[dcandmarvelimagines]

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[dcandmarvelimagines]

hey queen, so idk if u take requests but i have one... So, Im a chubby girl, which I love about myself, but i do get self conscious sometimes and i find that a lot of fics feel like a thinner reader. So maybe, Bruce Wayne/Batman with a chubby reader and he like, makes her feel amazing about herself? idkk... tyyy

Girl...you have no idea how strongly I feel about this!!! I'm also a bigger woman so when I'm reading fics and they mention something that is only possible if you are skinny it sort of takes me out of it for a moment. Theres also a certain "you're so fluffy, I bet you give good hugs" quality to some plus sized reader fics that doesn't sit right in my soul at times.

I know sometimes for the funny sexy times to happen, you gotta write it without anatomy in mind. I'm totally guilty of this at times. But I try to write it from the perspective of "could a fat person do this?" So many kinks and tropes just would not work with a bigger body (belly bulge and mating press are the two big ones that seem to be everywhere). No matter how strong the man is, my stomach will not allow him to bend me in half lol.

All that to say, I get it sooo much! My requests are unfortunately not open, mostly just because I'm such a slow writer and dont want requestors to wait forever for something I may never end up writing.

HOWEVER, chapter two of my batman fic will make some metions of the reader being bigger. I mean, come on, the reader will be in an Itty bitty bikini and nothing is sexier than a chubby woman in a little string swim suit.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader, dry humping (Clark maybe gets a little too excited), oral sex (f! receiving), lots of kissing, unprotected sex, a couple little bites and hickies (the usual for me)

A/N: Happy New Years!!!! I hope everyone has a wonderful evening and a great start for '26! How was your '25? Mine was pretty good! Went on a two really nice vacations (this is actually going up while I'm in Disney!), got engaged to my bf of seven years (shout out to him being my beta reader on everything lol), moved to a new, much nicer apartment. But there's been a lot of...rough moments. I think that's how all years are, yeah? Lots of good and lots of bad. Well, anyways! On with the smut!!

The realization that I was done, that I wouldn't have to suffer under Lex's wrath anymore, made me practically float on air for the next few hours. I was laughing loudly at only mildly funny jokes. I interjected my opinion on products when no one asked for them. I felt so…free. I didn't care what these people thought of me. If they wanted someone to fawn over everything they said, they could afford to buy that. I didn't even care what Lex thought of me anymore. Maybe he would think I was a light weight, that my one drink had gone straight to my head. I was fine with that.

The entire time I was forced to stand next to Lex, I was searching for Clark. He was typically easy to spot. While he stayed hunched in on himself, his shoulders were too wide to be missed. I watched as his agile fingers pressed buttons and adjusted the focus of the camera all while it was close to his face. My mind swirled with all the ways he could use them on me. It ranged from innocent and domestic things, foot rubs and lifting heavy things, to far less chaste fantasies, the slide of them in my hair and feel of them around my throat. Whenever the craving for him became too much and I was desperate to see his face, I would whisper Superman, the word barely a breath. But he would hear it. No matter how loud the conversation got, no matter how far away he was, he would hear. His focus would shift to me, our eyes like magnets, and would flash me a dazzling smile. Every time I caught sight of his slightly off centered teeth, giddy warmth bloomed in my chest.  

As the party rolled nearer to midnight, Lex told me to go home, and called the driver around to pick me up. He also asked, commanded, to take Clark and Lois with me as well. Clark was easy to grab, his attention half of me anyways, but Lois was a little harder. She had found a fresh piece of prey, an actress well known for her humanitarian activities, and was peppering her with so many questions the poor drunk woman was near tears. Clark finally had to physically pull Lois away, mumbling apologies and begging the actress not to sue the Planet. 

Lois was far too distracted by her phone, thumbs furiously typing, feet flying down the grand staircase, to notice Clark's hand slipping around mine. He helped balance me as I shuffled, half sideways, down the marble steps. “This thing is so impractical,” I mumbled, readjusting my grip on the excess beaded fabric, keeping it out of my way as I walked. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” When I looked up at his face, I found a small teasing smirk on his face. There was no doubt in my mind that he would do it if I asked. For a brief second I wanted to, just so I could feel his body against mine again. But we made it to the entrance way before I could come up with my response. We turned to each other, unable to stop ourselves, unwilling to leave this museum just yet. I didn’t want this dream to disappear in a flurry of cold snow once we stepped outside. 

“So,” I hummed, pulling the word out for a few syllables, “you said we can talk?” Our fingers intertwined, his thumb rubbing soothing circles along the back of my hand. “Is that a later thing?” He gazed down at me, tenderness written all over his attractive face. “Or, could it be a tonight thing?” He arched an eyebrow and I flushed. “I didn’t mean it like-” I cut myself off, feeling flustered. It sounded so salacious. “It’s just that all of this,” I gestured vaguely at him, “has been a lot to process. And I know myself well enough to know that it’ll be the only thing I can think of.” 

“Maybe I like the idea of you thinking of me.” His voice was smooth, almost sultry. I bit my lip, holding eye contact for a beat, before I glanced away. If only he knew just how much I’ve been thinking of him. “But, tonight works. Do you want to come to my place?” 

“Okay,” I replied, excitement buzzing in my chest. The idea of Superman's apartment hadn't ever crossed my mind. I had thought he wouldn't even need to sleep and his alien physiology would just keep him awake. “Let me get my coat first.” I tugged him behind me as I walked to the door. 

All the outdoor lights that had kept the makeshift catwalk bright had been shut off, leaving it dark and gloomy. Snow was still falling, covering everything in a thick layer of white. The driver from earlier was waiting just outside the door, my jacket draped over his arm. As I eased outside, my teeth started to chatter, goosebumps rising across my bare skin. The driver held out my jacket and I gratefully slipped into it, buttoning it closed in an attempt to keep the frigid wind out. “I actually won't need the car. Thank you, but I'm going home with a friend.” The man examined me then Clark, before giving a curt nod. 

Once we were down the wide front steps, my feet only slipping once on a hidden patch of ice, Clark wrapped his arm around my trembling shoulders. The heat from his body made me sigh. I wanted to tackle him to the ground and steal all of it away with my greedy hands. The sidewalks were empty, both the winter weather and the late hour keeping them clear, and only the occasional taxi would whiz by on the road. “The nearest subway station is three blocks away.” My feet wailed in protest. Some of that sound must have trickled out of me because he chuckled. “Otherwise we can fly. It'll be cold but much faster.” 

“Fly,” I responded without a second thought. We passed by a cramped alley between two brick buildings and Clark guided me inside. It was dark, the street lamp's light not reaching this deep. He reached out and turned the collar of my jacket up. His hands anxiously danced over me and I giggled. “My jacket doesn't have any holes. I'll be okay.” He huffed, scratching at his jaw. 

“I just want to make sure.” His arms slid across my back before hooking under my knees. It felt odd for a man who looked like a tired office worker to lift me so effortlessly. My heart was racing. Not just from him holding me, that was the cause of my hot cheeks, but because I still associated flying with my near death. He had caught me in the end but I still felt that choking panic. 

A cold nose nudged my cheek. “Are you okay?” Clark's words sent warm breath across my neck and I shivered, not entirely from the cold. “I can hear your heart beating fast.” I wrapped my arms around his neck as I snuggled deeper against him. 

“You can hear it?” He hummed in confirmation. “I'm okay. I just don't have the best association with flying.” I squeezed my arms, shifting so I could look at him, our noses bumping together. “I know you won't drop me.” 

“Never.” I couldn’t tear myself away from him. The tiny voice in the back of my mind, the one that wanted to kiss him while we danced, was shouting now. He was so close, his lips red from the cold air. Just as I leaned in closer, his breath dancing across my lips, I noticed movement. I jerked back and his arms tightened around me to stop my body from toppling out of his grip. We were gradually floating up toward the open sky. “I was hoping to distract you longer,” he grumbled. As we finally reached the top of the buildings, we were hit with a wall of wind. He turned his body, using it to block the worst of it from me. My hands slipped under his own jacket, the knuckles already stiff from the cold. “Ready?” I nodded. 

I wasn’t. 

The entire flight took a minute. I kept my face buried deep in his neck, desperate to keep my nose from freezing off and to ignore the colors flying past. But his arms were like iron rods around me, firm and immoveable, and he kept my body completely still. The panic was still there but it wasn’t all consuming. But I was grateful when we slowed to a stop. He reached out, my back balanced on his forearm, and twisted a latch. We glided inside, blessedly hot air touching my frozen cheek. “Keep your eyes closed,” he sounded embarrassed, “please?” He stood me upright, my heels clicking against hard wood. I faced out over the city, the massive windows perfectly framing the harbor. To my side, he closed one of the windows, turning a latch to lock it. I nearly rolled my eyes. As if anyone could find their way up here. I made a big show of covering my eyes with my hands, wincing at the cold press of them against my skin. “Thank you,” he whispered. I could have sworn I felt a featherlight kiss to my hair. A sudden rush of wind sent my hair whipping around my head. My ears picked up something that sounded like rapid footsteps and the scrape of a door opening and closing. “Okay,” he said, “you can open them.” My hands dropped slowly to find him fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. I spun and examined his apartment. 

It was moodily lit, only a few tall lamps turned on, the light bouncing off his dark walls. There was a leather chair right next to the windows. I had a brief thought about him sitting in it to tug on his boots before saving the world. A matching leather couch, a low coffee table in front of it, finished the living room. Bar stools were tucked neatly under the kitchen island. It all felt clean but no less like a home. My eyes snagged on a sock half way to the bedroom. I bit back a smile. All that commotion was him picking up. 

“It's so…you.” It's inviting and cozy but practical. I unbuttoned my jacket and Clark hastily took it from me before hanging it on a peg. Of course he has a jacket rack next to his window. Now that I'm somewhere so normal, my dress felt extra ridiculous, and the first thing that needed to go were these painful shoes. I walked to the chair before sitting down. The dangling beads made a soft tinkling sound as they bounced against the leather. I worked my foot out from under the pool of fabric and reached down to undo the ankle strap. My fingers shook and refused to cooperate as I tried to open the tiny buckle. The shaking was either from being in his apartment, Superman's apartment, or the lingering fear from flying. Either way, it was making this very hard. 

“Let me help.” Before I could protest, tell him that I got them on and I can take them back off, he's kneeling before me. My breath stuttered in my chest. His hand cupped my ankle before balancing the stiletto heel on his thigh. The dim light managed to catch on his eyelashes, sending soft shadows across his cheeks as his eyes fluttered down. Those nimble fingers I had been admiring from across the crowded party slipped between my ankle and the leather strap. He worked the buckle loose and eased the heels off. 

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was treating me like I was something to worship. Someone to kneel for and take care of. It wasn't a feeling I was used to and it was making my attraction to him spiral out of control. I wanted him on his knees more. I wanted him to drag those long fingers up my thighs. I wanted his head to disappear under my dress-

“You're bleeding.” 

“Huh?” I sounded dazed. His gaze flicked to mine, a teasing smirk on his lips. He was well aware of what he was doing to me. Jerk. There was another strong gust of wind. I felt his touch disappear for a second before his rough hand was back around my ankle. In his free hand he held an already opened bandaid. He placed it over a blister along the side of my foot, pressing it securely. “Thank you,” I whispered. His hand squeezed my calf once as a response and shifted his attention to my other foot. 

“So,” Clark prompted as he worked the other shoe off of me, “what did you want to talk about?” I sighed in relief once my feet were free of their prisons. I tilted my head to the side to look down at him. Might as well rip the metaphorical bandaid off. 

“What do you want out of our relationship? Friendship? Something…more?” I tried not to inject too much hope with that last one but I knew I failed. It felt too honest. He leaned closer, his chin resting on my knee. 

“Are you open to,” he seemed flustered by his next word, “more?” His hands drifted under my dress again, fingers digging deep into the stiff muscles of my calves. A quiet moan escaped me.

“Yes,” I said immediately. It was embarrassing how desperate I sounded. “Only if you want it too,” I added hastily. There was a long pause where he simply looked at me. I shifted my body back from him and squeezed my eyes shut, my skin feeling itchy and too tight. I felt like I was forcing myself onto him or that I was about to be made fun of for my eagerness. His grip disappeared from my legs. I heard the leather arms of the chair creak. A weight settled between my legs, the dress stretched tight around my thighs to accommodate the wide torso. Two fingers pinched my chin and tilted my head. Warm breath coasted over my lips. 

“I'll give you everything I can.” I shuddered at the rasp of his voice. When I eased my eyes back open, it was to find him nearly nose to nose with me. “I'll miss dates. I work long hours at the Planet.” I inched closer to him and his voice dropped to whisper. “I can't always be with you.” I knew that. To date Superman meant I could only have him when the world wasn't falling apart. That seemed as likely as the sun not rising. I would have to share him with billions of people. He would never be mine alone. But Clark would be and that seemed all the sweeter.

“I'm going to kiss you now.” I didn't wait for him to respond before I captured his lips. They were a little chapped, most likely from the cold, but I didn't care. This kiss was slow, our lips exploring each other with lazy presses. It felt like heaven. It had been so long since I kissed someone with no rush, just for the joy of it. My arms draped over his shoulders, fingers settling along a thick ridge of muscle on his back. I leaned back, trying to catch my breath. His hand braced against my neck, keeping me close, a tiny whine of protest rumbling in his throat. 

I moaned and began to kiss him in earnest. I sucked his bottom lip between my teeth and bit it lightly. He groaned and I shivered at the sound. I wanted, needed, more of them. My tongue pushed between his lips, brushing along his. There was something sweet there, as if he snuck away with a few cookies at the party. His free arm looped around my waist and dragged me flush against him. I licked at his top lip before tilting my head more, angling our mouths better, our now wet lips slipping past each other. 

I nudged my shoulders against his, trying to signal him to lay back on the floor. He did so without any more prompting, his back thudding against the hardwood, taking my body with him. My hands shot out to brace myself. I leaned back, chest heaving, and drew my dress up my hips to ease the pressure of the tight fabric. I felt a slick heat pool between my thighs at the obscene sight below me. He blinked slowly, my lipstick smeared across his kiss swollen lips, foundation smudged on his glasses. I settled my hips down and felt something hard under me. The fabric of his slacks was achingly rough against my bare pussy. The hours of uncomfortableness in my too low cut dress was worth it just for this feeling. 

I braced my hands against his broad chest, hips giving an experimental roll. He bit his lip, hands diving under the piled fabric of my dress, to grip my hips tight. A pained noise ripped from his throat at the bare expanse of my skin. “You aren’t wearing underwear,” he breathed. 

“Couldn't with this dress.” He moaned, eyes squeezed shut, neck arching and his hips thrusted up under me. My lips latched on to his neck, sucking and licking and biting at the skin. He was making mindless, desperate gasps, hips pushing against mine, hands trembling on my waist. A wet spot was forming on his pants from where I ground against him. The fabric bit at my tender skin but I was too drunk off his noises and the taste of the sweat along his neck to notice. As waves of pleasure started to build inside me, I grew more messy in my kisses. My teeth scraped along his racing pulse point and he shuddered beneath me before letting out a strangled moan of my name as I bit into his skin. I expected it to feel like steel but my teeth sunk into him easily. My tongue lapped at the quickly fading teeth marks, soothing away the sting. 

His body shifted under mine. In a heartbeat, I found my body pinned under his. His lips were back on mine, kissing me like he was starving, all spit and tongue. His hands disappeared from my waist and I heard the clattering of his belt buckle. A trickle of anxiety leaked into the haze of pleasure. I was wet, but not stretched enough for sex. But that worry evaporated when I felt the smooth fabric of his underwear between my legs. One hand planted itself next to my head while the other clutched at my hip again. He moved my body with ease, rolling our hips together in a desperate rhythm, and I let him, my legs wrapping around his torso. There was a little thrill at being used like this. My fingers reached for the hem of his shirt, craving the feel of his skin. 

His hips stalled suddenly, shuddering as he drew my hips as close to him as physically possible, groaning my name against my mouth. Something burning hot and sticky seeped through his underwear. His sweaty forehead rested against mine, his breath ragged, little jerks wracking through his body. I chased his mouth, claiming a few pecks. He weakly returned them. “I'm sorry,” he slurred, embarrassment clear in his tone. “It's been too long and I-you're just so-” I cupped his cheeks, drawing him back from me, examining his face, his voice dying. 

He looked wrecked. His cheeks were pink and splotchy. The sweat had made his hair curl even more. His glasses were half way up his face and foggy from the humidity between us. “That was the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.” He chuckled weakly, his body sinking on top of me, balancing on his forearms, keeping himself from crushing me. I reached up, curling my fingers around the corner hinges of his glasses. “You don't really need these do you?” He shook his head and I tugged them down his nose, folding them neatly and dropping them on the coffee table.

My legs slid off from his waist to brace my feet on the floor. Now that the frenzy of each other was over, I realized just how uncomfortable I was. Beads were chaffing against my skin. There was a loose bobby pin that was stabbing into my ear. The wood under my back was cold, sending icy tingles along my spine. Some bit of that discomfort must have shown on my face because he traced a few kisses along my cheek. His hands hooked behind my knees and stood easily. I couldn't stop myself from kissing him, the corner of his lips, his cheeks, his throat. He groaned as I found an exposed edge of his collarbones. 

“I need to change,” he said breathlessly. I hummed, my mouth moving to the other side of his neck. When my teeth dragged across a sensitive spot, he jerked against me, throat rumbling. I could feel that he was already starting to harden. 

My legs tightened around his waist, mouth moving to under his ear, “you could just take it all off.” His head fell back and I latched onto the line of jaw. “I can even help,” I purred, reaching between our chests, sliding free the top few buttons of his shirt. He huffed out a breath before untangling my legs from around his waist. My dress slid down my legs as I stood before him. He pushed back his hair, chest heaving. He looked delectable. I grinned, running my finger along the waistband of his underwear, snapping the elastic just to watch him jump. 

“What a coincidence,” I hummed, “I should probably change too. But this zipper is so hard to undo.” I lift myself on my tiptoes, “could you help?” Clark shuddered. I stepped around him, finger nail scratching along the firm line of his stomach, before walking towards the open door of his bedroom. At first, he didn't follow. Then I heard a shaky sigh and the quiet padding of his feet. 

His bedroom mirrors the rest of his apartment, dark walls, low lights. His bed is shoved between two windows, the drapes closed. The sheets are a rusty red color but the pillows were a mismatched green. I noticed the door of the closet was slightly opened, the arm of a shirt peeking out. A dresser drawer scraped open behind me. I turned just in time to see Clark settling a new pair of boxers on his hips. I'm able to see his bare torso for the first time. He was wide with thin lines of definition along his stomach. I could see the bands of muscle along his ribs and shoulders. There were several veins trailing down his biceps. God he was hot. It wasn’t the most eloquent response but it was all I could think. He turned fully to me and my mouth nearly watered at the sight of him. My eyes caught on the line of fine brown hair that dipped into his underwear. I licked at my lips before focusing back on his face. His expression was an interesting combination of smug satisfaction at my hungry eyes and awkwardness at being half dressed in front of me. 

“Rude,” I pouted, “I wanted to see you naked.”

He shook his head, laughing lightly as he drew out another shirt, tossing it on the bed. “I'm sure that can be arranged. But first,” he made a spinning motion with his finger. I expected his hands to go to the zipper at my lower back, but instead the tips of fingers went into my hair. I made a contented hum as he began to pick out the pins keeping my updo intact. After about ten, he huffed, “how many of these do you have?” I shrugged. 

“I lost count after thirty.” 

“I'm going to have arthritis after this,” he mumbled. Despite his complaints, it didn't sound like he was too annoyed. In fact, he seemed to revel in the feeling of my hair as it slipped through his fingers. 

“Can that even happen?” I reached behind me and started to pull them free myself. Where he was careful, avoiding tugging on any knots, I ripped them free.

“Hm, probably not.” Once all my many hair pins were free, he dumped them in a neat pile on his dresser, along with my earrings. His knuckles ghosted down my spine, his breath ruffling my hair, and gripped the zipper of my dress. I held my breath, anticipation rippling through me. All of it left me in a big woosh when he leaned down and grazed his lips over my neck. “This dress looks so beautiful on you,” I heard the metallic scrape of the zipper being opened, air rushing against my skin. “You,” he emphasised the word with a hot kiss, “look so beautiful.” 

“T-thank you.” I felt the fabric ease open, a light tug as he found the end of the zipper track. His palms traced along my shoulders, working their way under the top of my dress, before dragging it down my arms. Goosebumps erupted across my skin at his touch. His hands traveled back up my arms before moving down my sides, fingers hooking in the bottom half of my dress, still hung on my hips. Painstakingly slow, he worked it down my waist, letting it pool on the floor. There’s a few moments of silence, only cut through with our weighted breath. 

Then there were twin thuds as he sank to his knees behind me. My heart leapt into my chest as I felt his curls brush against my inner thighs. He scattered more hot, wet kisses along my legs, his hands settling on the front of my thighs. I was squirming by the time his breath hit my soaked pussy. “F-fuck,” he rasped. I wanted to tease him about swearing, I really did, but my mind went blank as his tongue darted out, flicking at my clit. His cheeks smooshed between my legs, the gap while I stood too small for his head to fit properly.  “Been thinking about this for months.” Another few licks made my body tremble. I tried to spread my legs, give him more room, but the hands on my thighs stopped me. I wanted more contact. I needed his mouth fully on me, not this little tease. “I…” he trailed off, his full tongue swiping across me. He groaned, a sound deep in his chest, losing his train of thought. His nose bumped into me as he wedged his face closer, tongue stroking even faster now. I whined, reaching behind me to grab at his hair, curling my fist deep in the strands. “Ever since that night,” he slurred. The tip of his tongue prodded at my entrance before sliding inside. 

“Ah!” My legs trembled as he curled his tongue, prodding deep into me. A weak sob slipped from me when his index finger slipped between my legs and started to circle my clit. I let go of his hair and instead leaned forward, bracing my forearms on the mattress, shifting my hips just enough that he could reach every part of my wet pussy. His mouth slipped from me and I could hear him panting. “What night?” My brain was fuzzy, doubly so when his mouth found me again, his lips and tongue moving over my sensitive skin like he was making out with it. 

