content: established relationship, fingering (reader receiving), Clark’s big hands being the main event, praise kink, soft dominance, domestic setting, gentle filth
It starts simple. A quiet day. The kind of day where the sun hits the kitchen just right and Clark wears one of those soft button-downs that makes you want to kiss the fabric right off his chest.
You're not even trying to be seductive, just sitting on the counter in a loose tee and barely-there shorts, legs dangling, eating cherries out of a bowl while he does the dishes.
But he keeps looking. Like you're gravity. Like his body is physically incapable of not watching you pop a cherry between your lips.
“Something wrong?” you ask with a smile, teasing.
He shakes his head, eyes tracing the length of your thighs. “Not wrong. Just…” His voice lowers. “You’re sittin’ there all pretty, eatin’ fruit like that, and you expect me to focus?”
Your breath stutters. “Clark—”
“You know what your problem is?” he steps between your legs, resting his hands on your bare thighs. Big hands. Warm hands. Calloused from hero work, but soft on you. Always.
“You start things you don’t plan on finishing.”
You smirk. “Who says I’m not planning on it?”
He hums, eyes dark now. “Good. Because I’ve been thinkin’ about you since this morning.”
Before you can even answer, he kisses you. Deep, slow. Like he’s tasting the fruit off your tongue. You don’t know how it happens, but you’re suddenly leaning back on your palms, legs still around him, and one of his hands is sliding up, up—beneath the hem of your shorts.
“Already warm,” he mutters with a smile against your neck. “All this for me, sweetheart?”
You nod, whimpering. “Always for you.”
The first press of his fingers is gentle, purposeful. His free hand cradles your waist while the other sinks between your folds with a groan.
“God, you’re soaked,” he says like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt. “Been sittin’ here dripping for me like a good girl?”
His fingers work slow circles at first, just enough to drive you mad. His lips stay on your skin—your jaw, your collarbone, the soft underside of your ear.
Then one thick finger pushes in. Then another. Stretching you open while he watches your face melt.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent. “You take me so well, baby.”
Your legs start shaking around him, hands gripping his shoulders like lifelines. He adds a third finger, dragging them in a steady rhythm, the pads of them grazing just right, and you’re panting against his mouth.
You moan his name, soft and needy. Clark’s eyes flutter shut like a prayer.
“Clark,” you whisper, breath hitching. “Please—don’t stop. I’m—”
He kisses you like he needs you. Like you’re the only thing in this world he can’t save himself from.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he says against your lips. “Come for me.”
And you do.
Hard.
Head thrown back, thighs trembling, hips grinding against his hand until all you can do is gasp and cling to him like he’s the only real thing left in the universe.
When you open your eyes, he’s looking at you like he’s in awe.
“God, I love you,” he says. “Let me clean you up, sweetheart. Then I’m takin’ you back to bed and not leavin’ ‘til the sun goes down.”
clark kent who never lets you wake up to anything but a freshly made breakfast— and he can cook. he knows just about every kent family recipe ma could teach him and he never lets you lift a finger in the kitchen. he insists that the view of you, in one if his old smallville t-shirts, bleary-eyed and giggly in the soft lull of the morning is worth the labor of a thousand breakfasts.
clark kent who is the perfect gentleman. before you even realize you’re cold he has his gray cotton suit jacket around your shoulders and an arm tight around your waist. you two go grocery shopping? he won’t even let you touch a bag, carrying them like it’s a badge of honor after you’ve long since given up on trying to help him. if there’s a puddle on the sidewalk? he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, twirling you over it so your shoes don’t get wet and pressing a kiss atop your head once he sets you down.
clark kent who can’t keep himself off of you, like, ever. his hands, which are huge compared to yours, are always holding you, your hands, your waist, your thighs, etc. his fingers card through your hair constantly, and his nose presses into the crook of your neck like it belongs there. he wraps himself around you in giant bear hugs, refusing to let go for hours on end (not that you mind). it’s almost a compulsion, how close he has to be to you at all times to ground himself, to remind himself that you, the person he loves most in this world and any other, are real and somehow love him as much as he loves you.
clark kent who is really good with kids, in the kind of way that makes your heart just melt to see. he takes conversations with children seriously, nodding along as they babble on like it’s the most important thing in the world, helping them without a second thought. when he meets your niece, it only takes about five minutes for him to swing her on his shoulders and earn the title of “uncle clark!” the whole thing makes you swoon.
clark kent who is a giant dork and makes sure you know it. he practically pins you down against him and forces you to watch all six of the star wars movies in an order that seems completely random to you when you make the mistake of telling him that you’ve never seen them. he spoons you on the couch, arms wrapped around you, softly whispering his favorite lines along with the movie, his breath warm against your ear.
clark kent who sees you as a literal goddess. he thinks you’re ethereal, full of warmth and made of light. he loves you like it’s worship, tending to you like it’s his divine purpose— because it is. he’s so gentle with you, large hands capable of great destruction ghosting over your body like you’re something fragile. he keeps you safe, happy, and warm with everything he has. you’re his girl, by some grace of god, and he’d rather die than let you feel anything but absolutely beloved.
clark kent who kisses you like he forgets you have to breathe— because he does. after crashing into you, he gets so lost in the waves that it takes you nearly passing out for him to pull back, giving you a million apologies while you catch your breath, but you pull him back into it before he can feel any real guilt.
clark kent who is undeniably the love of your life, in a way that is permanent and unbelievable. you have him whipped, barely able to think about anything but you and the way you glow like starlight in his eyes. perfection cannot begin to describe what you are to him, they way you make him weak in his knees and dizzy when he smells your perfume on his skin. he doesn’t need to travel to distant planets with red suns to get wasted when the sound of your voice makes him drunker than any beverage could hope to. yes, you, the woman of his dreams, are the owner of clark’s heart and if shattering it would make you smile he’d glue it back together so you could do it all over again.
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he is all i can think about i think ate ive read over 100 fics about my sweet beautiful princess he is so beautiful to me. this obsession is a sickness but hot damn
A/N: superman (2025) brainrot has consumed me so here is this. i love that silly nerd
summary: in which the kitchen counter is used for eating
cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fem!reader, prn no plot, munch!clark, fingering, praise kink, clark is down bad
wc: 1.3k *smacks the back* this baby only has smut
Clark breathes his entire body into you as his hands roam the spanse of your back, holding you steady against him while his lips take solace in every crevice of your face. He’s placed you on the kitchen counter—his favorite place to keep you to compensate for your differed heights, but also because it keeps you in one place. You could move if you wanted to, he’d let you instantly. But he knows you won’t, not when he drinks you in like a fine wine and handles you with the care of a glass necked bottle.
Your moans and breathless whines only spur him on to press against your body, rolling his hips in a dire effort to become one with yours. The length of him presses and goes in a single brush, with your own hips trailing desperately after to meet again.
“Clark,” you breathe, “need more.”
“Yeah? What more?” he mumbles, lips marking a path down your neck.”
“You know what.”
“Hm, gonna have to be more specific about that, honey.”
You whine, “Don’t be a little shit.”
He nips at your shoulder as you let out a yelp, “Such dirty language, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“No, I’d like to kiss you with this mouth. But I’d like your mouth to do other things. Amongst that.
“Very bold,” he teases, “didn’t know three months would make you this demanding.”
“Lotta things you don’t know about me, Kent.”
“Not yet, but I will.” he kisses you soundly on the lips, letting himself linger to you for as long as he can. Which arguably, is a long time, but for as long as he can really means for as long as you can. “Now be a good girl and tell me what you want.”
“Clark,”
“What? Communication is good, you can’t get all shy on me now. I have heat ray vision, I can’t read minds.”
You mumble something incoherent into his neck, you hope there’s some superpower of his that can pick up on it.
“What was that?”
Darn.
“I said, I want you to…” you trail off.
He sucks hard on a particular spot, “To…?”
You moan loudly, “Jesus, will you go down on me? Please?”
A shit eating grin splits his stupid face, you can feel every line against your skin. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it darling?”
You don’t get a chance to speak your witty comeback when you feel his fingers trace over the center outline of your trousers, silencing any and all thoughts that aren’t Clark Kent. He applies more pressure as he trails a heavy finger up and down your core.
A languish moan leaves you, “Clark, please.”
“Shh, i got ya,” he coos, “just relax.”
He deftly undoes your buttons and effortlessly lifts you with one hand while he helps you tug both your trousers and panties down. His lips find yours again and your hands snake around his shoulders to pull him even closer to you. Your fingers tangle in his hair and knot in the strands, pulling upwards in that way that you know really riles him up for you. Evidenced by immediately after said action as he detaches from the kiss and abruptly drags you to the ledge of the kitchen counter, only anchored to it by your ass that Clark is so sad he can’t handfully grab.
Sloppy kisses trail down your neck and into your chest, making no efforts to stop anywhere but his intended destination. Clark’s large hands hold your hips down to the counter as he finally sinks to his knees before you, looking up between your parted legs with a face so wrecked you hope he puts himself out of misery soon for his sake. And yours.
His height even at his kneeled position puts him at the perfect angle at eye level with where he needs to be. Clark has always been grateful for his gifts, entirely more so for his heightened olfactory senses that allow him the divinity to indulge in the scent of you and how that much closer to the Gods he feels on his knees before you like a devoted follower.
And like a devoted follower, he will go wherever the divine tells him he is destined for. And right now, that is between your legs.
Clark leans in slowly, never breaking eye contact with you as he approaches your core. His tongue flattens against you in one swift and intentional movement, the warmth of it all flooding your senses and making your eyes roll back into your head.
“Fuck,” you whine.
His tongue licks a long stripe from bottom to top slowly, letting it circle around the bundle of nerves practically begging for his attention. He doesn’t speed up—only practiced, achingly teasing, strokes that have you seeing stars.
You tangle your fingers in his hair again, in hopes it’ll spur him on enough to move faster. But Clark is a patient man, a tempted one for sure by the way his hands grip down on the top of your ass where he’s holding you, but patient nonetheless.
He dips his tongue between your folds and travels down to your opening, prodding inside and then moving back up to your clit. Clark repeats that set of actions for too long of a time to count, long enough to send you into delirium, long enough to know that you would slide off the counter like jello at any moment if he were to let go, and long enough to have you teetering on the edge of bliss torturously.
You’re not sure when he decides to finally take mercy on you, but he speeds up his ministrations and graciously inserts a finger to your core. Two for good measure.
You tighten your grip on his head, “Clark, oh my god.”
He moans shamelessly into your core, like he’s enjoying this more for his own sake than yours—he is, in case there was any room for doubt. He drinks you in like a thirsted man who just discovered an oasis, his fingers rhythmically moving in and out of you. You clench down on his fingers hard when they hit a sensitive spot within you, his name rolling off your tongue in sacred mantras.
Clark releases from you momentarily, his fingers never stopping their pace. “Close, baby?”
And god, you wish you had some sort of photographic memory or way to immortalize this moment forever. Because the vision of Clark Kent on his knees for you—looking devastatingly wrecked at how even a second away from you is wounding him, covered in you—is one you truly wish you could keep for the rest of your life.
“Y—Yeah, I’m close.” you whimper.
He dives back into you with a mission, stopping at nothing to get you there. You writhe in his arms and he exerts little to no effort at holding you steady as he continues his attack (lovingly) on you. His fingers speed up ever so slightly, curling upwards to hit that spot in you that brings you right to the brink.
“Come for me, honey.” he mumbles into your cunt, burying his face in you as much as he possibly can.
Your peak hits you all at once, loud and crashing into every atom of your being and immediately ceasing into complete bliss and quiet as Clark gently works you through your high. His fingers finally slow their pace and he continues lapping at you until the overstimulation gets to you and you forcibly push his head away.
Clark sits on the floor while you’re still up on the counter, legs slightly bent while he rests an elbow on one knee. The other arm comes up and drags across his glistening mouth, effectively wiping away all traces of you onto his dress shirt sleeve.
You pant heavily, “Jesus,”
“What?”
“You’re really hot.” you blurt out, blame the post orgasmic endorphins for your lack of filter.
He smiles like an idiot, “Yeah? How hot?”
You hop off the counter and land straddling his lap, “I can show you?”
He rises to his feet and picks you up on the way up, “I think that’s a good idea.”
He seems like the type to be an absolute menace in bed, but gets embarrassed pretty easily whenever you bring it up. The night before, he had plowed you into the mattress so hard it left bruises on your hips. He whispered his filthiest thoughts into your ear, and didn’t stop until you had tears in your eyes from being so overstimulated. The next morning, you’re joking around in bed before you start your day. “Remember that one time when you had my legs all—“ and he’s cupping his hands over your mouth before you can finish the sentence. “Heyyy now,” he blushes, chest shaking with nervous laughter. His cheeks go a bit pink and it’s just the sweetest thing ever.
