DC fanfic side blog because i cant handle having all of my hyperfixations in a single blog, so i need to separate them 21, genderfluid (any pronouns) Please send asks!!
Uhhhhhhh batfam/DC character fic that I’ve had brewing in my head for awhile but never did anything about it until now
Fem!reader x various DC characters (romantic and/or platonic depending on the characters i include)
Also reader is a theatre kid in this, because you have no choice and you’ll read why anyways
Edit: now tagged under #costume designer!reader
Edit: Everything not related to Costume Design reader, but still headcanons n stuff is under #my writing
⚠️beware lots of parentheses because I have ADHD and many extra thoughts⚠️
So, reader is majoring in costume design for theatre (wow self insert much) at Gotham University (not originally from Gotham because i think it’s funnier) and she wants to interview villains from Arkham, vigilantes, and heros for like a portfolio thing (I’m tired and making this up as i go shhhh)
And so she interviews the villains first because it would be more difficult to get their trust if they interviewed the heroes first
So, they get permission from the asylum somehow (probably by Bruce Wayne) and she gets to take notes and record their conversations but specifically creates a contact that the reader and whatever interviewee both sign that makes an agreement no information will be traded or bought from either parties
So reader starts with the villains, moves to the vigilantes, and finally the heroes because they will be the easiest to gain their trust
Probably traveling around to Metropolis and interviewing Superman and Wonder Woman
I definitely want to include the batfam and the justice league, Ghostmaker, maybe even Vigilante just because i think he’s funny (I KNOW he’s in Washington or whatever but he’ll find a way)
Damien Wayne is a kid, Jason is Red Hood, Tim is… happening and i don’t know about Duke but I’ll figure it out
So of course the word gets out about the fact that a college students is INTERVIEWING THE FUCKING VILLAINS IN ARKHAM, and reporter people are going absolutely bonkers
Bombarding reader on the way to the asylum and only leaving her alone when she gets to the gates with her special visitor ID, so maybe Batman might even make it a point to escort reader to ensure her safety
Now, at first, the Arkham patients are EXTREMELY suspicious over reader, questioning if she’s like an informant for the heroes. But after she gains their trust they actually start having fun answering her questions and telling her stories.
The villains are basically befriending reader and going “if anyone fucks with you, I’ve got people on the streets that can fuck THEM up”
So far I’ve only got ideas for the villain part, but I’ll get to the vigilantes and heroes later
The only thing I’m worried about is timelines and how much knowledge i actually have on the DC universe but I’m hyperfixating on it now so I’m just kinda doing it for the shits and giggles
DC fanboys scare me so stay away
Uhhh i have more little ideas for this but I’ll save that for another post because I don’t want to try and organize this
Adrian’s grip on your hips was iron-tight, fingers digging into your skin as he drove into you. Your face was buried deep in the pillows, muffling the broken cries that tore from your throat with every thrust. He had you ass up, back arched, completely at his mercy—while he fucked you like a man on a mission. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by your desperate, whimpering moans.
He was obsessed with the way you sounded when he hit that perfect spot inside you, and right now he was nailing it on every single thrust, grinding deep and rolling his hips just right to make your legs shake uncontrollably.
“Fuck, that’s it—louder,” he growled, voice low and ragged with effort, a wild grin you couldn’t see stretching across his face. “C’mon, scream for me. I wanna hear—”
The obnoxious opening notes of Barbie Girl suddenly blasted from his phone on the nightstand.
Adrian didn’t even slow down. If anything, he tightened his hold on your hips and kept pounding into you, dragging another sharp cry from your lips as he reached over and snatched the phone. He glanced at the screen, eyes lighting up.
Peacemaker.
Without missing a beat, he swiped to answer, still buried to the hilt inside you. His voice came out bright, cheerful, and utterly casual, like he was lounging on the couch instead of railing you into the mattress.
“Hey, dude! What’s up? You miss me already?”
There was a long pause on the other end.
There was a long, stunned pause on the other end. Then Chris’s voice, equal parts confused and horrified:
“…Dude. Are you watching porn right now?”
Adrian barked out a laugh, the sudden jolt making you whine and clench around him. He gave your ass a quick, soothing pat.
“Oh shit—sorry, baby,” he mumbled, half-apologetic, before immediately picking up the pace again. His voice stayed cheerful and completely unbothered. “Don’t be ridiculous, man. I would never watch porn while on the phone with you. I’m fucking my girlfriend.”
Another thrust nailed that sweet spot dead-on. Your back arched sharply as you pushed back against him with a needy moan. Adrian huffed, gripping your hip tighter to keep you in place.
“Jesus, hold on a second,” he told you, like you were the one interrupting. Then, back to Chris: “Yeah, man, she’s right here. Being very impatient, actually. You’d think she’d have some manners when I’m on the phone with my best friend.”
Chris made a strangled noise. “Adrian, what the fuck—”
Adrian just laughed again, low and breathless, clearly having the time of his life. He leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against your back so he could speak right next to your ear while still holding the phone.
“Say hi, babe,” he grinned, giving you a deep, filthy roll of his hips that ripped a loud, broken moan from your throat.
“Adrian, I’m hanging up—”
“No, wait! Did you need something? Is this about the mission? Or did you just call to cockblock me? Because that’s kinda fucked up, dude.”
You turned your head just enough to shoot him a wrecked, furious glare over your shoulder. Adrian blinked at you, looking genuinely confused by your outrage.
Chris sighed—the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who had suffered too much. “Just… call me back when you’re done being a freak.”
“Roger that!” Adrian said happily. “Might be a while though. She’s really into it tonight.”
He hung up, tossed the phone onto the floor, and immediately buried both hands in your hair, tugging your head back as he started fucking you even harder. You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets.
“A-Adrian—you can’t just answer the phone when we’re—fuck—”
“But it was Peacemaker,” he groaned, voice strained as he picked up the pace. “I had to—ah, shit, I’m so close…”
His hand slid from your hair, smoothing down your sweat-slicked back before gripping your hips tight. He slammed into you with deep, punishing strokes, trying to bury himself as far as physically possible.
“Adrian—” you gasped.
“Don’t wanna come in you till you come first,” he panted, voice wrecked. “C’mon, baby… I can feel you getting so close—”
he shifted angles and drove in even deeper. The new position had the head of his cock dragging perfectly against that spot with every thrust, sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.
Adrian’s grip on your hips was bruising, using the leverage to pull you back onto him in time with his punishing rhythm. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding filled the room again, louder now that he was chasing both your pleasure and his own with single-minded intensity.
“That’s it,” he moaned against the back of your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—gonna milk me dry if you keep that up.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Every deep stroke pushed you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling violently. A particularly hard thrust punched a raw, desperate cry out of you, and Adrian moaned in response, the sound low and filthy.
“Yeah? Right there?” He did it again, grinding against you in tight circles. “Let me hear it, baby. Come on my coc, please.”
The coil snapped.
Your orgasm crashed over you, ripping a loud, shattered moan from your throat as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. Pleasure flooded your body in pulsing waves, making your vision blur and your legs give out. Adrian cursed loudly, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, drawing out every last tremor.
“Fuck—yes—, just like that—” His voice was hoarse, strained
Before you could even catch your breath, he pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back. Then he was sliding back inside you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he braced his forearms on either side of your head. His face hovered above yours—flushed, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, that wild, adoring grin still plastered across his lips.
“Hi, beautiful,” he breathed, like he hadn’t just railed you senseless while on the phone with his best friend. He rolled his hips slowly, savoring the way you fluttered around him in the aftershocks.
You could only whimper, oversensitive and dazed, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. Adrian’s pace quickly built again, chasing his own release now that you’d fallen apart for him. His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, more desperate.
“Shit, I’m—fuck—” He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes locked on your face like he needed to watch every second of your pleasure. “Gonna fill you up, baby. You ready?”
You nodded frantically, nails digging into his back.
With a guttural groan, Adrian slammed in one final time and came hard, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside you. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering broken curses and praise against your lips between messy kisses.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he finally collapsed half on top of you, still buried inside.
Thenl he reached blindly for the discarded phone on the floor, checked the screen, and let out a soft laugh.
“Chris texted,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice sleepy and satisfied…
Tagging everyone who commented on my wip post: @backstabbvrs @spinalcord @adoresami @scarlett-rivers @selina00kyle @loserdollyz
Warnings: praise kink, hand pinning, sex while a literal crime is happening outside, reckless vigilante behavior, inspired by a scene in Narcos, MDNI
a/n: I fear Jason would actually do this in one of his more deranged moods. The others are probably more willing to leave you high and dry, finish the job, and come back later. Jason knows Bruce raised enough children to cover his ass.
Jason Todd is probably one of the few vigilantes who would rather finish what he started with you than rush off to help with the burning building caused by a car explosion a few streets away.
Don't start thinking that Jason doesn't care about Gotham. He loves Gotham, actually. Enough that the city has shaved years off his life and been the reason for his demise more than once. But does he care enough to pull out of the sweet, velvety walls of your pussy?
No, actually.
Bruce raised enough Bat-children for that particular reason.
You tried to get up when the first blast rattled the windows, but Jason was far faster. One broad hand caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head while the other dragged your ankle to its rightful place over his shoulder, rough fingers curling around your calf as he settled his weight over you again.
"Jason, you have to go. What even was that?"
"Car bomb," he practically purred, pushing the leaky tip of his cock back into your pussy like the explosion had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
You tried to form a protest. Really, you did. But your protest amounted to little more than slapping one of his biceps when he cooed about how wet you were for him. His hips moved in slow, lazy strokes, making it increasingly difficult to remember the rest of the lecture you had prepared for him.
Another siren screamed somewhere outside, followed by the distant crackle of fire and shouting. Red and blue light flashed through the broken blinds of his safehouse, moving over Jason's naked body in restless streaks. It illuminated the sweat running between his pecs and caught in the pale scars scattered across his chest as he folded you deeper beneath him.
His green eyes never left your face, not even when another siren joined the first, while Gotham continued doing what Gotham did best.
Falling apart.
"Y-you need to go, Jay," you insisted, forcing the words between the moans slipping from your lips as he continued hitting that weak spot
"In a minute," he answered with a wink and a firm squeeze around your wrists.
God, Jason could be mean when he wanted to be. Today just happened to be one of those days.
Apparently, a minute meant whenever he was finished pulling every pretty sound he could from your lips, listening to the wet drag of your pussy around his cock whenever he found the spot that curled your toes.
"Couldn't leave you like this. So needy," he muttered against your throat, planting a constellation of kisses along your skin. The scrape of his stubble followed each one, rough enough to leave you warm before his lips soothed over the same spot. "Look at you. So wet for me."
"Jay," you breathed.
His palm pressed against the bulge his cock made low in your stomach, buried so deep inside you that you could barely breathe. You had a perfectly good argument prepared about how wrong it was for him to still be inside you while people were probably panicking in the streets, but then he pushed your leg farther back and rolled his hips again, and suddenly civic responsibility became a very difficult concept to hold on to.
"Gorgeous," he mused against your throat, kissing the hollow beneath your collarbone.
He finally released your hands, only so you could claw at his broad shoulders while he cupped your breasts. Jason muttered under his breath about how soft you were and how perfectly your breasts fit into his palms while you melted beneath him.
"I know, baby." His thumb and forefinger circled your nipple as it budded beneath his touch with a soft tug. "Gotham's falling apart." His teeth grazed your throat, leaving behind a mark that would darken by morning. "It does that every night."
The radio on the floor beside his helmet and your overnight bag had been going off nonstop by then, voices overlapping through bursts of static.
"Red Hood, respond."
Tim.
"Hood, I didn't come to Gotham to pick up after you. Where the hell are you?"
Dick.
Obviously, Jason was far too occupied to turn off the radio or do anything about the situation outside.
His grip around your breast tightened as his thrusts grew harder, matching the desperate movement of your hips. The mattress shifted beneath you while he watched your face with an unbearably smug, yet adoring look.
"Pretty thing," he groaned, eyes falling shut as his dark brows pinched together. He muttered about how close he was before catching your mouth with his. "What if I just let the city burn for you, hm?"
A burst of gunfire cracked through the radio and echoed from two streets down, sharp enough to make you flinch and tighten around his cock. Jason only paused long enough to listen, still toying with your breast as he cocked his head slightly.
"Modified M4," he confirmed against your pout. Another burst followed, as did his hips. "Cheap suppressor, too."
The radio crackled again with several increasingly annoyed demands to know where he was. Jason groaned for an entirely different reason and pressed his forehead against yours. His fingers left your breast and slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease.
Your back arched before you could stop it.
"There you go," he praised, his mouth brushing across your cheek. "That's it, dove. Let me feel you."
His roughened thumb moved in slow circles, cruel and steady.
"You gonna come on my cock?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "That what you need?"
The words kept spilling out between kisses, each one rougher and more desperate than the last.
Then Dick mentioned something about tracking Jason's suit and dragging him out himself.
That finally got a reaction.
Not the reaction Dick wanted, obviously.
Jason hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you upright until you were straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your sides as he guided you down again.
"Then we'd better finish before he gets here."
"Jason, I swear to God - "
"Yeah?" His green eyes glinted beneath lowered lashes. "Tell him how good I make you feel."
You made an offended little noise, but Jason only laughed and caught your lower lip between his teeth before kissing you again.
"That's my baby," he murmured, hands tightening around your waist as his thrusts grew meaner beneath you. Chest pressed against yours. The sound of skin hitting skin and all the lewd noises of your cunt filling the room. "So soft. So perfectly made for me. Don't know how you expect me to leave when you feel this good."
Outside, sirens wailed. The radio kept spitting out his name. Red light slid through the blinds while Gotham tried to tear itself apart a few streets away.
"You are genuinely the worst vigilante in Gotham."
"But I'm your favorite," Jason laughed as he pushed himself impossibly deeper.
You could bite, scratch, curse, and remind him that people were literally depending on him, but he answered every protest with another kiss and harsh thrust.
He was not leaving until both of you came.
And even then, Jason Todd had never been particularly good at stopping after one round.
Thinking of ovulating so that night you approach your sweet gentle boyfriend in bed for sex
"Of course, baby. Let me prep you—"
"I don't need it," you say suddenly, pulling down your shorts to reveal your bare cunt and the slick pooling at the top of your thighs.
"O-Oh," he replies, face burning up. "W-Well then, at least let me stretch you out first—"
You say his name firmly, making him clamp his mouth shut.