“You were wearing a tiny dress.” He sucked my clit into his mouth, tongue rolling over it, lapping at it until I cried out. “You were touching yourself and,” his voice stuttered. With the way I was bent, I could see his body behind me. His hand was gripped tight around his cock which had slipped free from his underwear. It was an angry red, white precum dripping down the tip. “Did you mean to say my name?” His fist started to move again, slow and firm. It took my brain an embarrassingly long moment to even remember what he was talking about. I had convinced myself that his potential appearance was just my horny brain running away with me. But he had shown up. 

He stayed. 

Heat surged through me at that realization. Our dry humping on the floor had already brought my sensitivity up but now an orgasm was in reach. “Yes,” I breathed as I ground back on his face. I was desperate for more and he was all too willing to give it. His tongue was moving faster than any man’s could, sliding from my clit to my entrance, swirling over both before moving to the other. “I was thinking of you. I went to a club to get fucked but none of them were you.” I was babbling now, words running together with my breathy moans. I watched his hand speed up, knuckles still white from his tight grip. “I’ve been, fuck, wanting this for so long.” I could feel the coil in my stomach tightening. Slick was starting to smear along my thighs. 

“Me too.” I buried my face in his soft sheets as I whimpered and moaned for more. In a sudden swift movement, his tongue speared inside me, fingers finding my clit. I was close, my stomach flexing, my body tense. But it was his ragged gasp of my name as he drank me down that tossed me over the edge. My back arched, hand shooting back into his hair, as I shuddered through my orgasm. I practically rode his face, my hips merciless as I chased my high. He was moaning with me, flashes of frosty air hitting my skin only amplifying the heat of his mouth. 

I finally collapsed to the bed once the tingles of overstimulation hit me. He dusted my back with sticky kisses, crawling up my body to hover over me. He peeled back the hair that had fallen over my face. Even in the low light, his face glistened. “More?” He said it like a genuine question, not a half hearted attempt at one. I grinned, feeling drunk on endorphins. 

“Fuck me Clark.” His whole body shivered and his eyes fluttered closed. His arms slipped around my body, lifting and spinning at once, so I ended up at his head board, my body in his plush pillows. He kneeled at the end of the bed, his underwear long abandoned. Now that he was fully naked, I couldn't draw my eyes away. His cock was long and heavy. It stuck straight forward instead of curling upward. I could feel him staring at me and I realized he's never seen me totally bare either. I probably looked a mess, my skin sweaty, hair frizzy. 

Clark crawled forward, scattering kisses all over my legs, up my stomach, before ending under my breasts. He reached to the side and grabbed a pillow before he lifted my hips and slid it under them. He licked his way up to my nipple, twirling around it, tugging gently with his teeth, then moving to the other one. He repeated this over and over again until I was panting and squirming under him. I felt feral with need, my body hot again, stomach fluttering. My nails dug into his back, legs wrapping tight around him. “Fuck me, please,” I whinned that last word. But he refused to move, more puffs of cold air cascading over my wet nipples. “Are you really using your ice breath?” My hips were jerking beneath him, his heavy cock sliding between my folds, the tip tapping against my clit on every roll. 

“Makes you jump,” he mumbled into my chest. His lips finally moved up my body while his hands found their way to the curve of my inner thighs, pushing my body open to him, pinning me to the bed. Teeth grazed the base of my throat and I shuddered at the feeling. His hips angled away from mine. My gasp of protest died in my throat when I felt the tip of his cock notch at my entrance. One of his strong arms landed next to my head, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, a fine sheen of sweat across his face. Slowly, he worked his way into me, feeding me inch by inch. I could barely keep my eyes open. The stretch was mind melting. It ached but I didn’t care. I just wanted more of him. “Too much?” His words ruffled my sweaty hair as he stalled inside me. I arched my neck up to kiss him. He tasted like me, a little bitter, and it just made me want to devour him. 

“No,” I whispered between kisses. My tongue darted out to lick at the corner of his lips as I flexed my heels into his lower back, wedging another inch into me. “More.” He nodded, nose bumping mine, as he pushed the last of his cock deep inside me. “Fuck, oh fuck.” I broke away from him, my breath shuddering in my chest, nails tearing into his back. He was heavy lidded, gaze unfocused. He drew back, sliding out of me with a wet squelch, just the tip remaining, before thrusting back in. It wasn’t rough by any means but it lit all my nerve endings on fire. I tightened around him and he groaned my name, voice shredded and weak. 

He set a slow but deep pace, hips knocking against mine with every plunge. I had never understood the idea of someone ‘rearranging your guts’ before. It seemed ridiculous and uncomfortable. But that was the only way I could describe what he was doing to me. Every push, every thrust felt like he was working his way into my stomach. After the first few movements of his, that soreness went away. I almost missed it. At least that little pinch of pain kept me from being lost to waves of pleasure. But now I was drowning in it. All I could seem to do was lay there, wetness dripping onto the pillow under me, and moan incoherent words. He wasn’t doing much better. His hand was trembling where he held me. He was mumbling about how good I felt. 

His careful control was slipping. He pushed into me with a little more strength than usual. A gasp was punched out of me and my back arched. My eyes flicked open to his concerned face. “I’m s-sorry,” he panted. His hips stilled and I nearly sobbed in frustration. My horny brain was tired of his worry. I wanted him to rail me and leave me a quivering mess. 

“Keep going Clark,” I whined, my hands going down to his ass, attempting to restart his movements myself. His head dropped to my shoulder with a pained noise. 

“Say it again,” he gritted out. It took me a moment to realize what he was asking for. 

“Clark.” 

“Again.” 

“Clark,” I whimpered, “please fuck me harder.” He groaned, a deep and primal sound, before doing just that. Before he was stretching me, testing my limits. Now? Now he was fucking me like a man possessed. His hips bounced off mine and I knew I would probably have bruises in the morning. I clung tight to him, body jerking with every thrust, broken moans of his name escaping me. They only seemed to spur him on to go harder. I could feel him twitch inside me every time I whimpered for him. “Feel so good. Clark, I-” my voice cuts off on a squeak as a finger finds my clit. The low simmer of heat in my body explodes into an inferno. “Fuck! Clark!” I hoped he had thick walls. 

“Not gonna last much longer,” he groaned. I mumbled a faint okay as I shuddered around him. At this rate, he was going to last longer than I would. He angled his hips, adjusting himself on his knees, and I sobbed as he found the sensitive area along my walls. My body froze, head thrown back. His finger on my clit slipped between my folds, collecting up my wetness, before going at my clit again. 

“Clark I’m-Clark-I-fuck!” I wailed, my throat aching, as I came. Stars bursted behind my eyes as I felt pure pleasure pour through my entire body. My hands blindly grabbed at his hair, gripping it tight as I trembled and shook, tears bubbling from the corner of my eyes. As if from the end of a long hallway, I hear him whimpering my name, hips thrusting roughly once, twice, before stopping all together. I felt hot sticky cum flooding into me. There was so much of it. It seeped from me and onto the pillow. As if he couldn't stop himself, his hips fucked back into me, push his cum deeper into me, before slowing to a stop again.

Our sweaty skin stuck together as we panted. Whenever either of us had enough air to spare, we would give each other quick kisses. I let out an oof when his body sunk into mine. He nuzzled his face into my neck. “Am I too heavy?” I shook my head. My fingers trailed over his back, scratching gently until he hummed in satisfaction. He was softening inside me, rivers of his release trickling out of me. He moved, as if to get up, but I clung to him. 

“No, stay.” My voice was heavy with sleep. 

“But,” I shook my head, kissing his temple. 

“You feel too good.” That seemed to settle him. We laid in comfortable silence for what felt like hours. Our breaths synced together, slow and steady. My eyes were drifting shut. “I'm quitting my job.” I'm not sure what prompted me to say it. But since we were in the beginning stages of a relationship, it seemed only fitting to start having life conversations. He had also seen first hand Lex's behavior at the party so I knew he would understand.

“That's a good idea,” he sounded close to sleep himself. “That guy is an asshole.” A laugh burst from my chest, loud and sharp in the quiet room. 

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He lifted his head and smirked. 

“No, but I'll kiss you.” I raised my eyebrow, still giggling. 

“Ooh, very smooth.” He pecked at my mouth before settling his chin on the center of my chest, blinking up at me. I sighed. “I don't have another job lined up but I can't handle it anymore.” 

“You know,” he said, “my boss at the Planet needs an assistant. He probably won't pay as much. We aren't really swimming in money as reporters. But,” he traced my cheekbone with the tip of his finger, “I could mention you to him.” It was such a sweet gesture and I felt my heart bloom with happiness. But I bit my lip. 

“Do you think that's a good idea? Us working together?” He shrugged. 

“Even if things don't work out between us, I would still want you to work somewhere better. No one deserves the crap he says to you.” Tears sprang to my eyes and I hastily wiped them away. 

“Thank you.” I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling the thin layer of sweat on his scalp. “How fast is your recovery time?” He sighed, smiling, as he caught my wrist, kissing at my pulse. 

“Why?”

“We should probably shower and there's so much cum in me,” he blushed, attempting to hide his face in my chest. “You'll have to use your fingers to get it all out…and then get the second round out too.” He groaned. 

“You're going to give me a heart attack.” 

“Can that even happen?” He captured my mouth in a hungry kiss. His hands wrapped around my body as he clambered from the bed. 

“Let's find out.”

Taglist: @bowie-frommars @wickedslashdivine @iyskgd @supersonicoxo

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader, Lex being a dick. Honestly not many warnings! It's just a lot of fluff and sweetness!

A/N: Um, hey guys! First off, happy holidays!! I hope this makes up for how long this took! I really struggled with it. I actually ended up rewriting it three times. I had originally intended for Lex to fall for the reader, and she would kind of get stuck in this messy love angle between the two of them. But every time I wrote it, it sounded soooo over the top an ridiculous. Then like a week ago, I was like 'I really want to finish this before the year is over' and I fucking did it! I'm extra proud of myself because it was the super busy time at my work but, let me assure you, I was writing smut on company time. (Which not to spoil chapter four, but I worked some magic on it).

Anyways! Enough of my rambles!

I woke up the next day, still in my tiny dress, with makeup smeared all the way to my ear. My hair was a rat's nest of teased hair, several types of sprays, and bobby pins. I blinked at the bright sun filtering through my open window. I patted around the messy bed before I found my phone. The blurry screen told me it was almost two in the afternoon. I groaned. I had a headache and the sun was like knives into my tender eyes. I felt like I could eat a hundred cheeseburgers but that idea almost made me puke. 

But there was something else making my stomach twist. It took me a few moments, brain too foggy to think, to remember why. It came back to me in slow flashes. 

My legs spread and exposed in my window. 

The cold air as it traced my flushed skin. 

Moaning for Superman. 

Him potentially answering. 

“Oh my god,” I groaned, pulling my sheets over my head, hiding from my burning shame like a child. I wallowed in it for a few minutes, contemplating calling him back to apologize, before I heard Cabbage meow through my still closed door. I sighed and begrudgingly crawled out of my bed. 

As I went about the rest of my day, that shame started to drift away. Of course, he wasn't outside the window. It was just the wind and my over active imagination. Superman would never do such a thing. He didn't have time to linger outside my window. That would be insanity. He probably had people moaning out his name all the time. His face was everywhere and it was…nice to look at. 

By the time I went back into the office Monday morning, my conclusion had solidified. It was just the wind. 

It was.

Weeks bled into months. The tree outside my window shed its leaves and the temperature slowly declined, until one day I woke up to a fine layer of snow on the sidewalk. Christmas lights blinked from every shop window. My ancient heater rattled endlessly, sending hot puffs of air into my icy apartment. 

Work passed in a dull haze. Lex realized he couldn't push me around as much as he thought. He had even said thank you to me after I pulled off another insane restaurant reservation for him. The grit of his teeth and the pain in his eyes told me he didn't enjoy it. But, that pain made the words all that more sweet. 

I tried not to think of him. 

I hadn't seen Superman since the night he appeared outside my window. Well, last confirmed sighting because he did not show up that drunken night. Not that he'd had any reason. Neither I nor Cabbage have found ourselves in any life or death situations. I knew it was crazy to miss a person you never had. He owed me, a complete stranger, nothing. But, that didn't stop me from wanting to see him, talk to him. Countless nights, I sat in my living room, willing myself to just say his name. I never did. I knew that if I called for him and he didn't answer, it would wreck me. During particularly intense bouts of self hatred, I think of that night. Maybe he did show up when I moaned his name but had recoiled in disgust at the sight. Or, even worse, he hated the way I spoke about wanting a relationship with him.

“A car will pick you up at seven sharp,” Lex said, dragging me back to reality. I hastily closed the Daily Planet tab I had opened. Superman had saved Metropolis again. The picture of him, children hanging off his arms and laughing with delight, had stirred something inside me. Something far too emotional. I was picturing us together, maybe even married, like a love sick teenager. Shame hit me all over again and I could feel heat drifting up my cheeks. “Did you hear me?” Lex's voice was a whip crack in the quiet office. 

“Yes Mr. Luthor, seven sharp.” He nodded once before stalking into the elevator. He didn’t even make eye contact with me before the doors slid shut. I sighed before shifting my chair so I could watch fat snowflakes drift by the window across from me. Soft classical music hummed from hidden speakers. It felt peaceful and calm. Two emotions that were never found in this office. 

I glanced at my computer and huffed. It was just after four thirty. I needed to go home and get ready. With my wool coat on and a scarf wrapped around my ears in a makeshift hood, I felt ready enough to brave the frigid cold. The elevator flew down the building before stopping in the lobby. Walking outside made my breath catch, shivers instantly wracking my body. It was cold. The kind of cold that instantly freezes the mucus in your nose and makes it itch. I huddled deeper into my layers before rushing to the bus stop. 

Almost a whole hour had passed before I made it home. Cabbage meowed happily as I shuffled inside, stomping off any snow that had collected on my shoes, before I dropped my coat and scarf on the couch. She instantly darted onto the discarded clothing, spinning twice, before settling on them, soaking up the warmth. I rolled my eyes before squatting down to pet her. “I think you only seem happy that I'm home because you want my body heat.” She trilled, not even trying to deny it. “Wish me luck. It's going to be a long night.”

Lex Luthor was hardly known for his philanthropy but he hosted one charity gala every year. It was held at the Metropolis Art Museum and benefited Metropolis food banks. How much money made into these vital businesses' hands was up for debate. Anyone who was anyone would be trying to get an invitation. Other tech company CEOs, actors, influencers, hell, even motivational speakers. As Lex's assistant, I had to attend. My job was to make sure I take any business cards handed to him, jot down any potential meetings, and generally be as nondescript as possible. These high society events were always exhausting. 

I went to my closet, digging through some of the moving boxes still tucked away, and found my usual gala dress. It was plain black, not tight enough to attract attention, but fitted enough to keep it from looking boxy. I laid it on my bed before jumping into the shower. The hot water ran out before I had even finished washing my body. My teeth were chattering by the time I clambered out of the shower, wrapping a towel tightly around my shoulders. 

That's when I heard it. 

The sound any cat owner would recognize even in the deepest sleep. 

The wet gag of a cat right before it threw up. 

I rushed from the bathroom and froze in absolute horror. Cabbage, her little body heaving, was on my dress. “Wait no,” I gasped. But to no avail. The hairball shot across my dress with a disgusting wet slap. It was almost impressive the scale of destruction her single hairball had caused. The entire dress was covered in saliva. “Cabbage,” I whined, shooing her off the bed. She trotted away, tail flicking. I desperately tried to wipe away all the spit but gave up once the paper towel began to fray, little fragments clinging to the rough material. There was no way I could wear this. The marks may not be visible but the wetness remained and I couldn't imagine being stuck in it for hours. The thought alone made me shudder. 

Dejected, I started to rifle through my closet. Dress after dress was flung onto the floor in my desperate search for a replacement. Every single one was wrong. Some were too short for the freezing temperature, some too sexy for a charity event. There was even one that was an eye watering neon green and had barely fit me when I bought it five years ago. As I reached deeper, my fingers brushed against rough canvas. I peeked inside. In a dark shadow I saw it. The dress I bought on a wild, over confident, impulse. “Damn it.” 

I finished my makeup, something neutral but alluring, and my hair, an artfully messy updo, before confronting the dress. I held my breath as I unzipped it as if some wild animal hid inside. But all that worry evaporated when I saw the dress. It looked just as beautiful as the day I bought it. It was a dark emerald green, covered completely in delicate beading, each of them glimmering even under my harsh apartment lighting. It was long, a train pooling out onto my floor. The neckline was high and square. I shook it off its hanger, the fabric silky against my fingers. When I flopped it down on the bed, I was reminded just why it had been relegated to the back of my closet, where I would never be tempted to wear it out. 

There was no back at all. It cut perfectly at the base of my spine. It gave enough coverage that bending over wasn't a scary prospect but I couldn’t wear any underwear. I didn't want to show this much skin, let alone at a gala where I was trying to not be noticed. But this was the only formal dress I had. 

The buzzer to my apartment rang out just as I slipped on my heels. I cursed the dress as I shuffled to the door, my legs unable to take long strides like usual. “I'll be right down,” I called into the intercom. I grabbed my coat, far too casual and plain for this dress, and swung it on. “Don't puke on anything else.” I glared at Cabbage. She just rolled away from me, her fluffy stomach pressed against the radiator. I grabbed my clutch, filled only with the essentials, before taking the elevator down to the lobby.  

The driver tipped his hat toward me. There was a fine dusting of snow on the shoulders of his jacket. A luxury SUV was quietly idling in front of my building, plumes of exhaust drifting up in the air, the gentle hum of bass rumbling through it. “Good evening ma’am,” he hummed, holding out his arm to help me down the few steps at my apartment’s entrance. I took it gratefully, scooping up the train of my dress in the other hand, and half hopped down the steps. Once I made it to the car without falling, the driver opened the door, offering his hand again to help me inside. I blinked in confusion at the man already inside. 

“Mr. Luthor,” I said, voice tilting up so it was almost a question. He rolled his head to look at me, the blue-white glow of his phone dancing over his face. I could feel, more than actually see, his eyes rake over my body. I self consciously crossed my jacket across my body, realizing, a little belatedly, that my dress offered little coverage for my nipples as the cold hit them. He was wearing his usual attire, expensive tailored suit with loafers that had never seen more than a block of walking. But he had added just a bit of festive cheer with a red scarf draped around his neck. 

“You're letting the cold air in.” With that, he went back to his phone. The driver helped me into the car before shutting the door and rushing around to get behind the wheel. The car ride was quiet, only interrupted by the occasional honk or shout from the side walk. I kept my gaze out the window, watching the smear of bright Christmas lights as we drove past, body pressed against the door. Beside me, Lex's phone buzzed nonstop, always followed quickly by the soft tapping of his thumbs on the screen. Ten minutes passed like this before he finally clicked his phone off. “That’s a nice dress.” It was unlike him to say anything nice, let alone compliment. I shot him a suspicious look over my shoulder. His head was propped on his fist, elbow on the door edge, his knees tilted toward me. “I thought you were going to wear something off the rack at Macy's and embarrass me.” There we go. I scowled. 

“And we can’t have that, now can we?” I could have sworn the whisper of a smile flitted across his lips before he shifted away from me again. 

We arrived at the venue after another twenty minutes of silence. The front steps were covered under a black and green Luthorcorp branded tent. Underneath that was a long black carpet. The ultra wealthy streamed up the steps, posing for photographers or taking reporter questions, wide but fake smiles stuck on their faces. Our car lined up behind a bright red Porsche, inching closer and closer to the mob of people outside the museum. It wasn’t my first carpet walk, but I was typically able to duck behind someone to avoid being the subject of any picture. I snuggled deeper into my coat, planning to keep it on the entire walk and hover just behind Lex. As we stalled at the front of the line, our driver leaping from the front seat to open Lex’s door, he spoke. “I hope you aren’t planning on keeping that thing on.” I clutched my jacket closer. 

“It’s cold.” He scoffed. 

“There’s heaters. Anyways, it looks atrocious with your dress. Leave it here. You’ll get it back at the end of the night.” Just as I was about to object again, the door opened. Discordant shouts of names and directions for poses mingled together into a wall of sound that made me cringe. Lex pinned me with a stern look which told me he wasn’t requesting me, he was telling me. Reluctantly, I shook out of my nice, toasty jacket. The cold air filling the car felt like pure ice on my bare back and goosebumps erupted across my whole body. He smiled, smug and victorious, and clambered out of the car. At the host’s appearance, the shouts became even louder. He gave jovial waves, like he was royalty, calling out hellos to the reporters nearest him. I awkwardly shuffled across the back seat before getting out and self consciously brushed down my dress. All the reporters and photographers shifted to me at once, like sharks who smelled blood in the water. Then a flurry of questions broke out and cameras began flashing. I tried to linger as far away from Lex as I could but that didn’t stop the reporters. 

“Who’s the woman!?” 

“Has someone finally gotten you to settle down!?”

“What about Heather Montgomery? Or Stacia Hardwick?” 

With every question regarding our ‘relationship’, he would just chuckle and shoot me a coy look. It was only drawing more speculation and focus onto me. People started to shout at me, asking me to pose with my man. I wanted to sink into myself. Or hit Lex. Maybe both. I tried to keep my face down, watching my steps with far too much interest, as we slowly worked our way up the grand staircase. I could feel a blush crawling up my cheeks and spreading down my exposed back. The hair along my neck was constantly on end from all the eyes on me. This was hell. 

We were only ten steps away from the entrance when Lex stopped again. I stared longingly at the glass doors, foot tapping impatiently, before I gave up on waiting for him. With quick strides, I was next to him. I kept my body carefully angled away from him so that we didn’t seem affectionate. “I’m going inside.” I didn’t bother giving him a reason and he didn’t bother trying to argue with me. He just smiled and nodded. It sent the gossip columnist he was talking to into a giggle fit, cooing over how adorable we were. I bit my lip to stop myself from snapping at her before stomping away. I had nearly made it inside when a question caught my attention. 