I think it’s a given that Clark’s extremely well-endowed. However, he’s never too cocky about it. He loves watching it glide in and out of you and how it disappears into your heat. He loves seeing how much of him you can really take when he’s got you on all fours and your ass up in the air. But what Clark really loves the most, something he wouldn’t admit for fear of coming across as arrogant, is hearing you say it. Panting into his neck while you’re bouncing on top of him, your words coming out more like moans than anything else. “‘s so deep. ‘s so good.” Your praise causes goosebumps to litter his skin, the way your breath felt on his neck. That’s all Clark needs to hear before he turns you on your back in one swift motion to bring you both home.
Clark is definitely a munch. It’s one of his favorite ways to be intimate; his mouth all over you, drinking up the sweetness that pools between your legs. He loves to feel you writhe under his steel grip while he nips and sucks at your sensitive core until your orgasm coats the bottom half of his face. You’re unable to move from his hold no matter how hard you try, so you’re forced to feel every flick of his tongue and the stubble on his jaw that rubs you in just the right way. Clark will often find himself rutting against the mattress, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He already finds you so beautiful, but spread out like this, all for him, somehow makes him love you even more.
Call the man vanilla, but he loves some good old fashioned missionary. He can take you any way you ask; on the kitchen counter, the roof at midnight, bent over the back of couch, folded up in the backseat of your car after a long night of interviews together. Nothing compares to seeing your face, he thinks. Clark’s a man of emotion and connection, so he really feels you this way. Seeing how your features contort in a mix of pleasure and overwhelming bliss while he’s fucking you, a slight wince when each pump of his cock starts to burn ever so slightly. His body has you hot all over; his sweat coating your chest, his breath against your collarbone, the curls at the top of his head sometimes brushing against yours. He likes to see what he’s doing to you and study how you react to his touches. That’s what intimacy is all about if you ask him.
Firmly stand by the fact that Clark is never asking you to just shower with him. You fall for it every time. “We’ll save water.” “Look at me. I just got my ass kicked. You think I’m gonna try anything? Just want ya to work out the knots in my shoulder.” “I’ll give you a really good scalp massage.” While Clark may be a professional scalp massager, his hands will undoubtedly wander south. Soapy circles follow from the nape of your neck, migrating down the front of your chest to the swells of your breasts where they’re quickly washed under the stream of the water. He’ll start to nip at your neck while he thumbs over your nipples, and you feel both the steam from the shower mixed with the heat radiating from his body against you. It doesn’t take but a second for him to turn you against the wall. If given the chance to renovate, his first request would be to add a bench in the shower. “In case I get tired after working all day,” he unconvincingly states.
When you let him finish inside of you, he loves leaning back on his haunches and just staring at your pussy. Clark’s fascinated by how you take all of him, by how his warm, silky seed spills from your heat and onto the surface beneath. Often times, he’ll reach a curious hand out, biting his lip unknowingly while he pushes the excess back inside of you. You flinch at the contact, still sensitive from how his throbbing cock ravaged you. It doesn’t stop a low, deep moan from escaping your lips when you feel his fingers enter you and push against your walls. If he’s still deep in it, he’ll occasionally run his tongue along your slit and you watch from above as Clark paints your overworked pussy with the combination of your wetness and his cum.
No, he doesn’t need the glasses to see, but he loves to indulge you whenever you ask him to keep them on. It brings out the softness of his personality, makes him look more on the outside what he really is on the inside is what you always tell him. There’s something about them that really gets you going; how to everyone else he’s just Clark, but you know his dirty little secret. If only they knew. He finds it adorable more than anything, how when you’re riding him, squeezing his length with each stroke of your pussy, and you reach a shaking hand out to push the frames back up the bridge of his nose where they had fallen down. He pulls you in closer by your hand for a deep kiss, using his strength to keep your movements from faltering while you’re fucking him.
Clark’s a humble man, as we all know, and he’s never one to show out or flaunt his Superman persona. However, he can’t resist when you start to show out and taunt him. “I can’t believe Superman forgot the one ingredient I asked him to bring home for dinner.” “Superman would never leave me alone all night waiting for him to come home.” “I wonder what Superman would do if he knew I was in bed wearing only my panties.” He knows you do it on purpose, and he lets you do it every. single. time. “I’ll show you what Superman would do,” he sneers. He’s got your panties around your ankles and discarded in the corner before you finish your cheeky giggle.
While Clark is no sexual deviant, it doesn’t mean his mind can’t wonder when work meetings are dragging on and on. You’re usually sat across from him, so you can sneak glances whenever someone chimes in with the dumbest idea either of you have ever heard. It’s all in good fun for you, but Clark shamefully can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to fuck you while you’re bent over the long wooden table. What your moans would sound like echoing off the vast conference room walls, how your skin would feel pressed between his chest and the stack of papers fanned across the tabletop. He once got so lost in the daydream that when called upon to answer, he completely embarrassed himself. A stuttering, stumbling mess he was as he tried to play it off. He catches the quizzical expression on your face, wondering what’s got him all in a tizzy. He had to excuse himself briefly after, and neither of you returned to the office after lunch.
Blushing, giggling, kicking my feeeeeeet!!! Thank you for the love on my first post, it was so much fun to write! I am always open for drabble banter or requests. Feel free to send me something 🤭 Likes and reblogs are always appreciated!
summary: he’s your punkrocker. your star. but sometimes you wonder if you’re just a groupie, if he sees you the same
pairing: clark kent x female reader
word count: 6.5k
warnings: um an asshole on a date who kinda gets touchy pressures reader? and words like bitch, nothing else really, just fluffy two idiots pining for each other and being goofy. and yearninggg
a/n: y'all have to go to tiktok and listen to Leonie Biney's "Groupie" cause that was the inspiration for this fic. literally such a beautiful song and I pray she releases it!
and pls! do not interpret this as Lois slander or hate cause no no no she is my fave and I do not want this fandom doing to her what the MCU fandom did to Sharon...okie luv ya
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“And I was like ‘Sarah, I’m sorry but you know I don’t wanna be tied down right now…” You tried to listen as Jimmy enthralled you with his latest dating escapades. Unfortunately, if he dared to give you a pop quiz after, you’d likely fail.
Your fingers tapped fervently against your keyboard, filling the search bar with gibberish. You slouched into your seat, pulling your feet up onto the faded leather and hugging your knees. It’s not that you were ignoring Jimmy, but it was hard to focus when the seat across from you was empty.
Clark had been gone for about an hour now, leaving the office in a rush. While everyone else figured he’d be off on an interview, looking at photos for his next article, or even taking a break, you knew better. As soon as you saw his brows furrow while gripping his phone, you knew he’d be leaving. With a tight-lipped smile and a squeeze of your hand from across the desks, he was gone.
It always scared you, watching him bolt out the door to throw himself into the closest danger he could find. You knew it was a bit ridiculous to worry, he was a 6’4” all-powerful alien being— and he wasn’t even yours, just your best friend.
He never intended to tell you about his little side job, not for a lack of trust or anything. But from a place of desire to protect you. Placing that knowledge in you would open you up to many opportunities that could put you in danger, just from knowing him. He wouldn’t risk your life like that. But shit happens.
He didn’t want to end up at your place, but he was being cornered and knew he wouldn’t get out to his fortress in time without being followed. He ducked away to an alley to shed his suit before escaping to your apartment, the only place he felt safe. When he showed up at your door black and blue, he knew he needed to come clean. You’d never tell a soul, taking the secret to the grave to keep him safe. Since then, you became the only person he had to truly confide in when it came to being Superman.
“Y/n, are you even listening?” Jimmy said, snapping you out of your daze. Your eyes shot up from your keyboard to see the young man staring at you with a confused look. “Where were you just now?”
“I don’t know, Jim,” you said, leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “But if I'm being honest, your ‘lady stories’ are getting to be a lot.” You let out a joking giggle as he spun away on his swivel chair, turning back to his work and leaving you be. As you began to return to your work, finally deciding to be responsible and finish editing images for your next article, the familiar sound of Lois’ boots echoed behind you.
“Hey there, shutterbug,” she said as she rounded the corner of your desk, pulling Clark’s empty chair up to sit. You rolled your eyes at the name, giving her a playful scoff.
“You know, if I had a ridiculous nickname that I called you all the time, you would lose it,” you said, continuing to adjust the vibrance on your shot.
“Yeah, but that’s why it’s so fun, y/n, you never get upset,” she said as she sipped her, what you’d like to call, coffee. You’d seen her pour half a sugar container into a cup of tea before and complain it was too bland. “Besides, it’s not ridiculous. It’s fitting.”
Your eyes keep glancing over to the door, wondering if Clark would zip through any moment and slip back into his hunched and sly persona. It was strange at first, adjusting to knowing both sides of Clark Kent. You thought that the awkward and introverted man you met on your first day at the Daily Planet was him, until Superman became just as much a part of your life. The real Clark was somewhere between the two, a man who was shy in large groups but lit up your face when alone. A man who pretended to be very reserved yet could be the wittiest person you’d ever met. What was the strangest to adjust to was the confidence, something that you assumed was the real him, hidden from the world of Clark Kent, but reserved for Superman and you.
“Y/n? Y/n?” Lois asked, leaning in as she tried to get your attention.
“Oh, sorry, what were you saying?” you asked, pulling your gaze from the door. She gave you a knowing smirk and rolled her eyes.
“Waiting on Wonderboy?”
“No, no, I was just…”
Lois rose from her spot, walking past you with a giggle. Before she could say something, the door opened, and in a frazzled hurry, Clark rushed through. His arms were full of papers, his bag half zipped with the latest issue hanging out, and an iced coffee crunched between his calloused hands. You swore your cloud of frantic energy and lost focus disappeared at the sight of him.
Once he reached your desk, he placed the coffee next to your mouse, followed by a quick peck to the top of your head. Blush burst across your cheeks, and you pulled your lip between your teeth. He said nothing following the act, just shuffling his paper and slipping back into his seat. You turned to Lois to see her smirk and trace a heart with her fingers before walking back to her desk.
You glanced down at the iced coffee, the condensation dripping from the plastic cup and leaving a soft ring on the wood. Every time Clark left work to handle a situation, you could expect your favorite coffee when he returned. You knew not to read into it; it was clearly a cover for why he was gone. But that didn’t stop a part of you from hoping it was more.
You leaned across the desks and tapped his arm. A flustered Clark snapped his attention to you, shocked out of his focus but still gave you a soft smile.
“Hey,” you said.
"Hey, darling," he said.
Your hand moved to the cuff of his shirt. Below, you could see a sliver of the blue suit peaking out. Without another word, you took his large hand in yours, gently sliding the fabric back up under the crisp linen of his mundane clothes.
His kind eyes relaxed as he watched your hands work. He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face as your hands brushed his. As much as he hated leaving, having every minute with you cut short, these were his favorite moments. The soft and intimate seconds where everything was calm and just the two of you.
You finished, leaning back in your chair with a wink. His lips mouthed a thank you before turning back to his computer. As you finished your work, you sipped at the watered-down coffee, occasionally glancing at your best friend and trying not to get further distracted.
What was Perry thinking when he put your desks together?
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The sun had been down for a while now, taking away the warm light that coated Metropolis as you sat on your fire escape. The nightlife of the city began to crawl out, with the drunk laughter of college kids and the bumping music of a club on your street that always seemed to play the worst hits.
Your hand nursed a glass of cheap Moscato, poured into a regular water cup with ice cubes. While you would’ve loved a long-stemmed drink, Clark accidentally shattered the last of your collection last week.
The glass you thought would last long enough for him to finish his nightly patrol of the city turned into two. It wasn’t every night, but more often than not, you’d find yourself waiting up for your caped friend. Your apartment was always the last stop of his nightly duties before returning to his place for the night. He’d slip into the dark alley or the roof before shedding his suit and coming to yours in whatever random clothes he happened to have stashed. You noticed he’d do this, placing a change of clothes around your building for when he reached you. After a while, he started to notice whatever he stashed was folded neatly in plastic bags with a crudely drawn pink heart on the outside.
Your fingers tapped against the glass as you waited. The thoughts of your chat with Lois kept creeping back in, grabbing hold of your insecurities and refusing to let go. Was it that obvious that you were waiting for him? That the thought of him so fully consumed you?
It wasn’t your intention to develop feelings for him; you never liked to mix work or friendships with anything more. But you couldn’t help it. Not when your desk neighbor started bringing you coffees, when he was picking up your copies from the machine and delivering them to you, pre-stapled, or when he would pull his seat around to you and lean on your desk just to watch and sit near you. It wasn’t easy to avoid feelings when the kindest and most genuine man you’d met would stake out in his costume on your apartment roof on the days you were sick, to make sure you would be protected. And it certainly wasn’t easy when you noticed how much you’d long for his return when he’d leave.