"I don't want your mouth. I don't want your fingers." You suddenly palm at his groin, running your hand over his throbbing member. "I want your cock. I want you to fuck me as hard as you can for as long as you can. I want to cum so much that I can't move after. Can you do that?"
He's never heard you talk like this, so crude and demanding, but god if it doesn't make him want to give you everything you ask for and more.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
FRESHLY MARRIED WAYNE COUPLE SPOTTED IN IBIZA ON THEIR HONEYMOON!
bruce wayne fangirls, prepare your hearts— and perhaps a box of tissues— because gotham’s most eligible bachelor is officially (and devastatingly) off the market!
newlyweds bruce wayne and his stunning wife were spotted soaking up the mediterranean sun this week during a luxurious honeymoon getaway in ibiza. the couple, who tied the knot in what many are calling ‘the wedding of the decade’, appeared completely smitten as they enjoyed a rare break from their high-profile lives
fresh paparazzi photos from the couple’s honeymoon show bruce wayne and his wife enjoying a private yacht getaway off the coast of ibiza— and its safe to say neither of them seemed paricualry intrested in anything besides each other
in one photo currently sending social media into a blaze, mrs wayne can be seen perched on top of her husband while the pair float in the ocean on a red and white inflatable ring. the billionaire’s arms are wrapped securely around her waist as the two stare at one another from inches apart, seemingly oblivious to the photographers documenting the moment. witnesses claim the newlyweds spent nearly the entire afternoon attached to the hip
“he literally wouldn’t take his hands off her” one source reported. “not that she seemed to mind”
another set of photos reveals the couple lounging together beneath a shaded cabana aboard their yacht. and what began as a quiet afternoon sunbathing quickly turned into an intimate cuddle session, with mrs wayne stretched across her husband’s chest and his arms holding her close. the billionaire appeared completely relaxed— a rare sight for the notoriously reserved businessman
however, the internet’s favorite images remain the now-viral ocean snapshots, gotham royalty floating together in the middle of the crystal blue water as two people completely wrapped up in their own little world. sources are saying that the honeymoon has been intentionally low-key despite the luxury surroundings, with the pair opting to spend most of their time swimming, sunbathing, and enjoying each other’s company away from gotham’s constant spotlight
judging by the photographers, they’re succeeding. as for bruce wayne’s devoted fanbase? our thoughts are with them during this difficult time
synopsis: clark bending you over the counter, fingering you underneath your clothes just to give you a quick orgasm and a good start to your day.
cw: porn and no plot, fingering (f!receiving), little bit of dry humping, squirting, clark jizzes his pants <3
wc: 966
a/n: guess who just finished the longest semester ever??? finally, i have time to dedicate myself to writing superman porn ☺️
It starts off as a normal morning, just you and Clark rushing around the kitchen, trying to clean everything up after breakfast before you each go to work.
You've got a bit of time to spare, and Clark just wants to have a little moment of peace with you. You've both been so busy, and he misses you.
So while you're wiping the kitchen counter down, he hugs you from behind, just placing little kisses on your nape.
“You smell nice,” he says against your warm skin, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume. “Sweet.”
You hum softly, giving up on your task to lean back against him, just enjoying the moment.
But Clark can't hold back when it comes to you.
One of his hands slips down a little, moving from your stomach, lower, until his fingers graze the waistband of your pants.
“Clark,” you say quietly in warning, feeling your body grow hot at his touch. “We have to go.”
“We've got a while,” he murmurs as form of explanation, his fingers deftly undoing the button and the zipper on your pants.
“We'll be late for work,” you say weakly, warmth spreading between your thighs.
“We'll be fine,” he replies, grazing his teeth over your ear as his hand slips under your panties. His fingers slide over your cunt, gently parting your folds to press against your clit in neat little circles.
You let out a soft moan, hips pushing forward against his hand.
Clark's mouth trails down the side of your neck, kissing and sucking your skin, feeling himself getting harder and harder as you mewl and whine lowly.
His fingers move a little lower, prodding at your entrance, feeling your slick slowly starting to drip out.
“Oh, baby,” he groans lowly, his teeth lightly digging into your neck in a soft bite. “You feel so good.”
You moan, hands grabbing onto the counter, your hips pressing against his fingers. “Clark...fuck...”
“I know,” he says lowly, his voice rough, as he starts grinding his hips against your ass. He groans at the friction against his hard cock, and he can feel the front of his boxers already damp with precum.
You're making soft little sounds that go straight to his groin, his name falling from your lips in little gasps.
Gently, Clark eases you forward to bend over the counter, one hand on your hip, the other one sliding a finger into your wet pussy.
Your cunt welcomes him eagerly, walls warm and pulsing as his finger delves deep in and then curls, finding your g-spot with ease.
He gently pushes your foot with his to spread your legs farther apart, giving him more room.
With every breath he takes, he can smell your arousal, mixed with the scent of your body lotion and your shampoo. It makes him insane, makes him wish he could rip your pants off, sit you on this counter and eat you out like you deserve. But that'll lead to him fucking you, and then you'll both definitely be late to work.
You moan loud, thighs shaking as Clark adds a second finger into you, thrusting and curling them perfectly, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit.
A familiar heat spreads through your body, thick and intense as it fills your womb. It grows hotter as Clark fucks you with his fingers, pushing you towards the edge.
“Clark,” you gasp, but he already knows. He can feel your gummy walls squeezing his fingers tight, he can feel the way your body is shaking. He can hear your racing heart, can smell your juices dripping from you and gathering in your panties.
The thought of you being so close only spurs him on more. He rolls his hips against your ass, his cock twitching in his boxers as he grinds against you, the fabric sticky from his precum.
“I know, baby,” he grunts, the steady rhythm of his hips stuttering as a tight coil of heat grows taut in his lower abdomen. “Almost there.”
You're squealing now, your legs quivering and threatening to give out. But Clark holds you steady with one arm around your waist, keeping you in place.
The hot sensation in your womb builds and builds, like a balloon filling with air, until you're sure you can't take it anymore.
“Clark —” you try to warn him, but your brain is hazy with pleasure and your tongue isn't collaborating. “Fuck!”
The steady press of his fingers against that spongy spot in you, combined with the press of his palm against your clit, has you seeing stars. But it's also pushing you towards something more than just a regular orgasm.
You're mewling and whining, not able to find the words to warn him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge until the heat is too much, until your body shudders and the tension in your womb snaps, and you come.
You moan his name loud enough that the entire building might've heard. A gush of your slick spills from you, soaking Clark's hands, making a mess of your panties and your work outfit, your juices drenching the fabric.
Clark moans as he feels you squirt on him, the feeling of it pushing him to his own orgasm. He comes with a rough groan, his hot cum spurting onto his boxers in thick, sticky ropes.
You're both breathing heavy, bodies slowly coming to, skin sticky with sweat.
Clark kisses the side of your neck gently as he withdraws his hand. “You okay?” he asks.
You nod softly, still breathless. “Yeah, I'm good.”
He hums. “You were right, we're gonna be late,” he says sheepishly. “We're gonna have to clean up before we head out. I wasn't counting on us making such a mess...”
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
summary : clark loves you. but unfortunately, super-strength doesn't exactly have it's place in the bedroom.
warnings : shy!clark, big softie clark, smut, p in v, established relationship, praise, swearing, the list goes on.
word count : 9.4 k
a/n: i recently had someone ask me if i did DC- so this is my attempt ! I've legit only really watched this movie in the DC universe so if theres any issues pls lmk ! as usual, nor proofread !
The Daily Planet is surprisingly full today, and you snake your way through the crowds of reporters and journalists, carrying your bag pressed against your chest- too afraid to get something picked out of it.
You glance at your watch, biting on your bottom lip as you crane your neck, trying to look around to find your boyfriend.
Usually, he isn't hard to find. Large and bulky, yet always trying to fade into the background.
Except today, Clark Kent is nowhere to be seen.
Which is strange. Clark is many things — chronically late is not one of them. You pause near the elevators, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder while the bullpen buzzes around you at full volume. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone arguing three desks over about city permits. The air smells like burnt coffee and printer ink. Normally, Clark’s desk would already have a coffee waiting for you. Normally, he’d glance up the second you stepped onto the floor, face softening instantly in that quiet way that still makes your stomach flip. Today his desk is empty.
You frown.
A couple reporters brush past you, forcing you aside. Your grip tightens reflexively around your bag. God, this place is packed.
“Looking for Smallville?” Lois Lane appears at your elbow so suddenly you nearly jump out of your skin. She eyes you knowingly over the rim of her coffee cup. “You know,” she says, “for someone dating the human equivalent of a lighthouse, you’re weirdly bad at spotting him.”
“I can usually find him,” you defend weakly, glancing around again. “He’s just—”
“Late?” Lois snorts. “Yeah, that’s suspicious enough to file a missing persons report.” Before you can answer, the bullpen doors swing open.
And there he is. Clark steps inside like a man trying very hard not to take up space despite being objectively built like he could carry a pickup truck over one shoulder. His glasses are slightly crooked. Tie loosened. Dark curls wind-tossed like he came here in a hurry. The second he sees you, he stops moving. Not visibly enough for anyone else to notice.
But you notice.
Clark always looks at you like finding you in a crowded room is the best part of his day. The tension leaves his shoulders immediately. Then his eyes narrow slightly. Concern. You know that look. And sure enough, thirty feet away and through the chaos of the newsroom, your boyfriend has somehow already picked up on your mood.
You sigh internally. Super senses are honestly unfair.
“Hey,” he says softly once he reaches you. Lois makes a dramatic gagging sound before walking off. Neither of you pay attention. Clark’s gaze flicks carefully over your face. “You okay?” There it is. Not hello. Not good morning.
You okay?
You try to smile.
“Yeah.” His expression does not change. Because unfortunately for you, Clark can probably hear the tiny hitch in your heartbeat right now.
“You sure?” You glance around self-consciously.
“Can we maybe not do the concerned x-ray vision thing in the middle of your office?” Immediate guilt flashes across his face.
“Sorry,” he says at once, lowering his voice further. “I just—”
“I know.” And you do. Clark's concern never feels invasive. Just earnest to a fault. Still, the bullpen is crowded enough that bodies keep bumping into you from all directions, and every accidental shoulder check makes tension crawl higher beneath your skin. Clark notices that too. Of course he does. His eyes flick downward briefly as another reporter jostles past you too close for comfort. Then he shifts. That’s all. Just one subtle step closer. But suddenly the chaos parts around you. People unconsciously reroute before colliding with him, glancing up at the last second as though only then realizing there’s a massive man standing there. Within moments, Clark has effectively boxed you into a pocket of calm without touching anyone at all.
Your breath catches slightly. Because this is another thing about Clark: He is always aware of exactly how much space his body takes up.And exactly how to use it gently.
"You’re doing it again,” you murmur.
“What?”
“The weird protective farm-boy bodyguard thing.” A faint blush colors his cheeks immediately.
“I’m not—”
“You literally just became a human barricade.” Clark ducks his head sheepishly, which would work better if he weren’t six-foot-whatever and built like a rescue helicopter.
“I just didn’t want people shoving you around.” The sincerity in his voice hits you straight in the chest. You stare at him for a second too long. Clark notices instantly. “What?” You smile helplessly.
“You’re ridiculously sweet.” His ears turn pink. Adorable. Catastrophic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mutters.
“It’s not.” You step closer instinctively, fingers brushing the front of his tie. “It’s just unfair sometimes.” Clark goes very still at the contact. Not tense. Focused. Hyperaware. You feel it every single time he touches you — or gets touched by you. Like some part of him is constantly calibrating pressure, distance, restraint. Even now, his hands hover near your waist without settling there. Waiting. Always waiting. Your chest aches a little at the sight.
“You can touch me, you know,” you say quietly. Clark’s gaze flicks up to yours.
“I know.” But he still asks: “Can I?” The newsroom noise fades around the edges for a second. God. You nod once. Clark’s hands settle carefully on your hips like he’s handling something precious. Not possessive. Not casual.
Intentional. His thumbs stroke once, tiny measured movements that somehow feel more intimate than if he’d dragged you into his lap.
“You’re stressed,” he murmurs.
“You can tell?” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth.
“Your heartbeat’s been fast since you walked in.” You groan softly.
“Dating a Kryptonian is humiliating.” Clark laughs under his breath, warm and low. Then his expression softens again.
“Did something happen?” You hesitate. And immediately his attention sharpens. It’s almost frightening, how quickly Clark focuses on you. Like the rest of the world lowers in volume the second he thinks you might need him. You look down, fussing unnecessarily with his tie.
“Train was crowded,” you admit. “Some guy kept trying to get into my bag.” Clark stills completely. You feel it happen under your hands.
Not anger exactly. Control. Tightening.
“Did he touch you?” The question comes out dangerously calm. You blink up at him.
“What?”
“Did he put his hands on you?” Your stomach flips a little. Not because you’re afraid of him. Because every protective instinct in Clark Kent clearly just lit up like a solar flare beneath his skin — and he’s trying so hard to keep it contained.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, I’m okay.” Clark exhales slowly through his nose. His grip on your hips loosens by a fraction. Measured. Always measured. Still, his eyes scan your face carefully like he’s making absolutely certain you mean it. Then, quieter:
“You should’ve called me.” Your heart melts a little.
“It was just a crowded train, Clark.”
“I know.” His thumbs brush your sides gently. “I still would’ve come.” And there it is again. That devastating sincerity. Like protecting you isn’t an obligation to him. It’s instinct. Breathing. Gravity. You smile softly despite yourself.
“You really can’t help it, huh?” Clark looks genuinely confused.
“Help what?”
“Taking care of me.” His expression changes instantly. Softens into something unbearably tender.
“No,” he says quietly. Then, after a tiny pause:
“I really can’t.” You sigh and pat his arm.
"Come on, Superman. You promised me a date night." Clark’s mouth curves immediately. Small. Soft. Fond enough to make your knees weak.
“Right,” he says. “Date night.”
“You did promise.”
“I remember.” But he still looks reluctant to let the subject go. You can practically see him replaying your train ride in his head, cataloguing every possible thing that could’ve happened to you. Honestly, sometimes you wonder how exhausting it must be to care this much about everyone all the time. Especially with the ability to hear the world constantly asking things from him. You slide your hands up his chest, smoothing down the front of his tie.