“Are you aware of how much of this money is actually donated to food banks?” I glanced over my shoulder and spotted the speaker instantly. Lois Lane, her nose red from the cold, with a sleek pantsuit on, was pressed as close to the velvet rope as security would allow her. She seemed to have attracted her own bouncer, a man with a tense expression, body flexed like she was going to rush onto the steps at any moment. She held out a recorder when she noticed me looking at her. “Ma’am! Lex Luthor has amassed a reported one hundred billion net worth, what do you have to say about his exploitation of impoverished nations for his wealth?”  

I didn't want to ignore her. I loved reading her reports in the Daily Planet. There was a little feeling of vindication when she published a piece on Lex, ripping into him with all the care of a lioness with her prey. But I couldn't speak out against my own boss even if I agreed with her sentiments. So I gave her a meek nod of acknowledgement before slipping inside. 

The air was so balmy against my chilled skin it nearly burned. I took a moment to be dazzled by the entrance. Massive Christmas trees dominated the main lobby. They were easily twenty feet tall and just as wide, the branches thick enough you could barely see through the pines. Beautiful ornaments and tinsel dangled from the ends of them. The room's lighting was kept low and warm so the bright colors of the tree lights popped. It was stunning. 

I followed the flow of people up the two curving staircases to get to the main party area. The atrium was also covered in an array of Christmas trees, some at shoulder height, others soaring toward the ceiling. Ice sculptures of various festive shapes, like wrapped presents or candy canes, were dotted around the area. There were small clusters of tables, some with chairs, while others were intended to be leaned against. Several bars were tucked into corners, each one with several bartenders, the lines long despite the abundance. A string quartet played gentle classical music and had attracted a handful of dancing couples in front of them. 

A hand brushed my lower back unexpectedly. I spun away, nearly sending a congresswoman flying, and found a smug Lex looking down at me. The bit of skin he touched began to itch and burn like some fast acting infection. “I told you it was a nice dress. Now, actually do your job.” 

Two hours dragged by, taking my sanity with it. I had never seen Lex in his ‘personable’ mode and it was something I hoped I would never see again. He complimented everyone, his voice dripping in thinly veiled contempt, before snaring them in a business proposal. In a way, I reluctantly respected his ability to lure anyone, even other CEOs who should know better, into true deals with the devil. I watched him acquire a small tech startup that had generated tons of buzz with no more than a smile and a carefully worded contract. A contract that was already on his phone, just awaiting this man's signature. 

Lex treated me as nothing more than a roving table. He handed me business cards, plates from appetizers, and all of his drinks. There had been one moment where I thought about dumping the fifth half drunk vodka soda he handed to me down his shirt, but had thought better of it. While every second that passed by made me hate him just a little more, I still stuck close to him. I could feel people looking at me, their gazes a physical touch along my spine. A few of the men who were talking to Lex had also had a hungry glint in their eyes that made me want to run. But, Lex would always drag their attention away from me, and people had a healthy weariness of Lex that kept them far unless he approached them first. 

Lex has been going on and on about stocks with a very unimpressed looking model when a security guard appeared next to us. “Excuse me Mr. Luthor, but there's a bit of a situation.” Lex, clearly failing to keep this model's interest, huffed in annoyance. With him distracted, she slipped away. Lucky girl. 

“What is it?” Lex snapped. 

“There are dozens of reporters in the lobby. They all insist they should be let inside.” Lex waved his hands dismissively. 

“Absolutely not! We don't need those leeches around.” I chewed my lip. Maybe she's still here? That was a gamble I was willing to take. 

“I don't think that's a bad idea.” Lex pinned me with a glare so vicious it would have made anyone not immune to his shitty moods breakdown. “Right now, it looks like this is just a party for rich people to maybe give a couple hundred for charity.” His eyes narrowed more. “But, if we let some reporters up, maybe they could get some good statements, really show that everyone is here for a good cause.”

He seemed to mull this over, spinning the ice in his cups around moodily, before downing the last of his old fashioned. “Fine. But,” he pointed a finger at me with all the grave seriousness as if it was a gun, “the second those bastards make people uncomfortable, they are out of here. Also, only two. I don't need a flock.” 

“Understood.” I walked away, keeping close to the decorated trees to avoid bumping into any of the tipsy guests. The tension in my body, my jaw tight and back painfully straight, slowly melted away the farther I got from Lex. Idly, I wondered if I could go back to Gotham. This city wasn't the grand new adventure that I expected it to be. I was lonely and anxious all the time. I didn't even have Superman's face occasionally outside my window to make me feel better. As I rounded the corner of the staircase, I sighed. There was indeed a mob of reporters and photographers with a line of stern looking security guards keeping them back. My eyes did a quick sweep, seeking out that long black hair. I couldn't hide my grin when I saw Lois Lane, her angry face framed perfectly by two burly shoulders, giving them an impassioned explanation of her rights as the press. I hustled down the steps, the clicks of my heels completely swallowed up by the loud party behind me.

“Miss Lane, I’m glad to see that you’re still here.” She looked me up and down, suspicion written all over her pretty face. “I’m Mr. Luthor’s assistant and he has given me permission to allow two reporters upstairs.” 

“Assistant, huh?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why me? I thought he would have blacklisted me.” I shrugged, a little grin tugging at the corners of my lips. 

“He trusts my judgement.” I also doubted he knew she was here otherwise he absolutely would have told me to never even speak to her. An unfortunate oversight on his part. “I also love your articles. You have a certain way of writing that’s tough but fair.” Tough was an understatement. She crossed her arms over her chest but I could tell I was chipping away at her defenses. 

“I have a photographer,” she pointed over her shoulder at thin air, “that gonna be a problem?” At the confused look on my face, she turned and huffed. “Fucking Smallville,” she mumbled,  “always disappearing.” She looked at me apologetically before whipping out her phone. Just as she pulled up her texts, the front door of the museum opened, freezing air wafting inside, bringing snowflakes with it. A man awkwardly shuffled inside, his curly hair messy, pulled low across his forehead, in a rumpled suit a few sizes too big on his already large frame. “Where did you go?” Lois called across the room. The man looked up. The glasses he wore completely covered his eyebrows with their thick frames. He hunched closer on himself, shoulders rolling forward as if he was trying to seem as small as possible. He wove between other clamoring reporters, stumbling to the side as a few people almost collided with him, murmuring apologies. He kept anxiously tugging at the camera strap around his neck. 

When he finally stood next to Lois, he seemed to dip even lower, knees jutting forward as he bent them. The combination of my heels and his crouched stance meant we were nearly at eye level. I couldn’t stop looking at him. His crystal blue eyes bounced everywhere but me like he was desperate to avoid my gaze. However, there was something there that tickled the back of my brain. Something that made his handsome face seem familiar. The red flush of his cheeks, probably from being outside in the cold, grew until it covered his whole face, dipping under the collar of his shirt. I squinted at him. I had to know him for such a vicious blush to cover his skin. He peeked up at me and my heart stuttered. He just seemed so flustered. It made my own skin grow hot. It was a rare sight to have a man be so hot and bothered by my mere presence. A man I didn’t know. “This is Clark.” I blinked, finally looking away from the man before me, only to find Lois engrossed in her phone. “Damn, I guess even Superman doesn’t take the holidays off.” I snuck a glance at her phone, seeing the report about Superman saving cars from a collapsed bridge. Clark ran his fingers through his hair, tugging it down his face. Lois nudged his arm with enough force that his glasses hitched to the side of his nose. 

There was a brief flicker of recognition. I bit my lip, trying to hang onto that feeling, to bring a name back to the surface, before it finally slipped away as he reset his glasses. I shook my head, my earrings faintly jangling. Perhaps I had just passed by him on the street one day and his looks had left enough of an impression. That had to be it. 

“If you’ll follow me.” I said, before turning up the steps. I could hear Lois whispering to Clark, peppering him with questions about where he had been, as they trailed behind me. I could feel his gaze on me all the way to the middle landing. I wasn't sure how I so instinctively knew it was him. Perhaps there was some heaviness to it that all the other stares I had been subjected to didn't. The sensation wasn't unwelcomed either. It felt…warm. Maybe even soothing. 

Strange. 

I stopped on the landing and held out my hands to stall Lois and Clark as well. Under the soft glow of so many Christmas lights, Clark looked almost angelic. The frizz from his curls caught the lights, a halo around his face. Shadows carved out his cheekbones and settled into the faint line of a dimple. Hadn't I thought this about someone else before? Clark, noticing my gaze, shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide his face again. Clearly I was looking at him too much. 

“I should warn you, you will be on a short leash.” Lois scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She had somehow ended up with Clark’s camera slung around her neck. 

“You bring this up now? What? You expect me to write a fluff piece about these rich assholes ruining the world?” I put my hands on my hips, mouth in a firm line. Her chin jutted out, a challenge written all over her face. Clark shrunk into himself even more. 

“I'm asking you to show a little tact. If you go too hard, you'll get kicked out.” And I would be fired in two seconds flat, but I didn't add that. “Ask them what you want but don't give them any reason to complain. Okay?” Lois's lips rolled between her teeth before she gave a single nod. 

Once our group made it upstairs, the party had already taken a turn. Men had lost their suit jackets and had rolled their sleeves up in the hot atrium. Several women had also tossed their designer shoes onto tables, dancing in front of the few musicians in the corner. “Clark.” He jumped at the sound of his name. “Don’t take any embarrassing pictures.” 

“O-okay ma'am,” he stuttered. His voice was deep, a little gravel along the edges, like when someone did an exaggerated low tone. Nevertheless, goosebumps prickled along my arms. Lois was already gone, her recorder out, and found the first of her many targets that night. Clark went to follow her but I caught his wrist. The mere touch of his skin made my body shudder. He stilled instantly and his eyes dropped to the floor. 

“Do I know you?” Clark's head shot up, shock clear across his face. His mouth fell open, little half formed words tumbling out, before a furious shout of my name distracted both of us. Lex was storming closer, face red in anger, another glass clutched in his shaking fist. I felt, more than I saw, Clark shift closer to me, like he was ready to dive between Lex and I. 

“What is she doing here?” Lex hissed, the words slurred, pointing at Lois who had just cornered an actor with a very sketchy history. His face was flushed from all the alcohol he had been drinking. I plastered on a sweet smile. 

“I didn't realize you had rules around this. I thought the most popular reporter from the biggest newspaper in Metropolis would be a great person to cover all the wonderful work being done here. My many apologies.” Lex's face had grown purple as his rage simmered. “Now, if you'll excuse us,” I said as I slid my arm around Clark's, temporarily stunned by the firm bulge of muscles there, “we were going to dance.”

“I'm not paying you to dance!” I nudged Clark's hip with my own. He picked up on the hint and started to walk away from Lex, who looked near combustion. 

“Consider it my break then!” I led Clark away, his arm stiff in my grip. Lex’s angry stare was like a white hot brand against my skin. I grimaced. He would chew me out on Monday, maybe even fire me. But that didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world right now. As we neared the dance floor, now full of couples spinning aimlessly, I felt that glare move off my back. “I’m sorry for using you,” I mumbled. 

“It’s no problem,” he said gently, like he was used to helping random people out of awkward situations. 

“We don’t actually have to dance,” I told him, my hand dropping from his arm, and we both came to stop, his body in front of mine. In the walk here, he seemed to have grown a few inches, and a quick glance down told me he wasn’t hunching into himself like before. This angle felt more right somehow, as if I was used to seeing him tower over me. The shine from thousands of warm lights caught in his blue eyes and made them sparkle, turning them into the sky at twilight, the moment when the stars began to wink into existence. He gave me a faint smile, the shadows collecting on twin dimples in his cheeks. My breath caught and I inched closer without thought. Our chests brushed against each other as we breathed. Despite the scent of fresh cut pine hanging heavy in the air, I could pick out the smell of clean laundry that drifted from his button up. His fingers slid down my bare arm, leaving tingling trails behind, before picking my hand up and holding it delicately in his own. 

“What if I want to?” My stomach swooped. There was tenderness to his expression that I had only ever seen previously in boyfriends. I swallowed, trying to stop my cheeks from burning, but I knew I was failing. I stepped closer, our bodies pressed together completely now, and looked up at him through my eyelashes. I could feel his heart racing against mine. The party was drifting away from us, morphing into background noise and slow flashes of color. All I could focus on was him. 

“I don’t know how to dance,” I admitted with a self deprecating smile. He squeezed my hand. 

“I know how.” At my raised eyebrows, he gave me a tiny smirk. “My ma taught me. She thought it would come in handy some day.” 

“I guess it’s my lucky day then,” I whispered. We make our way through the crowd, him clumsily dodging the occasional dancer’s leg or elbow, before planting in the center of the group. He lifted my hand, his fingers curled around my own, before his other palm landed lightly on my hip. My free hand laid on top of his shoulder and I nearly squeezed the firm cord of muscle there. 

“Is that okay?” I reached to my side and adjusted his hand so it was flat against my bare back. His skin feels obscene against mine. It was a little rough, a few callouses lined the ridge of his palm, but it was so warm, on just the right side of being heavy, like a weighted blanket. 

“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to hold me?” He swallowed and I was close enough to him to audibly hear it over all the noise. His fingers briefly flexed, the pads digging into my skin, before he relaxed. The adorable blush was back on his face and a tiny sense of pride lit in my chest. He nodded once, curls bouncing. “Then yes, it’s okay.” He nodded again, as if he was trying to collect his thoughts, before he started to move us in a slow square. I was hyper aware of every point of contact we had, which was many. Our thighs would brush on every step. I could feel each flex of his shoulder as I held it. He kept lightly drumming his fingers against the back of my hand. Staring at him the entire time felt too intimate, so instead I examined his tie. The knot was a bit sloppy, like he had done it in a rush, the fabric covered in little green Christmas trees. 

I knew I was supposed to take his lead. I really did try. But I felt so uncoordinated on my feet, too distracted by the man holding me, that I kept moving wrong and his foot would step on mine. We would both giggle out little apologies as we tried to adjust to one another. After a particularly nasty collision, he huffed, but there was no annoyance in the sound. “Okay, this isn’t working.” My heart deflated at that. I liked him holding me. I didn’t want him to stop. They were my toes being crushed so I had the final say if I wanted to end our tension filled dance. I would sacrifice all of them just to have him keep spinning me. I had just opened my mouth to protest, when was I’m lifted from the ground, his arm a rigid band across my back. A squeak of surprise escaped my lips just as he placed me back down, this time balanced on his feet. “There,” he said, grinning at me, our eyes level now, “that’s better.” His breath, a mixture of coffee and icy mint, fanned across my face.

I could feel every line, divot, and bulge of his torso as it pressed against mine. In this new position, my breasts were pushed high against his chest. But he kept his focus on me, eyes wide, an earnest smile on his face. I wanted to kiss him. I was suddenly desperate to tear his shirt off, explore his body with my hands, my tongue. My breath came out in a tiny ragged sigh. He blinked slowly, long eyelashes fluttering. “Better?” he rasped. I just nodded in response. I couldn’t trust my voice. 

The string players began a new song, something upbeat and festive. But Clark and I continued our slow waltz. That quiet siren of familiarity was ringing again. But surely I would have remembered his blue eyes and burly arms. Right? He wasn't hiding from me anymore. No more anxious hair pulling or fidgeting. He examined me unabashedly now and I did the same. Just as I opened my mouth to ask him if he used to work in Gotham, a man rammed into us. 

The impact made Clark lose his balance, sending us stumbling to the side for a few steps, before he righted himself. The man, eyes hazy from too much booze, mumbled a half hearted apology before sending his dance partner twirling. “Dang, what a jerk.” He said the words without a hint of malice. I giggled. 

“Damn, I don't hear many adults say dang.” Clark shrugged. 

“Ma told me never to swear-” 

A light went off in my head. A puzzle piece slid into its correct place. 

“Because it gives people a bad impression.” Clark stopped our dance once again. I looked down at him, some sort of veil lifted from my eyes. I reached out, fingertips trembling, and hesitantly pushed back the curls covering his forehead, leaving one dangling. My thumb nudged his thick glasses down to the tip of his nose. “Superman?” The word was barely audible, especially in such a loud room. He blinked up at me once. Then his face broke into a grin that was warm and bright enough to put the sun to shame. 

“How's Cabbage? She stopped running up trees?” Now I really wanted to kiss him. Before I could say anything, my brain was too sluggish from this revelation, Lois appeared next to us. Clark, Superman, hastily readjusted his hair while I slid his glasses back up his nose. 

“Smallville! I've been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.” She glanced at our bodies, examining the intimate way he held me, before her gaze flicked up to me. “Your boss wants you too.” She huffed the words. All at once, the peaceful bubble Clark and I had made for ourselves, popped. The noise cranked higher. The smell of fading perfume mixing with sweat and sticky alcohol flooded back in. Even the lights seemed to dim, making our surroundings lose all its dreamy glow. 

I didn't want to let go of him. But as the world came back to us, I immediately felt the burn of Lex looking at me. I found him next to a bar, his face a furious pout, another drink in his hand. “Hey,” Clark hummed, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. My attention dropped to him and he smiled reassuringly. “We'll talk later, okay?” My heart beat faster and Lois's foot seemed to match it as she impatiently waited. Some part of me said he would evaporate again, simply remain a fantasy I played with at night. But this could mean…something. Not a romantic relationship, surely, but a relationship nonetheless. 

I reluctantly slid from Clark's grasp. It felt strange to be on solid ground again. How long had I been on his feet? His hand remained firm around mine and I was desperate to keep even this little amount of contact. “I know how to reach you.” His eyes lit up in delight. “Thank you for the dance, Clark.” The name felt a little clunky now that I knew who he really was. 

Our hands slowly drifted apart as I walked away but I could still feel the phantom weight, the heat, of him on my body as I walked toward Lex. I slid next to him at the bar, asking the bartender for water, taking slow sips of it. Annoyance radiated from the man next to me like toxic fumes. “Did you have fun?” Lex sneered. I gulped down a large amount of water, stalling for a moment, before turning to look at him. Hatred simmered in his blue eyes, so devoid of any human kindness. 

I turned back to the bartender and ordered my favorite cocktail. While I supposed I was still on the clock for tonight, I didn't care. Lex glowered as I plucked the cherry from my glass, yanking it from the stem with my teeth. I finished my drink on one big swing. “I did have fun Lex.” He blinked at my sudden use of his first name. 

But at that moment, I came to a conclusion. 

I was quitting on Monday.

Taglist: @bowie-frommars and @wickedslashdivine

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader, Lex being a dick. Honestly not many warnings! It's just a lot of fluff and sweetness!

A/N: Um, hey guys! First off, happy holidays!! I hope this makes up for how long this took! I really struggled with it. I actually ended up rewriting it three times. I had originally intended for Lex to fall for the reader, and she would kind of get stuck in this messy love angle between the two of them. But every time I wrote it, it sounded soooo over the top an ridiculous. Then like a week ago, I was like 'I really want to finish this before the year is over' and I fucking did it! I'm extra proud of myself because it was the super busy time at my work but, let me assure you, I was writing smut on company time. (Which not to spoil chapter four, but I worked some magic on it).

Anyways! Enough of my rambles!

I woke up the next day, still in my tiny dress, with makeup smeared all the way to my ear. My hair was a rat's nest of teased hair, several types of sprays, and bobby pins. I blinked at the bright sun filtering through my open window. I patted around the messy bed before I found my phone. The blurry screen told me it was almost two in the afternoon. I groaned. I had a headache and the sun was like knives into my tender eyes. I felt like I could eat a hundred cheeseburgers but that idea almost made me puke. 

But there was something else making my stomach twist. It took me a few moments, brain too foggy to think, to remember why. It came back to me in slow flashes. 

My legs spread and exposed in my window. 

The cold air as it traced my flushed skin. 

Moaning for Superman. 

Him potentially answering. 

“Oh my god,” I groaned, pulling my sheets over my head, hiding from my burning shame like a child. I wallowed in it for a few minutes, contemplating calling him back to apologize, before I heard Cabbage meow through my still closed door. I sighed and begrudgingly crawled out of my bed. 

As I went about the rest of my day, that shame started to drift away. Of course, he wasn't outside the window. It was just the wind and my over active imagination. Superman would never do such a thing. He didn't have time to linger outside my window. That would be insanity. He probably had people moaning out his name all the time. His face was everywhere and it was…nice to look at. 

By the time I went back into the office Monday morning, my conclusion had solidified. It was just the wind. 

It was.

Weeks bled into months. The tree outside my window shed its leaves and the temperature slowly declined, until one day I woke up to a fine layer of snow on the sidewalk. Christmas lights blinked from every shop window. My ancient heater rattled endlessly, sending hot puffs of air into my icy apartment. 

Work passed in a dull haze. Lex realized he couldn't push me around as much as he thought. He had even said thank you to me after I pulled off another insane restaurant reservation for him. The grit of his teeth and the pain in his eyes told me he didn't enjoy it. But, that pain made the words all that more sweet. 

I tried not to think of him. 

I hadn't seen Superman since the night he appeared outside my window. Well, last confirmed sighting because he did not show up that drunken night. Not that he'd had any reason. Neither I nor Cabbage have found ourselves in any life or death situations. I knew it was crazy to miss a person you never had. He owed me, a complete stranger, nothing. But, that didn't stop me from wanting to see him, talk to him. Countless nights, I sat in my living room, willing myself to just say his name. I never did. I knew that if I called for him and he didn't answer, it would wreck me. During particularly intense bouts of self hatred, I think of that night. Maybe he did show up when I moaned his name but had recoiled in disgust at the sight. Or, even worse, he hated the way I spoke about wanting a relationship with him.

“A car will pick you up at seven sharp,” Lex said, dragging me back to reality. I hastily closed the Daily Planet tab I had opened. Superman had saved Metropolis again. The picture of him, children hanging off his arms and laughing with delight, had stirred something inside me. Something far too emotional. I was picturing us together, maybe even married, like a love sick teenager. Shame hit me all over again and I could feel heat drifting up my cheeks. “Did you hear me?” Lex's voice was a whip crack in the quiet office. 