You always tried to hide it, to keep things as they’d always been. But the two of you were closer, closer than any normal friends would be. It wasn’t crazy to imagine things changing one day. Yet you never saw a sign.
Somewhere between getting up for a sweater for the cold breeze and finishing your second glass, you saw a blur of red and blue zipping towards your building. With a smirk, you raised your glass to him, only to be met with a wink and a nod towards your place. You slipped back through your window and headed to the kitchen, leaving your drink in the sink and digging through the fridge for one of Clark’s favorite beers. One of the perks of your loud and young leaning neighborhood was the local grocery store that had a create your own 6-pack section in the back. You always saved that sixth spot for Clark’s favorite.
You heard the soft knock at the door as you headed over to the window, resuming your place with water and beer in hand. A moment after getting cozy, you heard the thud of Clark’s bag behind you as he settled into the spot next to you on the small iron platform.
“Busy night?” you asked, passing him the beer. He took the cold drink in his large hand, popping the sealed cap off with a flick of his finger. You did your best to choke down the fluttering feelings starting to rise.
“Not really, I just ended the night by helping a an older woman up to her apartment with some grocery bags that were too darn heavy for her,” he said, taking a swig of the drink. “Took longer than I thought. She insisted I have tea and cookies.”
You couldn’t control the laughter that escaped your lips. You almost choked on your water.
“What?!” He asked, exasperated but amused.
“What kind did she make?” You tried to reel in the laughter, but it was too cute to imagine. Big Clark hunched at a kitchen table with a little elderly woman eating cookies and tea in his Superman suit.
“Snickerdoodle,” he deadpanned.
“Aw, poor Clark,” you knew he hated snickerdoodles, but being the man he was, there was no doubt in your mind that he ate at least three to make the woman happy. “Well, I’m glad your date was nice!”
He scoffed and set his drink down before quickly grabbing you and pulling you into him. His arms held him tight to you and kept you trapped. As you jokingly cried out to be released, his hand messed with your hair. Your laughs echoed off the iron of the fire escape and down onto the streets. By the time he let you go, you were trying to catch your breath.
“Speaking of dates,” you started. “I have one this Saturday…?”
Clark’s ears perked. You were no superhuman, but you swore you saw his jaw tighten briefly.
“Y-yeah?” he asked, turning to look at you.
You debated even telling him. It wasn’t even of your own volition. Just a setup your friends stuck you with; some guy they knew through friends of friends.
“It’s nothing, just a friend set up. But…yeah,” if you were being honest, the only reason you said yes was the slightest chance they could make your feelings for Clark lessen.
He was silent for a moment, just a moment, before that smile you loved so much came back. Yet it was different. You didn’t want to read into anything. But was it possibly forced?
“That’s…that’s great, y/n,” he said.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
Thursday came quicker than expected; it was always your favorite day of the week. Friday always felt sluggish and like anxious waiting for the clock to hit five. Wednesday reminded you that the week was only halfway done. But Thursday, Thursday was perfect. So close to the end, bringing a giddy energy and drive to finish the week strong.
You strolled into the office, a large Diet Coke and a pastry in hand. While you loved coffee, sometimes you needed a fizzy boost of energy that tasted like chemicals and caffeine. On the way in, you happened to pass the local donut shop near your neighborhood. It was nothing special to you, but it was Clark’s favorite. Did he even like donuts? No, of course not, he hated them. Yet you knew him well enough to know that he thought the best apple turnovers in the city were there. Leave it to Clark to go to a donut spot specifically for the only pastry that wasn’t a donut.
Walking past the shop, you decided to grab him one, something to make up for those snickerdoodles he suffered through a few nights ago. It wasn’t anything special, just something to make him smile. But once you reached your desk, yours began to slip.
Lois was sitting on the edge of his desk while he sat and fiddled with his pen. They were close, you couldn’t deny it. That wasn’t what got you, though — that was his laughing. Maybe it was your insecurities, maybe you were distorting it all in your head. You swore it sounded louder and more carefree than with you. You could be wrong, but…
As you approached, Clark eyed you and flashed a quick smile. You tried to pull yours back up, to show him the pastry bag, but before you could even lift your arm, he was back to his conversation. Your heart began to constrict as you tried to just shake it off.
Settling into your desk, their chat began to drift into your ears. Some quips from Lois and feigned shyness by Clark before something caught your attention. It’s a date, see you tomorrow.
You froze. So caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice as Lois squeezed your shoulder and that ever-welcoming ‘hi’ she always reserved for you in the mornings.
Clark may have started talking to you, but you didn’t notice. How could you?
“Hey, you okay?” he asked, leaning in across the desk. You snapped out of your haze long enough to catch his eyes. They were ever kind, ever dedicated to you, like always. As if the conversation you had just witnessed didn’t happen.
You said nothing, just giving him a tight-lipped smile as you slid the pastry bag over to his desk before slipping on your headphones and clocking in.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
“I should just show up in dirty sweats!” you said, tossing another dress on your bed.
“Come on, y/n, you look great in anything,” Clark said. You’d been on the phone with him for an hour and a half by now, pacing the mess you’d made in your apartment as you frantically tried to find an outfit for your date.
Clark’s apartment was uncanny and tranquil for a Saturday night. Most weeks, the sounds of your combined laughter would fill the space. Playful arguments over what to order for dinner, then a bit of calm shared over what always seemed to be Chinese or pizza, before bickering over a movie. It was comfortable, it was consistent, it was you and him.
He sat on his couch, antsy as his hands wrung together in his lap, the phone on speaker as an attempt to not snap it in half. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t handle it. The thought of you spending the evening with some other guy, some man who could never treat you how he could. Who wouldn’t respect, hold, or love you the way- wait, did he say love?
“You know, there’s still time to cancel….you could come over,” you said, desperately wanting him to tell you not to go.
Of course, he didn’t want you to go. Your offer was all he wanted. The idea of you choosing him over this man was like a drug. He should’ve said something right there, should’ve told you. But would that be selfish? Surely you didn’t have feelings for him the way he did for you, how could you? This was just pre-date jitters and the want for something familiar, for your best friend.
Nothing more. No, no, he couldn’t be selfish ...— never when it came to you.
“No… no, go, you’ll have fun,” he said, running a hand over his face.
“...I’d rather hang with you…” You were being bold, pushing, and hoping he’d get the hint.
No, he had to take himself off the table. If he didn’t, you’d never choose yourself, always him.
“I…I can’t, and…I don’t really want to. I need some alone time,” he said. A lie. Clark never lied, well, rarely, and certainly not with you.
The phone was silent on your end; all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. He regretted it immediately. So why couldn’t he take it back?
“Okay… yeah, no, you’re right,” you said. Your voice was smaller, more reserved, and tame. That wasn’t you, never with him. “Well, I’ll let you go, I don’t wanna take up more of your time.”
No no no nonononono
You never could do that. Never. His time wasn’t even his; it was all yours. Every bit he could spare was yours. He couldn’t even admit it to himself yet, but if he was torn between a city threat and saving you, he’d be terrified that the city would perish.
He bolted from the couch, tearing the phone off the table and stumbling to keep it in his grip. The sides of the sleek smartphone began to bend under his fingers. He messed up, he made a mistake. But he couldn’t speak. If he did, he would tell you everything.
“I hope you had fun on your date with Lois yesterday,” you said.
“No, y/n, wait-” The phone went dead, the line ended, and the screen flashed back to your contact page.
Fuck
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The date was bad, bad to say the least. You seemed to forget, having spent all your time with Clark, just how demeaning and violating men could be. Everything was going fine, a little dull, but nothing terrible. Well, maybe it was terrible. Maybe it was awful. He didn’t ask you anything about yourself. Hell, he forgot your name halfway through and had to ask again. And come to think of it, he tried to dictate your order. Said a woman should not be drinking a beer and pushed you towards a red wine or a Cosmopolitan.
By the time you finally got out of the restaurant, which you thought meant you were home free, he was all over you. A hand on the back, down your arm. Moving to your waist and trying to go lower. He took your hand and led you towards his car. You jolted away, not only uninterested in him but having no interest in spending an evening with him after having just met.
You slipped your hand from his grasp, taking a few steps back, thanking him for the evening and dinner; anything you could do to get away. That’s when the flood of names came: bitch, slut, tease. The asshole managed to slip one more comment in about how you owed him after he paid for your dinner before slamming his door in your face and leaving you on the sidewalk.
You began the walk home, your arms wrapping around yourself in an attempt at staying warm. You never should’ve gone out. You should’ve stayed in. You wanted Clark, wanted to be in his arms, to feel his thick hands pushing back your hair and the steady breaths from his chest all evening.
With shaking hands, you pulled out your phone. You sent a few texts before caving to a call.
hey are you there?
i’m sorry i shouldn’t have snapped.
are you home? i really need to see you, please?
Your call rang through before the sound of his awkward answering machine played. Well, that could mean he missed the call. Or he was asleep. Maybe his phone was dead. If it was sent after a few rings, that would mean he chose to ignore you. There was some hope.
You didn’t want to be a burden or invade his alone time. But this was Clark. The same Clark who always said his home was yours, that the locks on his deadbolt didn’t apply to you. Clark, who would drop everything the minute he saw the very chance of a tear or frown on your face. He always said if you were lost or scared or hurt, come find him. As much as it hurt, as pathetic as it felt, you changed directions and hopped on the subway to his place.
His neighborhood was quiet and small, much less chaotic and lively than the trendy area of Metropolis, where you happened to snag a rent-controlled place. As you walked up the street to his building, the familiar diner on the corner caught your eye. The one you’d spend every Monday evening with him. A start of the week tradition where you’d squeeze into the same side of the booth and down coffees and sodas til you were falling asleep on his shoulder.
The warm orange light of the retro diner spilled out onto the street, calling you over. But by the time you reached it, the calming energy it once provided you faded into something crushing. In the front booth pressed against the glass, you saw Jimmy, Lois, and Clark at a table full of coffees and probably lukewarm fries. He said he wanted to be alone, and didn'twanna spend time with you because he wanted to spend the evening alone. Now you realize that wasn’t the truth. He just didn’t want to spend time with you.
Before you could back away and rush back to the safety of your neighborhood, Lois noticed you by the streetlight. She reached over the booth, waving at you through the window and motioning for you to come join them. The action caused Clark to turn, catching your eyes full of hurt and embarrassment. The two of you were in sync, as soon as he rose from the booth and raced out the door, you had bolted for the subway.
He missed you, reaching the steps just after you had disappeared into the evening. He stood there alone, a deep sting in his chest and a fullness in his lungs that stopped his breathing. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The last few days were slow, agonizing. The Daily Planet had become the location of your hide-and-seek game with Clark. One that only you seemed to be playing. You withdrew, spending far more time in the dark room and more time out on site catching shots; anything that would help you avoid the metahuman you had become far too attached to.
It all hit you at once, just how embarrassingly, head-over-heels, and completely in love you had fallen. How much you had allowed him to consume you, how totally devoted you became to him. It was pathetic, of course, he didn’t feel the same.
Things became painfully awkward fast. Each time your eyes met, each time he crossed your purposefully Clark exclusive path, it was like time stopped. It was a game of chicken, who would cave first, usually you. He’d freeze and give you those kind eyes, laced with a sadness you rarely saw, before taking a cautious step in your direction. He only ever got one in before you dashed like a baby deer. He never took a second step.
Today was a day you didn’t need to pack running shoes. Clark’s desk sat empty from morning to evening. You knew nothing was happening in the city, and the streets seemed to be remarkably serene. He must’ve had enough of your antics, needed to get away from the anxiety you brought, that clouded your desk. That had to be it.
What confused you, though, was the note. Coming back from your lunch, you saw it tucked by your computer with your coffee order and your favorite, a Boston creme donut, wrapped in the bag of Clark’s favorite donut shop. Looking around, he wasn’t in the building. Jimmy or Lois hadn’t seen him all day. The note was messy, the kind of handwriting you assumed was scratched out mid-flight in a blue and red suit.
Can we talk, please? Are we okay?
Were you okay? It had never been like this. Never could you have imagined how bad things would get. You always assumed that if your friendship with Clark crumbled, it would be from revealing your harboured feelings. Turns out that wasn’t even necessary.
“You look cute today,” Lois’s voice caught your attention. She came up behind you, leaning a hand on your desk and peeking at the note. “Is that from Boy Genius?”
“Yeah, um… I don't know what’s going on with us,” you said.
“Is that why you didn’t come join us Saturday?” she asked as she sat on the corner of your desk.
“No, we… we were fine before that, I think, but,” you sighed. If things were shit with Clark, maybe you could be honest with someone. “I think my feelings messed everything up. I think he meant more to me than I did to him.”