“Clark.” His eyes drop to your hands instantly. Focused. Always so focused on you. "Can we go, please ? If we stand in this crowded bullpen for one more minute I might have an aneurysm." Clark huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Yes, ma’am.” You grab his hand immediately before another reporter can cut between you, threading your fingers through his. Clark looks down at your joined hands like he always does — brief, soft surprise followed by something warmer. Something so openly affectionate it still catches you off guard. Then, automatically, his grip adjusts.
Gentle.
Measured.
Like even holding hands requires conscious calibration for him.
The two of you barely make it three steps before someone calls his name again.
“Kent!” Clark visibly resists the urge to sigh. You snort.
“You’re the people’s princess.”
“I don’t think Perry would describe me that way.”
“You underestimate your brand.”
Clark shakes his head, smiling helplessly, and lets you tug him toward the elevators. The second the doors close behind you, the noise of the bullpen disappears. Silence. Private. Clark’s shoulders loosen instantly.
You lean back against the mirrored wall with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god.”
“You okay?”
“You work in a sensory nightmare.” Clark laughs softly.
“You get used to it.”
“No, you get used to it because you’re apparently emotionally equipped to hear twelve conversations at once without exploding.” His expression turns sheepish.
“It’s… a process.” You eye him knowingly.
“You’re listening to things right now, aren’t you?” A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“Clark.”
“I can’t really turn it all the way off.” The apology in his voice makes your chest ache a little. You step toward him before you can think too hard about it, smoothing your hands up the front of his shirt again. His tie is still crooked from earlier. Immediately, Clark’s attention locks onto you completely. Like a compass needle snapping north.
“You know,” you murmur, fixing the knot properly, “for someone who can hear basically everything, you’re surprisingly bad at listening to yourself.” His brows knit slightly. “
What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you say gently, “you’re exhausted.” Clark opens his mouth automatically. Probably to deny it. Then stops. Because lying to someone while they’re adjusting your tie in a tiny elevator is apparently beyond him.
“…Maybe a little.”
“A little,” you repeat flatly.
“I had three rescues before lunch.”
“Clark.”
“And there was a chemical fire in Hob’s Bay.”
“Clark.”
“And then Lois started a fight with a city councilman—” You reach up and cup his face. That shuts him up instantly. Clark goes completely still beneath your hands. Every time. Like affection still surprises him.
“You’re taking tonight off,” you say firmly. His eyes soften behind his glasses.
“I’m trying to.”
“No listening for disasters unless the city is literally on fire.”
“That feels irresponsible.”
“You are not responsible for every single person in Metropolis every second of the day.” Clark’s expression does something complicated at that. Not disagreement exactly. Just guilt. Because of course he feels guilty. You soften immediately. “Hey.” His gaze flicks back to yours.
“You’re allowed to have one nice night.”
The elevator dings softly. Neither of you move. Clark looks at you for another long second before finally nodding once.
“Okay.”
------------
Date night starts at a tiny little restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop downtown. Somewhere warm and dimly lit and quiet enough that Clark visibly relaxes the moment you sit down. No emergencies. No newsroom. No crowds pressing too close. Just you and him in a corner booth with low lighting and a bottle of wine Clark absolutely cannot get drunk from normally. Though apparently red solar radiation exposure from last week’s fight with some intergalactic asshole has temporarily lowered his tolerance. Which you discover approximately forty minutes in when Clark laughs too hard at one of your jokes and nearly crushes the stem of his wine glass in his hand. His eyes widen immediately.
“Oh my god.” You stare at the bent glass. Then at him. Then burst out laughing. Clark looks horrified.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You folded it like origami!”
“I was distracted!”
“You’re Superman!”
“That’s not helping!” You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and Clark finally starts laughing too, ducking his head into his hand with obvious embarrassment. The sound of his laugh settles warm and glowing somewhere beneath your ribs.
God.
You love him.
You love him so much it’s honestly a little unbearable sometimes.
By the time dinner ends, you’re pleasantly tipsy. Clark is… maybe slightly tipsy. Which manifests mostly as him becoming even softer somehow. More openly affectionate. Easier smiles. His hand resting warm at the small of your back as the two of you walk home through the city. Metropolis glows around you in gold and neon. You stumble slightly on the sidewalk. Clark catches you instantly. Not dramatic. Just immediate. One second off-balance, the next securely steadied against his chest. His hands settle carefully around your arms.
“You okay?” You grin up at him lazily.
“You have insane reflexes.” Clark’s mouth twitches.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You smell good.” That catches him off guard. A blush rises instantly across his cheeks. “
I— thank you.”
“You’re pretty.” His entire face goes pink. It’s adorable.
“You’ve had wine,” he says weakly.
“And you’re huge.” Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. You laugh against his shoulder as he guides you carefully down the block. His hand never leaves your back. Measured pressure. Constant awareness. Like he’s tracking every tiny shift in your balance. By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re warm and sleepy and buzzing pleasantly enough that your filter has mostly dissolved. Clark notices immediately. Of course he does.
“You need water,” he says gently as soon as the apartment door closes behind you.
“You need to kiss me.” Clark freezes halfway through taking off his coat.
Slowly, he turns to look at you. You lean against the door, smiling lazily at the sight of him. Tie loosened. Hair messy. Cheeks still faintly pink from the wine. God help you.
“You’re staring,” he says softly.
“You’re beautiful.” Clark inhales sharply. There it is again. Praise hits him like a physical thing every single time. His eyes darken slightly behind his glasses.
“You’re tipsy,” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
“And very affectionate.”
“Mhm.” A helpless smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. Then he walks toward you slowly. Carefully. Always carefully. His hands settle lightly on your waist.
“Water first,” he says quietly.
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re sexy when you’re responsible.” Clark looks like he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with that information. You giggle softly and loop your arms around his neck. Immediately, his entire body tightens. Not rejecting you. Restraining himself. His hands stay very deliberately at your waist.
“Baby,” he says softly. “You keep looking at me like I’m going to break.” Clark’s expression flickers. Because that hit something.
“You won’t,” he says immediately. Then quieter:
“But I could hurt you.” Your heart squeezes. Even now. Even after all this time. You and Clark have been phsyical. In more ways than one. Hell, he loves burying his face between your legs on any give day, or even feeling you clench around him, but he's always so soft and slow with it. As if he's constantly second-guessing himself. You brush your thumb gently along the back of his neck.
“Clark.”
“I’ve had wine,” he admits carefully. “You’ve had wine. My control’s already…” He exhales slowly. “Different tonight.” The honesty in it makes your stomach flip. Because he’s not saying he wants to hurt you.
He’s saying the possibility terrifies him. You soften instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Clark closes his eyes briefly at the name. You feel the tiny shudder that runs through him. “I trust you,” you whisper. His forehead drops to yours immediately. And god, the restraint in him is palpable now. Every inch of his body careful despite the way he’s holding you close.
“You shouldn’t say things like that so casually,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because you sound sincere.” You pull back just enough to look at him.
“I am sincere.” Clark’s composure cracks slightly. You can literally see it happen. His grip tightens by the smallest fraction before immediately loosening again with visible effort. Measured. Always measured.
“You make this very difficult,” he says softly. You smile.
“You’re cute when you’re trying not to manhandle me.” Clark makes a strangled sound somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh my god,” you whisper, delighted. “That did something to you.” He looks away immediately, embarrassed. Which only confirms it.
Your poor, sweet boyfriend.
So powerful.
So careful.
So devastatingly affected by being wanted.
You cup his face gently, guiding his attention back to you.
“Clark,” you murmur softly, “kiss me before your brain explodes.” His eyes search yours one more time. Checking. Always checking.
Then Clark kisses you like he’s still trying to be careful even when he wants you desperately. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’re going to vanish if he lets go. Soft, at first. Always soft. His mouth is warm, patient, gentle as anything. When he finally lets himself press you back against the door, you feel the solidity of his body in every careful inch; that same measured tension, all strength packed away like a secret. Clark’s big hands cradle your waist, fingers splayed wide, and you can tell by the way he keeps adjusting his grip that he’s thinking very, very hard about just how hard to hold on. You tease at his bottom lip, smiling into him, making a delighted noise that vibrates through his chest. The sound derails him instantly. Clark’s hands flex with the smallest want. He kisses you again and again, losing the rhythm each time you sigh, each time you gasp his name. Still, every motion is heartbreakingly careful—like he’s terrified of making a single wrong move. You break the kiss first,lips tingling, pulse in your throat. Clark draws back, breathing hard. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs pressed in careful circles, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you by touch alone.
“You’re so good at that,” you whisper, a little out of breath.
Clark’s tongue darts over his bottom lip. He looks startled; then, a crooked, shy smile cracks across his face.
“You make it easy.” He nudges your nose with his. His breath is sweet, dizzying, and it makes your knees loosen under you. You don’t think about it before saying,
“Can we go to bed? Or the couch? Or the wall? Literally anywhere as long as it ends with you inside me.” For a second, you think Clark will argue, or redirect, or do that thing where he tries to slow down to a G-rated crawl. Instead, he leans his forehead to yours and, without a word, lifts you off the ground. That carefulness, again: his hands are steady beneath your thighs as he carries you down the short hall. Every step is slow and measured, but you know - god, you know - Clark could have you on the bed in a microsecond if he wanted.
If he let himself.
If he let go.
He doesn’t.
He sets you down on the mattress like you’re made of spun glass and then kneels between your knees, bracing himself on the edge of the bed. He’s breathing harder than you, a line of color still rising in his throat. You run your hands under his shirt, palms splaying wide across his chest, feeling the way his heart hammers against your fingers. His hands are careful as he slowly peels your shirt off of you, his hands so incredibly soft as he cups the swell of your breasts through your bra. You sit up, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, biting your bottom lip. Clark makes a low sound when you finally get his shirt off, that soft farmboy sigh you know by heart. You’re both clumsy with the zipper of your skirt—his big hands fumble, like he’s too afraid to rip it right off—and when it hits the floor, there’s a heartbeat where you both just look at each other, breathless. You don’t feel remotely self-conscious in your underwear; Clark looks at you like every inch of skin is something holy. He’s not much better off, kneeling on the carpet in those ridiculous boxers you bought him—blue, with tiny red capes patterned all over. You reach for him, and he lets you, coming down over you so slow it’s almost funny, like he’s afraid to crush you under his weight. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug, and Clark shudders, mouth dropping open against your throat. He kisses you there, slow and careful, until the only thing you can say is,
“Please, Clark.”
God, you need him so bad.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the sexual frustration of him always holding back whenever he fucks you- but your entire body is on fire. Clark’s mouth is all over you—your throat, your jaw, the edge of your collarbone—every kiss so impossibly careful it’s like he’s terrified you might bruise. The room smells like him, clean and cotton-sweet, and you’re vibrating with want. Still, he treats every inch of you like it’s breakable, like his hands are a privilege he has to earn every time. He kisses lower, tongue flicking under the wire of your bra, and just the wet heat of it nearly turns your knees to jelly.
You squirm under him, hands winding through his hair, and when you arch up, Clark pauses. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and you can feel how much he wants to just let go. Like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping your panties with a single flick. He pulls back, breath ragged.
“Are you—” His voice is a rasp. “Do you want…?”
“I want you to fuck me, Kent.” Clark freezes, just for a second. His breath hitches, warm and humid against your jaw. Then his hand slides down, slow, deliberate, catching your thigh and drawing it up around his waist. Every movement is a test, a calibration, as if he’s waiting for the universe to sign off on each fraction of pressure. You nearly laugh, except all the air in your chest had vanished.
“Clark,” you whisper, “stop thinking. Please.” And then, less brave, “I won’t break.” He shudders, and when he kisses you again, it’s harder. Not rough—never—but with a hunger that startles both of you. The carefulness has an edge now. Like he’s holding back a tide. Clark’s hand cups behind your head, cradling, while his hips press you deeper into the mattress. The heat between your legs borders on unbearable. You arch up, greedy for all of him.
Truth is, all Clark wants is to fuck you the way you want. God knows he wants it too. But god, his strength- he can’t control it when it comes to you. When it comes to this.
Clark buries his face in the pillow next to your head. He’s shaking, and you can feel it: every muscle in his body strung tight as piano wire, teeth grit so hard you wonder if he might shatter them. You roll your hips up, seeking friction, and he whimpers, honest-to-god whimpers, before catching himself, arms trembling on either side of your body. His hand reaches between the two of you, slipping his jeans and boxers down, freeing himself. You bite your bottom lip, shimmying your underwear down your thighs before settling back down beneath him. You cup his cheek, smiling up at him as he kisses his way down your jaw, your neck, softly pushing his tip between your folds until it notches inside of you. You whine, hands flying up to dig into his shoulders, your eyes rolling back at the mere idea of having him deep inside you. He pushes in slow. So slow. The stretch is almost unbearable, a champagne fizz of pressure and fullness, but Clark doesn’t move except to spread your thighs wider, settling you around him like he’s setting the table for two. You dig your nails into his back, desperate for more, and he makes a torn noise in his throat, hips shuddering as he bottoms out. The first thrust is nothing. Gentle. Like he’s more focused on mapping out every centimeter inside you than getting anywhere. The second is deeper. Careful, reverent. Clark groans into your skin, burying his head against your shoulder as he moves, like the pleasure is almost too much. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the next thrust is better, closer to what you need.
He’s big; that’s the understatement of the year, but he’s so careful—excruciatingly careful. He groans against your neck, whispering apologies and,
“Is this okay?”, while his hips rock in gentle, shallow thrusts, barely moving at all. It’s sweet and unreal and so frustrating you might lose your mind. You clutch his back, dig your nails in, desperate for him to just move, to just stop worrying and fuck you like he wants. The slow push and pull inside of you is building, and you try to screw your eyes closed, to focus on how he’s breathing and kissing your temple, but fuck- it’s not enough. If it were any normal night you’d tough it out. Do it for Clark, because he loves you and that look on his face whenever he’s terrified to hurt you. But you can’t - god, tonight, you just can’t. Your body is on fire and the pressure in your stomach is lessening by the second.
“Clark,” You say, and her voice is glassy with tears and need, “please, can you—can you just—” You can’t finish it. Can’t say all the things throttling your brain at once. That you want to feel him lose control, just a little. That the pressing thought behind your forehead is not fear, not even close, but the sick, needy thrill of being precious enough to destroy.
That you want marks.