“Yes Mr. Luthor, seven sharp.” He nodded once before stalking into the elevator. He didn’t even make eye contact with me before the doors slid shut. I sighed before shifting my chair so I could watch fat snowflakes drift by the window across from me. Soft classical music hummed from hidden speakers. It felt peaceful and calm. Two emotions that were never found in this office. 

I glanced at my computer and huffed. It was just after four thirty. I needed to go home and get ready. With my wool coat on and a scarf wrapped around my ears in a makeshift hood, I felt ready enough to brave the frigid cold. The elevator flew down the building before stopping in the lobby. Walking outside made my breath catch, shivers instantly wracking my body. It was cold. The kind of cold that instantly freezes the mucus in your nose and makes it itch. I huddled deeper into my layers before rushing to the bus stop. 

Almost a whole hour had passed before I made it home. Cabbage meowed happily as I shuffled inside, stomping off any snow that had collected on my shoes, before I dropped my coat and scarf on the couch. She instantly darted onto the discarded clothing, spinning twice, before settling on them, soaking up the warmth. I rolled my eyes before squatting down to pet her. “I think you only seem happy that I'm home because you want my body heat.” She trilled, not even trying to deny it. “Wish me luck. It's going to be a long night.”

Lex Luthor was hardly known for his philanthropy but he hosted one charity gala every year. It was held at the Metropolis Art Museum and benefited Metropolis food banks. How much money made into these vital businesses' hands was up for debate. Anyone who was anyone would be trying to get an invitation. Other tech company CEOs, actors, influencers, hell, even motivational speakers. As Lex's assistant, I had to attend. My job was to make sure I take any business cards handed to him, jot down any potential meetings, and generally be as nondescript as possible. These high society events were always exhausting. 

I went to my closet, digging through some of the moving boxes still tucked away, and found my usual gala dress. It was plain black, not tight enough to attract attention, but fitted enough to keep it from looking boxy. I laid it on my bed before jumping into the shower. The hot water ran out before I had even finished washing my body. My teeth were chattering by the time I clambered out of the shower, wrapping a towel tightly around my shoulders. 

That's when I heard it. 

The sound any cat owner would recognize even in the deepest sleep. 

The wet gag of a cat right before it threw up. 

I rushed from the bathroom and froze in absolute horror. Cabbage, her little body heaving, was on my dress. “Wait no,” I gasped. But to no avail. The hairball shot across my dress with a disgusting wet slap. It was almost impressive the scale of destruction her single hairball had caused. The entire dress was covered in saliva. “Cabbage,” I whined, shooing her off the bed. She trotted away, tail flicking. I desperately tried to wipe away all the spit but gave up once the paper towel began to fray, little fragments clinging to the rough material. There was no way I could wear this. The marks may not be visible but the wetness remained and I couldn't imagine being stuck in it for hours. The thought alone made me shudder. 

Dejected, I started to rifle through my closet. Dress after dress was flung onto the floor in my desperate search for a replacement. Every single one was wrong. Some were too short for the freezing temperature, some too sexy for a charity event. There was even one that was an eye watering neon green and had barely fit me when I bought it five years ago. As I reached deeper, my fingers brushed against rough canvas. I peeked inside. In a dark shadow I saw it. The dress I bought on a wild, over confident, impulse. “Damn it.” 

I finished my makeup, something neutral but alluring, and my hair, an artfully messy updo, before confronting the dress. I held my breath as I unzipped it as if some wild animal hid inside. But all that worry evaporated when I saw the dress. It looked just as beautiful as the day I bought it. It was a dark emerald green, covered completely in delicate beading, each of them glimmering even under my harsh apartment lighting. It was long, a train pooling out onto my floor. The neckline was high and square. I shook it off its hanger, the fabric silky against my fingers. When I flopped it down on the bed, I was reminded just why it had been relegated to the back of my closet, where I would never be tempted to wear it out. 

There was no back at all. It cut perfectly at the base of my spine. It gave enough coverage that bending over wasn't a scary prospect but I couldn’t wear any underwear. I didn't want to show this much skin, let alone at a gala where I was trying to not be noticed. But this was the only formal dress I had. 

The buzzer to my apartment rang out just as I slipped on my heels. I cursed the dress as I shuffled to the door, my legs unable to take long strides like usual. “I'll be right down,” I called into the intercom. I grabbed my coat, far too casual and plain for this dress, and swung it on. “Don't puke on anything else.” I glared at Cabbage. She just rolled away from me, her fluffy stomach pressed against the radiator. I grabbed my clutch, filled only with the essentials, before taking the elevator down to the lobby.  

The driver tipped his hat toward me. There was a fine dusting of snow on the shoulders of his jacket. A luxury SUV was quietly idling in front of my building, plumes of exhaust drifting up in the air, the gentle hum of bass rumbling through it. “Good evening ma’am,” he hummed, holding out his arm to help me down the few steps at my apartment’s entrance. I took it gratefully, scooping up the train of my dress in the other hand, and half hopped down the steps. Once I made it to the car without falling, the driver opened the door, offering his hand again to help me inside. I blinked in confusion at the man already inside. 

“Mr. Luthor,” I said, voice tilting up so it was almost a question. He rolled his head to look at me, the blue-white glow of his phone dancing over his face. I could feel, more than actually see, his eyes rake over my body. I self consciously crossed my jacket across my body, realizing, a little belatedly, that my dress offered little coverage for my nipples as the cold hit them. He was wearing his usual attire, expensive tailored suit with loafers that had never seen more than a block of walking. But he had added just a bit of festive cheer with a red scarf draped around his neck. 

“You're letting the cold air in.” With that, he went back to his phone. The driver helped me into the car before shutting the door and rushing around to get behind the wheel. The car ride was quiet, only interrupted by the occasional honk or shout from the side walk. I kept my gaze out the window, watching the smear of bright Christmas lights as we drove past, body pressed against the door. Beside me, Lex's phone buzzed nonstop, always followed quickly by the soft tapping of his thumbs on the screen. Ten minutes passed like this before he finally clicked his phone off. “That’s a nice dress.” It was unlike him to say anything nice, let alone compliment. I shot him a suspicious look over my shoulder. His head was propped on his fist, elbow on the door edge, his knees tilted toward me. “I thought you were going to wear something off the rack at Macy's and embarrass me.” There we go. I scowled. 

“And we can’t have that, now can we?” I could have sworn the whisper of a smile flitted across his lips before he shifted away from me again. 

We arrived at the venue after another twenty minutes of silence. The front steps were covered under a black and green Luthorcorp branded tent. Underneath that was a long black carpet. The ultra wealthy streamed up the steps, posing for photographers or taking reporter questions, wide but fake smiles stuck on their faces. Our car lined up behind a bright red Porsche, inching closer and closer to the mob of people outside the museum. It wasn’t my first carpet walk, but I was typically able to duck behind someone to avoid being the subject of any picture. I snuggled deeper into my coat, planning to keep it on the entire walk and hover just behind Lex. As we stalled at the front of the line, our driver leaping from the front seat to open Lex’s door, he spoke. “I hope you aren’t planning on keeping that thing on.” I clutched my jacket closer. 

“It’s cold.” He scoffed. 

“There’s heaters. Anyways, it looks atrocious with your dress. Leave it here. You’ll get it back at the end of the night.” Just as I was about to object again, the door opened. Discordant shouts of names and directions for poses mingled together into a wall of sound that made me cringe. Lex pinned me with a stern look which told me he wasn’t requesting me, he was telling me. Reluctantly, I shook out of my nice, toasty jacket. The cold air filling the car felt like pure ice on my bare back and goosebumps erupted across my whole body. He smiled, smug and victorious, and clambered out of the car. At the host’s appearance, the shouts became even louder. He gave jovial waves, like he was royalty, calling out hellos to the reporters nearest him. I awkwardly shuffled across the back seat before getting out and self consciously brushed down my dress. All the reporters and photographers shifted to me at once, like sharks who smelled blood in the water. Then a flurry of questions broke out and cameras began flashing. I tried to linger as far away from Lex as I could but that didn’t stop the reporters. 

“Who’s the woman!?” 

“Has someone finally gotten you to settle down!?”

“What about Heather Montgomery? Or Stacia Hardwick?” 

With every question regarding our ‘relationship’, he would just chuckle and shoot me a coy look. It was only drawing more speculation and focus onto me. People started to shout at me, asking me to pose with my man. I wanted to sink into myself. Or hit Lex. Maybe both. I tried to keep my face down, watching my steps with far too much interest, as we slowly worked our way up the grand staircase. I could feel a blush crawling up my cheeks and spreading down my exposed back. The hair along my neck was constantly on end from all the eyes on me. This was hell. 

We were only ten steps away from the entrance when Lex stopped again. I stared longingly at the glass doors, foot tapping impatiently, before I gave up on waiting for him. With quick strides, I was next to him. I kept my body carefully angled away from him so that we didn’t seem affectionate. “I’m going inside.” I didn’t bother giving him a reason and he didn’t bother trying to argue with me. He just smiled and nodded. It sent the gossip columnist he was talking to into a giggle fit, cooing over how adorable we were. I bit my lip to stop myself from snapping at her before stomping away. I had nearly made it inside when a question caught my attention. 

“Are you aware of how much of this money is actually donated to food banks?” I glanced over my shoulder and spotted the speaker instantly. Lois Lane, her nose red from the cold, with a sleek pantsuit on, was pressed as close to the velvet rope as security would allow her. She seemed to have attracted her own bouncer, a man with a tense expression, body flexed like she was going to rush onto the steps at any moment. She held out a recorder when she noticed me looking at her. “Ma’am! Lex Luthor has amassed a reported one hundred billion net worth, what do you have to say about his exploitation of impoverished nations for his wealth?”  

I didn't want to ignore her. I loved reading her reports in the Daily Planet. There was a little feeling of vindication when she published a piece on Lex, ripping into him with all the care of a lioness with her prey. But I couldn't speak out against my own boss even if I agreed with her sentiments. So I gave her a meek nod of acknowledgement before slipping inside. 

The air was so balmy against my chilled skin it nearly burned. I took a moment to be dazzled by the entrance. Massive Christmas trees dominated the main lobby. They were easily twenty feet tall and just as wide, the branches thick enough you could barely see through the pines. Beautiful ornaments and tinsel dangled from the ends of them. The room's lighting was kept low and warm so the bright colors of the tree lights popped. It was stunning. 

I followed the flow of people up the two curving staircases to get to the main party area. The atrium was also covered in an array of Christmas trees, some at shoulder height, others soaring toward the ceiling. Ice sculptures of various festive shapes, like wrapped presents or candy canes, were dotted around the area. There were small clusters of tables, some with chairs, while others were intended to be leaned against. Several bars were tucked into corners, each one with several bartenders, the lines long despite the abundance. A string quartet played gentle classical music and had attracted a handful of dancing couples in front of them. 

A hand brushed my lower back unexpectedly. I spun away, nearly sending a congresswoman flying, and found a smug Lex looking down at me. The bit of skin he touched began to itch and burn like some fast acting infection. “I told you it was a nice dress. Now, actually do your job.” 

Two hours dragged by, taking my sanity with it. I had never seen Lex in his ‘personable’ mode and it was something I hoped I would never see again. He complimented everyone, his voice dripping in thinly veiled contempt, before snaring them in a business proposal. In a way, I reluctantly respected his ability to lure anyone, even other CEOs who should know better, into true deals with the devil. I watched him acquire a small tech startup that had generated tons of buzz with no more than a smile and a carefully worded contract. A contract that was already on his phone, just awaiting this man's signature. 

Lex treated me as nothing more than a roving table. He handed me business cards, plates from appetizers, and all of his drinks. There had been one moment where I thought about dumping the fifth half drunk vodka soda he handed to me down his shirt, but had thought better of it. While every second that passed by made me hate him just a little more, I still stuck close to him. I could feel people looking at me, their gazes a physical touch along my spine. A few of the men who were talking to Lex had also had a hungry glint in their eyes that made me want to run. But, Lex would always drag their attention away from me, and people had a healthy weariness of Lex that kept them far unless he approached them first. 

Lex has been going on and on about stocks with a very unimpressed looking model when a security guard appeared next to us. “Excuse me Mr. Luthor, but there's a bit of a situation.” Lex, clearly failing to keep this model's interest, huffed in annoyance. With him distracted, she slipped away. Lucky girl. 

“What is it?” Lex snapped. 

“There are dozens of reporters in the lobby. They all insist they should be let inside.” Lex waved his hands dismissively. 

“Absolutely not! We don't need those leeches around.” I chewed my lip. Maybe she's still here? That was a gamble I was willing to take. 

“I don't think that's a bad idea.” Lex pinned me with a glare so vicious it would have made anyone not immune to his shitty moods breakdown. “Right now, it looks like this is just a party for rich people to maybe give a couple hundred for charity.” His eyes narrowed more. “But, if we let some reporters up, maybe they could get some good statements, really show that everyone is here for a good cause.”

He seemed to mull this over, spinning the ice in his cups around moodily, before downing the last of his old fashioned. “Fine. But,” he pointed a finger at me with all the grave seriousness as if it was a gun, “the second those bastards make people uncomfortable, they are out of here. Also, only two. I don't need a flock.” 

“Understood.” I walked away, keeping close to the decorated trees to avoid bumping into any of the tipsy guests. The tension in my body, my jaw tight and back painfully straight, slowly melted away the farther I got from Lex. Idly, I wondered if I could go back to Gotham. This city wasn't the grand new adventure that I expected it to be. I was lonely and anxious all the time. I didn't even have Superman's face occasionally outside my window to make me feel better. As I rounded the corner of the staircase, I sighed. There was indeed a mob of reporters and photographers with a line of stern looking security guards keeping them back. My eyes did a quick sweep, seeking out that long black hair. I couldn't hide my grin when I saw Lois Lane, her angry face framed perfectly by two burly shoulders, giving them an impassioned explanation of her rights as the press. I hustled down the steps, the clicks of my heels completely swallowed up by the loud party behind me.

“Miss Lane, I’m glad to see that you’re still here.” She looked me up and down, suspicion written all over her pretty face. “I’m Mr. Luthor’s assistant and he has given me permission to allow two reporters upstairs.” 

“Assistant, huh?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why me? I thought he would have blacklisted me.” I shrugged, a little grin tugging at the corners of my lips. 

“He trusts my judgement.” I also doubted he knew she was here otherwise he absolutely would have told me to never even speak to her. An unfortunate oversight on his part. “I also love your articles. You have a certain way of writing that’s tough but fair.” Tough was an understatement. She crossed her arms over her chest but I could tell I was chipping away at her defenses. 

“I have a photographer,” she pointed over her shoulder at thin air, “that gonna be a problem?” At the confused look on my face, she turned and huffed. “Fucking Smallville,” she mumbled,  “always disappearing.” She looked at me apologetically before whipping out her phone. Just as she pulled up her texts, the front door of the museum opened, freezing air wafting inside, bringing snowflakes with it. A man awkwardly shuffled inside, his curly hair messy, pulled low across his forehead, in a rumpled suit a few sizes too big on his already large frame. “Where did you go?” Lois called across the room. The man looked up. The glasses he wore completely covered his eyebrows with their thick frames. He hunched closer on himself, shoulders rolling forward as if he was trying to seem as small as possible. He wove between other clamoring reporters, stumbling to the side as a few people almost collided with him, murmuring apologies. He kept anxiously tugging at the camera strap around his neck. 

When he finally stood next to Lois, he seemed to dip even lower, knees jutting forward as he bent them. The combination of my heels and his crouched stance meant we were nearly at eye level. I couldn’t stop looking at him. His crystal blue eyes bounced everywhere but me like he was desperate to avoid my gaze. However, there was something there that tickled the back of my brain. Something that made his handsome face seem familiar. The red flush of his cheeks, probably from being outside in the cold, grew until it covered his whole face, dipping under the collar of his shirt. I squinted at him. I had to know him for such a vicious blush to cover his skin. He peeked up at me and my heart stuttered. He just seemed so flustered. It made my own skin grow hot. It was a rare sight to have a man be so hot and bothered by my mere presence. A man I didn’t know. “This is Clark.” I blinked, finally looking away from the man before me, only to find Lois engrossed in her phone. “Damn, I guess even Superman doesn’t take the holidays off.” I snuck a glance at her phone, seeing the report about Superman saving cars from a collapsed bridge. Clark ran his fingers through his hair, tugging it down his face. Lois nudged his arm with enough force that his glasses hitched to the side of his nose. 

There was a brief flicker of recognition. I bit my lip, trying to hang onto that feeling, to bring a name back to the surface, before it finally slipped away as he reset his glasses. I shook my head, my earrings faintly jangling. Perhaps I had just passed by him on the street one day and his looks had left enough of an impression. That had to be it. 

“If you’ll follow me.” I said, before turning up the steps. I could hear Lois whispering to Clark, peppering him with questions about where he had been, as they trailed behind me. I could feel his gaze on me all the way to the middle landing. I wasn't sure how I so instinctively knew it was him. Perhaps there was some heaviness to it that all the other stares I had been subjected to didn't. The sensation wasn't unwelcomed either. It felt…warm. Maybe even soothing. 

Strange. 

I stopped on the landing and held out my hands to stall Lois and Clark as well. Under the soft glow of so many Christmas lights, Clark looked almost angelic. The frizz from his curls caught the lights, a halo around his face. Shadows carved out his cheekbones and settled into the faint line of a dimple. Hadn't I thought this about someone else before? Clark, noticing my gaze, shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide his face again. Clearly I was looking at him too much. 

“I should warn you, you will be on a short leash.” Lois scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She had somehow ended up with Clark’s camera slung around her neck. 

“You bring this up now? What? You expect me to write a fluff piece about these rich assholes ruining the world?” I put my hands on my hips, mouth in a firm line. Her chin jutted out, a challenge written all over her face. Clark shrunk into himself even more. 

“I'm asking you to show a little tact. If you go too hard, you'll get kicked out.” And I would be fired in two seconds flat, but I didn't add that. “Ask them what you want but don't give them any reason to complain. Okay?” Lois's lips rolled between her teeth before she gave a single nod. 

Once our group made it upstairs, the party had already taken a turn. Men had lost their suit jackets and had rolled their sleeves up in the hot atrium. Several women had also tossed their designer shoes onto tables, dancing in front of the few musicians in the corner. “Clark.” He jumped at the sound of his name. “Don’t take any embarrassing pictures.” 

“O-okay ma'am,” he stuttered. His voice was deep, a little gravel along the edges, like when someone did an exaggerated low tone. Nevertheless, goosebumps prickled along my arms. Lois was already gone, her recorder out, and found the first of her many targets that night. Clark went to follow her but I caught his wrist. The mere touch of his skin made my body shudder. He stilled instantly and his eyes dropped to the floor. 

“Do I know you?” Clark's head shot up, shock clear across his face. His mouth fell open, little half formed words tumbling out, before a furious shout of my name distracted both of us. Lex was storming closer, face red in anger, another glass clutched in his shaking fist. I felt, more than I saw, Clark shift closer to me, like he was ready to dive between Lex and I. 

“What is she doing here?” Lex hissed, the words slurred, pointing at Lois who had just cornered an actor with a very sketchy history. His face was flushed from all the alcohol he had been drinking. I plastered on a sweet smile. 

“I didn't realize you had rules around this. I thought the most popular reporter from the biggest newspaper in Metropolis would be a great person to cover all the wonderful work being done here. My many apologies.” Lex's face had grown purple as his rage simmered. “Now, if you'll excuse us,” I said as I slid my arm around Clark's, temporarily stunned by the firm bulge of muscles there, “we were going to dance.”

“I'm not paying you to dance!” I nudged Clark's hip with my own. He picked up on the hint and started to walk away from Lex, who looked near combustion. 

“Consider it my break then!” I led Clark away, his arm stiff in my grip. Lex’s angry stare was like a white hot brand against my skin. I grimaced. He would chew me out on Monday, maybe even fire me. But that didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world right now. As we neared the dance floor, now full of couples spinning aimlessly, I felt that glare move off my back. “I’m sorry for using you,” I mumbled. 

“It’s no problem,” he said gently, like he was used to helping random people out of awkward situations. 

“We don’t actually have to dance,” I told him, my hand dropping from his arm, and we both came to stop, his body in front of mine. In the walk here, he seemed to have grown a few inches, and a quick glance down told me he wasn’t hunching into himself like before. This angle felt more right somehow, as if I was used to seeing him tower over me. The shine from thousands of warm lights caught in his blue eyes and made them sparkle, turning them into the sky at twilight, the moment when the stars began to wink into existence. He gave me a faint smile, the shadows collecting on twin dimples in his cheeks. My breath caught and I inched closer without thought. Our chests brushed against each other as we breathed. Despite the scent of fresh cut pine hanging heavy in the air, I could pick out the smell of clean laundry that drifted from his button up. His fingers slid down my bare arm, leaving tingling trails behind, before picking my hand up and holding it delicately in his own. 

“What if I want to?” My stomach swooped. There was tenderness to his expression that I had only ever seen previously in boyfriends. I swallowed, trying to stop my cheeks from burning, but I knew I was failing. I stepped closer, our bodies pressed together completely now, and looked up at him through my eyelashes. I could feel his heart racing against mine. The party was drifting away from us, morphing into background noise and slow flashes of color. All I could focus on was him. 

“I don’t know how to dance,” I admitted with a self deprecating smile. He squeezed my hand. 

“I know how.” At my raised eyebrows, he gave me a tiny smirk. “My ma taught me. She thought it would come in handy some day.” 

“I guess it’s my lucky day then,” I whispered. We make our way through the crowd, him clumsily dodging the occasional dancer’s leg or elbow, before planting in the center of the group. He lifted my hand, his fingers curled around my own, before his other palm landed lightly on my hip. My free hand laid on top of his shoulder and I nearly squeezed the firm cord of muscle there. 

“Is that okay?” I reached to my side and adjusted his hand so it was flat against my bare back. His skin feels obscene against mine. It was a little rough, a few callouses lined the ridge of his palm, but it was so warm, on just the right side of being heavy, like a weighted blanket. 