“You’re joking, right?” Lois’ tone wasn’t meant to be harsh, but maybe it was what you needed. Her face didn’t exactly hide her exasperation. “Y/n, I always thought you two were idiots with how obnoxious you were with refusing to get together. But if you can’t see how painfully devoted that man is to you, then I can’t help you.”
You didn’t know what to say, your fingers just stayed brushing against the rough pulp of his note, bumping over the indents from his pen.
Lois was honest to a fault and blunt. Surely she took no pleasure in playing you for a fool. But what about her date with him?
“Y/n, that man spent all of Friday evening gushing about you to me. ‘Oh, that reminds me of y/n’, ‘did you know y/n puts this in her coffee?’, ‘well that’s not how y/n sets her margins’, blah blah blah!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I had to actually ban your name from our conversation to get any work done.”
That confused you. Work?
“Work? I thought, I thought it was a date,” you said. Lois’ eyes went wide, and her mouth released an amused and somewhat shocked oh. Her face showed just how oblivious she thought you were.
“Really, you actually thought he’d entertain anything with me when you live and breathe on this planet?” she said with a sigh. “Clark is so not my type. No, we needed to meet up to go over a Superman interview he promised he’d get for me.”
She continued to mutter under her breath about how ‘he always hogged the hero’s media statements,’ but you began to tune out. Was she telling the truth? Did Clark really feel that way?
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
Your walk home was shrouded in panicked thoughts. Of your relationship and how royally you had burned it to ash. All because you were too stupid to just say something.
The lights of the city glowed as the sun had long disappeared. Your habit of staying late in the dark room came with downsides, like the walk home alone. Whenever this would happen, Clark would insist on staying, or at the very least, he’d wait for a text from you when you were ready, upon which he’d rush back to walk to your place. That hadn’t been the case the last week. He was nowhere to be seen.
Another part of your poor planning was the rain. You left your umbrella at home. Your jacket was pulled tight over your head, trying to no avail to salvage any of your dignity as the rain covered you. Your dress and shoes were drenched as a hot summer rain flooded the streets and soaked your hair. Any work that was done that day must’ve been ruined as your bag became three pounds heavier with rain.
The leather of your loafers squeaked as rain puddled against your socks. It seemed like everything could only get worse. And of course it did.
You couldn’t escape the feeling of being followed, that someone was lurking behind, always watching your next move. Finally mustering up enough courage, you peeked your head around. No one, the street was solely yours.
You stopped, turning and checking around, but kept being met with the empty lights of Metropolis. That was until you looked up.
Clark hovered just out of sight, staying tucked near the tops of the short buildings of your neighborhood. Clad in his suit, you had nothing to say. You sighed, giving him a resigned and tight-lipped smirk.
“You’re following me?” You asked.
“I know you don’t want me around, I just needed to know you’d get home safe this week,” he said.
He lowered himself to you, landing next to you with an ease you always admired. It had been a while since he was so close to you; it was like seeing him again for the first time. It always left you stunned by how massive his height was.
Without a word, he lifted his cape, pulling it tight and creating a tent over your head. You never broke eye contact, but he was cautious, as if giving you a chance to leave. You don’t.
The walk to your apartment is silent. Except for the sounds of the city that never dulled and the pattering of the rain. Once you reached your place, he stopped. Without a word, you turned and nodded to the alley that led to the back door of your building. He watched you slip through the door and latch it behind you before he rushed through the back.
You barely reached your door before he was coming up behind you from the escape stairwell. You fumbled with your keys before letting the two of you into your place. He walked in, heading into your living room, but you stalled at the door, leaning back and leaving the keys in the lock.
“Clark,” you said.
“What’s going on with us?” he asked, coming closer. He refused to look away, leaving you to duck your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you said.
That wasn’t totally true. You knew what was wrong, you loved him — he didn’t feel the same.
“About Saturday,” he started. You pushed yourself away from the door and set your bag down on your table.
“We don’t have to-” You tried to stop him, but he refused to let miscommunication make this worse.
“No, no. I need to explain,” he said. “Y/n, Jimmy and Lois were in the neighborhood and asked me to come. Well, more like dragged me. They knew I was having a rough night.”
You furrowed your brows.
“If that’s the case, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you say you needed to be alone? You always come to me when something’s wrong,” you began to strip your soaked shoes and shook some rain from your hair.
It didn’t matter how tense the room was, he refused to let you be uncomfortable. Clark rushed to the bathroom, leaving you confused. Only to return with a towel and come close, wrapping you tight. Once you took the terry cloth and held it in place, you expected him to back up. He didn’t.
“Y/n, I couldn’t, that’s the problem. You were the problem,” he said. You tried not to show your hurt, but failed. He shook his head, taking your shoulders and keeping your attention. “You didn’t do anything…I just. Your date. I couldn’t handle it.”
“You never said…” You looked down. “I didn’t even want to go, I told you I wanted to see you.”
“I know, I know, darling, I-” his hands moved to hold your face, and he stepped closer. “I just thought, I thought you wouldn’t ever find someone with me around. I thought my feelings would be holding you back… That’s why I said what I said, why I lied.”
You were quiet as he spoke. No matter how the butterflies in your stomach rampaged, you couldn’t deny the euphoria of his large hands on you.
“I always want you around, y/n,” he started. “You have no idea how badly I wanted you at mine.”
It was silent for just a moment. Without his ramblings, you could see how close he really was. With a shaky breath, you spoke.
“I only went on the date to try to get over you,” you said. That got his attention. You swore you could feel the slightest tightening of his grip on you. You tried to finish, but nothing came up.
All you could think about was what Lois said. Was she right? Were you really just reading everything wrong? Was this metahuman who stood before you, a man pleading and desperate, really in love with you?
You met his eyes again.
“I was scared I was ruining everything, that I was clingy and suffocating, and that you were tired of me so-”
“No, no no, hey,” his hands moved to slip through your hair, coming to rest at the nape of your neck. He ducked his head to get closer. Even so, he still towered over you. Engulfing you in nothing but him. “Please, please don’t say that.”
“I let my feelings get to be too much, and I knew you didn’t feel the same,” you said. “When my friends set up the date, I figured it was time to back off of you and try something else. That went to shit, cause no one is you.”
You could see the tension in his neck release at your words. His jaw twitched, and you watched the muscles flinch. One of his hands moved to cup your face and tilt your head back to reach him where he bent to you. He leaned in, hovering just above your lips and stopping. His eyes met yours, and he waited.
You nodded, giving him everything he sought, “Please.”
That was all he needed. He kissed you like a man starved, like he was terrified that the moment he pulled away, he’d wake up and this would all be over. His calloused hands held you in place as his lips met yours, slipping his tongue gently between your lips.
It was intoxicating, addictive, and nothing like you could have imagined it to be. Nothing in your head ever would have met the moment of having Clark.
He pulled back entirely too soon, resting his forehead to yours as he caught his breath. Words began to tumble out as if he only had one chance to tell you everything.
“I never wanted to ruin this, to lose you. I’ve loved you for so, so long,” his thumbs stroked your cheeks as he spoke. “It’s only ever been you, I’ve always been yours.”
“Why…why didn’t you say anything?” you asked. He cocked his head, and there it was, that smile that turned your world technicolor.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said with the playful tone you missed so much. You tried to hide your blush and duck your head; he didn’t let you, taking your chin and lifting your gaze back to his. He shook his head at your shyness and bit his lip. “I thought it would be selfish. You deserve a man who can give you everything, one you don’t have to share with the world.”
Your hands moved, letting the towel slip to the ground, to cup his face.
“I just want you,” you said.
He paused, as if convincing himself of his next move, “If you’ll have me, I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, darling. I always will be.”
You moved your hand to card through the thick curls at his neck. You leaned in, taking a moment to memorize each line and curve of his face. After only a week without him, you never wanted to forget his face for even a second. You pulled his head down and placed a kiss on his forehead. His shaky breaths at the feeling of your lips on him didn’t escape you.
“Lois is right, we’re fucking idiots,” you said as you pulled back. He let out a soft laugh as his smile brightened. His hand at your neck pulled you closer, bringing you back into another kiss.
This one was slower, more intimate. As if to make up for all the mixed signals, missed opportunities, and miscommunications. When you pulled back, his lips were red and raw.
“I love you, Clark,” you said. His smile beamed as his arms pulled you flush to his chest, wrapping you in him.
His shaking breaths calmed, releasing in a soft sigh that ruffled the hair at the top of your head, “Thank god.”
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.)
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."
summary: when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you
pairing: clark kent x female reader
word count: 2.2k
warnings: typical injury/kinda recovery warnings, blood, broken bones, etc. not much else. reader is mentioned have hair once. no other descriptions
a/n: sigh another fic the next day, that’s when you know i’m obsessed. here’s a lil idea i had as soon as i saw the opening scene. if you're new here cause i'm pretty much known for bucky barnes fics, I love angst so that's kinda my lil niche. hope that's okie!
oh and I loved @sharknutz idea of Clark calling the reader sunshine so yeaaa I had to try that out <3
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You were never a very light sleeper, per se. It wasn’t like you were waking up with each creak of the floorboards or gust of wind. But you never were one to sleep fully through the night without waking up just once. Clark had this little joke; he could always count on an extra cuddle sometime around 2 am. What could you say? You always slept better with him by your side.
Tonight, sleep proved to be a challenge. Clark had been gone for hours, off handling what you think you heard as some underground group of metahumans terrorizing the capital of Wales? After a while, you couldn’t find it in yourself to watch the news. Sue you, but the constant sight of your boyfriend smashing into concrete and brick buildings wasn’t how you wanted to spend the evening. It never was easy, knowing every time he left in that cape, there was the slightest chance he wouldn’t return. The habit of flicking on the television, just to become distraught and overwhelmed, and turning it off only to cave and flick it on again, consumed your evenings.
The bed was cold, feeling larger than normal without Clark’s large frame claiming more than half the bed and hogging the blankets. Your feet fluttered under the duvet, trying to shake the nerves and unease that engulfed your body. He should’ve been back by now, slipping through the door with a smirk and some half-funny quip about his injuries; it never was all that funny to you. You knew he needed to stop by the fortress first if he was hurt, recharge and heal, and maybe check on Krypto before flying back. Still, it was 4 am, and the news declared the situation to be handled by 1 am.
The thoughts swirling in your brain halted when a crash and the sound of shattering glass echoed through the living room. You jolted upright in bed, stumbling quietly out from the sheets and reaching for the steel pipe you had stashed under the bedframe. Clark always thought it was ridiculous, offering to get you a bat or something, but the pipe was found with your first apartment, and you’d had no issues in all your years since in Metropolis, maybe it was a good luck charm.
You slowly inched to the door as you heard grunts mixed with the sounds of stumbling feet and soft pounding. Any bit of drowsiness you had managed to build up while lying in bed was gone. If you needed to escape, the front door was in the kitchen, which was right next to the bedroom. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Unless they weren’t human.
Before you could continue to spiral and plan your first mode of attack, the familiar sound of a bark bounced up the other side of the door.
“Krypto?” you asked hesitantly as you lowered the pipe. The grading sound of that familiar yelp continued, confirming your suspicions.
You placed the pipe on the bed before slowly pulling the door open. You couldn’t even greet the superdog before he latched onto the hem of your shorts and tugged you out of the room.
“Hey, buddy, slow down,” you said as you stumbled behind him, trying not to fall. Something was wrong; the high-strung and chaotic pup you had come to know well was never this focused. He dragged you to the living room before letting go of your shorts with a bark. The white dog rushed over to the window- that’s when you saw.
The large bay window was shattered, exposing the crisp air of the early morning. Glass was strewn across the hardwoods. Lying face down in the middle was Clark. He looked wrecked, bruises covered the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and blood dripped from his lips and soaked parts of his hair. His arm twitched slightly, letting you know there was something damaged beneath the suit. He looked awful. The haunting rattling from his chest was the worst, filling the silent room and pounding in your ears.
“Clark!” you said, rushing to his side. As carefully as possible, you slipped to your knees, being sure to avoid the bits of glass that surrounded the scene. Your hands began to shake as you reached for him, scared to do any further damage. You rarely saw him like this, and if so, it tended to be through news footage.
“Honey, hey,” gently, you tried to turn him off his face and onto his back. He cried out at the movement, but his voice quickly turned to a whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He didn’t respond, just fluttered his eyes open and glanced up at you. Through the blood on his lips, he still flashed you a smile. Your heart stuttered.
“Hi baby,” he said, through bloody teeth.
“Clark, honey, what are you doing here?” Your voice was frantic as your hands hovered over him, afraid to touch anywhere.
“…needed to heal,” he said, trying to lean up into your touch, but the movement just brought more pain.
Delicately, your hands moved to cup his face, softly brushing a bit of glass from the sable curls that framed his face. As your fingers grazed the dark bruises by his eyes, you couldn’t help but notice how he relaxed under your hands.