That your bones want to feel how strong he is.
That your insides ache for the honesty of his strength, not just the gentleness of his hands.
Clark’s eyes snap up towards you.
“Shit, baby - are you- are you okay ?” He asks, his moments coming to a stop. The sudden cut off of the sensation makes you choke on a sob, thighs clenching around his waist, trying to drag him back towards you. Just that motion has you seeing stars, the sheer girth of him pushing in just a little farther. Clark’s hand fists in the blanket, knuckles whitening, the entire curve of his body straining with denial. He looks at you, really looks—eyes wide and blue and full of guilt, of fear, like he’s the only thing standing between you and a firing squad that just so happens to be his own goddamn body. His chest heaves. He pulls almost all the way out, a slow, trembling retreat, and you actually moan in protest, clutching him with everything you have. You want to scream at him, at yourself, at the whole rotten world for ever making him believe he needed to hold this much of himself back.
“Baby, tell me,” he begs, that Kansas drawl scraping raw across your skin, “tell me what you need—” You lock your ankles behind his hips, drag him in close so the blunt pressure of him is right there, so you can look him in the face when you say,
“I need you.” You whine. “Clark, please.” You grab his hand, latch it around your throat. “Just be rough. God, just fuck me.” You whine, shaking your head. Clark freezes, his hand limp around your throat.
“Sweetheart-” God. You can see the war inside him, the way his jaw flexes, the way his hand just hovers—like to even pretend to grip your throat is a holy act. You want to be filled to breaking; you want to be shattered, not by fear, but by love so bright it could burn your bones to glass and leave you still begging for more.
“Clark, please.” You whine, biting your bottom lip. “Please.”
“Baby, i don’t- I don’t wanna hurt you.” Clark’s hand is a trembling thing on your throat, as if any pressure at all might snap your head from your shoulders. His mouth works soundlessly and you can feel the heat of shame and need radiate off him in waves. It’s everything inside you, every raw nerve, screaming for him to just give in. You reach up, wrap your smaller hand over his and squeeze.
“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you, Clark.” The look in his eyes- like you’ve just given him permission to step out of a burning building- nearly splits you apart. His grip tightens, miniscule. Barely there, but it’s enough. The pressure is more suggestion than force, a soft claim that makes your breath flutter instead of halt.
"Fuckin' break me. Please." Clark’s eyes go wide, and for a second, you can feel him recalibrating, testing, searching for the exact threshold between safe and too much. He doesn’t test long.
He grabs your thighs and slings them over his shoulders, securing his arms around your knees as he pins them to his chest. A loud, unabashed moan breaks out of you as his cock drives in deeper, and your hands fist in the sheets as you nod.
"You're sure ?" He asks, kissing your calves gently. You moan.
"God, yes. Please, Clark, please." You whimper, writhing. His cock gives an impatient twitch.
He’s only human, after all.
Or at least, there’s a human inside him, somewhere under all the impossible muscle and bulletproof skin.
It’s the human part that finally cracks—the carefulness, the measured movements.
As soon as your back hits the mattress and Clark hears the way you moan for him, something inside him gives. Not all the way, not in a way that’ll snap you in half, but he stops thinking about every single Newton of force and just. Takes. You. He fucks you like every ounce of his restraint is spent. The thrusts are deep and sharp, Clark’s hands gripping so tight around your hips you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. The thought only makes you wetter, makes your head spin. You claw at his back, desperate for any kind of anchor, and he grunts, a raw sound that’s nothing but animal. When you look up, his eyes are wild and shining, his chest heaving. Your nails scrape at his thighs, his name falling past your lips in desperate little whimpers.
He’s relentless, and it’s perfect. Every thrust is a wet, bruising promise that leaves you gasping, unable to do anything except clutch at him and ride the shockwave pleasure tearing through you. Clark’s hand never leaves your throat; his palm is so big it nearly cuffs your whole neck, holding it steady while he fucks you into the mattress with the abandon of someone who’s been waiting lifetimes to do this. You can’t think. The world’s narrowed to the heat between your legs, his muscled chest caging you in, and the ragged, helpless way he keeps whispering your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.
And he’s still so tender. In between the rough snap of his hips and the bruising grip on your thighs, Clark’s voice never stops—soft, frantic, endless praise spilling out between the curses and the whimpers.
“God, You’re doing so good,” he rasps, and the words are almost choked.
The praise is the best part. Clark can’t shut up, not when he’s this far gone. Every word comes out hoarse and desperate, like he’s praying you through the act:
“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, look at you, I—God, I love you so much—”
He says it like it’s never enough, like the words are the only anchor keeping him from bursting out of his own skin. Every time you moan, his grip tightens, and every time you sob his name, he gets rougher, like some ancient part of him needs to prove it can wreck you and put you back together in the same breath. You feel the world narrow to the places Clark touches, to the sound of your own pulse in your ears and his inhuman body above you, caging you in, worshipping you even as he fucks you senseless. He’s everywhere, all heat and muscle and the taste of your name leaving his mouth feels like sugar. He’s fucking you like maybe he’s allowed. Like maybe he can finally give you everything, the way he’s always wanted. There’s something wild in his face now, wet around the lashes, desperate and so needy.
God, where has this Clark been all these months ?
You should’ve pushed him earlier.
“Mmph, Clark-” His hand shifts from your throat to the underside of your jaw, thumb stroking the slick heat of your pulse, and he groans, a shaky, reverent sound that makes you want to sob. Each thrust is a little harder, a little less measured, until it’s just ragged need and the endless press of his body into yours. The sounds coming from your mouth barely resemble words, but Clark drinks them in like the air itself.
“Fuck, honey—” He breaks, voice cracking, hips snapping forward. “You’re perfect, you—God, you’re so good, you make me feel—” He grips your legs tighter, biting softly into your calf by his head. You arch into him, breath snagging as the pressure builds and builds, coiling up the length of your spine, white-hot and desperate. You’re so close you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, every nerve ending tuned to the rough clutch of Clark’s hands and the wet heat of his breath on your skin. He’s relentless, each drive of his hips slamming you deeper into the mattress, and it’s not fear that has you gasping, but the bright, raw pleasure of knowing he’s finally, finally giving you everything. The words spill from him in a messy loop—praise, love, disbelief, every syllable a pulse that tightens the coiled heat inside you.
“Never—God, I’ve never wanted anything more than this, you hear me?” he groans, voice breaking over your name. “You’re fucking perfect, so good, so good, I—” He can’t stop, and you don’t want him to. Every time you moan for him, he answers with a desperate, reverent curse, his body shaking as he holds himself back from absolutely destroying you. Clark’s entire body trembles, the line of his shoulders drawn tight as live wire, but he doesn’t stop—won’t stop, now—his hips punching forward with a rhythm that’s all hungry madness, the way he bites your thigh a claim and a question in one. Each blunt, wet thrust goes deeper than the last, the force of it steady and unyielding, and your vision is already white at the edges. God, you’re so full, you’re not sure how the world has room for anything else. His hand tightens at your jaw, thumb stroking up your cheek; his mouth is hot and frantic on your skin, kissing everywhere at once as if he could memorize every atom of you in the time it takes to burn down to nothing.
He says your name between clenched teeth, voice all gravel and smoke, and you can hear the panic in it—like he’s scared he’ll break you, even now, even as you beg him to keep going.He drops your legs back down, wrapping them around his waist as he cages you against the mattress, his lips latching around your neck, biting and sucking at the skin before soothing it with his tongue, his fingers tangling into your hair as his free hand drifts down to grasp at your breast.He kneads, thumb skating over your nipple, gently at first—then not, because you’re arching into it, because you want him to take. His mouth follows, hot and wet, and you gasp as his tongue flicks, as his teeth find flesh and close. The sensation spikes, a live wire straight to your cunt. Your hips buck, helpless, and Clark’s groan vibrates against your chest. He’s everywhere, all at once. The world is only this: the way his cock fills you, the rough drag of his palm at your jaw, the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of his chest hair against your skin. You’re pinned, absolutely, but safe. Nothing could ever feel safer than this. Than Clark’s voice, hoarse and cracking, moaning your name like it’s a rescue signal. Like it’s hope. He snaps his hips into you, again and again.
“God, Clark- Fuck, yes.” You whine, eyes rolling back. He bows his head, lips parted, and the next groan is a prayer tangled in your name. His thrusts get rougher—each one flecked with apology, each one more desperate, more honest. He’s out of words for a second, just panting, his whole body trembling against yours like he can barely stand the way you feel, all soft and clinging and wet around him.
You grab at his hair and pull. His head snaps up; his face is flushed and wild, glasses fogged and askew, and you want to die for the way he looks at you.
“So good,” he chokes out, and it’s less a compliment than a confession. He pounds into you, the bed groaning in protest, but the only thing you can think of is the way he won’t stop touching you—hands everywhere, your jaw, your tits, your cheek, his thumb brushing reverent and possessive over your lips as if to remind you how soft he can be. When he pushes your knees nearly to your ears and pounds into you, the world goes white. The sound of skin on skin is obscene, the wet slap echoing in time with your pulse, with the rush behind your eyes, and you’re not thinking anymore, just feeling: the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you until you’re sure you might rip open.
Clark’s rhythm turns ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back and the wild, greedy need to let go. Each sharp thrust sends you up the mattress, the baseboard groaning in protest. He’s breathing hard and wet into your mouth, his voice unspooling desperate, broken, helpless praise against your lips. The world funnels down to this: Clark’s cock driving into you, filling you so completely you can feel the reverberation in your ribs and the fuzz of your brain. Your vision blurs—white-hot static behind your eyelids, ears ringing with the wet slap of bodies and Clark’s name clawing out of your own throat. He braces one hand on the headboard, the other cupping your jaw, thumb stroking the line of your cheek with an obscene kind of tenderness as he fucks you into the mattress. Your hands strain for an anchor—his back, his hair, shoulders slicked with sweat.His name leaves your mouth in a wrecked gasp, every syllable ragged, desperate, a prayer. You can’t keep your eyes open—sensation is all there is, your body trembling under the endless, pounding pressure of Clark’s cock, your hands clawing for any scrap of him you can hold. Every wet slap is a promise, every rough thrust a gift. The praise pours out of Clark without any filter now, no shame, just joy and need and awe. “Perfect, you’re perfect, you take me so good, so good, fuck—” It goes on forever, the world grinding down to the rhythm of his hips and the bright, sparking ache in your cunt, the way Clark’s hands grip you like you’re a lifeline.
You try to say something—no idea what—but it gets lost in a sob. Clark’s head drops, lips finding your cheek, your throat, your jaw. He can’t stop touching you, kissing you,biting at you, his hands squeezing, fingers digging into your skin like he needs to physically meld you into him. For a few, infinite cycles, it’s Clark’s mouth on your skin, the furnace of his breath, the thunderous rhythm of his body, and the not-quite-painful clutch of his hands. You’re dimly conscious of how you sound—all raw, animal noises stitched with Clark’s name—but the pleasure is too much, too bright, and you have no room for shame. You’re not sure if you've ever been fucked like this in your life, not even in the most fevered, secret version of your imagination. Not when every inch of your body is mapped by a kind of reverence, not when every bruising thrust is cushioned with gratitude, with the ceaseless pulse of I love you, I love you, I love you.
His weight over you is a living thing, heat and muscle and trembling restraint. Clark grinds in, again, again. When he shifts your legs back up, folding you nearly in half, your eyes roll back and everything comes flooding out. You can’t hold it. Not with the world blurred out, snapped to the star-burst pressure at the base of your spine. Clark’s cock hits the most impossible spot and you’re gone, body shuddering around him so hard your vision blows out in white. You claw at his back, desperate for an anchor, silent scream ripped out of you by the endless, perfect friction. Your cunt clenches down, over and over, and you hear Clark’s answering whimper—wrecked, panicked, impossibly sweet.
“Good girl, oh fuck, that’s it, take it, you’re so perfect,” he chokes, not even a full second before he comes apart. He groans, biting down on the meat of your shoulder, his whole body going rigid as he empties himself inside you. You feel the heat of it, the wild pulse, the way he tries to slow down his hips even as his control snaps. He buries his face in your neck as you whine, your pussy clenching around him pathetically as he keeps your hips pinned to his, desperate to make you take every drop. He collapses with exquisite, shaking care, braced on his elbows so his weight never really lands. His body is wracked, heaving, pure animal satisfaction laced with the panic of someone who’s just realized he might have gone too far. His chest presses yours in a damp, perfect seal, and for a long time all you can do is lie there and feel how fast his heart slams against your ribs, beating in time with your own.
Clark’s breath is everywhere—on your cheek, your ear, warm puffs that smell like wine and sweat and something sweet that’s just him. He doesn’t move, not even a little. You realize he’s looking at you, searching your face for any sign of hurt, any flicker that you want to take it back. You’re dazed, trembling, but you manage a smile. Somehow, you’re the one who brushes at the wetness on your temple, smearing the tears you didn’t even realize you had shed out of pleasure. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your neck.
“God, you’re crazy. You’re fuckin’ crazy.” He hums, shaking his head. He leans up on his arms, groaning as he peels himself off you. You whimper, thighs clenching as he pulls out, your walls spasming around nothing.
Clark hears it, of course he does, and his breath hitches like you’ve just struck him.
And then he sees you.
Really sees you.
His eyes, soft and hazy just a second before, sharpen with a sudden, horrified clarity. He’s looking at your neck, at the dark, blooming marks his mouth left behind. His gaze drifts lower, to the fingerprints already purpling on your thighs, the red lines on your hips from where he held you too tight. He’s tracing them with his eyes, his face going slack with disbelief, then flushing a deep, sickly shade of pale.
“No,” he whispers, the sound barely there. “Oh, God. No.” The rough, adoring man from moments ago vanishes, replaced by this stricken creature looking down at you like you’re a masterpiece he’s just defaced. His hand, which was stroking your hair so gently, freezes mid-air. He looks at his own palm like it’s a weapon, then back at the bruises on your skin. A tremor runs through his whole body, violent and profound. He’s off you in a flash, not with the smooth, controlled grace you’re used to, but with a clumsy, desperate scramble that sends him tumbling off the bed and landing hard on the floor. He doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. He’s on his knees beside the mattress, his hands held up in front of him, palms out, as if to show you they’re empty. As if to prove he’s no longer a threat.