“Isn’t this where you’re supposed to hold me?” He swallowed and I was close enough to him to audibly hear it over all the noise. His fingers briefly flexed, the pads digging into my skin, before he relaxed. The adorable blush was back on his face and a tiny sense of pride lit in my chest. He nodded once, curls bouncing. “Then yes, it’s okay.” He nodded again, as if he was trying to collect his thoughts, before he started to move us in a slow square. I was hyper aware of every point of contact we had, which was many. Our thighs would brush on every step. I could feel each flex of his shoulder as I held it. He kept lightly drumming his fingers against the back of my hand. Staring at him the entire time felt too intimate, so instead I examined his tie. The knot was a bit sloppy, like he had done it in a rush, the fabric covered in little green Christmas trees. 

I knew I was supposed to take his lead. I really did try. But I felt so uncoordinated on my feet, too distracted by the man holding me, that I kept moving wrong and his foot would step on mine. We would both giggle out little apologies as we tried to adjust to one another. After a particularly nasty collision, he huffed, but there was no annoyance in the sound. “Okay, this isn’t working.” My heart deflated at that. I liked him holding me. I didn’t want him to stop. They were my toes being crushed so I had the final say if I wanted to end our tension filled dance. I would sacrifice all of them just to have him keep spinning me. I had just opened my mouth to protest, when was I’m lifted from the ground, his arm a rigid band across my back. A squeak of surprise escaped my lips just as he placed me back down, this time balanced on his feet. “There,” he said, grinning at me, our eyes level now, “that’s better.” His breath, a mixture of coffee and icy mint, fanned across my face.

I could feel every line, divot, and bulge of his torso as it pressed against mine. In this new position, my breasts were pushed high against his chest. But he kept his focus on me, eyes wide, an earnest smile on his face. I wanted to kiss him. I was suddenly desperate to tear his shirt off, explore his body with my hands, my tongue. My breath came out in a tiny ragged sigh. He blinked slowly, long eyelashes fluttering. “Better?” he rasped. I just nodded in response. I couldn’t trust my voice. 

The string players began a new song, something upbeat and festive. But Clark and I continued our slow waltz. That quiet siren of familiarity was ringing again. But surely I would have remembered his blue eyes and burly arms. Right? He wasn't hiding from me anymore. No more anxious hair pulling or fidgeting. He examined me unabashedly now and I did the same. Just as I opened my mouth to ask him if he used to work in Gotham, a man rammed into us. 

The impact made Clark lose his balance, sending us stumbling to the side for a few steps, before he righted himself. The man, eyes hazy from too much booze, mumbled a half hearted apology before sending his dance partner twirling. “Dang, what a jerk.” He said the words without a hint of malice. I giggled. 

“Damn, I don't hear many adults say dang.” Clark shrugged. 

“Ma told me never to swear-” 

A light went off in my head. A puzzle piece slid into its correct place. 

“Because it gives people a bad impression.” Clark stopped our dance once again. I looked down at him, some sort of veil lifted from my eyes. I reached out, fingertips trembling, and hesitantly pushed back the curls covering his forehead, leaving one dangling. My thumb nudged his thick glasses down to the tip of his nose. “Superman?” The word was barely audible, especially in such a loud room. He blinked up at me once. Then his face broke into a grin that was warm and bright enough to put the sun to shame. 

“How's Cabbage? She stopped running up trees?” Now I really wanted to kiss him. Before I could say anything, my brain was too sluggish from this revelation, Lois appeared next to us. Clark, Superman, hastily readjusted his hair while I slid his glasses back up his nose. 

“Smallville! I've been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.” She glanced at our bodies, examining the intimate way he held me, before her gaze flicked up to me. “Your boss wants you too.” She huffed the words. All at once, the peaceful bubble Clark and I had made for ourselves, popped. The noise cranked higher. The smell of fading perfume mixing with sweat and sticky alcohol flooded back in. Even the lights seemed to dim, making our surroundings lose all its dreamy glow. 

I didn't want to let go of him. But as the world came back to us, I immediately felt the burn of Lex looking at me. I found him next to a bar, his face a furious pout, another drink in his hand. “Hey,” Clark hummed, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. My attention dropped to him and he smiled reassuringly. “We'll talk later, okay?” My heart beat faster and Lois's foot seemed to match it as she impatiently waited. Some part of me said he would evaporate again, simply remain a fantasy I played with at night. But this could mean…something. Not a romantic relationship, surely, but a relationship nonetheless. 

I reluctantly slid from Clark's grasp. It felt strange to be on solid ground again. How long had I been on his feet? His hand remained firm around mine and I was desperate to keep even this little amount of contact. “I know how to reach you.” His eyes lit up in delight. “Thank you for the dance, Clark.” The name felt a little clunky now that I knew who he really was. 

Our hands slowly drifted apart as I walked away but I could still feel the phantom weight, the heat, of him on my body as I walked toward Lex. I slid next to him at the bar, asking the bartender for water, taking slow sips of it. Annoyance radiated from the man next to me like toxic fumes. “Did you have fun?” Lex sneered. I gulped down a large amount of water, stalling for a moment, before turning to look at him. Hatred simmered in his blue eyes, so devoid of any human kindness. 

I turned back to the bartender and ordered my favorite cocktail. While I supposed I was still on the clock for tonight, I didn't care. Lex glowered as I plucked the cherry from my glass, yanking it from the stem with my teeth. I finished my drink on one big swing. “I did have fun Lex.” He blinked at my sudden use of his first name. 

But at that moment, I came to a conclusion. 

I was quitting on Monday.

Taglist: @bowie-frommars @wickedslashdivine @iyskgd

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Would you guys like a present uploaded on Christmas Eve or Day?

Eve (the 24th)

Day (the 25th)

Voting ended onDec 22, 2025

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Thank you everyone who voted!! Chapter three is going up Christmas Eve and Chapter four will go up New Years Eve! I'm super excited for everyone to read them!!!

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Would you guys like a present uploaded on Christmas Eve or Day?

Eve (the 24th)

Day (the 25th)

Voting ended onDec 22, 2025

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Would you guys like a present uploaded on Christmas Eve or Day?

Eve (the 24th)

Day (the 25th)

Voting ended onDec 22, 2025

[dcandmarvelimagines]

A bit of an update!

So, typically, I would be uploading the next chapter of my Superman fic today. But...as of now there's no third chapter :( I feel so awful that I haven't been able to keep up with it but I've really struggled to stay motivated.

Will I finish the story? I really want to!

Ironically, chapter three had the most outline done for it. I know exactly how I want this one to play out but I also don't have a solid idea for the ending. With my Deadpool/Wolverine one, I had everything outlined to the letter, so maybe that's why I'm struggling with this?

All that to say, please accept my apologies! I'm trying hard to finish this, it's just not clicking right now.

I also had an idea for a totally different story with Nightwing and Red Hood, and some sex pollen hijinks. But I've just found another fic thats the same plot, so now I don't think thats happening either. I didn't read the other story fully, only get a few paragraphs in before I told myself I shouldn’t read anymore to avoid cross contamination (for lack of a better word). But still 😮‍💨, I had some ideas but I really dont want to seem like I'm copying or anything.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Hey guys!! I'm about 2.5k words into chapter 3 right now. I know its been a bit of break but maybe I needed it?

As of now, I'm feeling a bit hmmm about what I've written. I was always planning on going in this direction but it feels sort of odd on paper :/ so I may end up rewriting a lot of it. Maybe even completely redo it 🫠. But sometimes, I burn it down and then it comes out 100 times better!!

But I just wanted to pop on here and say I haven't forgotten!!

[dcandmarvelimagines]

A bit of an update!

So, typically, I would be uploading the next chapter of my Superman fic today. But...as of now there's no third chapter :( I feel so awful that I haven't been able to keep up with it but I've really struggled to stay motivated.

Will I finish the story? I really want to!

Ironically, chapter three had the most outline done for it. I know exactly how I want this one to play out but I also don't have a solid idea for the ending. With my Deadpool/Wolverine one, I had everything outlined to the letter, so maybe that's why I'm struggling with this?

All that to say, please accept my apologies! I'm trying hard to finish this, it's just not clicking right now.

I also had an idea for a totally different story with Nightwing and Red Hood, and some sex pollen hijinks. But I've just found another fic thats the same plot, so now I don't think thats happening either. I didn't read the other story fully, only get a few paragraphs in before I told myself I shouldn’t read anymore to avoid cross contamination (for lack of a better word). But still 😮‍💨, I had some ideas but I really dont want to seem like I'm copying or anything.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader, sexual fantasies, (f!) masturbation, accidental voyeurism, misuse of his super hearing lol, alcohol use, reader tries and fails to get laid, honestly not much in this one

A/N: This is my first ever masturbation scene?? Some how I've avoided that up until now. But, here you go! ao3

After a doctor gave me an exam, she concluded that I had a mild concussion. She sent me home with strict orders for bed rest and that I should try to work from home as long as I could. Lex was not pleased when I went into the office early Monday morning to retrieve my office supplies to bring home. But he was eventually called into a meeting and couldn't continue glaring at me. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that if he caught me being idle for more than five minutes, I would be fired. I ordered a mouse shaker that night. 

Once again, by the end of the week, I was exhausted. My concussion had mostly cleared but I was still struggling with my fatigue. So much so that when I opened my apartment door to grab my steaming containers of Thai food, Cabbage was able to slip between my legs. I didn't have the energy to shout, my shoulders just slumped and I dutifully grabbed my jacket and keys. She had already dashed down the steps, a little grey blur, and I followed behind. Her paws slid on the slick linoleum of the lobby. She righted herself and stared at me, tail puffed. “Come on,” I sighed, trying to corral her back up the steps. 

I made eye contact with the man coming into the building a split second too late. Cabbage ran, nails scratching on the floor, out into the cold, dark autumn night. My heart leapt into my throat as a car flew down our street. I strained my ears, fearing the sound of the car hitting something on the road. But there was nothing. The man tried to apologize but I just pushed past him. “Cabbage!” I called out. I heard a weak little meow. I spun towards it. “Not the fucking tree again!” 

In my defense, I made it half way up the tree before Superman showed up. “I need to stop finding you like this.” I yelped and clung tighter to the skinny trunk. Above me, I heard nails scraping against bark, then the leaves rustling. She had fallen from the tree. 

“Cab-” I stuck my arm out, grabbing blindly at the air like I could catch her. There was a gust of wind around me. “-bage,” my voice died when Superman reappeared next to me, Cabbage tucked safely in his big arms. She was purring contentedly, eyes closed, making biscuits on his chest. He smiled at me before reaching his hand out. “I could have gotten her down,” I mumbled. That was a lie. I had no plan on how to get back down once I had her. She wasn't the biggest fan of being held, unless it was by Superman, which I couldn't fault her for. 

“I know you could have.” He said the words with such conviction, such unwavering faith, that it made me feel almost self conscious. I shimmied back down the tree, wincing as I felt the bark being caught on my sweatpants and jacket. He opened his mouth but thought better of offering his help when I shot him a determined look. “How has your head been healing?” 

“Okay I guess,” I said when my feet landed back on solid ground. His boots crunched softly on the fallen leaves that had gathered beneath the tree. I watched him scratch under Cabbage's chin for a moment, something warm unfurling in my chest, before I turned away and walked back to my building's door, him trailing behind. “I've been feeling very tired but that has less to do with the concussion and more to do with my boss.” Superman nodded in agreement and I scoffed lightly. “You have a day job?” 

“Being a superhero doesn't pay Metropolis rent…or really anything.” I leaned against the door, crossing my arms, and took in his face in the dim orange light. It casted him in an angelic glow, the shadows of his cheekbones softened, blue eyes dulled to something darker. 

“What could you possibly do? How can you hide all of this,” I gestured at his bulky frame, “from regular people like me?” He grinned with just an edge of smugness. 

“I have my ways.” 

“Uh-huh.” I shook my head, hiding my smile by looking at my feet. A comfortable silence fell between us. It was only broken by the occasional purring meow or car driving past. “Um,” I started awkwardly. “Do you wanna, uh, come upstairs?” He made a little noise of surprise and I whipped my head back up. Rejection was written all over his face. “Wait, sorry, that came out wrong. She,” I pointed to the happy cat in the crook of his arm, “really doesn't like being held. I don't want her running off again.” His eyes lit up as he stared down at Cabbage.

“So she likes me?” As if in confirmation, she gently pawed at his face, eyes barely opened. I could see him melt and he leaned closer to her. She licked once at his nose. That feeling was back in my chest. It felt like when I had first seen Cabbage in the shelter. She had been scruffy and so scared but she reached out to me through the bars of her cage. I knew then that I needed her with me, that I had to take care of her. It was like a ball of love had lodged itself under my breast bone. Watching this big man, with his easy smiles and soft voice, made that affection bloom again. 

I couldn't bring myself to speak, worried that I might blurt out something deeply embarrassing, so I dug around in my jacket pocket for my keys. Just as I was about to usher him inside, his head tilted. “I'm sorry,” he said, genuine regret coating his words, “there's a bank robbery.” 

“Oh.” He held out Cabbage, who looked none too pleased to be removed from his warm chest, and I took her. She instantly began squirming. I wrangled her in the best position I could. When I looked up, he was gone. “Good luck,” I called out, hoping my words reached him, wherever he may be. 

*****

The following weeks were as I expected working for a man like Lex Luthor. Early mornings to retrieve Lex's coffee, endless phone calls, countless paper cuts from printing off meeting briefs. Lex was, what could charitably called, difficult. There was an edge of cruelness to most of his actions.  Maybe he wanted me to quit or have a breakdown in front of him. But I had a recommendation letter from Bruce Wayne for a reason. I was a good secretary and him glaring daggers at me and making me get him reservations at the most exclusive restaurants wasn't going to break me. 

Well, in the office at least. At home, in the peace and quiet of my apartment, I could rant and rave at Cabbage. “Can you believe he asked me to get Nobu reservations at seven.” I chopped furiously at a poor red pepper, reducing it to mushy diced pieces. Cabbage sat at my feet, waiting for something to drop for her to scarf down. “He asked me this at six thirty!” With a frustrated grunt, I dumped the peppers into my hot pan, the oil sizzling on contact. “What a fucking brat.” The cutting board and knife cluttered into the sink. “And get this,” I turned to Cabbage for dramatic effect, “he's stringing along two supermodels!” My cat was unimpressed and began licking her paws. “I've been having to juggle both of their calls. They are both convinced he's going to pop the question soon.” 

My phone rattled on the counter and I groaned when I saw the name on the screen. Taking two deep breaths, I answered the call. “Good evening Mr. Luthor,” I said, my voice smooth, all frustration wiped from it. From his end of the line, I could hear heavy music and women's laughter. A club maybe? 

“What do you know about Superman?” I blinked at the odd topic. Lex had spoken about the hero a handful of times, but never directly to me, I only ever heard it through his office door. What he had said was, as always, vicious. Lex thought Superman was a plague, something to be feared and hated, a symbol of humanity falling from grace. 

But I had met Superman. He had been kind and patient. I found myself, when I was particularly lonely, thinking about his face. The strong line of his jaw. That one curl that laid so perfectly on his face. Those hands that had held me so securely. His body, strong but still soft in all the ways that mattered. The deep drag of his voice. The way he held me as I cried after he saved me.

“Well?” Lex hissed over the line.

I cleared my throat. “I'm sorry Mr. Luthor, I don't have a particularly strong opinion about Superman.” Lex scoffed. I practically stabbed my still half frozen beef apart with a spatula. 

“Fix that then,” and he hung up. I pulled my phone from my ear in disbelief before slapping it to the counter top with far too much force. Cabbage jumped at the noise and scampered away. 

“Fix that then,” I mocked, adding my seasoning to the meat. “Why does he even care? My opinions on Superman are irrelevant.” Especially since Lex hated him and I just wanted to fuck-

Tap tap

I spun toward my window and nearly screamed. Superman, in the flesh, was floating outside my apartment. He grinned at me and I was hit full force by the might of his good looks. I dropped the lid on my pan to stop my ravenous cat from swiping any food before kneeling in front of my window. “What are you doing here?” I asked once I had opened it. 

“I said if you ever needed help, just say my name and I'll be there.” I blinked at him, bewildered. 

“So, what, are you just…listening to me? Always?” Hopefully not all the time. I had been talking way too much shit about Lex. It could be used as blackmail, not that Superman struck me as the blackmail type. 

He shook his head, “only when you say Superman.” He tilts his head, big blue eyes blinking up at me, the picture of innocence. “It’s easy to remember your voice." I blushed and looked down at my hands in my lap. It wasn’t really even a compliment, but the way he said it, all soft and earnest, made my heart flutter.

“Do you flirt with all the women you help?” He smiled again. I had forgotten those dimples. Who gave him the right to look like this? 

“Only the ones with cats who climb trees.” As if on queue, Cabbage jumped onto the window, her fluffy body flinging itself against the newly replaced screen. She meowed, the sound rattling as she purred. “Well hey there pretty girl,” he whispered. The words pretty girl made my mind jump to all manner of depraved situations. He attempted to scratch at her through the mesh and she whined at the lack of pets. 

“Do you want to come up?” I was even surprised by my own offer. Maybe I just wanted to be close to him, very close. “I’m making some food,” I pointed unnecessarily over my shoulder at the simmering pan. “It’s not going to be pretty, and only half way decent, but it'll be filling.” For the first time ever, I saw a flicker of sadness on his face. “Cabbage would appreciate it,” I added hopefully. She meowed loudly. 

“I’m sorry,” he trailed off. “Gosh, I don't even know your name.” I raised my eyebrows. 

“I don't think I've ever heard an adult man say gosh.” He looked bashful, a delicate blush on his cheeks. 

“Ma told me not to swear. It gives people a bad impression.” It was hard to imagine him being a child. He was this larger than life figure, it would have made sense for him to just appear in the world, fully formed. When I told him my name, he grinned, and even his teeth were perfectly imperfect, the canine on his right side was just a little longer. “I like it, it suits you.”

“Is there something I can call you? Or am I forced to just call you Superman like your fans?” He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, gasping as if in pain. 

“Are you saying you’re not a fan?” I hummed, pretending to consider it, while Cabbage attempted to bite her way through the screen to get pets from the man floating outside. I opened my mouth to respond, to keep this light banter going, when he interrupted me. “Your phone is ringing.” I groaned before standing and stalking back to the counter. 

“Good evening again Mr. Luthor,” I said, as calmly as I could. I shot Superman an apologetic look, mouthing one minute, before checking on my all but forgotten food. Thankfully, it was only slightly burnt on the bottom. 

“What time is my meeting with Queen tomorrow?” Lex’s voice was definitely slurred and the music was even louder. I could hear women laughing now and something that sounded suspiciously like moaning under the heavy bass. I rolled my eyes and snapped the dial for the burner off with a little more force than needed.

“You are meeting Mr. Queen tomorrow at ten thirty.”  Lex grunted and I elected to believe it was in annoyance and not for any other reason. 

“Make it one.” My spatula clattered against the side of the pan. “I don’t want to deal with that obnoxious dick so early.” 

“I-I’m sorry Mr. Luthor,” I stuttered, “that’s just not possible. Mr. Queen is flying out of the country at noon. This was the only time he was available. I can try to reschedule it to when he comes back from France but-”

“No,” Lex growled, “I need that business proposal of his tomorrow.” For a few moments all I can hear is music. “Make it happen.” Then the line goes dead. I stared at the black rectangle in my hand in disbelief. Anger and anxiety swirled inside me, sapping away my appetite, and leaving me feeling shaky. How dare he pull this bullshit move on me? He had me make this meeting specifically at that time to rush Oliver Queen out. Lex had complained endlessly about how much Oliver talked. But if I didn’t do this, I knew I would be fired. I had moved here, gave up my family and friends in Gotham, for this job. And now Lex was putting it on the line because he was drunk and being more terrible than normal? 

“You work for Luthor?” 

“Jesus!” I gasped. My creeping panic had made me completely forget the alien floating outside my window. I pressed a hand to my racing heart, willing it to slow. “Yes. I started a couple weeks ago, that's why I moved here. He’s been…”

“A jerk?” he supplied. I shrugged, dumping my food in a bowl, before sitting in front of my window again. 

“I was going to say a massive fucking jackass,” I speared a piece of beef with my fork, imagining it was Lex’s head. “But sure, let's go with a jerk.” Superman’s head whipped to the side, some invisible force pulling his attention away. “You okay?” He blinked several times, eyes narrowing, brows scrunched. 

“I have to go.” The stress lines on his forehead didn’t ease as he looked back at me. “There’s a fire in-” 

I cut him off, “you don't have to explain yourself. Go, save the city. I have work to do anyways.” There was a beat where we just looked at each other. I had the craziest urge to lean forward and kiss him, the screen between us be damned. Even Cabbage glanced between us, sensing the tension. “Go Superman.” He nodded and in the blink of an eye, he was gone, wind wiping my hair back. 

*****

I bustled inside Lex's empty office the next morning, the sun barely peaking between the skyscrapers, painting the windows orange. His office was comfortable, but only when he wasn't in his chair glaring at everyone. 

“You're here early,” rasped a voice behind me. Lex leaned against the door frame, his suit impeccable, a faint tinge of green to his already pale skin. I gave him my most award winning smile. His lip curled in annoyance. 

“Good morning Mr. Luthor!” I chirped and he grimaced at the volume of my voice. “I figured after your exciting night last night,” a smug grin flashed across his face before it was wiped away with a wince, “you would want something to help.” I gestured him closer and he reluctantly complied, dropping it to his chair, which cost more than my entire apartment, with a huff. “Advil for the headache, since I know you don't like Tylenol.” I shook the bottle unnecessarily and he scowled. I ignored him. “Water bottles,” the glass of his too expensive preferred water clicked loudly on his wood desk. “I have also always found that a bagel with extra cream cheese helps.” I dropped it in front of him.

During my long night, I came to the realization that I needed to murder Lex…with kindness…obviously. Hence my new bubbly personality. I knew it would piss a hungover Lex just enough. 

The way he glared at me told me he knew exactly what I was doing. 

But there was a microscopic spark of respect in his blue eyes. 

“What about the meeting?” I smiled even bigger. I probably looked a little deranged, and maybe I was. It was a dumb idea to intentionally egg on your boss but I was still furious that he asked me to do something impossible the day before. Well, almost impossible. 