Krypto leapt up onto the couch beside you, crawling up to the front and watching as you tried to figure out what to do next.
“Why…why didn’t you go to the f-fortress?” You asked. He hated how he could hear the tremors in your voice, hated how visibly distressed you were. He hated that he was the one to cause it.
He tried once again to lean upright into a sitting position. This time, you grabbed him and quickly propped him against the couch. At this angle, it seemed the airflow in his lungs was strengthened.
“I…too far,” he said, his bright blue eyes fully opening and meeting yours. “I couldn’t…make it. I got as far as outside the city but...”
Your hands moved slowly down from his neck to his chest. Through the thick blue fabric, you could feel the cracked bones of his clavicle and sternum. Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to relax.
“Then why …? Clark, why did Krypto bring you here? I can’t—I can’t fix this,” you said, your words spilled out in an almost incoherent ramble. Your panic stilled for just a moment as you felt Clark’s hand softly reach up for yours, guiding it to his chest where your palm felt the steady thumping of his heart.
“I told him to take me home,” he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
A soft sigh left your chest; you couldn’t place what it was, perhaps it was a mix of surprise or relief or even resignation. Those words were everything you wanted to hear. You wanted nothing more than to be his safety, his place to go and feel protected. If he wasn’t battered on your living room floor, those words would have driven you to kiss him silly.
Your hands came to rest on his neck, tenderly keeping his weary head up as you focused.
“Okay… okay, love,” you said, nodding to yourself as your thumbs brushed softly along the dips of his cheeks. Your eyes darted around the room, trying to remember where you placed the first aid kit. You began to rise from your spot beside him, hoping to find some hydrogen peroxide and gauze to clean out the gash by his hairline. A strong hand on your wrist held you back.
“Don’t… please stay,” he said, his brows curling up as he pleaded his case.
“Clark, I need to get stuff to clean you up…we need to fix you,” you said, brushing back some curls to get a look at the wound.
“The sun will be up soon… I’ll be fine,” he said. “Please, just stay, sunshine.”
Your hands moved to cup his face once again, gently leaning in to place a soft kiss to his temple.
“Please, I can’t see you like this. Just let me make you better?” you asked.
Clark always knew his biggest weakness was kryptonite, but somewhere along the way, that changed. Somehow, it became you. He never could deny you, say no, or dare to not put your needs or wants before his own. It didn’t matter if it was inconvenient or difficult or even impossible; if it was for you, he’d make it happen. He could see the fear and devotion in your eyes; he knew the sight of himself was crushing you. You needed comfort, you needed to feel useful, as if somehow you could make it all okay for him. He knew he’d be fine with a few hours, but if you needed to patch him up, then so be it. Who was he to say no when you asked?
“Yeah… of course, baby,” he said, his hand gingerly squeezing yours before letting you go. With a relieved sigh, you rushed to the kitchen. You didn’t miss the needy sigh that left his lips at your absence.
Krypto dashed from the couch, following you through the apartment as you checked your cabinets. You carded through the bathroom until you gathered everything you’d need. Rushing back to Clark’s side, you could feel the pounding of your heart begin to slow. Words ran through your mind, repeating like a mantra as you tried to compose yourself. He’s okay, he’s alive, he’s here.
You spilled your medical stash along the rug as you returned to his side. You gently began to wash out the first cut you saw. You stretched over him as you worked, kneeling but no longer resting on your legs as you found the best angle to wash out the wound. Your hands worked quickly, stopping the bleeding before applying butterfly plasters to close it.
Somewhere lost in your mission, you noticed the weight of the superbeing below you melting into your chest. Clark’s head rested safely against your chest. His good arm wrapped around your thighs, keeping you as close as he could with the strength he had. The sound of his breathing still left you shaky, but his sighs of content helped.
By the time you had finished, the sun began to creep its way over the sky-high buildings of Metropolis. Warm light filtered in through your apartment, casting deep shadows before banishing them with a brighter day. Your hands gently shook Clark.
“Love, sun’s up,” you said. His strength was returning, but he still had injuries only the yellow sun could fix. He slung his arm around you and helped you pull him up as you moved him over to the window.
You did your best to hold him still and steady as the bright glow of the sun coated his body. You were never around when he took his time to heal; you never saw the way he thrashed and cried out at the pain. As much as it killed you to hear his whimpers, you held him firmly, using what little strength you had as a human to keep the god-like man in your arms upright.
With one last cry, Clark sagged back into your arms. You struggled to keep him rooted, but he soon caught himself. You watched as he drew in deep, long breaths, air finally filling his lungs without the eerie rattle you’d never get out of your head. His hands gripped your arm and hip. His arm was straightened out, firm and taut once again. With one last breath, he stretched back up.
“Are-are you okay?” you asked, your hands once again moving around in search of any surprise injuries you may have missed. With a soft laugh, Clark took your hands and pressed a kiss to your palms. He pulled you in closer, cupping the back of your head and slipping his fingers through your hair.
“I’m fine, sunshine. I said I would be,” he said, pulling you close and resting his forehead to yours. “You took care of me.”
You nodded at his words, falling into his chest as your arms wrapped tightly around him. Calloused hands stroked your hair and held you to him as he placed kisses on the top of your head. You peeked around Clark’s large frame to see Krypto stretched over the couch, his tail thumping at the faded leather as he watched you both.
“I’m glad Krypto brought you to me,” you said, resting your head back over Clark’s heart. The steady beat filled your ear and soothed any anxieties that settled in your bones.
Clark rested his chin atop your head, sighing softly as he squeezed you gently, “He brought me home.”
---
I hope you liked it! kinda quick and eh but thx for reading <3
a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe
Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.
A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.
"You're late, Kent."
"Sorry, sorry."
There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.
You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."
Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.
His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.
"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."
Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.
Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.
The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.
Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.
Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.
“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.
You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”
Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.
“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.
“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”
A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.
You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.
He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…
Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.
First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.
He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.
He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.
You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.
And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.
Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.
That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.
He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.
That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.
And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.
It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.
A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!
Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.
Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.
Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.
Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.
Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.
No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.
Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.
You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.
1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.
These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.
Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.
As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.
Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.
You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.
Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.
That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.
Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.
“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.
The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.
You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.
The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.
The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.
You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.
Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.
If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.
Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.
Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.
An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.
You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.
Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?
Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.
Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.
“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.
She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”
“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.
The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.
Something has taken flight.
Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.
It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.
And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.
The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.
“Shit.” you say astutely.
There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.
You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.
“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.
This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.
You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.
Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.
“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.
“Move! Everybody move!”
Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.
You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.
Your gaze catches.
A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.
Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.
Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.
You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.
“Hello.” He says politely.
“Hi.” you breathe.
He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.
He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”
“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”
When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.
Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.
“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”
His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.
“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”
And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.
The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.
It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.
Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.
Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.
The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.
“Is he coming back?”
You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.
“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”
“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.
“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”
Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.
Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.
It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.
“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”
Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.
“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.
“Right here.”
You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.
“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.
He smiles. “Great.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.
“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”
Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”
So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.
“I had help today,” he says.
Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.
Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.
“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.
You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.
He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.
“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.
You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.
“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”
Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.
In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.
That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.
“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.
Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.
The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.
For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.
If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.
Admiration? Maybe.
Something else twinges in there, unbidden.
You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.
Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.
You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.
Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.
“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.
The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.
You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.
The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.
But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.
That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.
Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.
Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?
You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.
Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.
Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.
There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.
This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.
Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.
Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.
Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.
And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.
Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.
Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.
After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!
It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.
But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.
For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.
It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that
And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.
Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.
For a change, Clark isn't late today.
Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.
The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.
It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.
He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.
To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.
"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.
"Celebrate?"
Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.
"It's only second page." You downplay.
Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.
"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."
If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.
"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.
Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."
After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.
"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"
You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.
Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.
You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.
"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."
Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.
"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"
Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.
"To celebrate." He tacks on.
One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.
"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.
And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"
You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.
He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."
You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.
He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.
Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.
You're nearly undone with it.
This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.
It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.
It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.
The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.
"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."
Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.
It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.
You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.
"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.
Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.
"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”
He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!
You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"
No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.
You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.
You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.
The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.
He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.
You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.
Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.
Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.
You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.
Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.
“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”
It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.
“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”
Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”
He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.
With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.
“A long time, huh?”
Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.
“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”
You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.
But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.
Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.
Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.
He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.
“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”
You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.
“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.
His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.
“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”
Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.
“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”
That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.
He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.
“Shut up.” you say weakly.
Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”
“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”
To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.
The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.
He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.
It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.
“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"
He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.
"Improper?"
Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.
"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"
In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.
He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.
Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.
Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.
Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.
And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.
Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?
It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.
It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.
You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.
"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.
Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."
You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.
Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.
Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.
Clark Kent can fly!
Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)
Clark Kent is... not human?
Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.
"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.
"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.
Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.
The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.
Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!
"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.
That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.
"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.
You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."
Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.
Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.
Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"
You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"
Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.
"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."
His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.
His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.
"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.
Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."
The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.
Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.
"So,” You breathe. “What now?"
"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"
He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.
"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."
"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"
He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.
"No take backsies."
“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.
An unexplained question piques your mind.
“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”
Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.
He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”
He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.
“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”
Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”
If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.
“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.
Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.
“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."
"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."
Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.
"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes
clark being so big you have a belly bulge every time he gets inside you 😵💫😵💫
warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, feral!clark !!!!! fem!reader, size kink, bulge kink, little bit of dumbification, belly bulge.
“g-god,” he can't help but stare at the obscene bulge every time he bottoms out. clark’s a missionary lover through and through. partly ‘cause he needs to see your face while he's fucking you good.
to keep eye contact with you while your lashes flutter. because yeah, he's got a big, veiny cock. and it reaches places you didn't know could be reached before. and it hits your g-spot over and over again so precisely that it wrecks you until your vision goes blurry and the sheets get ruined when your juices gush out without warning.
but no, he's a true missionary lover ‘cause he gets to see and feel how his dick moves inside you. gets to press your hand right to the bulge in your belly and whisper, “you feel me, sweetheart?” like he’s not already rearranging your guts. like it's even possible for you not to feel it.
his big, warm, heavy hand covers yours. and he's so still. not even moving yet. just stretching you out and feeling you clench around him.
you nod, barely, ‘cause you're already dizzy. he thrusts once, slow and deep and mean, and you moan like it’s the only thing you know how to do.
“c-clark—‘s so—s'fuckin’ deep,” you whimper, slurred and shaky.
he kisses your flushed, sweaty cheek, gentle even with that monstrous cock buried inside you.
“i know, baby,” he groans right against your lips before kissing your swollen bottom one. “feels good, huh? you like that?”
you nod again. you have to nod. he’s leaking inside you already, and your brain is melting into something warm and dumb and dripping. and he’s still watching you like you're the only thing in the world.
he's trying to be polite. he swears. but it's so hard when you’re squeezing him like this. when you’re wrapped around him so tight it makes his fingers twitch on your belly.
he kisses you again, slower now, but his hips shift just a little and—fuckfuckfuck—you clench so hard around him it knocks the air right outta your lungs.
you gasp. “c-clark—baby—wait, wait, i c-can’t—can't—”
“you can,” he says, voice molten, lips brushing yours. “takin’ me so good, sweetheart. so fuckin’ perfect f’ me.”
and then he grinds. rolls his hips forward, like he’s trying to etch himself into your body, like he’s not already kissing your goddamn diaphragm from the inside.
the bulge in your belly moves. you feel it drag under your palm, slick skin stretched taut beneath your joined hands.
“oh my god—”
“i know,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth. “so tight for me,” his teeth scrape over your throat. “could stay like this all fuckin night.”
you wiggle your hips, try to chase friction, try to make him move, and he growls and grabs your hips in those massive hands.
“you keep doing that,” he warns, low and rough against your neck, “and you won't be walkin’ ‘til next week.”
you do it again anyway, hips tilting just slightly, greedy little thing that you are, because the pressure is maddening. you need him to fuck you now, you need that delicious stretch to turn into that brutal, devastating grind that’ll have you melting all over him in seconds.
clark hisses through his teeth. “jesus, baby,” he pulls out just a little—just enough for the fat head of his cock to kiss your entrance— then slams back in with a sharp, heavy thrust that knocks a sob from your throat.
you arch. you keen. your nails dig into his back, your thighs trembling around his waist.
“there she is,” he groans. “that's m’girl. look at you—look how full you are.” he thrusts again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—echoes through the room.
you’re shaking now. you feel slick dripping down your thighs, soaked with both of you. your moans are all breath and broken vowels now—“ah, ah, fuck, please—”
“i got you,” clark pants, fucking into you slow and deep and so insanely good your eyes roll back. “gonna cum for me, baby. always do. this pretty pussy just can’t help it, can she?”
you don’t even answer. you can’t. your hands are shaking, your thighs clamping around his hips, and your belly tightens like a rubber band about to snap-snap-snap—
and then it does. you cum hard—harder than you knew you could— “clark! ohmy— fuckfuckfuck.”
he keeps fucking you through it. keeps cooing soft praise against your mouth. “that’s it, honey, that's it. ride it out. so beautiful like this, so good for me.”
you’re still twitching around him when he finally lets go—groans so deep, so fucked-out it makes your toes curl—and spills inside you in hot, heavy pulses. his whole body shudders with it, hips grinding down until he’s empty, spent, tucked deep inside where he belongs.