“Are you okay?” The words are a ragged, desperate rush. “God, tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t… I lost control. I didn’t mean to. I would never—”
"Clark-" You croak, trying to reach for him, your throat dry and a little achy, and you bring your hand up to press against the skin there. You hiss in a breath at the tenderness and you look down at yourself. The bite mark on your shoulder as bled a little, and you have bruises forming on your hips already, the indents of his finger. There's a slight bruise near your throat, compiled with about twenty other hickeys spread over your body. Clark looks devastated. Not embarrassed. Not awkward.
Devastated.
Like the sight of your bruises physically hurts him.
“Clark-”
“I hurt you.” His voice breaks on the words. You push yourself upright immediately despite the pleasant ache in your limbs, reaching toward him again, but Clark flinches back before your fingers can land. That hurts worse than the bruises.
“Hey,” you say softly. “No.” His eyes flick up to yours.
God. He looks terrified. Not of you.
Of himself.
“You’re bruised,” he whispers. “I left marks all over you.” You glance down again. Honestly, it’s a little intense. Your thighs are definitely going to ache tomorrow. There’s already the shadow of fingerprints darkening your hips, your neck a mess of red and purple where his mouth lingered too long. And maybe a tiny irrational part of your brain feels a pulse of satisfaction at the evidence of him all over you.
But Clark looks sick over it.
“Baby,” you murmur carefully, “I asked for that.”
“You asked me to trust my control,” he says hoarsely. “And then I lost it.”
“You did not lose control.” Clark laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“The bedframe is cracked.” You blink. Then glance over your shoulder.
Oh.
Okay, wow.
The headboard is, in fact, split down one side.
“…Huh.” Clark buries his face in his hands. You would laugh if he didn’t sound so genuinely miserable.
“I shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off hard enough his jaw flexes. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve kept going.” Your chest tightens painfully. Because that’s the thing. Clark could’ve ignored you. Could’ve treated you like you didn’t know your own limits. Instead he listened to you the entire time. Checked constantly. Stopped the second he thought something was wrong. Even now, all his panic is centered on whether you’re okay. You slide carefully off the bed, wincing slightly as your legs hit the floor. Clark’s head snaps up instantly.
“You shouldn’t get up.”
“There’s the bossy farm boy again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You step toward him slowly. Clark stays frozen where he kneels beside the bed, looking deeply conflicted about whether touching you is still allowed. That alone nearly breaks your heart. You stop directly in front of him.
“Clark.” His eyes lift reluctantly. “You did not hurt me.” His gaze flicks instinctively to the bruises blooming across your skin.
“You are literally bruised.”
“I bruise easily.”
“I left fingerprints on you.” You soften your voice further.
“And I asked you to.”
“That doesn’t mean I should’ve.” Oh. Oh, there it is. The real fear. Not that he crossed a boundary. That he enjoyed it. You kneel carefully in front of him, ignoring his immediate distressed expression at you putting pressure on your knees.
“Clark,” you say quietly, “look at me.” He does. Eventually. Blue eyes wrecked with guilt. "I'm okay." You breathe. He's quick to shake his head and before you can even process what's happening, you've been put back on the bed, his movements frantic.
"I'm- I'm gonna- I need to uh- Clean you up- fuck." He shakes his head, storming out of the room.
The second he’s gone, you hear it. Not with super-hearing. Just regular hearing. Cabinets opening too hard in your tiny bathroom. The sink turning on. Then off. Then on again. Clark panicking. You sit there for a moment in the wrecked bed, sheets tangled around your legs, chest still heaving faintly from everything that just happened.
Your body aches. Not badly. Warmly. Deep in your hips and thighs, the kind of soreness that settles after being thoroughly loved. And somewhere beyond the doorway, Clark is unraveling. You sigh softly and drag the sheet around yourself before standing carefully. Your knees wobble immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. From the bathroom, Clark’s voice comes instantly, strained and alarmed:
“What happened?” You blink. Then laugh helplessly despite yourself.
“Nothing happened, babe, my legs are just jelly.” Silence. Then, quieter:
“Oh.” You pad slowly down the hall. Clark is standing at the bathroom sink like a man preparing for emergency surgery. The sight nearly destroys you. There’s a washcloth folded with painful precision beside the sink. A little first-aid kit open on the counter. Three different ointments sitting out like he’s trying to identify the correct treatment for “overenthusiastic alien boyfriend.” Clark himself looks wrecked.
Hair a disaster.
Chest flushed.
Glasses gone.
And his hands— God. His hands are shaking. He notices you instantly in the mirror.
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“You keep saying that like I survived a car crash.” His expression twists.
“That’s not funny.”
Okay. Right.
You soften immediately.
“Clark.” He turns then, fast enough to make the towels flutter slightly from the displaced air before he visibly reins himself back in. Even upset, he’s controlling every movement now. Overcorrecting. Like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. Again. The words hit you like a bruise.
“Hey.” You walk toward him slowly. “Stop apologizing for a second.”
“I bit you hard enough to bleed.”
“You barely broke skin.”
“I bruised your throat.”
“You barely touched my throat.”
“I cracked your bed.”
“…Okay, that one’s fair.” Clark looks actively miserable that you joked. His shoulders are so tight they look painful. You step between them carefully and reach for his hands. He hesitates. That hesitation hurts.
“Clark.”
“I just—” His voice catches hard. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure I never hurt anyone.” You wrap your fingers around his carefully trembling hands.
“And you think one rough night suddenly makes you unsafe? It doesn't. It makes you human.” His jaw tightens. Clark’s expression crumples slightly around the edges.
“You make it sound noble,” he whispers.
“It is noble.” His laugh comes out rough.
“Baby, I had your legs over my shoulders while I was—”
“Yes, thank you, I was there.” Clark shuts his eyes briefly like he cannot believe this conversation is happening. You squeeze his hands gently.
“You didn’t become cruel, Clark.”
“No,” he says immediately, horrified.
“Exactly.” His eyes open again slowly.
“You were rough,” you continue carefully. “But you were still you.” Clark looks unconvinced. “You were still checking on me. Still holding me like I mattered. Still acting like my comfort was important even when you were halfway out of your mind.” A flush creeps slowly back up his throat. Because he remembers. God, he definitely remembers.
“You literally called me perfect every thirty seconds.” His entire face goes crimson.
“Oh my god.”
“No, it was actually very informative.”
“Please stop talking.”
“You’re apparently incapable of shutting up when you’re emotional.” Clark drops his forehead onto your shoulder with a groan. The tension finally breaks a little. Just enough. You smile softly and thread your fingers through his curls. He stays there for a second, breathing you in.
“You wanna know something?” you ask quietly. He nods once against your skin. “I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you.” His inhale catches sharply. “Even tonight,” you continue softly. “Especially tonight.” Clark looks up, genuinely stunned by that.
“How?”
“Because you were paying attention to me the entire time.” His eyes search yours like he’s trying to understand. “You know how many people treat roughness like they stop having to care?” you murmur. “You didn’t. You cared more.” Clark’s expression shifts slowly. Not relief. Not fully. But something gentler than panic.
“You really mean that?” You smile softly.
“Clark Kent, you looked ready to call an ambulance because you left hickeys.” His ears turn pink instantly.
“I panicked.”
“You catastrophized.”
“The bedframe split in half.”
“You're superman, unfortunately.”
“That’s not helping your argument.” You laugh quietly, and this time Clark’s mouth twitches too. Small. But real. Finally, carefully, he lifts one hand toward your throat again. He pauses just before touching the bruised skin. Asking silently. You nod. Clark’s fingertips brush the marks with heartbreaking gentleness. Like apology stitched into touch. His expression turns conflicted again almost immediately.
“Jesus." A strange flicker crosses his face then. Something warmer.
Darker. Immediately followed by guilt for feeling it. You catch it anyway.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. Clark instantly looks alarmed.
“What?”
“You liked it.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” His entire body betrays him at once. Flushed throat. Averting gaze. Tiny flex of his jaw. You stare at him in delight. “Clark Kent.”
“I’m having a very difficult evening.”
“You’re having a bisexual farmer crisis because your girlfriend likes your giant hands.”
“I am begging you to stop saying things like that.”
“You manhandled me a little and now you’re emotionally compromised.” Clark makes a helpless sound and drops his head against your shoulder again. You laugh softly into his hair, wrapping your arms around him carefully. After a long moment, he finally murmurs:
“…Did you really like it?” The vulnerability in the question nearly kills you. You pull back enough to kiss him gently.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth. “I really did.” Clark exhales shakily. Then, after a tiny pause: "Now, Superman, you better carry me back to our room and help me get dressed because I think my legs have just stopped working."
Clark laughs. It comes out breathless and disbelieving, the sound muffled slightly against your mouth like he still can’t quite process the fact that this conversation is real.
“You can’t walk?” he murmurs.
“You folded me like a lawn chair, Kent.” His entire face goes red again.
“I said I was sorry.”
“And now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.” Clark’s hands slide carefully to your waist again, hesitating for only half a second this time before settling there fully. Still gentle. Always gentle. But less afraid now.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. You tilt your head.
“You’ve asked me that approximately forty-seven times.”
“And I’ll ask forty-seven more.” Your chest warms painfully.
God.
You reach up and smooth a curl back from his forehead.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “Little sore. Extremely satisfied. Mildly concerned about my structural integrity tomorrow morning. But okay.” Clark groans quietly and drops his head back.
“You are impossible after sex.”
“You made me like this.”
“That feels scientifically unverifiable.”
“You’re a journalist super-hero. Investigate it.” A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth again. There he is. Finally. You tap his chest lightly.
“C’mon, big guy. Rescue mission.” Clark’s expression softens into something unbearably fond.
“Yes, ma’am.” Then he bends and slides one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. And even now—even after all of that—he lifts you like you’re precious. Not fragile. Precious. The movement is so smooth your stomach barely swoops. You instinctively curl against him, arms looping around his neck while Clark carries you back toward the bedroom.
Well. The partially destroyed bedroom.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we probably should’ve had the super-strength conversation before my bedframe died in the line of duty.” Clark huffs out a laugh.
“I can buy you a new one.”
“You shattered this one with your hips. I think you owe me at least three.”
summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x
Clark is a good guy.
Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.
During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.
"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.
College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.
All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?
He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.
But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.
And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.
Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasn’t even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.
It was everything else.
Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after you’d left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.
He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.
Your voice would carry on over everyone else’s, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.
Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clark’s jaw lock so hard it ached.
And god, your boyfriend.
Your dumb fucking boyfriend.
Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.
Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.
Didn’t need to. He hated him anyway.
He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.
However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.
Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.
The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.
His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldn’t come at all- and he’d spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought he’d ever had about you.
It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something he’d spent his whole life pretending wasn’t there.
Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.
Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.
You’d walk into a room and he’d know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.
Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.
Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He booked some time off.
He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.
"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."
After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.
He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache you’d left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.
He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.
He thought distance would help. What with Ma’s cooking and Pa’s quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.
Even in Smallville however, you followed him.
And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.
But you weren’t there.
Your desk sat empty.
Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.
At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a café. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.
By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.
Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.
“Oh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.”
He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that should’ve been the end of it.
But Jimmy kept talking.
“Guess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said she’s staying with family for a bit.”
Clark didn’t hear the rest.
The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.
Broke up.
You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.
And you were single.
A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.
You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.
That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.
He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.
He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.
You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.
You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.
He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.
And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much… you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?
Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.
But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...
synopsis: After breaking up with Adrian Chase, you find your dating life thwarted at every turn by Evergreen's own Vigilante.
pairing: adrian chase x reader
tags: stalker vigilante, possessive & jealous adrian (wait maybe this also works for your suggestion @genuinelygemini!), that being said - generally lots of antics and humor, angst, fluff, (but it's adrian so there's still murder), reader kind of matches vij's freak, brief sexual references, language, attempted mugging, gun violence
word count: 9.1k (sorry I got carried away)
note: (Based on this request from @danversxwasabi <3) as I'm not sure what's going on with the tumblr reblog/comments/notes situation this is a reminder that all my work is also cross-posted on my AO3 (I'm actually going to be changing my username there to match here soon!)
You were fairly certain that Vigilante was cockblocking you.
If you were being technical, your suspicions had started a few months ago, when you’d gotten back on the market after a particularly painful breakup with –
Adrian Chase had been…Adrian Chase had been the perfect boyfriend. Until he wasn’t.
You’d met just over a year ago, when Adrian waltzed into your coffee shop just before closing, a gleam in his eye and a demand for “something that’ll keep me awake. For like, a really, really long time. I want to get punched in the face with caffeine.”
It was said with the particular intensity of a man who definitely didn’t need caffeine ever, but you’d indulged him anyway.
“Have you tried cocaine?” you’d asked, a small smirk on your lips.
“What? No! Cocaine is like…” he’d lowered his voice and leaned over the counter, scowling. “Very illegal.”
Then he leaned back abruptly as if burned, and looked you up and down. “Why? Do you do cocaine?”
“Not my scene,” you’d replied, your turn to lean forward conspiratorially. “But I can make you something just as efficient. We’ll have you practically vibrating out of that little dad outfit of yours in no time.”
And that had been all it’d taken. Six shots of espresso and a criminal amount of vanilla syrup over ice with milk. You’d expected to see his face plastered on the morning news for a caffeine overdose. Instead, he became a regular, always in right before closing. Sometimes he’d stay and chat with you until the shop was closed up for the evening and then he’d insist on walking you to your car.
Which became you two sitting in your car and talking for hours.
Which, one particularly cold evening, became you two making out in your car. (You’d finally had to be the one to initiate - Adrian couldn’t pick up on a goddamn signal if his life depended on it.)
Adrian decided you were boyfriend and girlfriend after that, always said with a beam of pride and like it was one big mashed up word: “boyfriendgirlfriend”. As if he was afraid if he didn’t say it fast enough that would be the exact amount of time you’d need to break up with him. You weren’t sure how much say you’d actually had in the matter of becoming boyfriendgirlfriend, but it was weirdly nice, actually. After the last several years of fuckboys and ghosting and “not putting labels on things”. You’d had a gnarly past with dating - you’d probably be a serious contender for Guinness World Record for Most Times Someone Had Been Cheated On. And Adrian knew that. And Adrian Chase was built different.
Until he wasn’t.
At first, that was a good thing.
