheart…” He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, “I love that kid, okay? I didn’t plan to, but I do, just like I love yo—”

“Don’t.” 

The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate he’d made you untouched. “I’d prefer it if you just… stay away from us. Please.”

Clark doesn’t listen to you. The thing about him is, he never does—too stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. “You’re the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world better—because the two of you deserve a world that’s good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldn’t I try?” 

“Because you can put us in danger—”

“And I can protect you!” The words end in a crack, like it’s taking everything to just keep himself together. “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows you’re vulnerable—a bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.

“I know,” you respond firmly—you refuse to let yourself waver. “I know you’re not him but that doesn’t mean you won’t break me the same way.”

Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t mean you won’t leave pieces of me behind when you go. I won’t put myself through that again.”

His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. “But I won’t go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could get hurt, Clark!” You burst out, and this time, you can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill over. “You could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“I saved your life today!” 

“You broke my trust today!” 

“Sweetheart—” he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… keep my distance. I promise.” 

He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isn’t there—resting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. It’s a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nights—a quiet only you could give. Well… gave.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, lower this time, like he knows it’s not enough. Like it never has been.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyes—the one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul. 

Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You can’t bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that he’s more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clark’s waiting arms.

When he realises that Krypto isn’t leaving your side  anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppy’s ears perking up—almost Pavlovian in the act. That’s when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lips—the kind people give when they’ve already made up their mind—and he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clark’s side.

“You don’t need to go,” Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. It’s not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.

You finally glance at him. A mistake.

He’s standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like you’re his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, he’d welcome you home with open arms—where, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, he’d let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love you’re not ready to give. 

And dear God, but that’s worse.

“I do, Clark,” you whisper. “I really do.”

—

Dinner is a simple affair—it’s been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate. 

“Baby,” you start, “you need to eat it—”

“I am eating,” he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. He’s gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the sky—a glimpse of his favourite person. 

“Calum.”

Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you won’t tolerate his attitude.

A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpected—Clark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, “Cal, listen to your mother.” His voice—quiet but unshakable—would cut through the tension because that’s what Clark’s always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the ‘bad cop’ act wore thin and your patience ran dry.  

You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasn’t looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His anger—and his pain—is clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. He’s struggling as much as you are. Now’s not the time to be selfish.

“Hey,” you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. “Look at me, Calum. What’s wrong?”

He’s still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if it’s somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is about—you just want to hear it from his own lips. 

“Look, I’m sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddy—” 

“He said… he said he loves you,” Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, “I love him too.”

You’ve never said those words out loud—not to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you can’t deny or take back, and a promise that’ll never be fulfilled, all at once.

“Then why can’t he come over?” His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. “You said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And you’re being mean to him—”

“That’s different, Calum. You’re my son—”

“And he’s Mr Clark!” 

It doesn’t slip past you, the fact that he says ‘Mr Clark’. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the ‘Mr’, and Clark had simply become ‘Clark’. 

Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just don’t know what it means anymore. 

“Honey…” you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Mr Clark… he broke Mama’s trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?” 

Calum doesn’t respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you can’t show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smile—he can’t tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesn’t make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when it’s not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s a pain you haven’t felt in a long, long time—not since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you. 

“Mr Clark broke Mama’s trust,” you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. “And… I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I can’t do that if Mr Clark lied to me.”

Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.“But I want him!” 

“I know, baby,” you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. “I miss him too.”

You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. It’s hard to soothe a child who’s hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesn’t want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until you’re terrified you’ll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together. 

—

Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men you’ve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life. 

There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and security—around him, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.

For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. He’d been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed help—or when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after you’d spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself. 

You’re not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. You’ve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy who’s become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you. 

Before Clark had ripped it away from you.

The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you. 

But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clark’s arms. It’s a dangerous thing—imagination—and it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now. 

A little part of you knows that he’d answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. It’d be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you though—the one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimistic—hopes that he wouldn’t. Because answering means he still cares. It means that he’s not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesn’t feel guilty about breaking your trust. 

It’s late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. You’ve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but you’re not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes. 

That’s when you hear it. 

Two heavy knocks on your door. 

Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. “Coming!”

The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.

Clark. 

He’s the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight. 

He’s not wearing his glasses. 

He looks different without them, you’d realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden. 

 The second thing you notice is that he’s tired—his eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you. 

The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. It’s a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.

Your favourite kind. 

“I… I got these for you,” he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No ‘hi’. No ‘I missed you’. Just ‘here’. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight. 

As if it hasn’t been weeks since you’ve seen him, let alone spoken to him. 

Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. “Why?”

“You said…” he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. “You told me that day… you’d want flowers every Sunday.”

Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before it’s tamped down. That was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d remember that conversation, let alone act on it. 

“By the man I love.” It comes out flat, blunt in a way you don’t recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all. 

“And I love you,” he rasps softly. “That’s excuse enough for me.”

 “You don’t have a right to say that.” Not anymore.

The venom in your words makes Clark’s heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. He’s certain it still would—you always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his. 

And now this is what you’ve become—what he’s done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he could’ve held together on his own if he’d just given himself the chance.  

“You’re right,” he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a moment’s pause would seem too much like hesitation—or worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”

His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clark’s palm is big—always has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protected—warm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature. 

Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says lowly. “I never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please… don’t keep me away. Don’t make me spend another day apart from you. I can’t survive that. I won’t. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. You’re the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.”

Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than you’d like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before. 

 “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”

You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clark’s love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylan’s. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.

That had been Clark. 

And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hope—to wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?

He notices your flinch—and immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. “Hey… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Because that’s Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadn’t been as grateful as you should’ve been during your time together. Maybe that’s where your faults first started—tiny cracks that quickly, and quietly,  

“I’m scared,” you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak. 

He doesn’t need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blows—rolling punch after punch until you’re bruised and battered and broken.

So you can’t help but to blurt out, “What if you realise you don’t want me and Calum?” 

Clark doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s never going to happen,” he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head. 

“He’s not your son.”

“I love him like one,” he counters.

There’s a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clark’s arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that he’s always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feel—that  he inflicted on you—and carry it for you. 

“Stop that,” Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. “Stop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Don’t you see? Sweetheart, you’ve made Metropolis home for me.”

Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that he’s always looked at you with.

“Clark…” you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, you’re a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until you’re sharing the same breath. You don’t let yourself hesitate. “I know.”

“You know but you’re not believing it—” Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.

“Mama?”

The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clark’s hold. Somehow, it feels like you’re sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldn’t be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.

Calum’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. “Mama, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, baby,” you say softly. It’s hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his son—for years, you’d prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that it’s Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calum’s shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. “Go back inside—”

“What’s Mr Clark doin’ here?” Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like he’s not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.

“He’s… just dropping by, Cal.” The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesn’t quite buy it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been the best liar.

He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you here to make Mama happy again?”

The expression in Clark’s eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, he’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue.  

“If your mother wants to be happy, then…”

Then I’ll stay, is what he doesn’t say.

“In,” you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, “I’ll see you around.”

But you both know that’s a lie—you’ve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you don’t pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. It’s simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when you’re both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator that’ll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.

Clark, for all that it’s worth, doesn’t seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongue—too painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.

For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him. 

“Let me try again,” Clark pleads, words rushed like he’s worried that taking too long will shatter the moment—or worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. “No secrets, no lies—just us.”

It’s tempting. God knows, it’s tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks he’s given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. “I know I hurt you—”

“Stop that,” you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought you’d left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isn’t aimed at Clark alone—you know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.

“Just… stop.” The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. “You made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.”

Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance. 

Clark’s eyes soften when he realises that you’re offering him a middle ground—a chance to start over again.

He waits for a heartbeat.

Then two.

And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. “Can I come inside?”

You pause—hesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, “I haven’t washed dishes in three days, though.”

Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. “Why am I not surprised?”

He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet click—for good.

@nightwingblvd — feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist! my requests are open for clark kent, dick grayson, jason todd and bruce wayne

[cryptictongues]

I FUCKING LOVE “THE FATHER THAT STEPPED UP” TROPES!!!!! THIS WAS EVERYTHING I NEEDED GOOD GOD