WARNINGS: piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), banter, teasing, secret office romance, established relationship, sort of sex tape but not rlly cause it'd be an audio sex tape??, fluff, porn with plot, no spoilers!<3
summary: finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.
word count: 4,362
a/n: hey everyone!! I literally never write anything that isn't Bill Skarsgård related, but I saw the Superman movie today and couldn't help thinking how HOT David Corenswet was!!! so this fic goes out to my best friend who I saw this movie with, hope you like it you little gremlin (ily babes let's play starstable soon tihii) credits to @krayonimous for the gif!!<3
"Oh, come on,"
My words were whispered under my breath, dragged out by my annoyance at the sight of the front page of The Daily Planet today.
Superman Speaks: The Peace-Mission, by Clark Kent.
I pushed the paper away like it offended me, letting it slide crooked across my desk. The headline still stared up at me, taunting as ever, and I could practically hear his voice in it-- soft-spoken, heavy with concern, and full of just enough gravitas to make even the skeptics stop and feel something.
It was getting annoying, at this point-- every other week came another exclusive, and yet another quiet little masterstroke from Kent. Would it ever end?
Clark's desk was still empty, of course. The chair next to mine was untouched, his coat not draped over it yet, and I could feel my irritation fester. If that had been me, I'd have been fired a month ago. But because of these damn exclusive Superman interviews, he had secured himself a spot at the company, no matter what.
I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk-- once, twice, just to give myself something to do with the irritation.
And then, right on cue, the elevator dinged.
Voices rose-- someone greeted him before I saw him, and then there he was, walking in like he had just stepped off the cover of his own feature, glasses a little fogged from the humidity, tie not even pretending to be straight. Still, with perfectly tousled dark hair like that, and with eyes the shade of dreamy lagoons, it was impossible not to stare. He smiled, nodded, and offered a sheepish morning to the general hum of recognition around him for getting the front page. And then, just to top it off, someone clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on 'another one'.
... God.
He even had the nerve to look embarrassed about it.
I looked back at my screen like I was busy, like I wasn’t tracking the exact number of steps it took him to get from the elevator to his chair, like I didn’t hear the gentle thud of his bag hitting the floor next to mine--
“Morning,” Clark murmured, settling into his chair.
“Barely,” I replied, eyes on my inbox-- if I allowed myself to look at him, I'd just think about how broad his shoulders were now that he was so close, and I couldn't do that to myself, not at work.
Clark didn’t respond right away; he just scooted his chair in with unnecessary force, trying to get my attention. I didn’t look over, but I knew he was smiling. “You saw the story?” he asked, all innocence.
"Impossible to miss,"
"What did you think?"
Inhaling sharply, I shrugged; "I think it's very convenient that you're always at the right place at the right time,"
Clark huffed a quiet laugh; “You didn’t like it,"
“Oh, I never said that,”
“You didn’t have to,"
I finally glanced at him, trying not to gawk at his beauty. Clark was already watching me, elbows on his desk, with that same irritating softness around his plush mouth that made him look more sincere than he had any right to be. His tie was really a disaster, though-- looped too tight, one side bunched like he had gotten distracted halfway through.
Not that anyone but me would notice or care; it was sort of endearing on days when he didn't have a new front-page Superman interview, anyway. “It's just interesting, that's all," I said. "That Superman only talks to you. One could argue that you might be bribing him."
That only made Clark's boyish smirk widen. “Superman is a man of the law,” he murmured, teasing as always. “He would never accept bribes. I ask and he talks, that's all,”
“Mhm... Right,"
I turned back to my screen, biting down on a grin myself. I didn’t need to look at him to feel the air crackle between us. The buzz of it always gave me a high-- always. What had started out as office friction had turned into something sharper, something hotter, and now it sat between our desks like a huge elephant no one wanted to admit was there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark lean back and stretch slightly, his tight, white shirt stretching over his broad chest-- he had the balls to look smug about this, yet that slight rosy colour appearing in his cheeks contradicted his every move. He enjoyed this too, I was certain of it. “You know,” he murmured. “You could always pitch for the next one. Superman might be up to giving you an interview... Everyone knows you're the best writer in the office.”
I looked at him slowly, not yet impressed. “Oh, really now?”
Clark shrugged again, lifting his hands in faux surrender. “It’s not my fault he likes talking to me,”
I gave him a flat look, snorting. “You’re intolerable,"
“I think you should try,” he murmured, dragging a folder out of his bag as he disregarded my last words. “He might be up for it. On the record, and everything."
That was it-- my eyes rounded out. "On... the record?"
That was new.
Clark's blue eyes practically shimmered as he put his earbuds in, casual as ever, yet his smirk betrayed him; "Who knows? You might get lucky tonight,"
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
The scent hit me before I even dropped my keys-- garlic, butter, and something rich and comforting I couldn't put my finger on. I stopped halfway through taking off my coat, catching sight of him in the kitchen; Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in my favourite pan like he had lived here for years.
I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. This was my favourite sight to come home to.
I could already sense the smile in his voice without him having to turn to me; “Hey, you,” he murmured.
Oh, wow. “You made dinner,” I breathed, watching the way his white shirt stretched across his broad back-- finally, I could gawk at him now that we weren't at work.
“You were grumpy this morning,” Clark replied, unaware of the way I was looking at him right now; or was he? “I figured you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make you.”
Of course. Of course he'd do this after our back-and-forth banter this morning. "I wasn't grumpy," I put my coat away before finally approaching Clark, leaning against the kitchen counter as I tried to see what he was making. "But you know I can't be acting over the moon for you at the office. Everyone would catch on."
He hummed, still stirring. I watched him work, letting the silence stretch between us in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable. It never did with him-- not here, not like this. The air felt warmer than it should have, like the kitchen lights had dimmed a little just for the two of us. “Smells good,” I murmured, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as I turned, reaching up to brush a soft, black strand of his hair away from his forehead.
“It’s your favourite,” He said it without looking up, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t planned this out from the moment he left the office. Sweet, sweet boy.
I could only smile; I liked us when we were alone, when we didn't have to hide our feelings. No cape, no headlines, no rivalry-- just Clark in my kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking for me because he wanted to. Because underneath everything, he knew me, and I knew him.
... More than anyone.
“Clark,” I murmured softly, dreading my next words. "I'm worried someone's going to find out that you're getting these Superman interviews because... well, you are Superman. I wouldn't want you to blow your own cover."
Clark didn't answer anything at first-- then, his brows furrowed into that look I knew too well. "Is that why you were so grumpy this morning?"
"I wasn't grumpy," I mumbled, tracing a line down his broad shoulder to his hand. "Just concerned."
Clark finally set the spoon down, resting it carefully on the edge of the pan before turning to face me fully. His blue eyes were unreadable, and it made my anxiety bubble. “I appreciate you worrying,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep the lines separate.”
I searched his face, and the way his jaw flexed as he chose his words carefully. I scanned the quiet certainty in his posture, how even now (smelling like garlic and city air) he held himself like someone who had the world to carry. “I know you do,” I admitted. “But... still. Every time someone jokes about how close you are with Superman, I feel like I’m holding my breath.”
At that, Clark snorted, cracking up into a smile; "You're the one that makes the most jokes about that,"
"Yeah, but that's because!--"
"If anything, you're the instigator of those rumours,"
"I'm not, I just-- Clark, do you hear what I'm telling you?"
Muting his laughter, he let his shoulders slouch, showing that he was backing down. "I do have a solution, though," he murmured. "I wasn't joking about what I said earlier."
I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes shot out a spark or two. "Me interviewing you?"
"Yes,"
"As Superman?"
"Yes,"
"That sounds... fair," I mumbled. "Finally, you won't know the questions beforehand. It's actually much more ethically sourced than how you do it, if we're taking media laws into account."
Clark huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the counter before stepping just a little closer to me. “Ethically sourced?” he echoed. “You’re going to cite journalism codes of conduct now?”
“I might,” I said, chin lifted. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
His hand found my waist-- light, familiar, and grounding. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. “This will be a legitimate, recorded interview with Superman. Questions unapproved. No edits. No off-the-record pauses.”
“Exactly,” I nodded once, hoping to bite down my smirk. “Full transparency.”
He tilted his head, black hair kissing his forehead, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind his glasses-- “Will you go soft on him?”
“No,” came my answer, instant as ever. “I’m going to grill him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
Clark grinned, all teeth this time. “I’d expect nothing less,”
The space between us thinned again, shrinking in that way it always did when we weren’t pretending. His thumb rubbed a slow, absent circle at the small of my back, and the scent of garlic and butter and whatever else he’d conjured tonight clung to the warmth around us like something domestic we were still getting used to.
“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said, a little breathless, more off-guard than I meant to sound.
“You’ve wanted to get him in the hot seat for months,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, and if it keeps people from asking too many questions, then yeah, Let’s do it. On the record.”
I held my breath, feeling my heartbeat soar. "Now?"
"Sure," Clark shrugged. He pulled me closer like it was no big deal, like he didn't know that every touch from him set me on fire-- "But if we're doing this, then we're going to do it my way."
"... What?"
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Oh, I should've known.
I should've known that Clark would do something like this, that cheeky bastard.
My attitude this morning could've set this off too, I had no idea-- all I knew was that I had to keep quiet if I wanted this audio to be able to go on the record.
Still, it was impossible not to squirm as Clark's big hands greedily grabbed at my hips, long fingers caressing my skin as his tongue swirled my right hip-bone; holy fuck. He reached for my underwear, tugging it upward to get better access, to get me twitching harder against my duvet. "You've-- You've got a lot of heat on social media lately," I started, stumbling through my questions whilst running my hands through Clark's thick locks as he continued to make me weak.
He hummed against my skin, leaving wet kisses up along my stomach. "I don't read that stuff," he murmured. "Superman doesn't have time for selfies."
I rolled my eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. How could he be so composed, even now? Even after he somehow managed to get me out of my clothes with all of his intact and on? "You're gonna-- You're gonna refer to yourself in third person?" I glanced at the audio recording device I had propped on the bed, swallowing hard as Clark's kisses started darting down again, his lips brushing against the hem of my dampening underwear.
"Hm?" he answered, mind clearly wandering.
"This is on the record-- Superman,"
"And what about it?"
"Doesn't it sound a bit--" My breath hitched as Clark's hands left my hips, now grabbing at the underside of my thighs to spread my legs. I glanced down at how he had situated himself between them, comfortable and cocky as ever, blue eyes darkening with want. My voice was barely a squeak; "Pompous?"
At that, Clark raised a brow at me, clearly amused. "Really, now? Pompous?"
I decided not to push it-- I had other things to focus on, now that I really had Superman here...
Between my legs.
"Today, the-- the secretary of defence said he was going to--" Before I could stop it, my breath hitched once again, watching Clark press open-mouthed kisses against my clothed clit. Was he trying to make this impossible? Totally. This interview would be deemed impossible by any other interviewer, surely, but me? Nu-uh. I was going to prevail, no matter how hard he made this for me. "Look into your actions," I continued. "He's going to-- look into them."
At that, Clark laughed; I could feel the rumble of his chest vibrate the bed, with how big he was compared to me.
"That's funny?" I snapped, trying to gain some leverage.
Clark raised himself a bit, blinking up at me with that classic, cocky, all-American boy smile like he had done nothing wrong. "My actions?" he echoed, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "I stopped a war."
I shrugged, hoping to act as normal; "Maybe,"
"Not maybe," he huffed, peeling my panties down my thighs. "I did."
"Well, you did illegally enter a country?--"
"For the sake of peace," Clark was getting snappy now; if I hadn't heard it in his voice, I would've pieced it together with how he tossed away my underwear, settling between my legs once again. "Don't be like that."
"Like what?" I mumbled.
"Like that,"
Before I could pry more, before I could say anything proper, my body betrayed me-- my back arched against the feeling of his warm breath falling against my soaked sex, and I held back a whimper that I certainly didn't want on my recording machine.
"Be nice," Clark said, before gently wrapping his lips around my clit without warning, suckling me softly.
My hands practically flew into his dark, thick hair as I tried to cushion my moans into my pillow, but to no avail-- a quiet moan left me, and I could feel Clark smile against me. Still, I knew I had to keep my brain sharp, knew I couldn't give in this easily; "Did you-- consult with the president? Before trespassing?"