Sure, he was obsessed with you in a way that was sometimes vaguely disconcerting, but he loved you. Hard. You weren’t sure he knew any other way. He loved his friends hard, too. They were basically all a package deal. You never quite understood how they all became friends? They were like a random grab bag of people flung together by circumstances that were entirely unclear to you, no matter how many times one of them gave you a half-assed explanation.
And really, the problem with Adrian Chase had been a slow build. The issue had always been there, it just became more and more prominent over the year you were together until there was simply no ignoring it.
He had been hiding something from you.
You’d never confirmed he was cheating, not like you had with all the others. There was no smoking gun: no incriminating texts accidentally sent to you, no “hey girlie” DM from some stranger, no friend who’d seen him at the club making out with someone else. There was just...something. Something not right.
He’d go radio silent for long stretches of time, which was uncharacteristic of a man who often sent you over 100 texts a day. He’d be evasive about what he was up to when he wasn’t with you or at work. Once, you’d gone to Fennel Fields to drop off his jacket that he’d left at your apartment when he left “for work” only to find he wasn’t scheduled at the middling Italian restaurant at all.
The final straw had been when you’d woken up in the middle of the night to find his side of your bed empty. He didn’t come back for three days.
Then he’d shown up at your door in the middle of the night, soaking wet from the rain, his eyes brimming with tears, a set of scratches down his cheek. He looked like some cat that had come skulking back to its owner after discovering the alleycat life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
And you’d hated that his pained expression made you feel anything at all. That your heart squeezed tight when you looked at him. That his choked, desperate pleas had been almost convincing. But you’d learned your lesson the hard way in the past and you weren’t willing to repeat your mistakes. The risk of Adrian breaking your heart all over again was insurmountable.
Worse still was the fact that the anger never came - only the sorrow and the loneliness. You’d stayed awake for nights after, wondering if you’d made the wrong decision. Because Adrian wasn’t like the others…right? He’d adored you. Worshipped you, even. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars…
Either way, he wasn’t being honest with you. You had to hold tight to that certainty.
Adrian Chase: i’m so sorry please forgive me
Adrian Chase: i can’t explain but I promise i’d never hurt you
So you’d spent an entire weekend drinking Three Buck Chuck (you didn’t give a flying fuck if inflation made it $4.49, it was still $3 in your heart) and repeatedly washing every fabric in your apartment until none of it smelled even remotely like Adrian Chase. You’d stood numbly over the washing machine, bottle in hand, and willed yourself not to cry.
If only it were so easy to wash your brain clean.
Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): you were right to break up with me
Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): i won’t bother you again
But time heals all wounds, right? And time was certainly making a valiant effort at it.
Your best friend had made you re-download Hinge, your coworkers at the coffee shop had all consulted on your profile, and you were officially back on the market after much protest and turmoil. Of course, dating would require your heart to be “in it”, which it certainly was not. But some casual dating to take your mind off of things surely couldn’t go amiss.
That was, of course, until Vigilante showed up.
The first time seemed like pure coincidence.
It just so happened that Vigilante was in a foot chase with some low level criminal or another and ended up knocking over the outdoor dining table you had been sitting at with your first Hinge date. That could happen to anyone! Especially in godforsaken Evergreen.
In the end, it was actually kind of fortuitous that Vigilante had shattered a perfectly good table in your lap. Your date had turned out to be some kind of red pill loser who listened to Andrew Tate like it was mindful meditation. He had just been going on about “low value females” when glass and ceramic and wood exploded and spared you from another second of any of that bullshit. You were…weirdly grateful to Vigilante?
He stood up from the table, dusted himself off and held out the purse to a woman standing breathless on the sidewalk a few feet away. He kicked the purse thief in the ribs for good measure, waved at you and started to take off.
“Wait!”
You weren’t sure why you said it. You stooped to collect the hunting knife that’d fallen off his…utility belt?...and offered it to him. He came back and reached for the knife, but for some reason your fingers had been unable to let go. At the time you’d chalked it up to some kind of panic response - your brain synapses simply weren’t firing correctly. Shock. Or something. It was only later that the real reason became startlingly clear.
You’d been struck by the odd desire to keep him close.
“Uh…thanks, citizen?” he said with a clumsy attempt to disguise his voice. You released the knife into his grasp unwillingly.
“Why do you sound like that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Like what? I don’t sound like anything. I just sound like me. Vigilante.”
“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “Why are you doing a weird voice? You sound like Yoda swallowed Kermit the Frog.”
“That’s…no I don’t!”
You paused for a long moment, trying to place the vaguely familiar insistence in his tone. “We’ve met before.”
“N-no we haven’t,” he said lowly, a tremble in his voice. “Because I - I would definitely remember meeting you.”
It was strange, how you felt a little dejected that he didn’t remember that night. In his defense, it had been over a year. Probably a little after you and Adrian had originally started to become friends, actually.
You’d been walking home one night and he’d appeared out of nowhere - handed you the earbud you hadn’t realized had fallen out of your pocket about two blocks prior and then just…stayed. Walked you home in a companionable quiet (which you remembered thinking was weird, because all the reports you’d heard and the late night Reddit posts you’d read about him mentioned how chatty he was) and disappeared the moment you were safely in your apartment with the deadbolt slid into place.
At the time you’d thought: he probably did that sort of thing all the time, right?
Of course, now you knew better.
That first date had ended with your date looking back and forth between you and Vigilante, before calling you a “freak bitch” and leaving you splattered in salad dressing with a check to cover.
What, in all likelihood would have technically been the second time Vigilante crashed your date, you’d gotten ghosted instead.
So maybe you decided to have a drink or two while you waited for what had clearly become a total, radio-silent abandonment. And maybe you’d not eaten anything beforehand because it was supposed to be a dinner date. And you’d fucking driven yourself there but your ass would be walking home.
It was probably for the best - you were pretty sure you’d only matched with the ghoster because he had glasses that reminded you of Adrian.
Of course Vigilante was standing in the parking lot when you tripped out the front door. You walked straight past him and straight past your car and you didn’t even bother to look to see if he was following. Somehow, you knew he was.
He fell into step beside you silently, somehow feeling not like a threat, but a gentle comfort. A wordless offer of companionship.
“I imagine you’re not on any dating apps, Vigilante, so you don’t get it, but it’s fucking bleak out here,” you complained. “There are no good men left on this Earth. I finally had one who was good and he still managed to let me down in the end.”
“How?” came the gruff, muffled, accented reply. You stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and your hand flew to his bicep just as his hands wrapped around your waist. You didn’t pull back, you just stared up at him, hoping maybe your drunk self would see something your sober self couldn’t.
“It’s…hard to explain,” you replied, scrunching your brow as you studied his featureless face, head tilted back slightly to look up at him.
“Try me,” he said, his voice painfully soft. For not the first time you wondered what the man under the mask was really like. You reluctantly released your hold on his arm, and, in turn, his fingers drifted away from your waist. You started walking again, weighing whether there was any harm in unburdening your heart to Vigilante.
“Adrian was the first guy I dated who really and truly made me feel loved? Like I never doubted that he adored me. And I think because of that I was willing to overlook some things for a long time. And then suddenly one day I realized he’d disappear a lot, or be vague about where he was or sometimes he was straight up lying to me. And it didn’t matter how much I thought he loved me because his actions proved that maybe I shouldn’t have been so certain,” you explained, really focusing on your words, wondering in the back of your brain if you sounded like a drunk idiot.
When he didn’t say anything, you continued, “I’ve dated more than my fair share of guys who cheated or fucked around and even though I felt so certain Adrian wasn’t like that, there was still this doubt in the back of my mind that overweighed everything else. Maybe he wasn’t cheating but I’d given people the benefit of the doubt in the past and always been sorry in the end. Cheating or not - which, I’ll be honest, I find really hard to believe he was cheating because of the way he’d…um, actually you don’t need to hear about that! Uh, cheating or not, he was keeping something from me.”
Vigilante’s decisive lack of response kept your drunk mouth running. “I think the worst part is I maybe miss him? Or, not maybe, I know I miss him. I think about him all the time even when I try not to. I even miss his quirks – of which he had many, let me tell you! But I guess that’s what happens when you love someone that much. And now I’m worried maybe that was the best it’ll ever get for me and it’s gone and I fucked everything up forever.”
You could feel his gaze on you but you didn’t indulge it. You were too busy thinking about the thing you knew you shouldn’t say, the most painful, stupid, ugly part of it all. “The worst part is that it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me? That there’s something inherently unlovable about me baked into my DNA or something. Why else would all these guys cheat on me, or lie to me, or whatever? Like there must be something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m the common denominator.”
You felt his gloved hand scrape at your elbow, fingers pressing into the skin firmly.
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” came his quiet reply finally, his voice strangely ragged. You squinted up at him.
“Yeah, well, why would you?” you asked, genuinely confused.
“I…wouldn’t,” he replied slowly, before nodding emphatically.
“Right…”
“Right.”
You weren’t totally sure if he was being confusing or you were just drunk? Maybe both?
You turned and found yourself at your apartment door. You blinked for a moment - you’d been so preoccupied you didn’t even remember marching up the stairs. Wait, did it mean that he did remember walking you home all those months ago? Or you’d just led him right straight there. Again. A total psycho knew where you lived.
“Good night,” he said suddenly in that stupid put-on voice. Your heart leapt into your throat anyway. Were you that desperate?
“Good night, Kermit Yoda,” you taunted, flashing him a smile as you closed the door and you definitely didn’t wobble on your feet. You made an auditory show of dramatically flipping the deadbolt and sliding the chain lock into place.
“Fuck.” You heard him whisper from the other side of the door in a voice that sounded much more real than the one you’d come to know. There was a small thump and you wondered if you looked through the peephole you’d see his forehead resting against the door.
You decided it was better not to know.
You leaned with your back against the door and pulled out your phone. Against your better judgment, you scrolled through your old texts until you found the Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase) thread that you’d been so good about not looking at. Mostly. You hadn’t had the heart to block him, but you’d deleted his number to remove the temptation. And true to his word he hadn’t bothered you again.
You dragged your thumb along the edge of the screen as you debated. Maybe there would be no harm in just…checking in on him? You were still somehow unaccustomed to the total lack of him in your life after a year that was so full of him. You’d find yourself missing him in tiny ways over and over again, even if you were loathe to admit it. There was a stupid, Adrian Chase sized hole in your heart.
Your other hand drifted into the waistband of your jeans. What if you opened the door and invited Vigilante inside to fill something else of yours? Maybe you could bite into one of those biceps of his and convince him to let you call him Adrian.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. What the fuck was wrong with you? You pulled your hand from your pants, closed your messages and opened Hinge instead.
The second time (ghosting date notwithstanding) was perhaps the strangest of all.
It was quick drinks at a bar downtown before he suggested you two hit the club. You could tell what he was after the moment you’d laid eyes on him, but you didn’t mind. You’d been meaning to fuck Adrian Chase right out of your system (and apparently Vigilante, too) and your date was easy on the eyes, if a little smarmy. You could deal with that if it meant getting railed so hard you forgot your own name. Though, if you were judging by the rhythm of his hips as he grinded against you, you might be out of luck on that front.
“Club’s a front for drug smuggling!” a familiar voice called as it passed you, so casual your brain didn’t process it until a moment later. You barely had time to react before Vigilante was pulling a gun and executing the club owner right in front of everyone. Your mouth dropped open and for a second you swore he was turning back to look at you, like he was looking for your approval.
Then, the club burst into understandable chaos. People went running for the door, shouts filling the room in lieu of music. Someone knocked straight into you and you hit the deck hard. You managed to get yourself onto your knees (the drink-slick floor was not agreeing with your choice of shoewear) when your date’s hand appeared in front of you. You grasped onto it, grateful for your only lifeline, and opened your mouth to thank him when you realized rather suddenly that the hand was gloved and attached to the rest of fucking Vigilante.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sounding strangely breathless.
You yanked your hand out of his and scowled at him. “That was really fucked up.”
“I thought you said drugs weren’t your scene,” he snipped back. Was that some sort of accusation? It felt loaded with a meaning you couldn’t quite parse. The club music was still blasting and you’d just watched Vigilante kill a man in front of your very eyes. Your brain was…not thinking clearly.
Still, it reminded you of something distant. Or someone.
“What?”
“Nothing!” he exclaimed. Then he looked over his shoulder and you both processed that the dead club owner’s security seemed to be getting themselves together, hands reaching into jackets for what you could only imagine were concealed weapons. He spun you around and pushed you towards the door.
“Oh! I ordered you an Uber: silver Honda Civic, license plate JG8566, Jamil has a 4.9 star rating. Get home safe!” he chattered at you before pushing you out the front door and onto the sidewalk. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind you.
The driver of a small Honda Civic waved at you from across the street. He poked his head out the window. “Uber for Vigilante?”
You looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard him and then with a hearty sigh you stepped off the curb.
The third time was the time that really pushed you over the edge.
Your new date had taken you to one of those trendy places-of-the-week that filled a niche so specific you weren’t sure how they sustained a business on “boutique rice pudding”. As it turned out, they didn’t. In fact, it turned out that Rice to Riches was a money laundering scheme.
A money laundering scheme that Evergreen’s own Vigilante had taken upon himself to break up right in the middle of your date. He’d breezed right in the front door, waving at you as he passed. For a moment you presumed you were actively hallucinating. But the sound of a fight in the kitchen had you realizing otherwise. You listened to the sound of fists hitting flesh over and over and by the time your brain was able to properly have the feeling that you should definitely leave, Vigilante was standing at your table.
“Hey!” He was still doing the stupid voice, apparently.
“Hi?”
“So, just a heads up this place was a money laundering front.”
“Okaaaay,” you drawled, uncertain of how you were supposed to respond to that info. “You know, a heads up usually comes before you murder a bunch of people.”
“Oh, I didn’t murder anyone. They’re just uhhhhh out cold. Tied up,” he replied in a way that was utterly unconvincing.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. You turned to your date to say something but he was white as a sheet, his fingers still gripping his spoon while his mouth hung open, slack jawed.
“Are you on a date?” he asked flippantly, examining the fingers of his gloves as if he were casually looking at his nails.
“Yes?”
“You sure go on a lot of dates.”
Wait a minute, did Vigilante think you were a slut?
“Three dates is not a lot of dates. And, not that it’s any of your business but…I’m trying to get back out there after a really shitty break up. Is that a fucking crime?”
His sure-fire posture shifted slightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. Your gaze caught on his biceps and suddenly your fingers itched with the memory of them. God damnit. “Maybe it should be.”