“You have a virtual meeting with Mr. Queen today at one.” Lex crossed his arms and sneered up at me. 

“And what about his business proposal?” His voice was snide. “I can't show up at a meeting without it. What? Do you want me to look like a fucking idiot?” 

The business proposal was a brick of paper and it sounded like one when I slapped it down on his desk. He jumped and hissed in pain at the sound. 

“A Luthorcorp company card does wonders to get me to Star City in the middle of the night.” I had called every private car service I could find and only one was available, the most expensive one. The bill had made my brain physically hurt, but it was just a little piece of revenge. I met up with Oliver's secretary, who I had met a handful of times at conferences and galas, and she was able to give me the documents early. Lex grunted, lugging the proposal closer, avoiding looking at me. Maybe he was feeling a little bit of shame? I hadn't failed like he wanted me to. I stalled him with my hand on the sleek green cover, embossed with the Queen Industries logo. “Will that be all Mr. Luthor?” 

“Yes.” He tried to tug the documents closer to himself but my nails dug into the faux leather. 

“I will be taking a half day today.” There was a pause and I thought he was fed up with my mind games. I braced for him to start shouting, or fire me. But he surprised me.

“Fine.” I straightened and he tracked me up. There was something in his gaze that made my skin prickle in warning. But I was on edge already. I had gotten a total of four hours of very interrupted sleep, caught only on my trip to and from Star City. So I brushed it away. The two red bulls I had chugged before coming into the building had clearly caught up to me. 

I straightened my blouse and rolled my shoulders back. “Thank you.” Without another look, I left his office. 

Several hours, one intense nap, and one in depth shower later, I stood outside the biggest club in Metropolis. Music pulsed through the alley where we all waited, neon lights spilling from the open door. I could smell the mix of cheap perfume, fruity alcohol, and sweat this close to the door. Bad decisions. 

Exactly what I needed right now. 

I finally got a win at work. The look of pathetic annoyance on Lex's face would fuel me for weeks. I wanted to let go, drink a little too much, and dance till my feet ached. But more importantly, I need to get fucked. Fucked in that way that would make me forget everything. All bite and rough, desperate, hands in a dark corner. I needed that release more than air at this point. The tension had been prickling under my skin for months, finally hitting its peak last night. Maybe the stress of getting that meeting rearranged jump started this. No other reason. 

I handed over my club fee, chest aching a bit at the amount, before the bouncer checked my ID, and waved me in. The inside was massive. On the first floor, there were several bars, all packed with customers. In the center, lowered by a few steps, was the dance floor. It was completely filled with bodies all dancing to the DJ on the stage. Along the sides were staircases, entrances guarded by security guards, that led up to large vip rooms, long balconies connecting them.

I decided to head to the farthest bar as it looked the least busy. The flashing lights caught on the tiny wisp of glimmery fabric I called a dress, scattering rainbows across the dark floors. The dress had a drooping neckline, pooling perfectly between my breasts, the hem just grazing under the curve of my ass. It was impractical, hanging on by a few delicate chains around my neck, and only allowed for my smallest pair of underwear. 

I wedged my way to the metal bar and waited for a bartender to catch my eye. While I stood, I scanned the area, scoping out any single men I could spot. I chose this club intentionally. It was known as somewhere celebrities and wannabes all gathered. I wasn't usually picky but I needed someone with strong arms and a sturdy chest. Someone who could hold me close while he drove inside me. Someone who wouldn't wince when I dug my nails into his shoulders.  It seemed to be all I could think about. 

The bartender dropped my usual cocktail in front of me. She watched me in amazement as I downed it all in one gulp. “Another?” I nodded, dabbing at the corner of my lips with the napkin. 

“And a shot or two!” I called back. 

Once all that alcohol was flooding through me, I dove into the dancing bodies. I danced with man after man, desperate for someone who felt just right. This one's hair was blond. This one's eyes were brown. He groped at my hips like a horny teenager. The arms around me weren't firm with muscle. I slipped away from each and everyone of them. With every failed prospect, I grew more and more angry. What was wrong with me? Some of these men looked to be literal models and I just pushed them away? 

After a song by myself, all the men giving me a wide berth, I realized what I was searching for. 

Superman. 

It was embarrassing being so horny for a man I didn't know. Despite us touching, speaking, we've never really met. He was playing a character, someone overly kind and larger than life. He was probably sweet on everyone, no matter what he said otherwise.

But I couldn’t deny that I wanted him. Maybe it was the kindness, the faint Southern twang on a few of his words, that made me want to take him apart. I wanted him to squirm under me, trace the blush on his neck with my tongue, see if he was just as patient when I edged him. The idea of him snapping, pinning me to the mattress and fucking me like he means it, made heat pool in my stomach. 

This is too much.

When the song changed, the bass rumbling through my body, another set of hands caressed my hips. I spun gratefully, body pressed flush against the man who was there. He was hot, so very hot. It only took a few lingering touches on his stomach, the firm lines of abs obvious through his sweat soaked shirt, for him to lean down and kiss me. 

It was messy, all tongue and teeth, but it was what I wanted. I kept repeating that to myself as his hand slid under my dress. He's hot and not an unavailable superhero. Sure, his arms weren't quite right, and his hands were too rough as they dug into my ass. But it's a fine trade off. Right?

Fuck.

I leaned back, a line of spit connecting our lips. “I'm sorry!” I shouted, “I have to go!” He tried to say something but I was already elbowing my way out of the throng of people. I felt the hair along my neck stand up, like someone was staring at me, and I paused. No one on the ground floor was lingering on me, so I turned to the top floor. There was someone up there, but the booze and intense lights obscured them. Either they had such blond hair it was invisible or they had none. 

But looking up at such a sharp angle made my vision swim. So I continued my way out of the too packed club, finding a side door to leave through. The wind was icy against my overheated exposed skin and I shuddered. It did help clear my head though. I stumbled a few blocks down before ordering an uber. While I waited, I pulled up the browser tab on my phone, and started scrolling through Superman pictures. Even when I climbed into the Uber, I kept looking. By the time I staggered out, I had reached the fourth page of Google, a new feat. He looked so fucking good from any angle. There was one where he was a handful of pixels in a grainy photo and was still somehow the hottest blob of red I had ever seen.

Once I was inside my apartment building, I kicked off my sky high heels and slumped against the elevator wall as I traveled up. The metal was soothing against my bare back which had become itchy from the dried sweat after dancing for hours. I managed to get into my apartment after the fifth attempt of fumbling with my keys. Cabbage meowed up at me as she wound through my legs. 

“S-stop,” I huffed, “gonna make me trip.” She didn't care. I stumbled and had to catch myself on my coffee table. “Cabbage!” My shout was weak but she got the message, trotting away with her tail held high. I wobbled to my bedroom and closed the door. The tracks on the window screamed at me when I slid it open. A blessedly cool breeze ruffled my hair and I leaned into it, nose against the screen. The building facing my bedroom was an office building. All the windows were dark, only a few strips of low ambient light drifting through the glass.

I collapsed onto my bed with a groan, legs dangling off the edge. I should be in the club's bathroom or stumbling into a man's apartment right now. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Superman had become a sickness, seeping through my blood, and seeing him last night only reignited my attraction. But that attraction also brought up a flash of disgust at myself. He had shown zero interest in me besides polite small talk and a few compliments. Yet, all I could think about was the feel of his arms as he held me on that rooftop.

“I'm pathetic,” I whined, throwing an arm over my eyes. I wanted to drive away the gnawing desire inside me but I was already drifting off into a fantasy land. 

We were back on the roof. I was in his lap, cradled against his big body. It was that moment when I swore he nearly kissed me. But this time, we weren't interrupted. He kissed me softly, like I was something delicate, hands light on my hips.

My own hand drifted down my torso as I drew my feet up onto the edge of my mattress, dress sliding to my hips, the sequins scraping against each other. No, I want him rough. Like a movie, I rewound the scene. 

His eyes flicked to my lips and I shuddered at the hungry look in them. He lifted me easily, positioning my hips over his own, and kissed me like he was starving. I moaned into him as my fingers slid into his hair. 

A real moan slipped from between my lips as my hand settled between my legs. My panties were damp already. I drew slow circles over my clit, the lacy fabric a pleasant bite against it. 

He was hard under me as I pressed against his hips. His tongue pushed inside my mouth. His hands, big and warm, rolled my hips over his own. He growled into my mouth, a sound of pleasure turned desperate. “Feels good,” he mumbled as he drew back from my kisses. Instead, he latched into my neck, teeth dragging against my sensitive skin, tongue tracing my racing pulse point. 

I whimpered, hips shifting, grinding against nothing. One breast slipped free of my dress and the exposed nipple peaked as a cool breeze caressed it. My pussy was growing warmer, more slick collecting inside the fabric. 

I was moaning unabashedly, my body arched against his, craving more of his touch. “Look at you,” he teased, kissing back up my neck, “all desperate and pathetic.” His words were followed by a nip on my ear and I jerked as pain and pleasure rippled through me. 

A small part of me reminded myself that Superman was sunshine made human. He wouldn't hurt me like this. But I ushered that part away. What did I know? I should be allowed to imagine whatever I wanted. It wasn’t like I would be blessed with the real thing. 

“Yes,” I responded, “only for you.” He hummed his approval. My hands drifted down his chest, searching for a way to get his thick suit off him. “Please, wanna touch you.” His chest rumbled with a laugh and I yanked at his hair. “Fuck me,” I demanded, voice shaky with need. His hands slipped under my shirt, toying with the hem of my jeans. 

“Be good for me,” he purred, teasing the button open with aching slowness, “beg.” I did. My pleas and promises of being a good girl for him blended together. 

I barely realized that I was begging in real life. My fingers caught in the waist band of my panties and I tugged them down my legs, the lace catching on my left foot. The full force of the cold air around me made me shudder as it brushed against my wet pussy. But I didn't notice, or care, too absorbed in my fantasy. The tips of my fingers found my clit and began to trace the bundle of nerves. I was so wet that my fingers slipped over it every few strokes. 

My hands, which had settled on his broad shoulders, were trembling in anticipation as he eased my zipper down. He pinched the edge of my panties and drew them up so he could examine them. I squirmed, the fabric pulling against my clit, the feeling on just the right side of pain. “These are cute,” he tugged on them experimentally, eyes glued to my face so he could watch it twist. “Just like you.” I flushed. 

“Please,” I mumbled pathetically. The corner of his lips quirked, just enough for his dimples to show. 

“I suppose you've been good enough.” He let go of my panties. I nearly howled as his calloused fingers wedged into my jeans, fingers finding my clit with ease. 

“Superman,” I cried. Then my body stilled as I realized I had said that out loud. I waited, my chest tight. A telltale whoosh of air floated into the room. 

Then nothing. He didn't leave nor did he speak.

I swallowed thickly. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe I was just too horny and jumping to conclusions. But the idea of him lingering, watching, didn't turn me off. In fact, it did the opposite. My fingers went back to work, the sound of my wetness extra loud in my ears. “I've been thinking about you.” I didn't really mean to start speaking, the words just bubbled out of me, aided by the alcohol still simmering in my blood. “I went to a club, I wanted to get fucked so badly I thought I was going to die. But none of them were,” my voice hitched as I felt a fire build inside me, “were you.” 

I reached up, my free hand twisting at my exposed nipple, the extra stimulation making my back arch. “In my fantasies,” I started again, voice brittle, “you're rough. I want you to pound into me. Fuck me.” My fingers were growing more insistent, thighs trembling, that burning inside me blooming higher. “But I know you wouldn't be like that.” 

I paused, feeling like I was about to be too vulnerable for a man I'm not even sure was really here. “I don't want you to be like that,” I confessed quietly. “I want you to kiss me like,” my eyes squeezed shut, “like I'm special to you.” Maybe that was my big secret. It's easy to chalk all my feelings around him to pure lust. He was, by all accounts, the most attractive man I had ever seen. Perfect boy-next-door good looks, muscles that strained against his suit, and hair that was just begging for my fingers to run through it. But I didn't just want to have sex with Superman. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to wake up in the morning to his face. Learn about the man he was out of the suit. Make him breakfast in the mornings and give him shoulder rubs at night. 

But, that felt like too much to tell even the open air that was probably outside my window, so I fought it back and changed my approach.

“I want to hear you moan for me, maybe even beg.” Just imagining him under me, cheeks flushed, hair messy, chest heaving as I edged him till he was a pleading mess, made my hips jerk and my voice pitch up. My fingers grew quicker but sloppier as heat licked up my body and my stomach grew taut. “Shit,” I breathed, “I'm going-fuck!” 

I heard, for a brief second, something that sounded like an intake of breath. But it was quickly covered up by my wanton moans of his name. My heels dug into the mattress and my back arched as I came. Even in the rush of the orgasm, I didn’t stop working myself. I was desperate for more. But ‘more’ meant him. So I had to settle for the bite of overstimulation. My body shuddered as I drew out the euphoria longer and longer until I was a panting, sweaty mess on my bed. 

As I laid, I felt a breeze rush in through the open window. I had no strength to lift myself up to try and spot him. But then, another breeze came in, the same strength and temperature. 

Something inside my chest ached. 

It had just been the wind.

Tag list: @iyskgd

[dcandmarvelimagines]

i saw you were sad about engagement on your superman fic so I wanted to say i really really liked it! i can’t wait for the next part! :)) 💖

Omg that means a lot!! Thank you so much!!

I think maybe because it didnt have smut it didn't catch people's attention or something :/ I'm so grateful anyone liked it but still, it's had some very slow progress on here and ao3.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Thinking about a sex pollen fic with Dick Grayson and Jason Todd....

[rosesaints]

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

I know I don't need to say that this fic is fantastic. It's wonderfully sexy and effortlessly funny and made me giggle and kick my feet multiple times

But you know what, I will say it. ITS PERFECT!

It's also probably my favorite I've read in this recent deep dive 🤭

[dcandmarvelimagines]

Would you guys be interested in me reblogging fics I read?? I feel like it might be fun! They are pretty much only Superman rn but I may sprinkle some others in

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader (she is Lex's secretary yikes), Superman saves her cat, a mild car accident which then leads to minor injuires (a bloody nose and bruised head), Superman is just the sweetest man in the world, comforting cuddles after a traumatic event and lots of crying, eventual smut (trust me, the next chapter is a bit unhinged)

A/N: I think maybe I'm cursed (?) to fall in love with a superhero movie and write something about it every August. This worked out to be such a strange coincidence. But anyways. The Superman movie was spectacular!! I've seen it twice already and I can't stop thinking about it (or David). So here's this! For context, this takes place earlier in Superman's heroic career. Lex isn't a frothing at the mouth hater (yet). My ao3 link if you prefer

“Cabbage!” I hissed, trying to inject every ounce of motherly disappointment into that single word. It didn't work. Cabbage blinked down at me, her green eyes practically glowing under the streetlight, and let out a pathetic meow. 

There was a tree every five feet along my street in Metropolis. When I moved into my new apartment, I thought the tree being directly across my fourth floor window was wonderful, not only obscuring my window from watchers across the road, but also a nice patch of green in this steel gray city. Maybe there would be a few birds in its branches to entertain my fluffy gray cat. What I wasn't expecting was Cabbage to leap through the screen in fear when our neighbor’s smoke alarm went off. I stared at the frayed hole in the mesh for a moment before I mumbled oh shit and rushed out my door. She had made the jump to the tree and nestled into the deepest part, crying like it was both my fault and my problem that she was stuck there. “It's your fault you're up there!”

I bit my lip, sizing up the tree. It looked sturdy, but it swayed in a particularly strong breeze and Cabbage wailed in fear. “Oh shush!” A shiver rippled over me, leaving a trail of goosebumps across my bare arms and legs. In my mad dash out of my apartment, I had forgotten a sweatshirt, leaving me only in a tank top and shorts. Neither of which I would want to be wearing at night in a large city. The things I do for my cat. Another meow had me stepping over the small metal fence that guarded the grass and other plants. “I've never climbed a tree before,” I huffed as I hooked one leg around the trunk. Should I just scoot up it? Or one leg and one arm at a time? The bark was rough on my bare thighs. “If I get a splinter because of you,” I grumbled.

“Do you want some help?” I choked on my scream and nearly fell on my ass as I stumbled away from the tree. Whirling around, I found…

“Um, who are you supposed to be?” The man looked down at himself, self consciously tugging at his blue…suit? He was wearing a red cape, with matching boots, and what could only be described as underwear on the outside of his…outfit. There was a large yellow and red symbol on his chest but in the relative darkness, I couldn't see it clearly. 

“Well, I'm a hero,” he puffed out his chest, “Superman.” 

I couldn't stop my giggle and he joined me in the tiny patch of grass in front of the tree, scrubbing at the back of his neck in apparent shyness. Now that the shock of being snuck up on had waned, I noticed how handsome he was. He had a square jaw, laugh lines around his lips. Oh no, I thought, taking his face in more closely, those are very cute dimples. 

“So, you're like Batman here in Metropolis?” Superman, what a silly name, blinked at me. He had pretty eyes, even in the dull street light, blue like a cloudless sky. 

“I suppose you could say that,” he said, chuckling as he spoke. “I heard he's not the nicest.” I shrugged. “I haven't met him yet, have you?”

“Well, Gotham's not the nicest place to be. Everyone gets a bit of an edge after a while.” I paused, shifting uncomfortably. “He saved me from being,” I cleared my throat. My palms were slick with sweat, heart rate increasing, at the memory of that man in the alley. Superman's head tilts just a fraction, like he's listening to something very intently. 

Fear had been so thick inside me that I had barely any time to scream before being dragged down into the darkness. Batman had swooped in before anything too bad had happened. But I was still a trembling, crying mess, and I collapsed into his chest. He let me sob on him for almost five minutes before he gently removed me and scanned me over for injuries. When he saw that the worst of it was a cut on my cheek from the rough brick walls, he simply said, “get home safe,” and disappeared again. 

I scratched at the scar that lingered on my cheek. Superman watched the movement.  “He's scary, but he's still a hero. Perfect for Gotham.” He nodded, mouth opening to speak, when Cabbage let out a shrill yowl from high above us. I jumped, guilt churning in my stomach for forgetting my precious cat, too dazzled by the hunk of man next to me. He probably had this effect on everyone. He had a charm, an openness, that was disarming. It was undoubtedly an asset when it came to high stress situations. People were unpredictable when panicked. 

Superman looked up into the clustered branches, “what’s their name?” Cabbage let out a wail, like he would be able to understand it and just save her already. He smiled up at her, trying to soothe her with just his mere presence. It worked wonders on both of us. Cabbage meowed softly, like she does when I offer her treats, all gentle and sweet. Meanwhile, I was dazed by him, and the crinkled skin at the corner of his eyes. He smiled big and often. 

“Cabbage,” I replied absently, too distracted by those cursed dimples. He laughed and my stomach swooped at the sound. It was infectious, joy made audible, the feel of sun on your skin after a long dark day. His eyes closed as his cheeks rose, adam’s apple bobbing. I wanted to laugh with him but I couldn’t stand the idea of not hearing his laugh anymore. So I just smiled. “The rest of her litter mates were named after green vegetables. I wanted to name her Barbara, but she already knew herself as Cabbage.” He hummed and then started floating off the ground. “Woah,” I whispered. Batman had moved around via hissing grappling hooks but Superman could just fly? Clearly I needed to do my research. 

“Hey Cabbage,” Superman cooed. He glanced down at me, almost thirty feet below him, his eyes twinkling like he had said an inside joke and was waiting for me to catch up. He held out one of his big hands so Cabbage could sniff it. She didn’t move at first, just stared blankly down at me, betrayed by me not helping here instead. But after a little more coaxing from the floating hero, she inched her way down the branch, and sniffed cautiously at his hand. “There you go,” he murmured, “I’m not so bad, huh?” Cabbage, always such a shy thing, leapt onto his chest with reckless abandon. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured her plummeting to the ground for a split second. Then I saw her little paws curl in, nails sinking deep into his chest. The only sign of pain from him was a tiny hiss. But he clutched her close, petting her grey fur gently, as he descended. 

“Thank you,” I said, stepping closer to pet her myself. I could feel her little body trembling as she purred. Our hands brushed against each other and I felt something electric shoot down my skin. My eyes flicked up to his and found him already gazing at me. I swallowed, cheeks heating at the gentle expression on his handsome face. “She likes you,” I mumbled. He arched a brow, lips tugging into a coy smirk. 

“Talking in third person?” 

“Wha-” I stuttered before I fully caught up with his words. I could feel my face growing hotter, undoubtedly matching his rippling cape, and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear self consciously. “I was talking about the cat.” Cabbage’s purrs grew as she began to knead into his chest, her head nudging under his chin. I knew her claws were sharp, the rush of the move didn’t give me much time to clip them, but he showed no sign of pain. 

“Ahh, my mistake,” he teased. A few beats of silence passed us by, our eyes locked, a drop of drool from Cabbage rolling down his suit. I couldn’t seem to pull myself away from him, like he was the sun and I was a planet orbiting him. But, unlike the sun, he wasn’t radiating heat, and I shivered as a cool wind coasted over my bare skin. Concern flashed across his face. “Let’s get you ladies inside, yeah?” I nodded, rubbing at my chilled skin, as I stepped over the tiny fence guarding the tree. Something warm and heavy fell over my shoulders with a soft thuwmp. I reached up, fingers finding a stretchy red fabric. “Figured that would help with the cold,” he explained. 

“Thank you,” I mumbled. We were close enough that our arms brushed against each other. Now, I could feel the heat coming from his bulky body, rolling off him in waves. The scent of him filled my nose as well, like clean laundry, the smallest hint of sweat from his previous heroic outings. The mad idea of cuddling into his side crossed my mind before I shook it away. I cleared my throat and walked up the steps to my building. 

It was locked. 

“Fuck,” I hissed. I twisted the knob ten more times, just to be safe, before turning to Superman sheepishly. “I don't have my keys. I know you probably have the world to go save, so I can take her back,” I held out my hands for Cabbage. “I'll just buzz someone until they let me in.” 