At that, Clark groaned against me, sending vibrations up along my spine that I had never felt before. "No," he mumbled against my sex, before grabbing my thighs harder, pushing them further against me like he wanted me to fold in half. I could only whimper as he then laved his tongue between my folds, circling my clit with the softest kitten-licks known to man-- he was trying to drive me nuts, wasn't he?
"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, so you?-- fuck--"
"Language,"
"-- Sorry,"
I could feel his smooth skin against my inner thighs, freshly shaven, and the sensation only added to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside me with every move. Clark's tongue moved in slow, teasing circles now, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against me, icy-blue eyes flicking up to watch my reaction every so often.
I wasn't going to let him win; he could have the front page for all that I cared, but not this. I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to finally let out a cohesive sentence; "Do you know why that-- looks bad?"
Clark didn't answer, too busy wrapping his lips around my clit again, a little firmer this time, which was enough to have me fighting the urge to clamp my legs around his head.
"Superman," I tried, glancing at the recording device once more; was this footage even usable? Should I bother not calling him his real name? "It seemed like you were acting as a-- as a representative of the United States without having consulted the-- the government?"
Irked, Clark raised himself to properly look at me; with his big hands still gripping the underside of my thighs, plush mouth glistening with my slick, he suddenly didn't seem so happy to be answering my questions anymore. "I wasn't representing anybody except for me,"
"Did you not think about-- what it would look like?" Now that I wasn't getting the life sucked out of me, I could finally catch my breath. I propped myself up on my shaky elbows, meeting Clark's blue eyes with compassion. "I understand that you must've been under a lot of stress, but--"
"Oh, you have no idea,"
"But could you perhaps have considered the consequences?--"
"That wasn't as important as!--"
"What is more important than avoiding war, Superman?--"
"People were going to die!"
At that, we both stilled.
My mouth parted in shock at the fact that sweet, gentle Clark had raised his voice at me like that. I stared down at him, frozen.
It didn't take long before he raised himself to his knees, visibly taken aback by how much my questions were affecting him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to recover, as his hands slowly lifted from my thighs, letting them naturally crease over his.
None of us spoke until I dared-- "I'm sorry,"
Clark didn't move. Avoided my gaze. Didn't breathe either, as far as I could tell.
With a sigh, I reached for the audio recording device, shutting it off; that was enough for now. The interview wasn't as important as what was happening in front of me. I didn't care that I was undressed. I didn't care. Carefully, I sat up, daring to gently cup his face; "Clark," I murmured. "You're a good man. You did what you thought was right. I don't hold that against you, no one does."
Clark's jaw was tight under my palm-- still warm, still damp from me, but set. “I know you don’t hold it against me,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, but rough. “But you still asked, like you wanted me to say it was wrong. Like you thought it was."
“I don’t want you to say it was wrong,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “I want to know that you at least thought about it, Clark... That you didn’t just act on instinct or impulse."
His eyes flicked up to mine at that, too fast, too sharp.
There it was-- proof that Superman was human, in his own way. Impulsive. Rash. Passionate. Rattled with guilt.
Clark exhaled like it hurt to admit his mistakes, even though he hadn't said them out loud. He knew that I knew. Carefully, he leaned into my touch, just barely, his hands now hovering over my legs, unsure if he was still allowed to touch me after raising his voice, like that one slip of temper meant he didn’t get softness anymore.
My fingers sank into his hair again, stroking through it slower now, calmer. "You saved the day, Superman," I murmured, a trying smile finding its way to my lips. "That's what's important, okay?"
"Okay," Clark echoed, his heavy blue gaze avoiding mine.
Enough. I couldn't stand to look at that sad face anymore; "Let's forget the world for a moment, hm?" I pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth. "It's just you and me, now," Left. "And that wouldn't be possible without you, so come here and reap your reward."
Finally, Clark's eyes peeked up at me again, interest spiking. "What do you?--"
I didn't let him finish that sentence.
It also didn't take long before my arms draped around his neck, pulling him down with me onto the bed with a heated kiss. Clark accepted, caging me with his broad shoulders, mouth moving against mine like he wanted to remember every curve, every push, every whimper; he let out a pleasured sigh and smiled into the kiss, melting my heart.
Clark's passion was all-taking-- he moved to softly nibble on my earlobe, licking a stripe up the shell, which he knew always got me giggling, as we got him out of his black jeans. I could feel the way our breaths clashed, how our chests pressed together in a moment of fire none of us could control, pure impulse, before his reassuring words came as always; "I've got you," he murmured, the soft head of his cock prodding at my entrance, his big, calloused hands once again gripping at my thighs.
"Need you," I breathed, nipping at his strong jaw. "Want you, Clark-- need you."
Clark hummed; "Bet," he teased, before rocking forward, just enough for the head to push inside.
The whimpers that fell from my mouth were impossible to stop, and my hands gave his dark hair an involuntary tug. "Fuck,"
I knew he didn't like swearing, and I knew that'd be the key to getting what I wanted. With an annoyed huff, Clark pushed his cock into me, letting out a shaky sigh against my shoulder as I shuddered against him. Thankfully, he couldn't see my sheepish smile of victory; I had waited for this since the second I saw that front page article. This feeling. Him inside of me. Just us.
The first few thrusts were deeper than usual, probably fueled by our fiery interview and my affinity for cuss-words tonight, but I didn't mind-- being filled up by Clark was such heaven, that I didn't really care how it happened. I'd sell my soul for this, surely; for my fingers to burn with euphoria coursing through my veins.
Clark pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, firmer this time, making my breath hitch as my nails left crescent moons into his broad back. "You feel so good," he murmured, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me melting into my duvets. "Missed you like this."
"Missed you too," I moaned, pressing a weak kiss to his shoulder. "Stop-- saving the world all the goddamn-- time."
At that, Clark could only laugh; "Cause this is more important, yeah?"
"Obviously,"
"Right," he purred, his slow, deep, dragging thrusts practically muting me from that point on. I could only clench around his thick length, suppressing my cries of pleasure against the muscular range of his shoulders.
"Want me to stop saving everyone, hm?" Clark went on; "Want me to stay here and take care of you?"
I could only whimper-- yes, yes, yes.
With a satisfactory hum, his plush lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over; he might as well have stamped a Superman-stamp on my neck. "I would if I could," Clark huffed, groaning against my skin; I felt his cock twitch inside of me at the intrigue of that thought, and it made me clutch him harder as he fucked me into the mattress, instincts taking over. "Would stay here-- make you feel good, make you cum, make you-- satisfied--"
I could hear it in the roughness of his voice that he was close, closer than he usually was at this point. Was it really our heated arguments today that had fried both our nerves? I couldn't tell.
To delay just a moment more, to continue revelling in our wet union, Clark propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs again-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm circles, intent on getting me over the edge first. Fucking gentleman.
I choked down another lewd moan, the pleasure building quicker than expected. "God, Clark, I-- I can't--"
"It's okay," he murmured, watching me with those big, blue, loving eyes I adored. "Want you to let go when you're close, okay? Could you-- Could you do that for me?"
"Anything," I breathed. "Anything for you."
Clark let out a hum of approval, warm as always, as my vision started going hazy; he continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl, making my breath catch, and I soon enough had to tell myself to breathe, chanting it over and over in my head. Without meaning to, in the midst of me fighting the building feeling in my whole body, I shifted my hips-- I didn't mean for it to angle Clark deeper, but it gave me the grandest of rewards.
Clark let out the filthiest groan, feeling his cock engulfed in wet, tight heat, and that did it for him.
I didn't mean to, I swear.
His right hand left my clit, and with both, he now gripped my hips tighter as his thrusts turned erratic, desperate, impulsive, but with awareness of his strength; it didn't take long before he buried himself inside of me with a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. His forehead dropped against mine as he spilled inside me, body trembling from the force of it, panting with the shock of his unexpected release.
I had no idea what came over me, or how it happened-- but with how Clark was angled, it didn't take more than two upward rolls of my hips, helped by his strong hands, to have my clit pressing against his body, and it was a sensation so light, so desperate, so chased and sought by all-taking arousal, that it shattered me even harder when I realized I was cumming from practically... nothing. My legs trembled as I felt my clit pulse, lashes fluttering shut at the intense rush.
Only Clark could have me falling apart like that, and only I could have Superman collapse like this on a Friday night.
He might not be a man-- but he surely fucked like one.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you confess your feelings for clark, not knowing he’s listening to everything you’re saying.
𝘄/𝗰: 1.2k
𝗮/𝗻: this is so simple and fluffy u guys i'm in love with clark kent!!!!!!!
it’s after hours at the daily planet. the sun is already setting, leaving a beautiful orange hue inside the building. inside are you and lois. everyone else has left, just leaving the two of you alone to brainstorm ideas for the next paper to write.
“i swear to god, if i have to write one more paper about the city’s pothole repairs, i’m going to combust,” lois groans, planting her face into her desk.
“oh stop being so dramatic,” you laugh at her as you go through your notes on recent events.
“i’m not being dramatic. you weren’t the one taking photos of all of the pothole repairs around the city.”
you laugh out loud before something in your notes grabs your attention.
“ooh!” you exclaim. “what if we write about superman?”
intrigued, lois gives you a look as if to say go on.
“well, think about it. he’s done so much for the community. but instead of writing about all the times he’s saved people from horrible danger, why don’t we do something different and talk about the hope he brings to everyone? that’s worth so much more than just rescuing people.”
you continue sharing your ideas with lois, and as you’re doing so, you don’t notice clark come back inside to grab a folder he forgot. he stops in his tracks, however, as he hears the conversation you’re having.
“you sound awfully inspired, don’t you?” lois teases. “gonna write a poem about superman next?”
“what? no! i’m just appreciating all the good he’s done for our community. he does more than just save people. you know, i’ve even seen him save a squirrel once,” you continue gushing.
“you don’t even realize how much you’re gushing over him right now,” lois laughs out loud.
“stop acting like you don’t have a tiny crush on him too,” you say, playfully swatting her.
“she has a crush on me?” clark smiles to himself as he listens to your conversation with lois. he almost pulls away, feeling bad for invading your privacy, but he’s too intrigued not to. it’s not every day you get to hear the girl you’re in love with gush over your secret alter ego.
“i won’t even deny it. he is a piece of eye candy,” lois admits.
“thank you! he’s more than eye candy though. he’s brave and kind and just such an amazing person to always look after everyone. him being hot is just a bonus.”
“geez, and to think i believed you had a thing for clark. you seem to be in love with superman.”
“please, even you don’t believe that. you know i’m head over heels for clark. he’s so good to me, you know? he’s always doing sweet little things for me, and he’s just so funny. i love being around him. i don’t think it’s even possible for me to like somebody else other than him,” you say casually, not knowing that clark is standing just a few feet away, listening.
at your admission, clark’s heart stops. he can’t even believe what he’s hearing.
“i don’t know why you haven’t confessed to him yet. it’s so obvious he likes you too.”
“i don’t know… clark is sweet to everyone. i don’t want to risk ruining our friendship.”
with a warm heart, clark decides he’s heard enough and quietly slips out of the building before anyone notices.
–
the next day approaches quickly, and everyone is back at the daily planet.
you enter with lois as you both walk to your desks. as you sit, you notice your favorite coffee order waiting on your desk. you smile to yourself, and before you can ask who brought it for you, clark catches your attention.
“good morning,” he says with that adorable bashful smile on his face. “i thought you could use a morning drink. busy day ahead.”
“thank you, clark,” you smile, feeling your heart flutter. “how did you even know what my order was?”
“you mentioned it to me once,” he smiles back at you.
“enough with the pda you creeps. we have work to do,” lois says as she walks past after watching your exchange. it’s beyond her how neither of you has confessed yet.
you and clark blush and begin to defend yourselves, but lois is already too far away to care.
“well, um… i guess i’ll get back to work,” clark says shyly as he heads back to his desk. on the way, he clumsily bumps into someone, which makes you giggle to yourself. he notices, of course, and the blush on his face deepens.
the day flies by, and before you know it, it’s time for everyone to head home. as you’re packing up your belongings, clark approaches your desk.
“hey,” he says nervously. “i was wondering if you wanted me to walk you home… you know, since it’s dark. and late. and… unsafe,” he rambles, trying to come up with a reason you’d need him to walk with you.
“sure, clark,” you laugh, cutting him off before he can keep going.
he grabs your coat and purse for you, and the two of you set off for your house.
he’s quiet at first, subtly moving you away from the street side of the sidewalk like the gentleman he is. you can tell he has something on his mind, but you don’t push.
“so… i overheard you and lois last night,” he begins, making your heart drop to your stomach.
“what do you mean?” you ask, playing coy and hoping he isn’t talking about what you think he is.
“i swear i didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says quickly, not wanting you to think he’s a creep. “i heard what you said. about me.”