Your brow furrowed. Was he fucking pouting? You were indignant, and feeling a little reckless. “Well, then, Vigilante, go on - put that dumbass sword on your back to good use and kill me.”
“Uh…do you two know each other?” your date asked. You blinked at him dumbly - you’d forgotten he was there.
“No!” you and Vigilante snapped at the same time. You stared hard at him, trying to make out anything beyond that stupid red visor of his.
“Look, you seem nice but this has been deeply weird, sooo I’m gonna go,” your date said, but not before taking his rice pudding with him. You couldn’t blame him - for a money laundering scheme the pudding was really good.
You whipped back towards Vigilante as the bell sounded over the front door and the only person with a lick of common sense in the scenario fled the scene.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded. You clarified before he could shrug it off, “Why are you so hell bent on ruining all my dates?”
He laughed, an awkward, strained sound that devolved into a cough as he clearly tried to disguise the sound. “Um, selfish much?”
“Excuse me?”
“You really think the world revolves around you so much that I’m specifically trying to interrupt your little dates or whatever?” he scoffed, apparently intent on doubling down on his unusual attempt at indifference. “I’m a little busy fighting crime to worry about your inept dating life, dude.”
You narrowed your gaze at him, almost positive he was lying. But the alternative did seem insane. He sighed. “What possible reason could I have for wanting to keep you from dating?”
“I don’t…I don’t know,” you admitted. What else were you meant to say? There was no proof, not really. But you didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Oh, so he’s like…in love with you?” your friend said when you’d finally finished recounting the strangest weeks of your life.
Coffee threatened to spill out of your nose as you choked, “What?”
One of your regulars piped up from their usual table by the counter. “Oh, yeah, no I agree. It sounds like he’s totally in love with you.”
“On what planet is he – oh my god, there’s no way, guys!” you argued, even if the sinking feeling in your stomach said otherwise. Was it possible? And if it was – why? Why you?
You waved them both off. “He doesn’t even know me.”
Even if you were unconvinced of some kind of undying love you were convinced that it was all on purpose. Fate had often been unkind to you in the past, but it was a level of sadism that even you could not believe existed naturally in the universe.
And all of it – the failed dates, the weird, strangely intimate encounters, the skin-crawling feeling of being followed, the gnawing feeling of familiarity – had led you to a totally logical, reasonable plan: set a trap for Vigilante.
So maybe you’d spent maybe a little too much time planning it. Thoroughly vetting the restaurant, the people who ran it, pouring through social media accounts and a background check on your date - certifying that there was no off-hand excuse for Vigilante to crash your date.
No crimes, no drug fronts, no nefarious owners. Just an above-the-board night out with a nice guy. It was your own little challenge to him, a desperate bid to prove your theory right. If he crashed this date you would know for sure that this wasn’t just some weird cosmic intervention and that he was doing it on purpose.
“Are you okay?” your date asked. Alex? Andrew? Adrian? (NO, definitely not.) Fuck. What was his name again? “You seem a little…distracted.”
You dragged your gaze back to him and put on a carefully practiced smile. “I’m so sorry. I am distracted, you’re right. And that’s not fair to you.”
“Anything I can help with?” he offered with a lift of his brows and a small tilt of his head. He took a sip of his drink, waiting for you to fill in the blanks for him. Adam! Adam seemed…nice. And you were…toootally blowing him off. You sighed, defeated, and smiled apologetically.
“It’s going to sound crazy,” you started, raking your hands over your face.
Adam smiled. “Try me.”
You shifted slightly in your seat. “Okay, so you know Vigilante?”
“Vaguely? The costumed maniac who works with Peacemaker and is somehow not in jail?”
You chuckled. “That’s the one. Well, uh, I think he might be – ” In love with me? But you figured that was not the right thing to say on a first date. Was the alternative really much better? “Stalking me?”
Adam choked on his sip of wine. “What?”
“Or it’s total, weird karmic coincidence that he just keeps showing up where I am!” you offered. Adam’s head tilted slightly to the side, bewilderment written across his handsome features.
“How many times has this happened exactly?”
“Four. Give or take. Not counting the time he walked me home like a year ago.”
“Sorry, Vigilante walked you home?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, I know how it sounds.”
Adam’s eyes studied you for a moment before he turned and flagged your waiter down. Damn it, you thought, he doesn’t even need to be here to ruin dates for me. Maybe you’d have to store the Vigilante card in your pocket for some bad date down the line.
But instead, Adam leaned back in his chair and smiled at the waiter. “I think we’re going to need another glass of wine. And what’s the best dessert you’ve got?”
When the waiter disappeared to fetch both things he leaned his elbows on the table. “Okay, start from the beginning.”
Outside the restaurant you two did the awkward dance between lingering and saying good night once and for all. With both your rides ordered the two of you stood waiting, close together. (It was cold! Who could blame a girl?) Adam reached up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.
“Listen, I’m really hoping I don’t get a visit from Vigilante later for this, but, uh, can I kiss you?” Adam asked. His sandy hair was given an orange halo by the streetlight above you both. He really was handsome in a sort of everyman kind of way. Considerate, kind, easy to look at and not Vigilante – you nodded. His lips pressed against yours gently and something that felt almost like guilt twisted in the base of your stomach.
When his car rolled up first he offered to stay with you but you’d waved him off. “Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek and made you promise to text when you got home safe. The second his car disappeared around the block your driver cancelled on you. You’d already waited an eternity and getting a rideshare in downtown Evergreen on a Friday night was a nightmare scenario. Besides, the walk would be good for you. There was plenty to think about on the way home. Like…
Where the fuck was Vigilante?
Maybe you were back to the drawing board entirely. You’d been so convinced he was doing it on purpose, but maybe you’d been wrong? Maybe it really was just all coincidence? What a weird, specific curse to have upon you.
And then you heard the footsteps behind you.
The feeling of being followed was familiar now, unfortunately expected, but when you whipped around the very clear glint of a knife pointed at you, well…that was new.
“Oh!” you managed to squeak out. It wasn’t Vigilante at all. Instead, you were face to face with some guy who was very clearly trying to mug you.
“Jesus Christ,” you sighed.
“Give me your purse, bitch!”
You raked a hand over your face. “Please don’t do this. I’ve been having a really shitty few months and I’m - ”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Listen, asshole, I’m just trying to warn you. Vigilante has been stalking me so you probably don’t want to fuck with me.”
You didn’t think you’d get to play the card so soon! A strange delight unfurled in your gut. Maybe invoking his name would somehow finally make him appear. Your life in danger would be his very own Bat Signal.
The man faltered slightly before tightening his grip on his knife. “Why would Vigilante be stalking you?”
“You know, man with knife, that’s a really good question,” you said, nodding thoughtfully. The strange sense of calm running through you really should have been more alarming. You felt yourself take a step towards him and his expression shifted into pure confusion. Maybe that was good. Maybe you could actually handle this yourself. Maybe this was like when people gave advice to out-freak your would-be attacker. Maybe –
A single gunshot silenced the rest of that train of thought. Hot blood splattered against your clothes, your cheek, in your slightly open mouth.
“Oh my god,” you managed, frozen for just a moment before bending to spit onto the sidewalk. You lifted the hem of your sweater to your mouth to scrape the taste of blood out of your mouth while you tried desperately not to gag.
“Nice! I’ve been looking everywhere for this guy!” Vigilante cheered, a slight hop in his step as he crossed the street to where you stood.
“Are you okay?” he asked, giving your shoulder a slight nudge with his own. You at least had the good sense to recoil from his touch. His hands shot up to shoulder height, palms towards you in a show of reassurance.
“Sorry! I was running a little late. Did I miss your date?”
“Yeah, you did,” you replied, realizing a moment too late that you sounded a little disappointed. Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with you? “I even got a good night kiss. Which, before you say anything, is not a crime.”
Tension visibly rippled through Vigilante’s muscles. “Was he…was he good to you?”
“He was very nice.”
“That’s it? Just ‘very nice’? Sounds kind of lame to me!”
“Well, he’s not you.”
“Not me good, or not me…bad?” he asked quietly.
You faltered a moment, genuinely unsure. Sure, the stupid, depraved thought had been knocking around in your head for a little while now. That while Vigilante was actively ruining your dating life, at least he was somewhat consistent. At least he showed up for you. And maybe there was something kind of hot about the mask now that you thought about it.
God damnit, you really needed to get away from him before you did something stupid. So, you continued walking towards your apartment, thinking maybe he’d have to stay behind to deal with the body. But instead he just followed along with you like some hapless dog.
“For one thing, he didn’t just murder someone in front of me again,” you said instead of really answering the question.
He put his hands on his hips. “That guy was going to hurt you. You’re telling me you would have preferred I let him stab you in the face over a purse? That would be a total waste of a really good face.”
“No! I’m not saying that, I’m saying…fuck I don’t know, Vij,” you sighed. He froze, a particular tension to his posture. But your brain was busy playing catch up with the fact that he’d said you had a…good face?
“Say that again,” he murmured. Something was so, so familiar about the cadence, the desperation. An impossible thought prickled at the back of your mind and you batted it away.
“Say what again?” you asked.
“Call me Vij. I like it when you say it.”
A shudder rolled down your spine, involuntary and unwelcome. You struggled against the feeling settling in your gut. “Not until you admit that you’ve been trying to ruin my dating life.”
“Why would I admit that?” he scoffed. “Or, um, I mean, uhhh…I told you before, I think that’s a really self-centered way of looking at the world. To assume that just because I happen to show up at all your dates and they happen to be interrupted or end badly while I’m around doesn’t mean that I’m doing it on purpose! And actually, as a feminist, I find that kind of assumption offensive.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really! I think all women should be allowed to date whoever they want!”
“All women?” you asked.
“Mhmm!”
“Even me?” you continued to press.
His shoulders shifted slightly. “Yup!”
“And so I should be able to fuck whoever I want as much as I want?”
His entire body went stiff as he seemingly tried to force himself to nod.
“For sure. Yes! Definitely! Go off, diva! Have sooooo much sex. Like maybe even have too much!” he rambled. You just stared at him with wide eyes. Then he laughed sharply, and the familiarity of it ran through your whole body. There was no way… “I mean, can one even have too much sex? Probably not!”
You tilted your head slightly. “Are you okay?”
“Can I admit something?” he asked, the question bursting out of him like he’d been biting his tongue, his voice sounding strained. He waited for your sharp nod before he continued, “I’ve been trying to ruin your dating life.”
You faltered. “What?”
“Yeah, ha, you totally caught me!” He scratched at the back of his neck and again that sense of familiarity ran through you like ice in your veins.
“You know, my friends think it’s because you’re totally in love with me.”
His head tilted slightly and you would have given anything to see the expression on his actual face. “Oh! Well, probably because I am.”
For a moment you could practically smell the short-circuiting happening in your brain. “You…huh?”
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other as you both stood at the bottom of your apartment complex stairs. “Sorry, I thought it was obvious?”
“Why else are you doing all this?”
“Is love not enough these days?” he joked breathlessly.
Something like panic started to crawl down your spine. You had, of course, considered the possibility, but faced with the simple truth of it you didn’t know what to do or say. So you did the only thing you could think of in the moment - you turned wordlessly and walked up the steps towards your apartment. You fished your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the lock before you turned back around to look at him one more time.
It was a mistake.
You couldn’t believe it. You were about to do something so, so fucking stupid. But the theory brewing in the back of your mind needed to be accounted for.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
No sooner had you asked then Vigilante ducked his head down and pressed his mouth to yours, fabric scraping at your chin. You made a noise of surprise, muffled against his mask, as he pushed you back against your front door. All you could taste was polyester and sweat and something metallic. His tongue tried to lick desperately into your mouth but was constrained behind the fabric, now wet and sticking to your skin and his. It was entirely unsatisfying, frustrating even, but still you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading in your stomach.
So you slid your fingers up his suit until you were prying at fabric, pushing it up until his hands grabbed your wrists firmly and made you stop. He pinned your arms down at your sides but still you leaned back to examine the small stretch of canvas he’d allowed you, taking in the pale expanse of his neck, the very bottom of his face. Even in the dim light something about it was familiar.
You leaned forward and peppered kisses to his exposed skin until you reached his uncovered mouth and waited. He surged forward, kissing you for real this time - nothing but wet lips and eager tongues and hot breath and his hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt as he yanked you against him and – oh.
You pulled back.
“What the fuck?” you panted. If you’d felt insane moments before, you now felt the Earth had completely flipped on its axis the moment your lips had touched his.
Because you knew that mouth.
“Adrian?”
“Um…who?” he attempted.
“Take the mask off right now,” you ordered, pulling away from his grasp.
“I can’t, I, uh, well, I’d have to kill you! If you saw my face! Because, you know - secret identity,” he scrambled. Oh my god. How had you not realized it sooner? You really were a fucking idiot.
“You won’t kill me,” you said firmly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You don’t know that!”
“I do. And besides, I already know what your face looks like, Adrian Chase,” you snapped.
He looked frantically over his shoulder. “Can we please talk about this inside?”
“Why the fuck would I let Vigilante inside my apartment?” you asked.
“C’mon, please don’t be like that,” he whined.
“Like what? Seriously, tell me why I should let a stranger who is a murderous superhero wannabe into my home,” you said, putting your hands on your hips. “I’ll wait.”
“I don’t wanna be pedantic but you did just let Vigilante put his tongue in your mouth, so, I’m not really sure what the difference is?”
You stood your ground. You just wanted to hear him admit it. Because you knew him and you knew he’d cave.
“Fine! Fuck! It’s me, Adrian!” he exclaimed in a rather loud whisper. You rolled your eyes at him and he reached up to take the mask the rest of the way off.
“Jesus Christ, don’t! Don’t do that out here, you idiot!” you gasped and reached up to stop him. You cursed under your breath as you unlocked your door and then dragged him inside, your fingers hooked under the chest plate of his suit. With the door closed behind him and the lock safely in place, Adrian reached up and pulled the mask off with a gasp.
He stared at you with those wide, bright green eyes of his and smiled from ear to ear. “See, you do care about me still!”
You shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze directly. You knew exactly what it was like to fall into those eyes and you weren’t totally convinced you’d be able to climb your way back out.
“No, I care about my nosy neighbors seeing me with a wanted criminal.”