“Nonsense,” he said, shifting Cabbage so she was cradled in his arm, her paws now making biscuits on his chin. “I'll just fly you up to your apartment. I'm assuming you left your window open?” I nodded. “Well come here then,” he opened his arm, beckoning me closer. 

“O-okay.” I took tentative steps closer before my arms locked around his neck. I was looking everywhere but him, far too aware of how close his face was to mine, his breath fanning over my flushed skin. “Fourth floor,” I whispered, unable to raise my voice any louder. His arm, or a steel bar cosplaying as an arm, wrapped around my waist, my body gently crushed against his. 

“Hold tight,” he murmured. Then the ground dropped away from my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, stomach swooping at the disconcerting movement. It only took him a few seconds to find my apartment. “I’m assuming it's this one with the Cabbage shaped hole in the screen?” I made a little squeak of confirmation. There was a soft thud behind me as Cabbage landed safely inside. “Your turn.” I opened one squinting eye to look at him. 

My brain, working on its own awful impulses, forced me to look down. Forty feet wasn't really that high. But seeing nothing supporting me, my legs just dangling free like this, made my stomach churning horribly. I clung to him, my arms a vice around his neck, legs snapping tight around his waist. “Shh,” I must have made some panicked noise without thinking, “look back at me.” Superman's finger brushed a lock of hair out of my face and I latched onto that feeling, the scrape of a callous across my cheek, like a life line. I leaned into his hand, like it was a caress from a lover, and not a man I met five minutes ago. “I won't drop you, I promise.” I let out a shaky breath but nodded. “I need you to let go of me,” he chuckled, the laughter rumbling in his chest. My legs were slow to release him, but they eventually fell limply, and I eased my death drip on his neck. 

“Sorry…” He flashed me one of those brain melting smiles, all boyish good looks and unrestrained charm. 

“You're not the first person to try and take my head off in fear.” I giggled, the noise fragile from anxiety. “I'm going to hold you by the waist, with both hands, so you can crawl in. Okay?” I nodded again. He shifted me like I weighed nothing, easily sliding me from his side to in front of him. There was one horrifying moment where only one hand was supporting me. My brain conjured up thoughts of how the concrete would feel against my skin as I fell towards it. Then another big hand gripped my waist and all that panic evaporated. 

I had to rip a larger hole through my screen so I could wiggle inside, it had to get replaced anyways, collapsing to the ground in an ungraceful heap. “You okay?” I shot him a thumbs up before I twisted over to look at him. His elbows were resting on my window sill, watching me intently, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Um, thank you again.” Cabbage headbutted my elbow, demanding pets, “from both of us.” He waved his hand dismissively. 

“No need to thank me.” 

I clambered to my feet, “can I at least give you something?” I crossed to my tiny kitchen, dodging towering stacks of my moving boxes, and pulled open a cabinet door. “Do you like…” my voice trailed off when I noticed my window was empty. There was a spike of hurt in my chest but I fought it back. I had no reason to be upset. It was a miracle he stayed as long as he did. But that didn’t stop my shoulders from slumping as I walked to my window to slide the glass shut. A little piece of white paper caught my eye, folded neatly into a square on the lip of my window. After I closed it, locking it just to be safe, I unfolded the paper. 

I’m sorry to run, there is a situation in Midtown. 

If Cabbage ever gets out again, just call my name and I’ll show up.

-SM

*****

The bus was so bumpy that I could barely make out the Daily Planet article on my phone. I had to brace it with my other hand just to read the tiny text. 

Superman saves Metropolis First Bank! Subdues armed robbers!

Maybe it was crazy, checking out his alibi like he was some flaky boyfriend, but I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t even look like a person capable of lying. Or, an alien capable of lying, as I learned in my deep dive research about him. I had spent far too much time last night reading through articles about him and his year long heroic career. This Clark Kent guy seemed to be a good friend, as almost all the articles were written by him, this most recent one included. 

Overhead, the automated voice announced that we had reached the corner of Hawthorne and First. I locked my phone and slid it into my work bag before hustling off the cramped bus. 

The Luthorcorp building was even more intimidating in person. It towered over all the other neighboring skyscrapers, the glass lit with the early morning sun. It was in the shape of a H, with the line in the middle looking like a skywalk of some kind, Luthorcorp in big bold letters across it. I gave myself a fortifying shake. I already had the job, the hardest part was, hopefully, over. My shoulders rolled back, my body straight and professional, and walked up the steps. 

The woman at the front desk smiled sweetly at me as I came inside. When I told her it was my first day, she clapped her hands in excitement, but that joy flicked a little when I told her just what I was doing. She snapped a picture for my ID and took my finger prints for any scanners. She was just in the middle of explaining the seemingly complicated elevator system when a nearby one dinged open and a massive man stepped out. He scanned the lobby, then his eyes landed on me, and he shot across the marble floor. Each of his footsteps thundered against the ground and the lobby quieted. “You’re late,” he hissed, “you shouldn’t make him wait.” The receptionist, Claire, tried to explain that she was the one who had kept me but the man ignored her. “Well?” 

“My apologies for being late,” but he cut me off. 

“Don’t say sorry to me. Just move it.” I gave Claire a little wave before following the man back into the elevator. I missed the worried look on her face as the door slid shut. The elevator zipped up, soft jazz filtering through the speaker in the corner. The backside of the car was all glass, but the fast smear of lights and steel made my already tense stomach flip, so I looked back at the door. “When you are coming in for work, scan your badge here,” he pointed a thick finger to a green square where a line of red was blinking. “No one will be able to stop you and it will grant you access to the top floors.” 

“Understood, Mister…” I trailed off, leaving him an opportunity to finally give me his name. But he just ignored me, giant shoulders shifting in his too tight suit jacket. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. The car came to a smooth stop at the hundredth floor, the doors whirring open. There was a large desk facing the elevators, it was warm wood and dark stone, just like the rest of the building. A monitor dominated most of the area and a desk calendar covered the rest. Pens, sticky notes, and paper clips were neatly placed along the edge. The rest of the room was sparse, with only a few expensive, but uncomfortable looking green chairs. It felt sterile, like a doctor’s office. 

“Put your bag down at the desk then come and meet Mister Luthor.” I do as instructed and take a few seconds to smooth my hair back in its low bun and straighten my blazer and pencil skirt. I followed him to a door set in the left hand corner of the bare room. 

Lex Luthor, my new boss, sat behind a long wooden desk, a coffee mug half way to his lips. His gaze flicked to me and I gave him a polite smile. His expression was indifferent but I felt the appraisal as he gave me a once over. “My new assistant?” 

“Yes Mr. Luthor.” My heels clicked loudly against the floor as I stood in front of his desk, hand out stretched, as I reminded him my name again. He refused to shake my hand and instead kept staring at me. I, in turn, kept my bland smile in place. 

There was always a push and pull with powerful men like him. They wanted control and obedience but hated people who bent to their will instantly. I found that a handshake is a good indicator of their feelings. Some were too slack, some too firm, and some, as in Lex's case, thought shaking a subordinate's hand was below them. 

Begrudgingly, he shook my hand, gripping tight. He was watching me for a flinch, a wince, anything to show that he was hurting me. I gave him nothing. “It's wonderful to finally meet you. Now,” I prompted, easing down into one of the chairs across his desk, slinging one leg over the other. “What can I do for you today Mr. Luthor?”

*****

By the end of the week, I was exhausted. The stress of a new job, a new city, and a new demanding boss had leeched away all my energy. Most nights, all I could bring myself to do is order takeout and rot away on my couch. But I was ready to get my life back on track. I had gone grocery shopping and was going to make myself a dinner that didn't come from a Styrofoam box. 

My usual bus home was packed and I had found myself crammed all the way in the back. The woman next to me was chatting animatedly to someone on her phone in Spanish, only adding to the cacophony of noises. I was drifting off, body just too tired to stay up anymore, the cool glass pressed to my cheek.  

The bus came to an abrupt stop, tires screeching. My head shot forward and my nose cracked against the seat in front of me. Blackness blotted out my vision for a moment, a deep throb growing inside my head. Something hot and sticky dripped onto my lips and when I touched it, I found bright red blood. People were shouting, rushing for the exits, banging on the glass. There was another impact at my back as a car smashed into us. Disoriented, I rubbed at my aching head, glancing outside. People were running from something, something big judging by the shadow blotting out the bright lights around us. 

I stood as quickly as I could, fighting back the dizziness that washed over me. The bus doors finally slid open. Everyone surged forward, pushing others in their panic, and I was sent sideways three rows before the exit. My head ached and my nose pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I struggled up right, finding the bus empty. 

Just as I reached the exit, the bus was lifted from the ground. 

I screamed as I felt backwards, somersaulting over myself, until my body hit the emergency door hard enough that my breath was knocked from my chest. Through the front windshield I could see the four eyes of the giant who had lifted me. It narrowed its eyes at me like it was examining me. The headlights of the bus illuminated its face, almost lizard-like. It had to be an alien or some failed science experiment. 

Then a red blur smashed into its cheek. The creature stumbled sideways, roaring in annoyance, the door under me shaking. Fear  gripped me tight enough that I couldn't make a sound. Every inch of me was trembling, tears burning down my cheeks. Superman landed a few more blows before the creature had had enough. 

It threw the bus at Superman. 

I saw it happen as if in slow motion. The creature had thrown it sideways. It was moving fast and my body was flattened to the door. Superman braced himself, arms crossed over his face. The bus split in half around his body, the crunching metal and shattering glass horribly loud. A few pieces of glass embedded into my hands, one slicing my cheek. The two pieces of the ruined vehicle spun away from him, the momentum carrying them on. Then the emergency door gave out from under me. 

I was flung free, my body flipping in the air from the sheer force. I reached out, like I could somehow get back into the bus, or stop this free fall. Wind whipped by me as I started to drop. I had never been a big fan of rollercoasters. I hated the feeling of my body floating away as I crested that first hill, the way my stomach lifted inside me, then that hard bottoming out, body slammed back into my seat, gravity magnified ten fold. But I wished for that horrible feeling of being jammed into my seat right now. Even that pain would be preferable to this. 

“Superman!” I screamed. I squeezed my eyes shut against the blur of lights rushing past me. I'm going to die was a chant inside my head. It was only going to take seconds for me to land, to be nothing but gooey chunks on the sidewalk. I curled in on myself like it would somehow make this hurt less. 

Something solid curved along my body and held me tight. A hand cradled the back of my head as we moved at speeds fast enough that I felt my skin strain against the pressure. 

I was back on my feet, eyes still clamped shut, head spinning. “Hey,” said someone softly, “are you okay?” Hands, strong and gentle, squeezed my upper arms. I eased my eyes open and found Superman towering over me. He gave me a strained smile as his own gaze narrowed. “Looks like your nose is okay, not broken, just bruised.” He traced it with a finger and I winced. “Are you okay?” He prompted again. 

“Sure,” I rasped, throat burning after my screams. Superman bit his lip like he was thinking deeply about something. Then the towering creature behind us roared. “Go,” I nudged his chest but he didn't release my arms. “Don't worry about me.” He lingered for a moment longer, but then nodded slowly, like he was coming back to himself. 

“I'll be back to help you, I promise! Just stay here!” He called over his shoulder as he leapt up. There was a loud boom as he flew away, just a flash of red in the dark sky. I blinked slowly, mind struggling to keep up with his movements as he fought against the massive creature. I glanced around, only just now understanding that I was on top of a building, and several blocks away from where I was originally. My brain felt like mush. A combination of that lingering terror, aching pain from my nose and head, and the fog of the concussion I undoubtedly had. All of it left me locked in position. I was unable to move or cry or even throw up like I felt I needed too. 

Five, or maybe fifty, minutes later Superman reappeared. His boots were whisper quiet on the cracked concrete of the roof. I could sense him off to my side, but I couldn’t force my eyes to move. They felt like they were three sizes too big for my head, pressure building behind them. His chest, so wide and sturdy, filled my vision. I wanted to trace the S symbol there but my body refused. “Here,” he hummed. He slung something heavy over my shoulder. I looked down, moving my head as slowly as I could. It was my purse. “I hope that’s everything,” he said sheepishly, “I might have missed something. I can replace whatever is missing.” 

The dam inside me broke. A sob wrenched free in my chest and tears flowed down my cheeks as I threw myself against his chest. My purse fell from my shoulder and to the floor with a thump. I buried my face into his neck, sticky with sweat and grime, and clung tight to him. There was a beat where he stiffened, like he was shocked, before he wrapped his arms around my body. One was firm across my hips, clutching me close as he stood to his full height, my feet dangling, while his other nestled into my hair. The hold on my head was tender but firm, like he was making sure I stayed as close to him as I could. His cheek rested against my forehead and that little touch only made me cry harder. “It’s okay,” he murmured, “I got you.”    

“I’ve never been so scared,” I choked out, the words broken by my continued sobs. “I thought I was going to,” I couldn’t continue. I don’t think he needed me to. He understood. He began to rub slow, soothing circles on my back. The hand on my head slid away and I heard something snap twice and the soft swish of fabric. He turned, took a few steps, before lowering himself to the ground. My body crumpled against his, finding a spot between his crossed legs. Warm cloth draped over my shoulders and I moved my head just enough to see it was his cape. He tugged it close around me, creating a cocoon of his body heat. 

“You’re shivering.” I was and I hadn’t even noticed. He let me cry on him, tears sliding down his suit, until I was just hiccuping. The shaking in my body eased before it disappeared entirely. He gave me a light squeeze, one arm braced around my back, while his other traced down my leg. “Does any of this hurt?” 

“No,” I sniffled, “just my head.” Superman’s chest rumbled under me as he hummed. His fingers coasted along my neck before he gently lifted my head. The outline of his face was fuzzy, a result of either the concussion or the lingering tears. But even now, all I could see was how perfectly blue his eyes were. Then he blew on my face. His breath was like ice but it felt wonderful on my throbbing nose and bruised forehead. The absurdity of Superman blowing on my face, soothing effects aside, made me burst into laughter. “What’s going on right now?” He stopped.

“Ice breath,” he said, pointing unnecessarily at his mouth. A lopsided grin tugged up the corner of his mouth as I continued laughing. I felt the last bit of my terror slide away. Laughter really was the best medicine I guess. It does help when Superman, all powerful alien and international heartthrob, was the one making me giggle like a school girl. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.” I returned a weak smile of my own. Our faces were close, maybe too close. I could smell the spearmint of his toothpaste, each breath puffing across my own mouth. His eyes darted down to my lips and I thought I felt him shift closer. 

The door to the roof banged open, the metal clanging loudly against the cement wall, a small group of people rushing toward us. Superman stood, lightning quick, and placed me on my feet, my back to the group. “Oh my god Superman!!” A man yelled. “Can I get a picture?” 

I stood awkwardly as Superman talked to everyone, trying to be inconspicuous, despite the bright red cape draped across my shoulders. I saw several camera flashes and it made me want to shrink into myself more. Superman was kind, charming, and charismatic as always while answering the group's prying questions. When they asked about me he simply said I was someone he helped. I couldn't explain why that phrase made my heart ache just a little bit. After a woman excitedly reminded him that he had saved her a few months ago and waited patiently with her for an ambulance to arrive, I realized why. 

I thought I was special. 

Superman did nice and considerate things for everyone he saved, everyone he even interacted with. For a moment, I had been reading too much into it, thinking that him sitting here with me was any different than his normal procedure. Clearly my rattled brain wanted to find a connection where there wasn’t any. Embarrassment prickled at me when I realized I nearly kissed him. It would have been mortifying to draw back and see confusion, or worse, disgust, on his perfect face.

I drew his cape tighter around me as he gently shooed the group away. When the door clicked shut, he sighed. “Sorry about that,” he said. I turned to watch him as he scooped my purse up. Then he hit me with that megawatt smile, dimples on full display, and I felt myself melt a bit. Maybe I wasn't special. But if this was normal treatment, it was okay too. “Let's get you to a hospital, okay? Get this head looked at.” 

“Okay.” He approached me, arms held out, my purse rendered tiny in the crook of his arm. 

“I'll need to fly you there.” My face dropped, memories of that horrible plummet still too fresh. “Hey, hey, I let won't you fall like that,” he assured. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat of his chest. I just wanted to sink back against him. But instead I slid the cape off my shoulders and swung it around his instead. It took a little fiddling before I was able to reattach it to him. 

“Makes you more aerodynamic, right?” He grinned again and brushed my frizzy hair out of my face. The tension rose again as our eyes held steady with each other. His hand lingered on my cheek, the touch a ghost against my skin. This time I broke this thing growing between us. “I got snot on your neck.” He laughed, deep and rumbling, and it warmed my chest, stomach swooping at the sound. 

“I don't care. At least you didn't throw up on me.” I shrugged. 

“I might when we start flying…I'm not the biggest fan of heights.” He nodded sympathetically, like he, of all people, could understand being afraid of tall things. I shook my body, trying to knock free the anxiety, before holding my arms out. “Okay, let's go.” He lifted me bridal style like I weighed nothing. To him, I probably did. My arms latched around his neck. He walked to the edge, only the knee high wall separating us from the open air. “I’m going to close my eyes now,” I whispered into his ear as I buried my face into his neck again, letting the smell and heat of him soothe me. 

“Should only take a few minutes.” Then he stepped off the building. A yelp of fear caught in my throat and I curled around him even tighter. But after a minute of smooth gliding, I slowly relaxed into him. His grip never loosened around me. The wind was frigid against the skin on my face and I nuzzled deeper against him. 

It wasn't too bad after all.

Sooner than I wanted, Superman descended, landing lightly on the ground. “Here we are,” he said as he lowered my legs and held me steady. I blinked at the bright lights spilling through the hospital doors. I could already see one nurse coming closer through the glass doors. “This is yours.” My purse landed on my shoulder again. I spun toward him and grasped his hand with both of mine. The sudden movement made my vision flicker but I ignored it. 

“Thank you…for everything.” He grinned. 

“It's what I do.” He paused, brushing his thumb along my palm. “Give Cabbage some pets for me.” 

Then, he was gone.

[dcandmarvelimagines]

I was not expecting this to pick up traction so fast!! Thank you so much everyone!!!!

[dcandmarvelimagines]

you're just too good to be true.

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

Pairing: Superman (Clark Kent) x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: 1st person POV, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, non hero reader (she is Lex's secretary yikes), Superman saves her cat, a mild car accident which then leads to minor injuires (a bloody nose and bruised head), Superman is just the sweetest man in the world, comforting cuddles after a traumatic event and lots of crying, eventual smut (trust me, the next chapter is a bit unhinged)

A/N: I think maybe I'm cursed (?) to fall in love with a superhero movie and write something about it every August. This worked out to be such a strange coincidence. But anyways. The Superman movie was spectacular!! I've seen it twice already and I can't stop thinking about it (or David). So here's this! For context, this takes place earlier in Superman's heroic career. Lex isn't a frothing at the mouth hater (yet). My ao3 link if you prefer

“Cabbage!” I hissed, trying to inject every ounce of motherly disappointment into that single word. It didn't work. Cabbage blinked down at me, her green eyes practically glowing under the streetlight, and let out a pathetic meow. 

There was a tree every five feet along my street in Metropolis. When I moved into my new apartment, I thought the tree being directly across my fourth floor window was wonderful, not only obscuring my window from watchers across the road, but also a nice patch of green in this steel gray city. Maybe there would be a few birds in its branches to entertain my fluffy gray cat. What I wasn't expecting was Cabbage to leap through the screen in fear when our neighbor’s smoke alarm went off. I stared at the frayed hole in the mesh for a moment before I mumbled oh shit and rushed out my door. She had made the jump to the tree and nestled into the deepest part, crying like it was both my fault and my problem that she was stuck there. “It's your fault you're up there!”

I bit my lip, sizing up the tree. It looked sturdy, but it swayed in a particularly strong breeze and Cabbage wailed in fear. “Oh shush!” A shiver rippled over me, leaving a trail of goosebumps across my bare arms and legs. In my mad dash out of my apartment, I had forgotten a sweatshirt, leaving me only in a tank top and shorts. Neither of which I would want to be wearing at night in a large city. The things I do for my cat. Another meow had me stepping over the small metal fence that guarded the grass and other plants. “I've never climbed a tree before,” I huffed as I hooked one leg around the trunk. Should I just scoot up it? Or one leg and one arm at a time? The bark was rough on my bare thighs. “If I get a splinter because of you,” I grumbled.

“Do you want some help?” I choked on my scream and nearly fell on my ass as I stumbled away from the tree. Whirling around, I found…

“Um, who are you supposed to be?” The man looked down at himself, self consciously tugging at his blue…suit? He was wearing a red cape, with matching boots, and what could only be described as underwear on the outside of his…outfit. There was a large yellow and red symbol on his chest but in the relative darkness, I couldn't see it clearly. 

“Well, I'm a hero,” he puffed out his chest, “Superman.” 

I couldn't stop my giggle and he joined me in the tiny patch of grass in front of the tree, scrubbing at the back of his neck in apparent shyness. Now that the shock of being snuck up on had waned, I noticed how handsome he was. He had a square jaw, laugh lines around his lips. Oh no, I thought, taking his face in more closely, those are very cute dimples. 

“So, you're like Batman here in Metropolis?” Superman, what a silly name, blinked at me. He had pretty eyes, even in the dull street light, blue like a cloudless sky. 

“I suppose you could say that,” he said, chuckling as he spoke. “I heard he's not the nicest.” I shrugged. “I haven't met him yet, have you?”

“Well, Gotham's not the nicest place to be. Everyone gets a bit of an edge after a while.” I paused, shifting uncomfortably. “He saved me from being,” I cleared my throat. My palms were slick with sweat, heart rate increasing, at the memory of that man in the alley. Superman's head tilts just a fraction, like he's listening to something very intently. 

Fear had been so thick inside me that I had barely any time to scream before being dragged down into the darkness. Batman had swooped in before anything too bad had happened. But I was still a trembling, crying mess, and I collapsed into his chest. He let me sob on him for almost five minutes before he gently removed me and scanned me over for injuries. When he saw that the worst of it was a cut on my cheek from the rough brick walls, he simply said, “get home safe,” and disappeared again. 