“oh…” you say, completely at a loss. so many scenarios run through your head. what if he walked you home just to politely tell you he’s not interested? what if you ruined everything? what if–
“i feel the same way about you,” he cuts off your spiraling thoughts.
“…you do?” you say in disbelief.
“i have for a while. i just didn’t know how to tell you,” he says shyly, taking your hand in his.
you’re completely speechless, unable to wipe the grin off your face as you squeeze his hand back.
instead of saying anything, he lifts his free hand to your face, his thumb grazing over your cheek. he’s holding and touching you so gently, as if you’re the most precious thing on the planet, which to him, you are.
as if silently asking if this is okay, he waits. you give him a quiet nod of confirmation, and he leans down to place the most gentle kiss on your lips.
warnings: 18+ SMUT - p in v, unprotected sex, hint of a size kink, hint of a breeding kink, creampie, soft dirty talk
a/n: david!superman makes brain go brr
CLARK KENT is an array of colours, a beautiful palette of different tones that make him the man he is. Red and blue represent Superman, the legacy he's built for himself. Legacy of doing good, of being said good. Legacy of doing what's right even when it makes you stick out, of being a beacon of hope all across the globe to both children and adults alike. Of laying your own path, of having someone behind you that'll support you when the bricks get too heavy and being that someone yourself when life has been too unnecessarily cruel.
His eyes, a softer, but no less vibrant blue, represent his soul, which doesn't differ much from the reputation he's built for himself. But the Clark Kent-ness bleeds through if you gaze into his eyes for too long, the Smallville manners and nerdy interests, the too big body and fumbling hands and the way the tips of his ears flush red whenever he's embarrassed.
The pink which currently dusts his cheeks and chest and the flushed tip of his cock is a colour that belongs to you and you only. It represents the utter devotion he feels towards you, it represents all the love and affection he needs to keep contained in himself daily. He never thought he'd say it, but the feelings he feels for you are too big for his body, and sometimes he feels like the weight of everything is enough to make him cry.
He's got you trapped under him, your ankles resting on his wide shoulders as he keeps folding you more and more with every desperate thrust, his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked, weeping cunt. Your thighs are slick with the pearlescent mix of both your wetness and his precum, and every time his pelvis slaps against yours, it sticks to his skin, thin, sticky strings connecting the both of you when he pulls away.
His fingers are wrapped around one of your leg, fingertips digging harshly into your skin, and you know it'll leave a mark. He'll feel guilty, and it'll take an orgasm to coax him out of that mindset, to make him realise you find it so incredibly arousing whenever he marks you, intentionally or not. His cheeks, still flushed in that light pink shade, are glistening under the low light of your shared bedroom, occasional tear slipping from the baby blues you love so much. Clark Kent never considered himself a crybaby, but it seems your pussy is hellbent on proving him otherwise by the way she sucks him in and doesn't want to let him go.
"So- so good, baby, fuck— love it, love this, love you."
He sounds pathetic in the way he hiccups, words getting stuck in his throat. Every thrust pulls a needy, choked up whimper from him, and he knows his throat is gonna be raw when he finally finishes with you. His head turns, and his plush lips desperately press against the slender curve of your ankle. Before you can blink, properly register the small show of affection, sharp canines flash and pain blooms across your skin, which in return coaxes a ragged, filthy moan from the depths of your own raw throat. In and out, in and out, and the coil in your belly tightens.
"M'close." You whimper, trembling hands reaching for his. He notices, of course he does, and his fingers slot inbetween yours, callouses rough against your skin. "Please, Clark. Wan' you to come in me, fuck— C'mon, honey."
He whines and nods, a stray curl falling to his forehead, sticking to his skin as perspiration beads upon his brow. Your word is like gospel to him, like a softly uttered command that he'd rather die than not fulfil. He picks up the pace, slamming so deep into your pretty cunt you see stars behind your lids. His tip kisses your cervix, a harsh contrast to the gentle way he holds you, even when it feels like he's arranging your insides.
"So pretty. So pretty when full of me, honey. Look at you." He breathes, eyes falling to the way your stomach bulges every time he presses in. He's mesmerised by the stretch of your skin, by the way your body makes room to accommodate him. "Can it fit? When I come? So tight, baby, don't think so."
Your back arches off the bed with a quiet sob, and you know you're only a few more thrusts away from coming. One, twice, and with the third thrust, the third time the mushroom shaped tip of his cock catches on that spongy spot inside you, you come with a silent cry, body tensing under him. He fucks you through it, ever the gentleman, and before you know it, strings of sticky, pearlescent whiteness paint your insides. He might be a man, but the copious amounts of come he pumps into you is wholeheartedly Kryptonian.
Your thighs tremble when he finally pulls out, collapsing into a heap of Clark besides you. Sticky arms curl around bodies, and you're a tangled mess of limbs before you can blink. You reach down, lips pressing a soft kiss on his temple, and you taste sweat and salt on your tongue. His hand reaches down, two fingers gently pushing into your worn out cunt.
A tired mumble falls from his lips, one you're not sure he meant to vocalise, but which makes your pussy clench tiredly around the thick digits stuffed into you.
can't stop thinking about clark realizing you're pregnant before you even had a clue..... (1.8k words)
It's damn near midnight. You'd spent most of the day in bed, barely able to keep anything down. Maybe the flu can still be going around...in March? That's what you told yourself anyway. You'd promised Clark you'd go to the doctor in the morning if you weren't feeling any better.
The day had been uneventful. Your time was spent by nursing cups of broth and watching reruns of your favorite show - it was all you had the energy for yet you were still exhausted by the time Clark came home from work. He had tried to make you eat real food, but even the smell of butter burning slightly in the pan made your stomach flip and allowed the sickness to take over.
Clark had helped you into the bath after and opted to sit on the cold bathroom tile next to you. He missed you dearly, but more than anything wanted to make sure you were okay. He told you what you missed at work today. "Whole lotta nothin," he quipped, his hands moved to push the hair out of your eyes. He told you about the new article he'd gotten approved to write, that he saved a cat from a tree on the way home, that he saw a photo on Jimmy's phone that he really wished he hadn't. Clark sensed that his rambling soothed you, the energy surrounding you turned mellow and your heart rate slowed as he gently massaged your scalp with his fingers. You really were worn down, he thought. He wished more than anything that he knew how to make you feel better, but this would have to do.
That led you to now. In bed, on your side, eyelids growing heavy with one arm and leg draped over Clark's toned chest and legs. He was bare, save for a pair of tight fitting boxers. Any other day, you'd be all over him; begging for him to be all over you until you're a pile of mush in the sheets. But not tonight. Tonight, you just wanted him to hold you. Clark is a good boy, so he was doing just that with his large hand splayed across your back. His fingers occasionally running up and down your spine almost sank you into blissful sleep. That is, until...
Clark stiffened beneath you. It's like his entire body turned to concrete while his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He heard something.
"What is it?" You ask, exhaustion and a hint of annoyance laced in your voice.
"Hear someone," Clark murmured.
He slid out from under you with ease and pulled some sweatpants over his legs. The spot he just left was still warm, but his absence made the bed suddently feel cold and sterile.
"You sure it wasn't just a bird, baby? They've been crashing into the windows like crazy for weeks now."
You're slightly perturbed, but you try not to be. He is Superman after all. His job is to keep the city safe, so you can't blame him for being attuned to hearing anything and everything that could possibly pose a threat. Plus, you knew he cared about your well being more than anything else in this world, so you chose not to push it any further.
Clark doesn't say anything else, only turning back to you with a finger over his lips, asking for silence as he investigates. He glides through the room tactfully and undetected, as if he were a lion hunting its prey. You watch as he pads down the hallway from your shared bedroom and disappears into the darkness that is the rest of your apartment.
He's gone for only a minute or two. When he comes back, you notice his hair is a bit windswept. He must have checked the outside of the building. You can't even imagine if someone had saw him. A half naked man with rock hard abs seemingly levitating outside the 17th floor of a Metropolis apartment building in the middle of the night. Although, it probably wouldn't have been the weirdest thing anyone has ever seen.
"Sorry," he apologizes, "Guess it was nothing."
Clark quickly discarded his sweats back onto the floor and nestled back into bed next to you, resuming the same position you were both in just minutes before. He runs his veiny hand over his face and rubs his eyes, an adorable yawn escaping his lips. Clark was tired too.
"It was probably just something happening on the street. They're still doing night construction across the street," you thought aloud.
"No, honey," he was quick to interject with a click of tongue, "It wasn't something; it was someone. I heard their..."
Clark froze again, ears perking up as he turned to fully face you. He suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time. He looked like he wasn't breathing.
You were growing concerned with his sudden skittishness. "Everything oka-?"
"Heartbeat," he finally mustered up the strength to say out loud.
You're not making sense of what is unfolding in front of you. Clark is staring at you; his eyes felt like they were burning a hole into your soul. His gaze drifts about your body, as if he were checking you for injuries or trying to see if anything was different about you. You notice his eyes are lingering at your lower half, where your arm laid haphazardly across your stomach as you rested on your side. Your engagment ring glimmered in the low light of the lamp in the corner of the room, but that's not what Clark was really staring at.
"So, it was a person or no? I'm lost, bubby," you stated, begging him to make sense of this.
"I only heard the heartbeat when we were in bed earlier. 'S not outside or in any other part of the house. I think...." Clark's voice is shaky now. "I think you're pregnant?" It came out as more of a question than a statement.
It was your turn to be speechless. Your eyebrows furled as you sat up straight. Either Clark was losing his mind or this was some kind of joke.
"Clark, what in the hell are you talking about?"
He's quiet again, only this time he shimmies down the plush mattress until his head is hovering right above your belly and facing away from you. It felt like the whole world stopped in that moment. What if it was true? Is this why you've felt so sick over the last few days? Gears are turning in your head trying to solve this puzzle. When Clark turns his head back towards you, the final piece locks into place.
"I hear it. It's quiet, but it's there. A heartbeat." Clark was smiling.
You reach a hand out to hold the side of his face that isn't pressed against your stomach. You don't know whether to cry, celebrate, or puke for the seventh time today. You run your thumb anxiously along his jawline.
"Holy shit," is all you can muster. "Is that even possible?" You really didn't know. Neither of you did. Sure, you've both pondered (and loved) the idea of mini Clarks and mini yous running around the farm in Kansas one day. However, you had never seriously considered whether or not a human could give birth to a half-Kryptonian.
"Guess so," Clark replies. "We can make some calls in the morning and try to find out."
He's moved back to the top of the bed now and his arms are enveloping you in an all-consuming embrace. His chin is tucked into your collarbone, his breath tickling your neck just slightly with each exhale.
"Are you happy?" He asks, begs, quietly. Your lack of enthusiasm has him growing weary.
You pull back to look at him fully. The dark, curly hair on top of his head, the prickly stubble on his cheeks that appears after a long day, the warmth radiating off his perfect body. You melt under his touch, along with any doubts you had in your mind. In front of you is a man who would literally go to the ends of the Earth (and beyond) to protect you. A man that lends a hand to anybody and anything that could possibly need his help. A man that loves you so deeply that he would know how to find you in any universe or lifetime.
"I think," tears prick at your eyes, "That I'm a little scared. And a little shocked."
Clark nods his head, listening. His jaw twitches slightly.
"That's okay," he tries to reassure you.
"I know." You swallowed hard. The tears were coming now. "But also still a little happy."
It's like a switch flipped, the two of you begin chuckling contagiously in disbelief. Clark thumbed the tears away from your cheeks and you kissed him deeply. He was warm and his tongue was soft, slipping through your mouth and running along your bottom lip.
"I love you so much," Clark says as he pulls back. There isn't a doubt in your mind of how much he means it.
"I love you too, Clark," you beamed, "But I can't believe you thought our baby was an alien intruder that came here to destroy humanity at midnight on a random Tuesday." A fake pout adorned your features.
Clark playfully flicked at your nose, unable to fight the laugh in his belly. "I thought you were sick?" He jested, "Now you have time to crack jokes?"
"Heyyy!" you protested, "Be nice to me. You have to now."
"'M always nice to you," Clark snided, feigning offense and planting a forgiving kiss to the top of your nose.
Neither of you remember when you both fell asleep. You talked until the sun almost began to rise. About what color hair you thought they'd have, what theme the nursery would be, what color their eyes would be. You wanted them to have Clark's, and of course, Clark wanted them to have your eyes. Agree to disagree Clark proclaimed, though he'd be happy even if the baby's eyes were purple. The baby, your baby, was a piece of the two of you and the love you shared so deeply with one another. And that was all that mattered to him.
You woke up turned away from Clark, morning light quickly taking over the bedroom. Your body was engulfed by his broad shoulders as he spooned you. His arm, as strong as it may be, was draped oh so carefully across your abdomen. Clark was already protecting the little one growing inside of you. And he always would.
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