“Sure,” he agreed, clearly sarcastic. He fished his glasses out his pocket and slid them onto his face. For some reason, seeing your Adrian - glasses and all - in the Vigilante suit was more befuddling than it was before. Worse still, it was also strangely arousing.
And then it hit you like running headfirst into a brick wall.
This is what he’d been hiding the whole time.
“Why?” you asked, somehow the only word you could seem to muster.
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific…”
“Why the fuck were you lying to me about this, Adrian?”
“I mean, not to be technical but I was lying to you about other stuff. You never asked me if I was Vigilante!”
You rolled your eyes and groaned. “Well, pardon me for not thinking to ask if my boyfriend is the psychopath running around Evergreen killing people for minor infractions! Adrian, you’re weird but you’re like…sweet weird. You don’t exactly give off psycho-killer vibes.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
You punched him straight in the arm. “Please be serious right now!”
“Sorry! I couldn’t help it! That song is so funny. Because like, what is this, you know? They’re really asking the right questions.”
“I cannot believe I spent a year dating you,” you sighed.
“Hey!”
“You don’t get to ‘hey’ me! You’ve been living a double life for…wait, was it the whole time we were together?”
Adrian chewed at his lower lip. “Maybe.”
“Adrian!”
“Yeah, okay, the whole time we were together and also like…for a while now.”
Your mind was reeling, trying to deal with the puzzle pieces and details and – oh yeah, the gnawing of your own presumed morality at the back of your brain. The man you loved was a killer. And maybe you loved the killer, too.
“When you disappeared for three days were you…doing Vigilante shit?”
“Oh, ha! Yeah, I was on a super serious top secret mission,” Adrian laughed. Then he took in your expression and he, too, sombered. “I wanted to tell you then. I wanted to explain. That night on your doorstep I planned to…um, but when I came back…when you told me we were breaking up, that you couldn’t trust me, I…I think it broke something in my brain. But I also realized you were right to break up with me. That actually you’re safer when you’re not dating me. I couldn’t live with myself if someone were to somehow trace me back to you. But then I realized that I could protect you as Vigilante, even if I couldn’t protect you as Adrian.”
“I didn’t want to break up with you, you know that, right?” you asked quietly. Something like a glimmer of hope flashed in his bright green eyes. “But I had to protect my heart.”
“What if…do you think there’s a chance you could let me protect that, too?” he asked, voice quiet and unsteady. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“Is that what you think you’ve been doing this whole time? Protecting me?” you asked, genuinely trying to understand the way his clearly warped brain worked.
“I know I don’t deserve it, but you do. You deserve the world. Because you’re not the common denominator in a sea of shitty men. You’re like a bright star that everyone is drawn to. And bright lights attract some losers, too and…I think I’m losing track of the metaphor but all I really mean to say is: you’re exceptional.”
Call it weakness, call it stupidity, call it what it was: a kindling breath on a flame you’d tried desperately to snuff out. You loved him.
It was unclear if it was you who leaned forward first or him but either way you found your head pressed against his chest, his arms sure and firm around you.
“I have to ask — how did you know it was me?”
“I had my suspicions,” you laughed. Though clearly not enough. “But I knew for certain the second my lips touched yours.”
Adrian well and truly cackled. He lit up all over, exactly the same man you’d fallen in love with the first time you’d met him. Just with a little…more than you could have conceived of before. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it to him quite yet, but a part of you clamored to get to properly know Vigilante, too. There was a whole new, strange, thrilling part of Adrian Chase for you to discover.
“I can’t believe you recognized my mouth, dude! That’s kind of insanely romantic if you think about it!”
“Yeah, I’m actively choosing not to think about it, thanks!” you retorted. Then, because for some reason you couldn’t help it, “I mean, I’m very familiar with that mouth’s work, it would be a crime if I didn’t recognize it.”
“Are you flirting with me right now?” Adrian asked, the question half a gasp, half a squeal of excitement.
“No! I don’t know! Maybe a little bit! Fuck! I can’t help it.” You scrubbed at your face with both hands like maybe you’d be able to wipe it all away. “It’s like…in me, you know?”
“What is?”
“Everything about you. I see your face and it’s like you’re hardwired in my skull and in my heart. I could have gone on one hundred dates or none and it wouldn’t have made a difference at all, because none of them were you!” you exclaimed, breathless. You knew Adrian well enough to know you were maybe being too flowery for his very literal brain to fully comprehend.
“Me Adrian or me Vigilante?” he asked, surprising you.
You forced yourself to meet his gaze and then gave a defeated shrug. “Both, I think.”
“Fuck, I think that’s the nicest and the coolest and the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Adrian murmured. He pulled you tight against him by the hips. “Can I kiss you again? I think I need to or else I’ll die.”
You answered him by pressing your lips to his, his chin captured in your hand, fingers pressed firmly into the skin – just enough pressure, not too much or too little for dear, sweet, Adrian. You kissed him hungrily, which seemed to take him delightfully by surprise, if the noises he made were anything to judge by. His tongue scraped over your teeth, and you bit at his lower lip and pulled. His fingers pressed so hard into your hips you thought they might bruise and you also thought you didn’t give a fuck. Adrian’s mouth travelled from your lips to your jaw to your neck. He sucked at the skin just below your ear and you knew he was trying to mark you as his. That was the question, wasn’t it? Were you willing to be his again, knowing what you know?
It was utterly incongruous: your perception of Adrian, the man you’d loved and practically lived with for an entire year versus Vigilante, a man you knew to be a totally cold-blooded, obsessive killer. Did it make a difference if it was in the name of justice? You had seen on the news when he’d been involved with saving the planet from those butterfly alien things with Peacemaker. How was he the kind of guy who could play D&D for hours, and talk incessantly about Pokemon, and kiss you so gently, and also the kind of guy who kicked criminal ass with no remorse and saved the planet from alien invasion?
“What are you thinking?” he asked, pulling back suddenly. He had that gentle, focused look in his eye that you knew all too well.
“I think I should probably be scared of you,” you replied honestly. His tight hold on you loosened almost imperceptibly, but still you felt it. Of course you did.
“I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”
“I do. And, I also think you’ve permanently fucked up the wiring in my brain,” you grumbled against his mouth.
“Does this mean we’re getting back together?” he asked, and you could practically feel the excitement of the idea thrumming through his body.
“Maybe,” you offered. He deflated slightly. “If we’re going to try and figure this out then there’s no more secrets between us, okay?”
Adrian nodded. “Sick! I mean, now you basically know all my secrets. Except, I guess, about all the drugs and blood money in my basement.”
“The what now?”
He darted forward and peppered your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks with kisses. Somewhere between them all he managed to say, “Thank you for giving me another chance. I’ve missed you so fucking much.”
“Hard to miss someone when you’re stalking them, Adrian,” you reminded him.
“But I miss you every time I blink,” Adrian breathed, wide-eyed and stupidly adorable and achingly earnest. Your fingers itched for every part of him but you refrained, hooking your fingers into the chest plate of his Vigilante armor.
“I need to hear you say it – no more secrets. We are both totally honest with each other, for better or worse,” you demanded.
Adrian nodded, a wide grin on his lips. “I’ll never keep anything from you ever again. You can trust me, I promise. In fact, I promise on Peacemaker’s life! He’s the only thing I cherish in this life even remotely close to you, so you know I mean it. If I was gonna swear on the most important thing, well, that would be you, but I figured that’s a little counterproductive to the whole swearing on something thing.”
When you kissed again it wasn’t hungry any more. It was slow, it was deep, it was an acknowledgment that you had all the time in the world. Your fingers wove into his curls and pulled tightly, just the way you knew he liked. Because you knew him. He groaned his approval into your mouth and he wrapped around you, practically enveloping you. The next thing you knew his hands were under your ass and he was supporting you so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He carried you effortlessly towards your bedroom, pausing along the way to press your back to the wall and kiss you even deeper, his fingers needy and clumsy at the hem of your shirt. His fingers, still gloved, scraped across the skin of your stomach, reacquainting themselves with familiar territory.
His lips didn’t leave yours the entire time, even as he carried you to your bed and laid you down like the most precious thing on the planet. He leaned over you, hands pressed into the mattress, you hooking your fingers into the straps on the front of his suit to try and pull him as close as humanly possible. Things blurred into a hot, slow, haze of Adrian.
Suddenly, you drew back with a gasp, both desperate for air and with another gnawing question on your tongue.
“Wait wait! You didn’t kill any of those guys I went on dates with, right?”
“Only the first one,” he said with a kind of severity that sent a chill down your spine and had you anticipating the feeling of him between your thighs in equal measure. Then you realized, somewhat dreamily, that Adrian already was in between your thighs. So you squeezed your legs around him tighter – you weren’t letting him go again. Adrian Chase really had ruined you forever.
“And what crime did he commit?” you asked against his mouth, your arms snaking around his neck.
“Being an asshole to the person I love most in the world.”
Then he unhooked your legs so he could slide down your body until he was kneeling at the edge of your bed. His fingers made quick work of your pants and yours pressed into the mattress as he made himself at home between your thighs like no time had passed at all.
Adrian watched you sleep for some time, your limbs tangled with his, you asleep in one of the oversized shirts he’d left behind, the poster of Fargo printed across your chest. The evening had gone better than he could have ever planned. And he had done a lot of planning.
Sure, he hadn’t anticipated your date kissing you, but it didn’t even bother him anymore. But he’d heard what that stupid guy had said to you while he was hidden out of sight.
Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?
Now the mugger had been a total coincidence but one that made him look so cool and tough. He’d saved you from death, not just a shitty date with some stupid guy! Extra points for Vigilante! He’d high five himself if he could.
Adrian moved slowly, making sure not to disturb you in the slightest. He got distracted for a long moment just watching you sleep peacefully, a ghost of a smile on your beautiful mouth.
When he slipped back into the bed he had the Vigilante mask on and your phone in his hand. He cuddled up behind you and then tucked his chin into the crook of your neck. He ensured the flash was off and then took a picture. He opened your texts and found Adam (Hinge) with ease.
He attached the photo and then, smiling from ear to ear, typed:
You lose.
breaking up is hard to do taglist: @sideblogmeanz @danversxwasabi @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @bunch-of-bens @lovenerdywhitemen2 @morguegrl89
gen adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase
(if you want to be on my adrian taglist let me know below! x)
Saying “this niche, properly tagged, warned, and rated piece of fiction could theoretically hurt someone” is not a good argument. This properly labeled cookie with the allergen information at the bottom that contains gluten could theoretically harm me very badly, but only if I consume it. Tags are like nutrition labels, and warnings are like allergy information. If you know you have an allergy to something, the logic is to stay away from it. It is the same with fiction. I’m not running through stores yelling at people to take all the products with gluten off the shelves just because it could hurt me. Instead I ignore it and go to the gluten free section and find cookies that are right for me. And if running through a grocery store yelling sounds ridiculous, that’s because it is. Stop doing the same with fiction.
And just like with food, what might be harmful for one person to consume could be quite *beneficial* for others. One man’s trigger is another man’s catharsis.
AND if you lack the maturity/self control/awareness to stop yourself from eating things that could potentially harm you, you either 1) are too young to be making your own food choices and should be supervised by a parent/other adult who is supposed to be responsible for you (and the store clerk who put the food on the shelf is NOT) or 2) need to take accountability for your own actions, because if you deliberately consumed something you knew could hurt you as a fully autonomous adult, then you really have no one to blame but yourself.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
We rolled out a significant change to how notes work on reblogs, and the reaction has been strong. We're not going to pretend otherwise.
First things first: We're reversing the change. Your feedback in comments, emails, and especially reblogs, made clear that the rollout created problems we need to address before moving forward. We also should have communicated this differently from the start, and we didn't.
We still believe there's a better version of how reblogs can work. One that gives every voice in a chain the credit it deserves. But we want to get there with you.
In the coming days we'll share more on how we plan to do that, including ways to work directly with some of you on this and future changes before they ship.
As important as it was to contact Tumblr when they made that asinine, fucked up change, now that they've reversed it, you have a chance to say thanks for reversing it.
I know that you're probably still riding the high (negative) from the stress of going through yesterday's changes, and worrying about the fate of your community, and how badly the change would have affected creators. We banded together, and we let the staff know that we didn't like what they were doing, and you know what? They listened. That's part of why we're here on Tumblr and not other places that would have just shoved that down our throats regardless of the hundreds of thousands of complaints. Yeah, they fucked up. Big time. But they also backed off, and it's important to speak on that front as well if you want them to do it again later.
So, even though you may still be mad that they did it at all, take a moment and a breath, and click here. Select feedback if it isn't already selected. And just say "Hey, thanks for listening to your users, and for rolling back the change. I like my community here, and I like that you listened to us when we asked you not to do something we didn't like." It doesn't need to be elaborate. But if we want them to listen to us, making it worth listening to us is a step in the process.
Which also means that if you added a negative review somewhere due to this update, consider retracting or editing it to address the back track on the update. If you were a premium user and you cancelled in order to speak with your money to object to the change, consider speaking again now that you've been listened to.
Staff fucked up. But I'd rather have a staff that fucks up sometimes and then actually listens to its users and fixes or tries to fix it, than a staff that fucks up and pushes through to force the fuck up on everyone. So I'm going to thank them for listening this time, and I'm going to encourage them to listen again next time.
in case you want to know how bad the new tumblr update is. look at the notes. these are from the same post. screenshotted at the same time. the first one is a screenshot from tumblr app where the new update hasn’t been implemented yet. the second one is a screenshot from web browser where the new update has already been implemented.
here let me make it clearer.
app 👇🏻
browser 👇🏻
again. same post. screenshotted at the same time.
basically, op will only get notes if people like or reblog directly from them. if people like or reblog the original post they made from other people’s reblogs — and if those reblogs have comments or tags left by the rebloggers — op will not get any notes or credits. because apparently when people reblog the original posts you made and add their own tags or comments in those reblogs, it now counts as new posts and these “new posts” belongs to the reposters. not you as the op.
imagine being an artist on tumblr and getting the least notes on your own art while your reposters get hundreds or thousands of notes from your hard works, because they reblog the art you spent weeks or months making and add “very cool op 👍🏻” as a comment or a tag.
but not only will you not receive those notes, you as the op cannot see what comments people leave on your own original posts that you created either, unless it’s a direct reblog from you.
not to mention the harassment against op this new update will undoubtedly unfortunately allow.
@tumblr @staff @changes @support with all due respect, this new update is both terrible and harmful