I scratched at the scar that lingered on my cheek. Superman watched the movement.  “He's scary, but he's still a hero. Perfect for Gotham.” He nodded, mouth opening to speak, when Cabbage let out a shrill yowl from high above us. I jumped, guilt churning in my stomach for forgetting my precious cat, too dazzled by the hunk of man next to me. He probably had this effect on everyone. He had a charm, an openness, that was disarming. It was undoubtedly an asset when it came to high stress situations. People were unpredictable when panicked. 

Superman looked up into the clustered branches, “what’s their name?” Cabbage let out a wail, like he would be able to understand it and just save her already. He smiled up at her, trying to soothe her with just his mere presence. It worked wonders on both of us. Cabbage meowed softly, like she does when I offer her treats, all gentle and sweet. Meanwhile, I was dazed by him, and the crinkled skin at the corner of his eyes. He smiled big and often. 

“Cabbage,” I replied absently, too distracted by those cursed dimples. He laughed and my stomach swooped at the sound. It was infectious, joy made audible, the feel of sun on your skin after a long dark day. His eyes closed as his cheeks rose, adam’s apple bobbing. I wanted to laugh with him but I couldn’t stand the idea of not hearing his laugh anymore. So I just smiled. “The rest of her litter mates were named after green vegetables. I wanted to name her Barbara, but she already knew herself as Cabbage.” He hummed and then started floating off the ground. “Woah,” I whispered. Batman had moved around via hissing grappling hooks but Superman could just fly? Clearly I needed to do my research. 

“Hey Cabbage,” Superman cooed. He glanced down at me, almost thirty feet below him, his eyes twinkling like he had said an inside joke and was waiting for me to catch up. He held out one of his big hands so Cabbage could sniff it. She didn’t move at first, just stared blankly down at me, betrayed by me not helping here instead. But after a little more coaxing from the floating hero, she inched her way down the branch, and sniffed cautiously at his hand. “There you go,” he murmured, “I’m not so bad, huh?” Cabbage, always such a shy thing, leapt onto his chest with reckless abandon. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured her plummeting to the ground for a split second. Then I saw her little paws curl in, nails sinking deep into his chest. The only sign of pain from him was a tiny hiss. But he clutched her close, petting her grey fur gently, as he descended. 

“Thank you,” I said, stepping closer to pet her myself. I could feel her little body trembling as she purred. Our hands brushed against each other and I felt something electric shoot down my skin. My eyes flicked up to his and found him already gazing at me. I swallowed, cheeks heating at the gentle expression on his handsome face. “She likes you,” I mumbled. He arched a brow, lips tugging into a coy smirk. 

“Talking in third person?” 

“Wha-” I stuttered before I fully caught up with his words. I could feel my face growing hotter, undoubtedly matching his rippling cape, and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear self consciously. “I was talking about the cat.” Cabbage’s purrs grew as she began to knead into his chest, her head nudging under his chin. I knew her claws were sharp, the rush of the move didn’t give me much time to clip them, but he showed no sign of pain. 

“Ahh, my mistake,” he teased. A few beats of silence passed us by, our eyes locked, a drop of drool from Cabbage rolling down his suit. I couldn’t seem to pull myself away from him, like he was the sun and I was a planet orbiting him. But, unlike the sun, he wasn’t radiating heat, and I shivered as a cool wind coasted over my bare skin. Concern flashed across his face. “Let’s get you ladies inside, yeah?” I nodded, rubbing at my chilled skin, as I stepped over the tiny fence guarding the tree. Something warm and heavy fell over my shoulders with a soft thuwmp. I reached up, fingers finding a stretchy red fabric. “Figured that would help with the cold,” he explained. 

“Thank you,” I mumbled. We were close enough that our arms brushed against each other. Now, I could feel the heat coming from his bulky body, rolling off him in waves. The scent of him filled my nose as well, like clean laundry, the smallest hint of sweat from his previous heroic outings. The mad idea of cuddling into his side crossed my mind before I shook it away. I cleared my throat and walked up the steps to my building. 

It was locked. 

“Fuck,” I hissed. I twisted the knob ten more times, just to be safe, before turning to Superman sheepishly. “I don't have my keys. I know you probably have the world to go save, so I can take her back,” I held out my hands for Cabbage. “I'll just buzz someone until they let me in.” 

“Nonsense,” he said, shifting Cabbage so she was cradled in his arm, her paws now making biscuits on his chin. “I'll just fly you up to your apartment. I'm assuming you left your window open?” I nodded. “Well come here then,” he opened his arm, beckoning me closer. 

“O-okay.” I took tentative steps closer before my arms locked around his neck. I was looking everywhere but him, far too aware of how close his face was to mine, his breath fanning over my flushed skin. “Fourth floor,” I whispered, unable to raise my voice any louder. His arm, or a steel bar cosplaying as an arm, wrapped around my waist, my body gently crushed against his. 

“Hold tight,” he murmured. Then the ground dropped away from my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, stomach swooping at the disconcerting movement. It only took him a few seconds to find my apartment. “I’m assuming it's this one with the Cabbage shaped hole in the screen?” I made a little squeak of confirmation. There was a soft thud behind me as Cabbage landed safely inside. “Your turn.” I opened one squinting eye to look at him. 

My brain, working on its own awful impulses, forced me to look down. Forty feet wasn't really that high. But seeing nothing supporting me, my legs just dangling free like this, made my stomach churning horribly. I clung to him, my arms a vice around his neck, legs snapping tight around his waist. “Shh,” I must have made some panicked noise without thinking, “look back at me.” Superman's finger brushed a lock of hair out of my face and I latched onto that feeling, the scrape of a callous across my cheek, like a life line. I leaned into his hand, like it was a caress from a lover, and not a man I met five minutes ago. “I won't drop you, I promise.” I let out a shaky breath but nodded. “I need you to let go of me,” he chuckled, the laughter rumbling in his chest. My legs were slow to release him, but they eventually fell limply, and I eased my death drip on his neck. 

“Sorry…” He flashed me one of those brain melting smiles, all boyish good looks and unrestrained charm. 

“You're not the first person to try and take my head off in fear.” I giggled, the noise fragile from anxiety. “I'm going to hold you by the waist, with both hands, so you can crawl in. Okay?” I nodded again. He shifted me like I weighed nothing, easily sliding me from his side to in front of him. There was one horrifying moment where only one hand was supporting me. My brain conjured up thoughts of how the concrete would feel against my skin as I fell towards it. Then another big hand gripped my waist and all that panic evaporated. 

I had to rip a larger hole through my screen so I could wiggle inside, it had to get replaced anyways, collapsing to the ground in an ungraceful heap. “You okay?” I shot him a thumbs up before I twisted over to look at him. His elbows were resting on my window sill, watching me intently, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Um, thank you again.” Cabbage headbutted my elbow, demanding pets, “from both of us.” He waved his hand dismissively. 

“No need to thank me.” 

I clambered to my feet, “can I at least give you something?” I crossed to my tiny kitchen, dodging towering stacks of my moving boxes, and pulled open a cabinet door. “Do you like…” my voice trailed off when I noticed my window was empty. There was a spike of hurt in my chest but I fought it back. I had no reason to be upset. It was a miracle he stayed as long as he did. But that didn’t stop my shoulders from slumping as I walked to my window to slide the glass shut. A little piece of white paper caught my eye, folded neatly into a square on the lip of my window. After I closed it, locking it just to be safe, I unfolded the paper. 

I’m sorry to run, there is a situation in Midtown. 

If Cabbage ever gets out again, just call my name and I’ll show up.

-SM

*****

The bus was so bumpy that I could barely make out the Daily Planet article on my phone. I had to brace it with my other hand just to read the tiny text. 

Superman saves Metropolis First Bank! Subdues armed robbers!

Maybe it was crazy, checking out his alibi like he was some flaky boyfriend, but I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t even look like a person capable of lying. Or, an alien capable of lying, as I learned in my deep dive research about him. I had spent far too much time last night reading through articles about him and his year long heroic career. This Clark Kent guy seemed to be a good friend, as almost all the articles were written by him, this most recent one included. 

Overhead, the automated voice announced that we had reached the corner of Hawthorne and First. I locked my phone and slid it into my work bag before hustling off the cramped bus. 

The Luthorcorp building was even more intimidating in person. It towered over all the other neighboring skyscrapers, the glass lit with the early morning sun. It was in the shape of a H, with the line in the middle looking like a skywalk of some kind, Luthorcorp in big bold letters across it. I gave myself a fortifying shake. I already had the job, the hardest part was, hopefully, over. My shoulders rolled back, my body straight and professional, and walked up the steps. 

The woman at the front desk smiled sweetly at me as I came inside. When I told her it was my first day, she clapped her hands in excitement, but that joy flicked a little when I told her just what I was doing. She snapped a picture for my ID and took my finger prints for any scanners. She was just in the middle of explaining the seemingly complicated elevator system when a nearby one dinged open and a massive man stepped out. He scanned the lobby, then his eyes landed on me, and he shot across the marble floor. Each of his footsteps thundered against the ground and the lobby quieted. “You’re late,” he hissed, “you shouldn’t make him wait.” The receptionist, Claire, tried to explain that she was the one who had kept me but the man ignored her. “Well?” 

“My apologies for being late,” but he cut me off. 

“Don’t say sorry to me. Just move it.” I gave Claire a little wave before following the man back into the elevator. I missed the worried look on her face as the door slid shut. The elevator zipped up, soft jazz filtering through the speaker in the corner. The backside of the car was all glass, but the fast smear of lights and steel made my already tense stomach flip, so I looked back at the door. “When you are coming in for work, scan your badge here,” he pointed a thick finger to a green square where a line of red was blinking. “No one will be able to stop you and it will grant you access to the top floors.” 

“Understood, Mister…” I trailed off, leaving him an opportunity to finally give me his name. But he just ignored me, giant shoulders shifting in his too tight suit jacket. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. The car came to a smooth stop at the hundredth floor, the doors whirring open. There was a large desk facing the elevators, it was warm wood and dark stone, just like the rest of the building. A monitor dominated most of the area and a desk calendar covered the rest. Pens, sticky notes, and paper clips were neatly placed along the edge. The rest of the room was sparse, with only a few expensive, but uncomfortable looking green chairs. It felt sterile, like a doctor’s office. 

“Put your bag down at the desk then come and meet Mister Luthor.” I do as instructed and take a few seconds to smooth my hair back in its low bun and straighten my blazer and pencil skirt. I followed him to a door set in the left hand corner of the bare room. 

Lex Luthor, my new boss, sat behind a long wooden desk, a coffee mug half way to his lips. His gaze flicked to me and I gave him a polite smile. His expression was indifferent but I felt the appraisal as he gave me a once over. “My new assistant?” 

“Yes Mr. Luthor.” My heels clicked loudly against the floor as I stood in front of his desk, hand out stretched, as I reminded him my name again. He refused to shake my hand and instead kept staring at me. I, in turn, kept my bland smile in place. 

There was always a push and pull with powerful men like him. They wanted control and obedience but hated people who bent to their will instantly. I found that a handshake is a good indicator of their feelings. Some were too slack, some too firm, and some, as in Lex's case, thought shaking a subordinate's hand was below them. 

Begrudgingly, he shook my hand, gripping tight. He was watching me for a flinch, a wince, anything to show that he was hurting me. I gave him nothing. “It's wonderful to finally meet you. Now,” I prompted, easing down into one of the chairs across his desk, slinging one leg over the other. “What can I do for you today Mr. Luthor?”

*****

By the end of the week, I was exhausted. The stress of a new job, a new city, and a new demanding boss had leeched away all my energy. Most nights, all I could bring myself to do is order takeout and rot away on my couch. But I was ready to get my life back on track. I had gone grocery shopping and was going to make myself a dinner that didn't come from a Styrofoam box. 

My usual bus home was packed and I had found myself crammed all the way in the back. The woman next to me was chatting animatedly to someone on her phone in Spanish, only adding to the cacophony of noises. I was drifting off, body just too tired to stay up anymore, the cool glass pressed to my cheek.  

The bus came to an abrupt stop, tires screeching. My head shot forward and my nose cracked against the seat in front of me. Blackness blotted out my vision for a moment, a deep throb growing inside my head. Something hot and sticky dripped onto my lips and when I touched it, I found bright red blood. People were shouting, rushing for the exits, banging on the glass. There was another impact at my back as a car smashed into us. Disoriented, I rubbed at my aching head, glancing outside. People were running from something, something big judging by the shadow blotting out the bright lights around us. 

I stood as quickly as I could, fighting back the dizziness that washed over me. The bus doors finally slid open. Everyone surged forward, pushing others in their panic, and I was sent sideways three rows before the exit. My head ached and my nose pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I struggled up right, finding the bus empty. 

Just as I reached the exit, the bus was lifted from the ground. 

I screamed as I felt backwards, somersaulting over myself, until my body hit the emergency door hard enough that my breath was knocked from my chest. Through the front windshield I could see the four eyes of the giant who had lifted me. It narrowed its eyes at me like it was examining me. The headlights of the bus illuminated its face, almost lizard-like. It had to be an alien or some failed science experiment. 

Then a red blur smashed into its cheek. The creature stumbled sideways, roaring in annoyance, the door under me shaking. Fear  gripped me tight enough that I couldn't make a sound. Every inch of me was trembling, tears burning down my cheeks. Superman landed a few more blows before the creature had had enough. 

It threw the bus at Superman. 

I saw it happen as if in slow motion. The creature had thrown it sideways. It was moving fast and my body was flattened to the door. Superman braced himself, arms crossed over his face. The bus split in half around his body, the crunching metal and shattering glass horribly loud. A few pieces of glass embedded into my hands, one slicing my cheek. The two pieces of the ruined vehicle spun away from him, the momentum carrying them on. Then the emergency door gave out from under me. 

I was flung free, my body flipping in the air from the sheer force. I reached out, like I could somehow get back into the bus, or stop this free fall. Wind whipped by me as I started to drop. I had never been a big fan of rollercoasters. I hated the feeling of my body floating away as I crested that first hill, the way my stomach lifted inside me, then that hard bottoming out, body slammed back into my seat, gravity magnified ten fold. But I wished for that horrible feeling of being jammed into my seat right now. Even that pain would be preferable to this. 

“Superman!” I screamed. I squeezed my eyes shut against the blur of lights rushing past me. I'm going to die was a chant inside my head. It was only going to take seconds for me to land, to be nothing but gooey chunks on the sidewalk. I curled in on myself like it would somehow make this hurt less. 

Something solid curved along my body and held me tight. A hand cradled the back of my head as we moved at speeds fast enough that I felt my skin strain against the pressure. 

I was back on my feet, eyes still clamped shut, head spinning. “Hey,” said someone softly, “are you okay?” Hands, strong and gentle, squeezed my upper arms. I eased my eyes open and found Superman towering over me. He gave me a strained smile as his own gaze narrowed. “Looks like your nose is okay, not broken, just bruised.” He traced it with a finger and I winced. “Are you okay?” He prompted again. 

“Sure,” I rasped, throat burning after my screams. Superman bit his lip like he was thinking deeply about something. Then the towering creature behind us roared. “Go,” I nudged his chest but he didn't release my arms. “Don't worry about me.” He lingered for a moment longer, but then nodded slowly, like he was coming back to himself. 

“I'll be back to help you, I promise! Just stay here!” He called over his shoulder as he leapt up. There was a loud boom as he flew away, just a flash of red in the dark sky. I blinked slowly, mind struggling to keep up with his movements as he fought against the massive creature. I glanced around, only just now understanding that I was on top of a building, and several blocks away from where I was originally. My brain felt like mush. A combination of that lingering terror, aching pain from my nose and head, and the fog of the concussion I undoubtedly had. All of it left me locked in position. I was unable to move or cry or even throw up like I felt I needed too. 

Five, or maybe fifty, minutes later Superman reappeared. His boots were whisper quiet on the cracked concrete of the roof. I could sense him off to my side, but I couldn’t force my eyes to move. They felt like they were three sizes too big for my head, pressure building behind them. His chest, so wide and sturdy, filled my vision. I wanted to trace the S symbol there but my body refused. “Here,” he hummed. He slung something heavy over my shoulder. I looked down, moving my head as slowly as I could. It was my purse. “I hope that’s everything,” he said sheepishly, “I might have missed something. I can replace whatever is missing.” 

The dam inside me broke. A sob wrenched free in my chest and tears flowed down my cheeks as I threw myself against his chest. My purse fell from my shoulder and to the floor with a thump. I buried my face into his neck, sticky with sweat and grime, and clung tight to him. There was a beat where he stiffened, like he was shocked, before he wrapped his arms around my body. One was firm across my hips, clutching me close as he stood to his full height, my feet dangling, while his other nestled into my hair. The hold on my head was tender but firm, like he was making sure I stayed as close to him as I could. His cheek rested against my forehead and that little touch only made me cry harder. “It’s okay,” he murmured, “I got you.”    

“I’ve never been so scared,” I choked out, the words broken by my continued sobs. “I thought I was going to,” I couldn’t continue. I don’t think he needed me to. He understood. He began to rub slow, soothing circles on my back. The hand on my head slid away and I heard something snap twice and the soft swish of fabric. He turned, took a few steps, before lowering himself to the ground. My body crumpled against his, finding a spot between his crossed legs. Warm cloth draped over my shoulders and I moved my head just enough to see it was his cape. He tugged it close around me, creating a cocoon of his body heat. 

“You’re shivering.” I was and I hadn’t even noticed. He let me cry on him, tears sliding down his suit, until I was just hiccuping. The shaking in my body eased before it disappeared entirely. He gave me a light squeeze, one arm braced around my back, while his other traced down my leg. “Does any of this hurt?” 

“No,” I sniffled, “just my head.” Superman’s chest rumbled under me as he hummed. His fingers coasted along my neck before he gently lifted my head. The outline of his face was fuzzy, a result of either the concussion or the lingering tears. But even now, all I could see was how perfectly blue his eyes were. Then he blew on my face. His breath was like ice but it felt wonderful on my throbbing nose and bruised forehead. The absurdity of Superman blowing on my face, soothing effects aside, made me burst into laughter. “What’s going on right now?” He stopped.

“Ice breath,” he said, pointing unnecessarily at his mouth. A lopsided grin tugged up the corner of his mouth as I continued laughing. I felt the last bit of my terror slide away. Laughter really was the best medicine I guess. It does help when Superman, all powerful alien and international heartthrob, was the one making me giggle like a school girl. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.” I returned a weak smile of my own. Our faces were close, maybe too close. I could smell the spearmint of his toothpaste, each breath puffing across my own mouth. His eyes darted down to my lips and I thought I felt him shift closer. 

The door to the roof banged open, the metal clanging loudly against the cement wall, a small group of people rushing toward us. Superman stood, lightning quick, and placed me on my feet, my back to the group. “Oh my god Superman!!” A man yelled. “Can I get a picture?” 

I stood awkwardly as Superman talked to everyone, trying to be inconspicuous, despite the bright red cape draped across my shoulders. I saw several camera flashes and it made me want to shrink into myself more. Superman was kind, charming, and charismatic as always while answering the group's prying questions. When they asked about me he simply said I was someone he helped. I couldn't explain why that phrase made my heart ache just a little bit. After a woman excitedly reminded him that he had saved her a few months ago and waited patiently with her for an ambulance to arrive, I realized why. 

I thought I was special. 

Superman did nice and considerate things for everyone he saved, everyone he even interacted with. For a moment, I had been reading too much into it, thinking that him sitting here with me was any different than his normal procedure. Clearly my rattled brain wanted to find a connection where there wasn’t any. Embarrassment prickled at me when I realized I nearly kissed him. It would have been mortifying to draw back and see confusion, or worse, disgust, on his perfect face.

I drew his cape tighter around me as he gently shooed the group away. When the door clicked shut, he sighed. “Sorry about that,” he said. I turned to watch him as he scooped my purse up. Then he hit me with that megawatt smile, dimples on full display, and I felt myself melt a bit. Maybe I wasn't special. But if this was normal treatment, it was okay too. “Let's get you to a hospital, okay? Get this head looked at.” 

“Okay.” He approached me, arms held out, my purse rendered tiny in the crook of his arm. 

“I'll need to fly you there.” My face dropped, memories of that horrible plummet still too fresh. “Hey, hey, I let won't you fall like that,” he assured. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat of his chest. I just wanted to sink back against him. But instead I slid the cape off my shoulders and swung it around his instead. It took a little fiddling before I was able to reattach it to him. 

“Makes you more aerodynamic, right?” He grinned again and brushed my frizzy hair out of my face. The tension rose again as our eyes held steady with each other. His hand lingered on my cheek, the touch a ghost against my skin. This time I broke this thing growing between us. “I got snot on your neck.” He laughed, deep and rumbling, and it warmed my chest, stomach swooping at the sound. 

“I don't care. At least you didn't throw up on me.” I shrugged. 

“I might when we start flying…I'm not the biggest fan of heights.” He nodded sympathetically, like he, of all people, could understand being afraid of tall things. I shook my body, trying to knock free the anxiety, before holding my arms out. “Okay, let's go.” He lifted me bridal style like I weighed nothing. To him, I probably did. My arms latched around his neck. He walked to the edge, only the knee high wall separating us from the open air. “I’m going to close my eyes now,” I whispered into his ear as I buried my face into his neck again, letting the smell and heat of him soothe me. 

“Should only take a few minutes.” Then he stepped off the building. A yelp of fear caught in my throat and I curled around him even tighter. But after a minute of smooth gliding, I slowly relaxed into him. His grip never loosened around me. The wind was frigid against the skin on my face and I nuzzled deeper against him. 

It wasn't too bad after all.

Sooner than I wanted, Superman descended, landing lightly on the ground. “Here we are,” he said as he lowered my legs and held me steady. I blinked at the bright lights spilling through the hospital doors. I could already see one nurse coming closer through the glass doors. “This is yours.” My purse landed on my shoulder again. I spun toward him and grasped his hand with both of mine. The sudden movement made my vision flicker but I ignored it. 

“Thank you…for everything.” He grinned. 

“It's what I do.” He paused, brushing his thumb along my palm. “Give Cabbage some pets for me.” 

Then, he was gone.